{"schema":"libjg2-1", "vpath":"/git/", "avatar":"/git/avatar/", "alang":"", "gen_ut":1759783476, "reponame":"libwebsockets", "desc":"libwebsockets lightweight C networking library", "owner": { "name": "Andy Green", "email": "andy@warmcat.com", "md5": "c50933ca2aa61e0fe2c43d46bb6b59cb" },"url":"https://libwebsockets.org/repo/libwebsockets", "f":3, "items": [ {"schema":"libjg2-1", "cid":"0578167916308d16659194501080baa1", "oid":{ "oid": "11576a754f747bf7682cf9f39ddae8cb50f1ef72", "alias": []},"blobname": "minimal-examples/api-tests/api-test-fts/the-picture-of-dorian-gray.txt", "blob": "The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde\r\n\r\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\r\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\r\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\r\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\r\n\r\n\r\nTitle: The Picture of Dorian Gray\r\n\r\nAuthor: Oscar Wilde\r\n\r\nRelease Date: June 9, 2008 [EBook #174]\r\n[This file last updated on July 2, 2011]\r\n[This file last updated on July 23, 2014]\r\n\r\n\r\nLanguage: English\r\n\r\n\r\n*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY ***\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nProduced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nThe Picture of Dorian Gray\r\n\r\nby\r\n\r\nOscar Wilde\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PREFACE\r\n\r\nThe artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and\r\nconceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate\r\ninto another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful\r\nthings.\r\n\r\nThe highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.\r\nThose who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without\r\nbeing charming. This is a fault.\r\n\r\nThose who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the\r\ncultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom\r\nbeautiful things mean only beauty.\r\n\r\nThere is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well\r\nwritten, or badly written. That is all.\r\n\r\nThe nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing\r\nhis own face in a glass.\r\n\r\nThe nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban\r\nnot seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part\r\nof the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists\r\nin the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove\r\nanything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has\r\nethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an\r\nunpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist\r\ncan express everything. Thought and language are to the artist\r\ninstruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for\r\nan art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is\r\nthe art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the\r\nactor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol.\r\nThose who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read\r\nthe symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life,\r\nthat art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art\r\nshows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree,\r\nthe artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making\r\na useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for\r\nmaking a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.\r\n\r\n All art is quite useless.\r\n\r\n OSCAR WILDE\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 1\r\n\r\nThe studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light\r\nsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through\r\nthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate\r\nperfume of the pink-flowering thorn.\r\n\r\nFrom the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was\r\nlying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry\r\nWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured\r\nblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to\r\nbear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then\r\nthe fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long\r\ntussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,\r\nproducing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of\r\nthose pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of\r\nan art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of\r\nswiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their\r\nway through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous\r\ninsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,\r\nseemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London\r\nwas like the bourdon note of a distant organ.\r\n\r\nIn the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the\r\nfull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,\r\nand in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist\r\nhimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago\r\ncaused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many\r\nstrange conjectures.\r\n\r\nAs the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so\r\nskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his\r\nface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up,\r\nand closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he\r\nsought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he\r\nfeared he might awake.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,\u0022 said\r\nLord Henry languidly. \u0022You must certainly send it next year to the\r\nGrosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have\r\ngone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been\r\nable to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that\r\nI have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor\r\nis really the only place.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't think I shall send it anywhere,\u0022 he answered, tossing his head\r\nback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at\r\nOxford. \u0022No, I won't send it anywhere.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through\r\nthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls\r\nfrom his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. \u0022Not send it anywhere? My\r\ndear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters\r\nare! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as\r\nyou have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you,\r\nfor there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,\r\nand that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you\r\nfar above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite\r\njealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I know you will laugh at me,\u0022 he replied, \u0022but I really can't exhibit\r\nit. I have put too much of myself into it.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you\r\nwere so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with\r\nyour rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young\r\nAdonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,\r\nmy dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an\r\nintellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends\r\nwhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode\r\nof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one\r\nsits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something\r\nhorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.\r\nHow perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But\r\nthen in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the\r\nage of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,\r\nand as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.\r\nYour mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but\r\nwhose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of\r\nthat. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always\r\nhere in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in\r\nsummer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter\r\nyourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't understand me, Harry,\u0022 answered the artist. \u0022Of course I am\r\nnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry\r\nto look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the\r\ntruth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual\r\ndistinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the\r\nfaltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's\r\nfellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.\r\nThey can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing\r\nof victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They\r\nlive as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without\r\ndisquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it\r\nfrom alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they\r\nare--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--we\r\nshall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian Gray? Is that his name?\u0022 asked Lord Henry, walking across the\r\nstudio towards Basil Hallward.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But why not?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their\r\nnames to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have\r\ngrown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make\r\nmodern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is\r\ndelightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my\r\npeople where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It\r\nis a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great\r\ndeal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully\r\nfoolish about it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not at all,\u0022 answered Lord Henry, \u0022not at all, my dear Basil. You\r\nseem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that\r\nit makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I\r\nnever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.\r\nWhen we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go\r\ndown to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the\r\nmost serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact,\r\nthan I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do.\r\nBut when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes\r\nwish she would; but she merely laughs at me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,\u0022 said Basil\r\nHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. \u0022I\r\nbelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you are\r\nthoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary\r\nfellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.\r\nYour cynicism is simply a pose.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,\u0022\r\ncried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the\r\ngarden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that\r\nstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over\r\nthe polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.\r\n\r\nAfter a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. \u0022I am afraid I must be\r\ngoing, Basil,\u0022 he murmured, \u0022and before I go, I insist on your\r\nanswering a question I put to you some time ago.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What is that?\u0022 said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.\r\n\r\n\u0022You know quite well.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I do not, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you\r\nwon't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I told you the real reason.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of\r\nyourself in it. Now, that is childish.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry,\u0022 said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, \u0022every\r\nportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not\r\nof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is\r\nnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on\r\nthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit\r\nthis picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of\r\nmy own soul.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry laughed. \u0022And what is that?\u0022 he asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022I will tell you,\u0022 said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came\r\nover his face.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am all expectation, Basil,\u0022 continued his companion, glancing at him.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,\u0022 answered the painter;\r\n\u0022and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will\r\nhardly believe it.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from\r\nthe grass and examined it. \u0022I am quite sure I shall understand it,\u0022 he\r\nreplied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,\r\n\u0022and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it\r\nis quite incredible.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy\r\nlilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the\r\nlanguid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a\r\nblue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze\r\nwings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart\r\nbeating, and wondered what was coming.\r\n\r\n\u0022The story is simply this,\u0022 said the painter after some time. \u0022Two\r\nmonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor\r\nartists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to\r\nremind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a\r\nwhite tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain\r\na reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room\r\nabout ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious\r\nacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at\r\nme. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.\r\nWhen our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation\r\nof terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some\r\none whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to\r\ndo so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art\r\nitself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know\r\nyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my\r\nown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.\r\nThen--but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to\r\ntell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had\r\na strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and\r\nexquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was\r\nnot conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take\r\nno credit to myself for trying to escape.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil.\r\nConscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either.\r\nHowever, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used\r\nto be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course,\r\nI stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so\r\nsoon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill\r\nvoice?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,\u0022 said Lord Henry,\r\npulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.\r\n\r\n\u0022I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and\r\npeople with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras\r\nand parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only\r\nmet her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I\r\nbelieve some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at\r\nleast had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the\r\nnineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself\r\nface to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely\r\nstirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.\r\nIt was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.\r\nPerhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable.\r\nWe would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure\r\nof that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were\r\ndestined to know each other.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?\u0022 asked his\r\ncompanion. \u0022I know she goes in for giving a rapid _precis_ of all her\r\nguests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old\r\ngentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my\r\near, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to\r\neverybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I\r\nlike to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests\r\nexactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them\r\nentirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants\r\nto know.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!\u0022 said Hallward\r\nlistlessly.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in\r\nopening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did\r\nshe say about Mr. Dorian Gray?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely\r\ninseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do\r\nanything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr.\r\nGray?' Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at\r\nonce.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far\r\nthe best ending for one,\u0022 said the young lord, plucking another daisy.\r\n\r\nHallward shook his head. \u0022You don't understand what friendship is,\r\nHarry,\u0022 he murmured--\u0022or what enmity is, for that matter. You like\r\nevery one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How horribly unjust of you!\u0022 cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back\r\nand looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of\r\nglossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the\r\nsummer sky. \u0022Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference\r\nbetween people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my\r\nacquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good\r\nintellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.\r\nI have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some\r\nintellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that\r\nvery vain of me? I think it is rather vain.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must\r\nbe merely an acquaintance.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die,\r\nand my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry!\u0022 exclaimed Hallward, frowning.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my\r\nrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand\r\nother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize\r\nwith the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices\r\nof the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and\r\nimmorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of\r\nus makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When\r\npoor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite\r\nmagnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the\r\nproletariat live correctly.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is\r\nmore, Harry, I feel sure you don't either.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his\r\npatent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. \u0022How English you are\r\nBasil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one\r\nputs forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to\r\ndo--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong.\r\nThe only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes\r\nit oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do\r\nwith the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the\r\nprobabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely\r\nintellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured\r\nby either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't\r\npropose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I\r\nlike persons better than principles, and I like persons with no\r\nprinciples better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about\r\nMr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He is\r\nabsolutely necessary to me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but\r\nyour art.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is all my art to me now,\u0022 said the painter gravely. \u0022I sometimes\r\nthink, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the\r\nworld's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,\r\nand the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.\r\nWhat the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of\r\nAntinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will\r\nsome day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from\r\nhim, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much\r\nmore to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that I am\r\ndissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such\r\nthat art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,\r\nand I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good\r\nwork, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder\r\nwill you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an\r\nentirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see\r\nthings differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate\r\nlife in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days\r\nof thought'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian\r\nGray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad--for he\r\nseems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over\r\ntwenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can you realize all\r\nthat that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh\r\nschool, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic\r\nspirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of\r\nsoul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the\r\ntwo, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is\r\nvoid. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember\r\nthat landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price\r\nbut which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have\r\never done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian\r\nGray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and\r\nfor the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I\r\nhad always looked for and always missed.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After\r\nsome time he came back. \u0022Harry,\u0022 he said, \u0022Dorian Gray is to me simply\r\na motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in\r\nhim. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is\r\nthere. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find\r\nhim in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of\r\ncertain colours. That is all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?\u0022 asked Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of\r\nall this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never\r\ncared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know\r\nanything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare\r\nmy soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put\r\nunder their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing,\r\nHarry--too much of myself!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion\r\nis for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hate them for it,\u0022 cried Hallward. \u0022An artist should create\r\nbeautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We\r\nlive in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of\r\nautobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I\r\nwill show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall\r\nnever see my portrait of Dorian Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is only\r\nthe intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very\r\nfond of you?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter considered for a few moments. \u0022He likes me,\u0022 he answered\r\nafter a pause; \u0022I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him\r\ndreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I\r\nknow I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to\r\nme, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and\r\nthen, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real\r\ndelight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away\r\nmy whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put\r\nin his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a\r\nsummer's day.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry.\r\n\u0022Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think\r\nof, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That\r\naccounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate\r\nourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have\r\nsomething that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and\r\nfacts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly\r\nwell-informed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the\r\nthoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a\r\n_bric-a-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above\r\nits proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day\r\nyou will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little\r\nout of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something.\r\nYou will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think\r\nthat he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you\r\nwill be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for\r\nit will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance\r\nof art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind\r\nis that it leaves one so unromantic.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of\r\nDorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change\r\ntoo often.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are\r\nfaithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who\r\nknow love's tragedies.\u0022 And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty\r\nsilver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and\r\nsatisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was\r\na rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,\r\nand the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like\r\nswallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other\r\npeople's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it\r\nseemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's\r\nfriends--those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to\r\nhimself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed\r\nby staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he\r\nwould have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole\r\nconversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the\r\nnecessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the\r\nimportance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity\r\nin their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift,\r\nand the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was\r\ncharming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea\r\nseemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, \u0022My dear fellow,\r\nI have just remembered.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Remembered what, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Where was it?\u0022 asked Hallward, with a slight frown.\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's. She\r\ntold me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help\r\nher in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to\r\nstate that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no\r\nappreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said\r\nthat he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once\r\npictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly\r\nfreckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was\r\nyour friend.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am very glad you didn't, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't want you to meet him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't want me to meet him?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,\u0022 said the butler, coming into\r\nthe garden.\r\n\r\n\u0022You must introduce me now,\u0022 cried Lord Henry, laughing.\r\n\r\nThe painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.\r\n\u0022Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.\u0022 The\r\nman bowed and went up the walk.\r\n\r\nThen he looked at Lord Henry. \u0022Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,\u0022 he\r\nsaid. \u0022He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite\r\nright in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to\r\ninfluence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and\r\nhas many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one\r\nperson who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an\r\nartist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.\u0022 He spoke very\r\nslowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.\r\n\r\n\u0022What nonsense you talk!\u0022 said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward\r\nby the arm, he almost led him into the house.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 2\r\n\r\nAs they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with\r\nhis back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's\r\n\u0022Forest Scenes.\u0022 \u0022You must lend me these, Basil,\u0022 he cried. \u0022I want\r\nto learn them. They are perfectly charming.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of\r\nmyself,\u0022 answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a\r\nwilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint\r\nblush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. \u0022I beg your\r\npardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one with you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I\r\nhave just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you\r\nhave spoiled everything.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,\u0022 said Lord\r\nHenry, stepping forward and extending his hand. \u0022My aunt has often\r\nspoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am\r\nafraid, one of her victims also.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present,\u0022 answered Dorian with a\r\nfunny look of penitence. \u0022I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel\r\nwith her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to\r\nhave played a duet together--three duets, I believe. I don't know what\r\nshe will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.\r\nAnd I don't think it really matters about your not being there. The\r\naudience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to\r\nthe piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,\u0022 answered Dorian,\r\nlaughing.\r\n\r\nLord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,\r\nwith his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp\r\ngold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at\r\nonce. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's\r\npassionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from\r\nthe world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.\r\n\r\n\u0022You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray--far too\r\ncharming.\u0022 And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened\r\nhis cigarette-case.\r\n\r\nThe painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes\r\nready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last\r\nremark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said,\r\n\u0022Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it\r\nawfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. \u0022Am I to go, Mr. Gray?\u0022\r\nhe asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky\r\nmoods, and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell\r\nme why I should not go in for philanthropy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a\r\nsubject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I\r\ncertainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You\r\ndon't really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you\r\nliked your sitters to have some one to chat to.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward bit his lip. \u0022If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.\r\nDorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry took up his hat and gloves. \u0022You are very pressing, Basil,\r\nbut I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the\r\nOrleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon\r\nStreet. I am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me when\r\nyou are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray, \u0022if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go,\r\ntoo. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is\r\nhorribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask\r\nhim to stay. I insist upon it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,\u0022 said Hallward,\r\ngazing intently at his picture. \u0022It is quite true, I never talk when I\r\nam working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious\r\nfor my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But what about my man at the Orleans?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter laughed. \u0022I don't think there will be any difficulty about\r\nthat. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,\r\nand don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry\r\nsays. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the\r\nsingle exception of myself.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek\r\nmartyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he\r\nhad rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a\r\ndelightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few\r\nmoments he said to him, \u0022Have you really a very bad influence, Lord\r\nHenry? As bad as Basil says?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence\r\nis immoral--immoral from the scientific point of view.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does\r\nnot think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His\r\nvirtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as\r\nsins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an\r\nactor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is\r\nself-development. To realize one's nature perfectly--that is what each\r\nof us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They\r\nhave forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to\r\none's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and\r\nclothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage\r\nhas gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror\r\nof society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is\r\nthe secret of religion--these are the two things that govern us. And\r\nyet--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good\r\nboy,\u0022 said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look\r\nhad come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before.\r\n\r\n\u0022And yet,\u0022 continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with\r\nthat graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of\r\nhim, and that he had even in his Eton days, \u0022I believe that if one man\r\nwere to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to\r\nevery feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--I\r\nbelieve that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we\r\nwould forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the\r\nHellenic ideal--to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it\r\nmay be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The\r\nmutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial\r\nthat mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse\r\nthat we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body\r\nsins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of\r\npurification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,\r\nor the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is\r\nto yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for\r\nthe things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its\r\nmonstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that\r\nthe great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the\r\nbrain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place\r\nalso. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your\r\nrose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,\r\nthoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping\r\ndreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stop!\u0022 faltered Dorian Gray, \u0022stop! you bewilder me. I don't know\r\nwhat to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't\r\nspeak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.\u0022\r\n\r\nFor nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and\r\neyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh\r\ninfluences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have\r\ncome really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said\r\nto him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in\r\nthem--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,\r\nbut that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.\r\n\r\nMusic had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times.\r\nBut music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather\r\nanother chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How\r\nterrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not\r\nescape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They\r\nseemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to\r\nhave a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere\r\nwords! Was there anything so real as words?\r\n\r\nYes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.\r\nHe understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him.\r\nIt seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not\r\nknown it?\r\n\r\nWith his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise\r\npsychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely\r\ninterested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had\r\nproduced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen,\r\na book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he\r\nwondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.\r\nHe had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How\r\nfascinating the lad was!\r\n\r\nHallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had\r\nthe true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes\r\nonly from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil, I am tired of standing,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray suddenly. \u0022I must\r\ngo out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of\r\nanything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still.\r\nAnd I have caught the effect I wanted--the half-parted lips and the\r\nbright look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been saying to\r\nyou, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression.\r\nI suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe a\r\nword that he says.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the\r\nreason that I don't believe anything he has told me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You know you believe it all,\u0022 said Lord Henry, looking at him with his\r\ndreamy languorous eyes. \u0022I will go out to the garden with you. It is\r\nhorribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to\r\ndrink, something with strawberries in it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will\r\ntell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I\r\nwill join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been\r\nin better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my\r\nmasterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his\r\nface in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their\r\nperfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand\r\nupon his shoulder. \u0022You are quite right to do that,\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\u0022Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the\r\nsenses but the soul.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had\r\ntossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads.\r\nThere was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are\r\nsuddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some\r\nhidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 continued Lord Henry, \u0022that is one of the great secrets of\r\nlife--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means\r\nof the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you\r\nthink you know, just as you know less than you want to know.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking\r\nthe tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,\r\nolive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was\r\nsomething in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating.\r\nHis cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They\r\nmoved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their\r\nown. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had\r\nit been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known\r\nBasil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never\r\naltered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who\r\nseemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was\r\nthere to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was\r\nabsurd to be frightened.\r\n\r\n\u0022Let us go and sit in the shade,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022Parker has brought\r\nout the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be\r\nquite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must\r\nnot allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What can it matter?\u0022 cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on\r\nthe seat at the end of the garden.\r\n\r\n\u0022It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing\r\nworth having.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't feel that, Lord Henry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled\r\nand ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and\r\npassion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you\r\nwill feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world.\r\nWill it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr.\r\nGray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius--is\r\nhigher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the\r\ngreat facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the\r\nreflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It\r\ncannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It\r\nmakes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost\r\nit you won't smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only\r\nsuperficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as\r\nthought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only\r\nshallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of\r\nthe world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the\r\ngods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take\r\naway. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly,\r\nand fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then\r\nyou will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or\r\nhave to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of\r\nyour past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes\r\nbrings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and\r\nwars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and\r\nhollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah!\r\nrealize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your\r\ndays, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure,\r\nor giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar.\r\nThese are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live\r\nthe wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be\r\nalways searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new\r\nHedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible\r\nsymbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The\r\nworld belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that\r\nyou were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really\r\nmight be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must\r\ntell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if\r\nyou were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will\r\nlast--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they\r\nblossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now.\r\nIn a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after\r\nyear the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we\r\nnever get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty\r\nbecomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into\r\nhideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were\r\ntoo much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the\r\ncourage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in\r\nthe world but youth!\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell\r\nfrom his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it\r\nfor a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated\r\nglobe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest\r\nin trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import\r\nmake us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we\r\ncannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays\r\nsudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the\r\nbee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian\r\nconvolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to\r\nand fro.\r\n\r\nSuddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made\r\nstaccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and\r\nsmiled.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am waiting,\u0022 he cried. \u0022Do come in. The light is quite perfect,\r\nand you can bring your drinks.\u0022\r\n\r\nThey rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white\r\nbutterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of\r\nthe garden a thrush began to sing.\r\n\r\n\u0022You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,\u0022 said Lord Henry, looking at\r\nhim.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.\r\nWomen are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to\r\nmake it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only\r\ndifference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice\r\nlasts a little longer.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's\r\narm. \u0022In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,\u0022 he murmured,\r\nflushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and\r\nresumed his pose.\r\n\r\nLord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.\r\nThe sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that\r\nbroke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back\r\nto look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that\r\nstreamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The\r\nheavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.\r\n\r\nAfter about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for\r\na long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,\r\nbiting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. \u0022It is quite\r\nfinished,\u0022 he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in\r\nlong vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.\r\n\r\nLord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a\r\nwonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,\u0022 he said. \u0022It is the\r\nfinest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at\r\nyourself.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad started, as if awakened from some dream.\r\n\r\n\u0022Is it really finished?\u0022 he murmured, stepping down from the platform.\r\n\r\n\u0022Quite finished,\u0022 said the painter. \u0022And you have sat splendidly\r\nto-day. I am awfully obliged to you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That is entirely due to me,\u0022 broke in Lord Henry. \u0022Isn't it, Mr.\r\nGray?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture\r\nand turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks\r\nflushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes,\r\nas if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there\r\nmotionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to\r\nhim, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own\r\nbeauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.\r\nBasil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the\r\ncharming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed\r\nat them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had\r\ncome Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his\r\nterrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and\r\nnow, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full\r\nreality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a\r\nday when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and\r\ncolourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet\r\nwould pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The\r\nlife that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become\r\ndreadful, hideous, and uncouth.\r\n\r\nAs he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a\r\nknife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes\r\ndeepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt\r\nas if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't you like it?\u0022 cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the\r\nlad's silence, not understanding what it meant.\r\n\r\n\u0022Of course he likes it,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022Who wouldn't like it? It\r\nis one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything\r\nyou like to ask for it. I must have it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is not my property, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Whose property is it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian's, of course,\u0022 answered the painter.\r\n\r\n\u0022He is a very lucky fellow.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How sad it is!\u0022 murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon\r\nhis own portrait. \u0022How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and\r\ndreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be\r\nolder than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other\r\nway! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was\r\nto grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there\r\nis nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul\r\nfor that!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,\u0022 cried Lord\r\nHenry, laughing. \u0022It would be rather hard lines on your work.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should object very strongly, Harry,\u0022 said Hallward.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray turned and looked at him. \u0022I believe you would, Basil.\r\nYou like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a\r\ngreen bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like\r\nthat. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed\r\nand his cheeks burning.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 he continued, \u0022I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your\r\nsilver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me?\r\nTill I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one\r\nloses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything.\r\nYour picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right.\r\nYouth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing\r\nold, I shall kill myself.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward turned pale and caught his hand. \u0022Dorian! Dorian!\u0022 he cried,\r\n\u0022don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I\r\nshall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,\r\nare you?--you who are finer than any of them!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of\r\nthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must\r\nlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives\r\nsomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture\r\ncould change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint\r\nit? It will mock me some day--mock me horribly!\u0022 The hot tears welled\r\ninto his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the\r\ndivan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.\r\n\r\n\u0022This is your doing, Harry,\u0022 said the painter bitterly.\r\n\r\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \u0022It is the real Dorian Gray--that\r\nis all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is not.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022If it is not, what have I to do with it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You should have gone away when I asked you,\u0022 he muttered.\r\n\r\n\u0022I stayed when you asked me,\u0022 was Lord Henry's answer.\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between\r\nyou both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever\r\ndone, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will\r\nnot let it come across our three lives and mar them.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid\r\nface and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal\r\npainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What\r\nwas he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter\r\nof tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for\r\nthe long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had\r\nfound it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.\r\n\r\nWith a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to\r\nHallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of\r\nthe studio. \u0022Don't, Basil, don't!\u0022 he cried. \u0022It would be murder!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,\u0022 said the painter\r\ncoldly when he had recovered from his surprise. \u0022I never thought you\r\nwould.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I\r\nfeel that.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and\r\nsent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.\u0022 And he walked\r\nacross the room and rang the bell for tea. \u0022You will have tea, of\r\ncourse, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such\r\nsimple pleasures?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I adore simple pleasures,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022They are the last refuge\r\nof the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What\r\nabsurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man\r\nas a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given.\r\nMan is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after\r\nall--though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You\r\nhad much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't really\r\nwant it, and I really do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!\u0022\r\ncried Dorian Gray; \u0022and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it\r\nexisted.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you\r\ndon't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.\u0022\r\n\r\nThere came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden\r\ntea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a\r\nrattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.\r\nTwo globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray\r\nwent over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to\r\nthe table and examined what was under the covers.\r\n\r\n\u0022Let us go to the theatre to-night,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022There is sure\r\nto be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but\r\nit is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I\r\nam ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a\r\nsubsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it\r\nwould have all the surprise of candour.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes,\u0022 muttered Hallward.\r\n\u0022And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 answered Lord Henry dreamily, \u0022the costume of the nineteenth\r\ncentury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the\r\nonly real colour-element left in modern life.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the\r\none in the picture?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Before either.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,\u0022 said the\r\nlad.\r\n\r\n\u0022Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should like that awfully.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.\r\n\u0022I shall stay with the real Dorian,\u0022 he said, sadly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Is it the real Dorian?\u0022 cried the original of the portrait, strolling\r\nacross to him. \u0022Am I really like that?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes; you are just like that.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How wonderful, Basil!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,\u0022\r\nsighed Hallward. \u0022That is something.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What a fuss people make about fidelity!\u0022 exclaimed Lord Henry. \u0022Why,\r\neven in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to\r\ndo with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old\r\nmen want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,\u0022 said Hallward. \u0022Stop and\r\ndine with me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't, Basil.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He won't like you the better for keeping your promises. He always\r\nbreaks his own. I beg you not to go.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray laughed and shook his head.\r\n\r\n\u0022I entreat you.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them\r\nfrom the tea-table with an amused smile.\r\n\r\n\u0022I must go, Basil,\u0022 he answered.\r\n\r\n\u0022Very well,\u0022 said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on\r\nthe tray. \u0022It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had\r\nbetter lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see\r\nme soon. Come to-morrow.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Certainly.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You won't forget?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, of course not,\u0022 cried Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022And ... Harry!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, Basil?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have forgotten it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I trust you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish I could trust myself,\u0022 said Lord Henry, laughing. \u0022Come, Mr.\r\nGray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.\r\nGood-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a\r\nsofa, and a look of pain came into his face.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 3\r\n\r\nAt half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon\r\nStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial\r\nif somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called\r\nselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was\r\nconsidered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him.\r\nHis father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young\r\nand Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a\r\ncapricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at\r\nParis, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by\r\nreason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,\r\nand his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his\r\nfather's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat\r\nfoolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months\r\nlater to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great\r\naristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town\r\nhouses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and\r\ntook most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the\r\nmanagement of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself\r\nfor this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of\r\nhaving coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of\r\nburning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when\r\nthe Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them\r\nfor being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied\r\nhim, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.\r\nOnly England could have produced him, and he always said that the\r\ncountry was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but\r\nthere was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.\r\n\r\nWhen Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough\r\nshooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. \u0022Well,\r\nHarry,\u0022 said the old gentleman, \u0022what brings you out so early? I\r\nthought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till\r\nfive.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get\r\nsomething out of you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Money, I suppose,\u0022 said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. \u0022Well, sit\r\ndown and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that\r\nmoney is everything.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; \u0022and\r\nwhen they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is only\r\npeople who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay\r\nmine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly\r\nupon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and\r\nconsequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not\r\nuseful information, of course; useless information.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,\r\nalthough those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in\r\nthe Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in\r\nnow by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure\r\nhumbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite\r\nenough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,\u0022 said\r\nLord Henry languidly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?\u0022 asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy\r\nwhite eyebrows.\r\n\r\n\u0022That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know\r\nwho he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a\r\nDevereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his\r\nmother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly\r\neverybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much\r\ninterested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Kelso's grandson!\u0022 echoed the old gentleman. \u0022Kelso's grandson! ...\r\nOf course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her\r\nchristening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret\r\nDevereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless\r\nyoung fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or\r\nsomething of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if\r\nit happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few\r\nmonths after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They\r\nsaid Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult\r\nhis son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and that\r\nthe fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was\r\nhushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some\r\ntime afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told,\r\nand she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The\r\ngirl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had\r\nforgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he\r\nmust be a good-looking chap.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is very good-looking,\u0022 assented Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope he will fall into proper hands,\u0022 continued the old man. \u0022He\r\nshould have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing\r\nby him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to\r\nher, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him\r\na mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad,\r\nI was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble\r\nwho was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They\r\nmade quite a story of it. I didn't dare show my face at Court for a\r\nmonth. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't know,\u0022 answered Lord Henry. \u0022I fancy that the boy will be\r\nwell off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so.\r\nAnd ... his mother was very beautiful?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,\r\nHarry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could\r\nunderstand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was\r\nmad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family\r\nwere. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.\r\nCarlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed\r\nat him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after\r\nhim. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is\r\nthis humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an\r\nAmerican? Ain't English girls good enough for him?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I'll back English women against the world, Harry,\u0022 said Lord Fermor,\r\nstriking the table with his fist.\r\n\r\n\u0022The betting is on the Americans.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They don't last, I am told,\u0022 muttered his uncle.\r\n\r\n\u0022A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a\r\nsteeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a\r\nchance.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Who are her people?\u0022 grumbled the old gentleman. \u0022Has she got any?\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry shook his head. \u0022American girls are as clever at concealing\r\ntheir parents, as English women are at concealing their past,\u0022 he said,\r\nrising to go.\r\n\r\n\u0022They are pork-packers, I suppose?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake. I am told that\r\npork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after\r\npolitics.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Is she pretty?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is\r\nthe secret of their charm.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They are\r\nalways telling us that it is the paradise for women.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively\r\nanxious to get out of it,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022Good-bye, Uncle George.\r\nI shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me\r\nthe information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my\r\nnew friends, and nothing about my old ones.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Where are you lunching, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest\r\n_protege_.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with\r\nher charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks\r\nthat I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect.\r\nPhilanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their\r\ndistinguishing characteristic.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his\r\nservant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street\r\nand turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.\r\n\r\nSo that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it had\r\nbeen told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a\r\nstrange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything\r\nfor a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a\r\nhideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a\r\nchild born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to\r\nsolitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an\r\ninteresting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it\r\nwere. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something\r\ntragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might\r\nblow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as\r\nwith startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat\r\nopposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer\r\nrose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing\r\nupon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the\r\nbow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of\r\ninfluence. No other activity was like it. To project one's soul into\r\nsome gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's\r\nown intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of\r\npassion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though\r\nit were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in\r\nthat--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited\r\nand vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and\r\ngrossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,\r\nwhom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio, or could be\r\nfashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the\r\nwhite purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for\r\nus. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be\r\nmade a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was\r\ndestined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view,\r\nhow interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of\r\nlooking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence\r\nof one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in\r\ndim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing\r\nherself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for\r\nher there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are\r\nwonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things\r\nbecoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value,\r\nas though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect\r\nform whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He\r\nremembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist\r\nin thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had\r\ncarved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own\r\ncentury it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray\r\nwhat, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned\r\nthe wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him--had already,\r\nindeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own.\r\nThere was something fascinating in this son of love and death.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had\r\npassed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.\r\nWhen he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they\r\nhad gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and\r\npassed into the dining-room.\r\n\r\n\u0022Late as usual, Harry,\u0022 cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.\r\n\r\nHe invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to\r\nher, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from\r\nthe end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.\r\nOpposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and\r\ngood temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample\r\narchitectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are\r\ndescribed by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on\r\nher right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who\r\nfollowed his leader in public life and in private life followed the\r\nbest cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in\r\naccordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was\r\noccupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable\r\ncharm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,\r\nhaving, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he\r\nhad to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,\r\none of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so\r\ndreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.\r\nFortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most\r\nintelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement\r\nin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely\r\nearnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once\r\nhimself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of\r\nthem ever quite escape.\r\n\r\n\u0022We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,\u0022 cried the duchess,\r\nnodding pleasantly to him across the table. \u0022Do you think he will\r\nreally marry this fascinating young person?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How dreadful!\u0022 exclaimed Lady Agatha. \u0022Really, some one should\r\ninterfere.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American\r\ndry-goods store,\u0022 said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.\r\n\r\n\u0022My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?\u0022 asked the duchess, raising\r\nher large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.\r\n\r\n\u0022American novels,\u0022 answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.\r\n\r\nThe duchess looked puzzled.\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't mind him, my dear,\u0022 whispered Lady Agatha. \u0022He never means\r\nanything that he says.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022When America was discovered,\u0022 said the Radical member--and he began to\r\ngive some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a\r\nsubject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised\r\nher privilege of interruption. \u0022I wish to goodness it never had been\r\ndiscovered at all!\u0022 she exclaimed. \u0022Really, our girls have no chance\r\nnowadays. It is most unfair.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,\u0022 said Mr.\r\nErskine; \u0022I myself would say that it had merely been detected.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,\u0022 answered the\r\nduchess vaguely. \u0022I must confess that most of them are extremely\r\npretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in\r\nParis. I wish I could afford to do the same.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,\u0022 chuckled Sir\r\nThomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes.\r\n\r\n\u0022Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?\u0022 inquired the\r\nduchess.\r\n\r\n\u0022They go to America,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry.\r\n\r\nSir Thomas frowned. \u0022I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced\r\nagainst that great country,\u0022 he said to Lady Agatha. \u0022I have travelled\r\nall over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters,\r\nare extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?\u0022 asked Mr.\r\nErskine plaintively. \u0022I don't feel up to the journey.\u0022\r\n\r\nSir Thomas waved his hand. \u0022Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on\r\nhis shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about\r\nthem. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are\r\nabsolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing\r\ncharacteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I\r\nassure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How dreadful!\u0022 cried Lord Henry. \u0022I can stand brute force, but brute\r\nreason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use.\r\nIt is hitting below the intellect.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I do not understand you,\u0022 said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.\r\n\r\n\u0022I do, Lord Henry,\u0022 murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.\r\n\r\n\u0022Paradoxes are all very well in their way....\u0022 rejoined the baronet.\r\n\r\n\u0022Was that a paradox?\u0022 asked Mr. Erskine. \u0022I did not think so. Perhaps\r\nit was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test\r\nreality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become\r\nacrobats, we can judge them.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dear me!\u0022 said Lady Agatha, \u0022how you men argue! I am sure I never can\r\nmake out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with\r\nyou. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up\r\nthe East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would\r\nlove his playing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I want him to play to me,\u0022 cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked\r\ndown the table and caught a bright answering glance.\r\n\r\n\u0022But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,\u0022 continued Lady Agatha.\r\n\r\n\u0022I can sympathize with everything except suffering,\u0022 said Lord Henry,\r\nshrugging his shoulders. \u0022I cannot sympathize with that. It is too\r\nugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly\r\nmorbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with\r\nthe colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's\r\nsores, the better.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Still, the East End is a very important problem,\u0022 remarked Sir Thomas\r\nwith a grave shake of the head.\r\n\r\n\u0022Quite so,\u0022 answered the young lord. \u0022It is the problem of slavery,\r\nand we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe politician looked at him keenly. \u0022What change do you propose,\r\nthen?\u0022 he asked.\r\n\r\nLord Henry laughed. \u0022I don't desire to change anything in England\r\nexcept the weather,\u0022 he answered. \u0022I am quite content with philosophic\r\ncontemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt\r\nthrough an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should\r\nappeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is\r\nthat they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is\r\nnot emotional.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But we have such grave responsibilities,\u0022 ventured Mrs. Vandeleur\r\ntimidly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Terribly grave,\u0022 echoed Lady Agatha.\r\n\r\nLord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. \u0022Humanity takes itself too\r\nseriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known\r\nhow to laugh, history would have been different.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are really very comforting,\u0022 warbled the duchess. \u0022I have always\r\nfelt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no\r\ninterest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to\r\nlook her in the face without a blush.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022A blush is very becoming, Duchess,\u0022 remarked Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022Only when one is young,\u0022 she answered. \u0022When an old woman like myself\r\nblushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell\r\nme how to become young again.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe thought for a moment. \u0022Can you remember any great error that you\r\ncommitted in your early days, Duchess?\u0022 he asked, looking at her across\r\nthe table.\r\n\r\n\u0022A great many, I fear,\u0022 she cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022Then commit them over again,\u0022 he said gravely. \u0022To get back one's\r\nyouth, one has merely to repeat one's follies.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022A delightful theory!\u0022 she exclaimed. \u0022I must put it into practice.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022A dangerous theory!\u0022 came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agatha\r\nshook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 he continued, \u0022that is one of the great secrets of life.\r\nNowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and\r\ndiscover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are\r\none's mistakes.\u0022\r\n\r\nA laugh ran round the table.\r\n\r\nHe played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and\r\ntransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent\r\nwith fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went\r\non, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and\r\ncatching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her\r\nwine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the\r\nhills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled\r\nbefore her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge\r\npress at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round\r\nher bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over\r\nthe vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary\r\nimprovisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,\r\nand the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose\r\ntemperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and\r\nto lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,\r\nirresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they\r\nfollowed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,\r\nbut sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips\r\nand wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.\r\n\r\nAt last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room\r\nin the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was\r\nwaiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. \u0022How annoying!\u0022 she\r\ncried. \u0022I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take\r\nhim to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be\r\nin the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn't\r\nhave a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word\r\nwould ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you\r\nare quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don't\r\nknow what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some\r\nnight. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,\u0022 said Lord Henry with a\r\nbow.\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,\u0022 she cried; \u0022so mind you\r\ncome\u0022; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the\r\nother ladies.\r\n\r\nWhen Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking\r\na chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.\r\n\r\n\u0022You talk books away,\u0022 he said; \u0022why don't you write one?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I\r\nshould like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely\r\nas a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in\r\nEngland for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias.\r\nOf all people in the world the English have the least sense of the\r\nbeauty of literature.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I fear you are right,\u0022 answered Mr. Erskine. \u0022I myself used to have\r\nliterary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear\r\nyoung friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you\r\nreally meant all that you said to us at lunch?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I quite forget what I said,\u0022 smiled Lord Henry. \u0022Was it all very bad?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if\r\nanything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being\r\nprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life.\r\nThe generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you\r\nare tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your\r\nphilosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate\r\nenough to possess.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege.\r\nIt has a perfect host, and a perfect library.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will complete it,\u0022 answered the old gentleman with a courteous\r\nbow. \u0022And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at\r\nthe Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All of you, Mr. Erskine?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English\r\nAcademy of Letters.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry laughed and rose. \u0022I am going to the park,\u0022 he cried.\r\n\r\nAs he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.\r\n\u0022Let me come with you,\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\n\u0022But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,\u0022\r\nanswered Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do\r\nlet me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks\r\nso wonderfully as you do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,\u0022 said Lord Henry, smiling.\r\n\u0022All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with\r\nme, if you care to.\u0022\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 4\r\n\r\nOne afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious\r\narm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair. It\r\nwas, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled\r\nwainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling\r\nof raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,\r\nlong-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette\r\nby Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for\r\nMargaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies\r\nthat Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and\r\nparrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small\r\nleaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a\r\nsummer day in London.\r\n\r\nLord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his\r\nprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was\r\nlooking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages\r\nof an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had\r\nfound in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the\r\nLouis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going\r\naway.\r\n\r\nAt last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. \u0022How late you\r\nare, Harry!\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,\u0022 answered a shrill voice.\r\n\r\nHe glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. \u0022I beg your pardon. I\r\nthought--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me\r\nintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think\r\nmy husband has got seventeen of them.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not seventeen, Lady Henry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the\r\nopera.\u0022 She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her\r\nvague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses\r\nalways looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a\r\ntempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion\r\nwas never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look\r\npicturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was\r\nVictoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.\r\n\r\n\u0022That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better than\r\nanybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other\r\npeople hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't you\r\nthink so, Mr. Gray?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her\r\nfingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.\r\n\r\nDorian smiled and shook his head: \u0022I am afraid I don't think so, Lady\r\nHenry. I never talk during music--at least, during good music. If one\r\nhears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? I always hear\r\nHarry's views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of\r\nthem. But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, but\r\nI am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped\r\npianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don't know what\r\nit is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all\r\nare, ain't they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners\r\nafter a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such a\r\ncompliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You have\r\nnever been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I\r\ncan't afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make\r\none's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in\r\nto look for you, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and I\r\nfound Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We\r\nhave quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different.\r\nBut he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,\u0022 said Lord Henry, elevating his\r\ndark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused\r\nsmile. \u0022So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of\r\nold brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it.\r\nNowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am afraid I must be going,\u0022 exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an\r\nawkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. \u0022I have promised to drive\r\nwith the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are\r\ndining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady\r\nThornbury's.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I dare say, my dear,\u0022 said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her\r\nas, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the\r\nrain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of\r\nfrangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the\r\nsofa.\r\n\r\n\u0022Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,\u0022 he said after a\r\nfew puffs.\r\n\r\n\u0022Why, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Because they are so sentimental.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But I like sentimental people.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,\r\nbecause they are curious: both are disappointed.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love.\r\nThat is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do\r\neverything that you say.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Who are you in love with?\u0022 asked Lord Henry after a pause.\r\n\r\n\u0022With an actress,\u0022 said Dorian Gray, blushing.\r\n\r\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \u0022That is a rather commonplace\r\n_debut_.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Who is she?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Her name is Sibyl Vane.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never heard of her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They\r\nnever have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women\r\nrepresent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the\r\ntriumph of mind over morals.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, how can you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so\r\nI ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was.\r\nI find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain\r\nand the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to\r\ngain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down\r\nto supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one\r\nmistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our\r\ngrandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and\r\n_esprit_ used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman\r\ncan look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly\r\nsatisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London\r\nworth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent\r\nsociety. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known\r\nher?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never mind that. How long have you known her?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022About three weeks.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And where did you come across her?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it.\r\nAfter all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You\r\nfilled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days\r\nafter I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged\r\nin the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one\r\nwho passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they\r\nled. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There\r\nwas an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....\r\nWell, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search\r\nof some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours,\r\nwith its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins,\r\nas you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied\r\na thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I\r\nremembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we\r\nfirst dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret\r\nof life. I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wandered\r\neastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black\r\ngrassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little\r\ntheatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous\r\nJew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was\r\nstanding at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy\r\nringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled\r\nshirt. 'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off\r\nhis hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about\r\nhim, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at\r\nme, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the\r\nstage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet if\r\nI hadn't--my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatest\r\nromance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you\r\nshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the\r\nfirst romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will\r\nalways be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of\r\npeople who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes\r\nof a country. Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store\r\nfor you. This is merely the beginning.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Do you think my nature so shallow?\u0022 cried Dorian Gray angrily.\r\n\r\n\u0022No; I think your nature so deep.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How do you mean?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really\r\nthe shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity,\r\nI call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.\r\nFaithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life\r\nof the intellect--simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I\r\nmust analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There\r\nare many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that\r\nothers might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go on\r\nwith your story.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a\r\nvulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the\r\ncurtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and\r\ncornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were\r\nfairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and\r\nthere was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the\r\ndress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there\r\nwas a terrible consumption of nuts going on.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder\r\nwhat on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What\r\ndo you think the play was, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should think 'The Idiot Boy', or 'Dumb but Innocent'. Our fathers\r\nused to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian,\r\nthe more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is\r\nnot good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandperes ont\r\ntoujours tort_.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I\r\nmust admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare\r\ndone in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in\r\na sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act.\r\nThere was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat\r\nat a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the\r\ndrop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly\r\ngentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure\r\nlike a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the\r\nlow-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most\r\nfriendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the\r\nscenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But\r\nJuliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a\r\nlittle, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of\r\ndark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were\r\nlike the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen\r\nin my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that\r\nbeauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you,\r\nHarry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came\r\nacross me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very low\r\nat first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's\r\near. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a\r\ndistant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy\r\nthat one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There\r\nwere moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You\r\nknow how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane\r\nare two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear\r\nthem, and each of them says something different. I don't know which to\r\nfollow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is\r\neverything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One\r\nevening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have\r\nseen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from\r\nher lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of\r\nArden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.\r\nShe has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and\r\ngiven him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been\r\ninnocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike\r\nthroat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary\r\nwomen never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their\r\ncentury. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as\r\neasily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is\r\nno mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and\r\nchatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped\r\nsmile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an\r\nactress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell me\r\nthat the only thing worth loving is an actress?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary\r\ncharm in them, sometimes,\u0022 said Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life\r\nyou will tell me everything you do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.\r\nYou have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would\r\ncome and confess it to you. You would understand me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes,\r\nDorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And\r\nnow tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are\r\nyour actual relations with Sibyl Vane?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.\r\n\u0022Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,\u0022 said\r\nLord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. \u0022But why\r\nshould you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day.\r\nWhen one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one\r\nalways ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a\r\nromance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the\r\nhorrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and\r\noffered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was\r\nfurious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds\r\nof years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I\r\nthink, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the\r\nimpression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am not surprised.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I\r\nnever even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and\r\nconfided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy\r\nagainst him, and that they were every one of them to be bought.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other\r\nhand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all\r\nexpensive.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,\u0022 laughed Dorian.\r\n\u0022By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,\r\nand I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly\r\nrecommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the\r\nplace again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that\r\nI was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute,\r\nthough he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me\r\nonce, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely\r\ndue to 'The Bard,' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think\r\nit a distinction.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most\r\npeople become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose\r\nof life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But when\r\ndid you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help\r\ngoing round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at\r\nme--at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He\r\nseemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my\r\nnot wanting to know her, wasn't it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No; I don't think so.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Harry, why?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a\r\nchild about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told\r\nher what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious\r\nof her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood\r\ngrinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate\r\nspeeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like\r\nchildren. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure\r\nSibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to\r\nme, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.'\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person\r\nin a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a\r\nfaded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta\r\ndressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen\r\nbetter days.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I know that look. It depresses me,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry, examining\r\nhis rings.\r\n\r\n\u0022The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest\r\nme.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about\r\nother people's tragedies.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came\r\nfrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and\r\nentirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every\r\nnight she is more marvellous.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I\r\nthought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it\r\nis not quite what I expected.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have\r\nbeen to the opera with you several times,\u0022 said Dorian, opening his\r\nblue eyes in wonder.\r\n\r\n\u0022You always come dreadfully late.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play,\u0022 he cried, \u0022even if it is\r\nonly for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think\r\nof the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I\r\nam filled with awe.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?\u0022\r\n\r\nHe shook his head. \u0022To-night she is Imogen,\u0022 he answered, \u0022and\r\nto-morrow night she will be Juliet.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022When is she Sibyl Vane?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I congratulate you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in\r\none. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she\r\nhas genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know\r\nall the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I\r\nwant to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to\r\nhear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir\r\ntheir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God,\r\nHarry, how I worship her!\u0022 He was walking up and down the room as he\r\nspoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly\r\nexcited.\r\n\r\nLord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different\r\nhe was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's\r\nstudio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of\r\nscarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and\r\ndesire had come to meet it on the way.\r\n\r\n\u0022And what do you propose to do?\u0022 said Lord Henry at last.\r\n\r\n\u0022I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I\r\nhave not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to\r\nacknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands.\r\nShe is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight\r\nmonths--from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of\r\ncourse. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and\r\nbring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made\r\nme.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That would be impossible, my dear boy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in\r\nher, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it\r\nis personalities, not principles, that move the age.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, what night shall we go?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays\r\nJuliet to-morrow.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the\r\ncurtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets\r\nRomeo.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or\r\nreading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before\r\nseven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to\r\nhim?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather\r\nhorrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful\r\nframe, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous\r\nof the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit\r\nthat I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't\r\nwant to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good\r\nadvice.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry smiled. \u0022People are very fond of giving away what they need\r\nmost themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit\r\nof a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered\r\nthat.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his\r\nwork. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his\r\nprejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I\r\nhave ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good\r\nartists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly\r\nuninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is\r\nthe most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are\r\nabsolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more\r\npicturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of\r\nsecond-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the\r\npoetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they\r\ndare not realize.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wonder is that really so, Harry?\u0022 said Dorian Gray, putting some\r\nperfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that\r\nstood on the table. \u0022It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.\r\nImogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he began\r\nto think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as\r\nDorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused\r\nhim not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by\r\nit. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always\r\nenthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary\r\nsubject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no\r\nimport. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by\r\nvivisecting others. Human life--that appeared to him the one thing\r\nworth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any\r\nvalue. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of\r\npain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass,\r\nnor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the\r\nimagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There\r\nwere poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken\r\nof them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through\r\nthem if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great\r\nreward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To\r\nnote the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life\r\nof the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated,\r\nat what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at\r\ndiscord--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was?\r\nOne could never pay too high a price for any sensation.\r\n\r\nHe was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his\r\nbrown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical\r\nwords said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had turned\r\nto this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent\r\nthe lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was\r\nsomething. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its\r\nsecrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were\r\nrevealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect\r\nof art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately\r\nwith the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex\r\npersonality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,\r\nin its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,\r\njust as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.\r\n\r\nYes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was\r\nyet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was\r\nbecoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his\r\nbeautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at.\r\nIt was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like\r\none of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem\r\nto be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty,\r\nand whose wounds are like red roses.\r\n\r\nSoul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was\r\nanimalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.\r\nThe senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could\r\nsay where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?\r\nHow shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists!\r\nAnd yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various\r\nschools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the\r\nbody really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of\r\nspirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter\r\nwas a mystery also.\r\n\r\nHe began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a\r\nscience that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it\r\nwas, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.\r\nExperience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to\r\ntheir mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of\r\nwarning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation\r\nof character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow\r\nand showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in\r\nexperience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.\r\nAll that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same\r\nas our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we\r\nwould do many times, and with joy.\r\n\r\nIt was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by\r\nwhich one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and\r\ncertainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to\r\npromise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane\r\nwas a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no\r\ndoubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire\r\nfor new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex\r\npassion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of\r\nboyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,\r\nchanged into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from\r\nsense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the\r\npassions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most\r\nstrongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we\r\nwere conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were\r\nexperimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.\r\n\r\nWhile Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the\r\ndoor, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for\r\ndinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had\r\nsmitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite.\r\nThe panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a\r\nfaded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and\r\nwondered how it was all going to end.\r\n\r\nWhen he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram\r\nlying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian\r\nGray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl\r\nVane.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 5\r\n\r\n\u0022Mother, Mother, I am so happy!\u0022 whispered the girl, burying her face\r\nin the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to\r\nthe shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their\r\ndingy sitting-room contained. \u0022I am so happy!\u0022 she repeated, \u0022and you\r\nmust be happy, too!\u0022\r\n\r\nMrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her\r\ndaughter's head. \u0022Happy!\u0022 she echoed, \u0022I am only happy, Sibyl, when I\r\nsee you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr.\r\nIsaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe girl looked up and pouted. \u0022Money, Mother?\u0022 she cried, \u0022what does\r\nmoney matter? Love is more than money.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to\r\nget a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty\r\npounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,\u0022\r\nsaid the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't know how we could manage without him,\u0022 answered the elder\r\nwoman querulously.\r\n\r\nSibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. \u0022We don't want him any more,\r\nMother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.\u0022 Then she paused. A\r\nrose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted\r\nthe petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion\r\nswept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. \u0022I love\r\nhim,\u0022 she said simply.\r\n\r\n\u0022Foolish child! foolish child!\u0022 was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.\r\nThe waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the\r\nwords.\r\n\r\nThe girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her\r\neyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a\r\nmoment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of\r\na dream had passed across them.\r\n\r\nThin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at\r\nprudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name\r\nof common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of\r\npassion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on\r\nmemory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it\r\nhad brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her\r\neyelids were warm with his breath.\r\n\r\nThen wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This\r\nyoung man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of.\r\nAgainst the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The\r\narrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.\r\n\r\nSuddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.\r\n\u0022Mother, Mother,\u0022 she cried, \u0022why does he love me so much? I know why\r\nI love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be.\r\nBut what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet--why, I\r\ncannot tell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel humble. I\r\nfeel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love\r\nPrince Charming?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her\r\ncheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed\r\nto her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. \u0022Forgive me,\r\nMother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only\r\npains you because you loved him so much. Don't look so sad. I am as\r\nhappy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for\r\never!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,\r\nwhat do you know of this young man? You don't even know his name. The\r\nwhole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away\r\nto Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you\r\nshould have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he\r\nis rich ...\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!\u0022\r\n\r\nMrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical\r\ngestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a\r\nstage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened\r\nand a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was\r\nthick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat\r\nclumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One\r\nwould hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between\r\nthem. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She\r\nmentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure\r\nthat the _tableau_ was interesting.\r\n\r\n\u0022You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,\u0022 said the\r\nlad with a good-natured grumble.\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim,\u0022 she cried. \u0022You are a\r\ndreadful old bear.\u0022 And she ran across the room and hugged him.\r\n\r\nJames Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. \u0022I want you\r\nto come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall ever\r\nsee this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My son, don't say such dreadful things,\u0022 murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up\r\na tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She\r\nfelt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would\r\nhave increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.\r\n\r\n\u0022Why not, Mother? I mean it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a\r\nposition of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in\r\nthe Colonies--nothing that I would call society--so when you have made\r\nyour fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Society!\u0022 muttered the lad. \u0022I don't want to know anything about\r\nthat. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the\r\nstage. I hate it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, Jim!\u0022 said Sibyl, laughing, \u0022how unkind of you! But are you\r\nreally going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you\r\nwere going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, who\r\ngave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for\r\nsmoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last\r\nafternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am too shabby,\u0022 he answered, frowning. \u0022Only swell people go to the\r\npark.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Nonsense, Jim,\u0022 she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.\r\n\r\nHe hesitated for a moment. \u0022Very well,\u0022 he said at last, \u0022but don't be\r\ntoo long dressing.\u0022 She danced out of the door. One could hear her\r\nsinging as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.\r\n\r\nHe walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to\r\nthe still figure in the chair. \u0022Mother, are my things ready?\u0022 he asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022Quite ready, James,\u0022 she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For\r\nsome months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this\r\nrough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when\r\ntheir eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The\r\nsilence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.\r\nShe began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as\r\nthey attack by sudden and strange surrenders. \u0022I hope you will be\r\ncontented, James, with your sea-faring life,\u0022 she said. \u0022You must\r\nremember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a\r\nsolicitor's office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in\r\nthe country often dine with the best families.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hate offices, and I hate clerks,\u0022 he replied. \u0022But you are quite\r\nright. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl.\r\nDon't let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to\r\ntalk to her. Is that right? What about that?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are speaking about things you don't understand, James. In the\r\nprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying\r\nattention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That\r\nwas when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at\r\npresent whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no\r\ndoubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is\r\nalways most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being\r\nrich, and the flowers he sends are lovely.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't know his name, though,\u0022 said the lad harshly.\r\n\r\n\u0022No,\u0022 answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. \u0022He\r\nhas not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of\r\nhim. He is probably a member of the aristocracy.\u0022\r\n\r\nJames Vane bit his lip. \u0022Watch over Sibyl, Mother,\u0022 he cried, \u0022watch\r\nover her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special\r\ncare. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why\r\nshe should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the\r\naristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be\r\na most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming\r\ncouple. His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices\r\nthem.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane\r\nwith his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something\r\nwhen the door opened and Sibyl ran in.\r\n\r\n\u0022How serious you both are!\u0022 she cried. \u0022What is the matter?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Nothing,\u0022 he answered. \u0022I suppose one must be serious sometimes.\r\nGood-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o'clock. Everything is\r\npacked, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Good-bye, my son,\u0022 she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.\r\n\r\nShe was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and\r\nthere was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.\r\n\r\n\u0022Kiss me, Mother,\u0022 said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the\r\nwithered cheek and warmed its frost.\r\n\r\n\u0022My child! my child!\u0022 cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in\r\nsearch of an imaginary gallery.\r\n\r\n\u0022Come, Sibyl,\u0022 said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother's\r\naffectations.\r\n\r\nThey went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled\r\ndown the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the\r\nsullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the\r\ncompany of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common\r\ngardener walking with a rose.\r\n\r\nJim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of\r\nsome stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on\r\ngeniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl,\r\nhowever, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her\r\nlove was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince\r\nCharming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not\r\ntalk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to\r\nsail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful\r\nheiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted\r\nbushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or\r\nwhatever he was going to be. Oh, no! A sailor's existence was\r\ndreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse,\r\nhump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts\r\ndown and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! He was to\r\nleave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain,\r\nand go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was to\r\ncome across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had\r\never been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon\r\nguarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers were to attack them\r\nthree times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. Or, no. He was\r\nnot to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid places, where\r\nmen got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad\r\nlanguage. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was\r\nriding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a\r\nrobber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. Of course,\r\nshe would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get\r\nmarried, and come home, and live in an immense house in London. Yes,\r\nthere were delightful things in store for him. But he must be very\r\ngood, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. She was\r\nonly a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. He\r\nmust be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his\r\nprayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very good, and\r\nwould watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a few years\r\nhe would come back quite rich and happy.\r\n\r\nThe lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick\r\nat leaving home.\r\n\r\nYet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.\r\nInexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger\r\nof Sibyl's position. This young dandy who was making love to her could\r\nmean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated\r\nhim through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,\r\nand which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was\r\nconscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature,\r\nand in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness.\r\nChildren begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge\r\nthem; sometimes they forgive them.\r\n\r\nHis mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that\r\nhe had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he\r\nhad heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears\r\none night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of\r\nhorrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a\r\nhunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like\r\nfurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.\r\n\r\n\u0022You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,\u0022 cried Sibyl, \u0022and I\r\nam making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What do you want me to say?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,\u0022 she answered,\r\nsmiling at him.\r\n\r\nHe shrugged his shoulders. \u0022You are more likely to forget me than I am\r\nto forget you, Sibyl.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe flushed. \u0022What do you mean, Jim?\u0022 she asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me\r\nabout him? He means you no good.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stop, Jim!\u0022 she exclaimed. \u0022You must not say anything against him. I\r\nlove him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why, you don't even know his name,\u0022 answered the lad. \u0022Who is he? I\r\nhave a right to know.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name. Oh! you silly\r\nboy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think\r\nhim the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet\r\nhim--when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.\r\nEverybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the\r\ntheatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet.\r\nOh! how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet!\r\nTo have him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may\r\nfrighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to\r\nsurpass one's self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting 'genius'\r\nto his loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he\r\nwill announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his\r\nonly, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am\r\npoor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in\r\nat the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want\r\nrewriting. They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time\r\nfor me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is a gentleman,\u0022 said the lad sullenly.\r\n\r\n\u0022A prince!\u0022 she cried musically. \u0022What more do you want?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He wants to enslave you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I shudder at the thought of being free.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I want you to beware of him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Sibyl, you are mad about him.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe laughed and took his arm. \u0022You dear old Jim, you talk as if you\r\nwere a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will\r\nknow what it is. Don't look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to\r\nthink that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have\r\never been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and\r\ndifficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new\r\nworld, and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and\r\nsee the smart people go by.\u0022\r\n\r\nThey took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds\r\nacross the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white\r\ndust--tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air.\r\nThe brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous\r\nbutterflies.\r\n\r\nShe made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He\r\nspoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as\r\nplayers at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not\r\ncommunicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all\r\nthe echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly\r\nshe caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open\r\ncarriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.\r\n\r\nShe started to her feet. \u0022There he is!\u0022 she cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022Who?\u0022 said Jim Vane.\r\n\r\n\u0022Prince Charming,\u0022 she answered, looking after the victoria.\r\n\r\nHe jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. \u0022Show him to me.\r\nWhich is he? Point him out. I must see him!\u0022 he exclaimed; but at\r\nthat moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when\r\nit had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.\r\n\r\n\u0022He is gone,\u0022 murmured Sibyl sadly. \u0022I wish you had seen him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does\r\nyou any wrong, I shall kill him.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air\r\nlike a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close\r\nto her tittered.\r\n\r\n\u0022Come away, Jim; come away,\u0022 she whispered. He followed her doggedly\r\nas she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.\r\n\r\nWhen they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was\r\npity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head\r\nat him. \u0022You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy,\r\nthat is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don't know\r\nwhat you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I\r\nwish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said\r\nwas wicked.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am sixteen,\u0022 he answered, \u0022and I know what I am about. Mother is no\r\nhelp to you. She doesn't understand how to look after you. I wish now\r\nthat I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck\r\nthe whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn't been signed.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, don't be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those\r\nsilly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not\r\ngoing to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is\r\nperfect happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm any\r\none I love, would you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not as long as you love him, I suppose,\u0022 was the sullen answer.\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall love him for ever!\u0022 she cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022And he?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022For ever, too!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He had better.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He\r\nwas merely a boy.\r\n\r\nAt the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to\r\ntheir shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock, and\r\nSibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim\r\ninsisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with\r\nher when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a\r\nscene, and he detested scenes of every kind.\r\n\r\nIn Sybil's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad's\r\nheart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed\r\nto him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his\r\nneck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed\r\nher with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went\r\ndownstairs.\r\n\r\nHis mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his\r\nunpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his\r\nmeagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the\r\nstained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of\r\nstreet-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that\r\nwas left to him.\r\n\r\nAfter some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his\r\nhands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told\r\nto him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother\r\nwatched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered\r\nlace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six,\r\nhe got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her.\r\nTheir eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged\r\nhim.\r\n\r\n\u0022Mother, I have something to ask you,\u0022 he said. Her eyes wandered\r\nvaguely about the room. She made no answer. \u0022Tell me the truth. I\r\nhave a right to know. Were you married to my father?\u0022\r\n\r\nShe heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,\r\nthe moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,\r\nhad come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure\r\nit was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question\r\ncalled for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led\r\nup to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.\r\n\r\n\u0022No,\u0022 she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.\r\n\r\n\u0022My father was a scoundrel then!\u0022 cried the lad, clenching his fists.\r\n\r\nShe shook her head. \u0022I knew he was not free. We loved each other very\r\nmuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don't\r\nspeak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman.\r\nIndeed, he was highly connected.\u0022\r\n\r\nAn oath broke from his lips. \u0022I don't care for myself,\u0022 he exclaimed,\r\n\u0022but don't let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love\r\nwith her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.\u0022\r\n\r\nFor a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her\r\nhead drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. \u0022Sibyl has a\r\nmother,\u0022 she murmured; \u0022I had none.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed\r\nher. \u0022I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,\u0022 he\r\nsaid, \u0022but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don't forget\r\nthat you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me\r\nthat if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him\r\ndown, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that\r\naccompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid\r\nto her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more\r\nfreely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her\r\nson. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same\r\nemotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down\r\nand mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out.\r\nThere was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in\r\nvulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that\r\nshe waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son\r\ndrove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been\r\nwasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt\r\nher life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She\r\nremembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said\r\nnothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that\r\nthey would all laugh at it some day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 6\r\n\r\n\u0022I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?\u0022 said Lord Henry that\r\nevening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol\r\nwhere dinner had been laid for three.\r\n\r\n\u0022No, Harry,\u0022 answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing\r\nwaiter. \u0022What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don't\r\ninterest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons\r\nworth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little\r\nwhitewashing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,\u0022 said Lord Henry, watching him\r\nas he spoke.\r\n\r\nHallward started and then frowned. \u0022Dorian engaged to be married!\u0022 he\r\ncried. \u0022Impossible!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is perfectly true.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To whom?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To some little actress or other.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear\r\nBasil.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Except in America,\u0022 rejoined Lord Henry languidly. \u0022But I didn't say\r\nhe was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great\r\ndifference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have\r\nno recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I\r\nnever was engaged.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would be\r\nabsurd for him to marry so much beneath him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is\r\nsure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it\r\nis always from the noblest motives.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied to\r\nsome vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his\r\nintellect.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry,\r\nsipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. \u0022Dorian says she is\r\nbeautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your\r\nportrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal\r\nappearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst\r\nothers. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his\r\nappointment.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Are you serious?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should\r\never be more serious than I am at the present moment.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But do you approve of it, Harry?\u0022 asked the painter, walking up and\r\ndown the room and biting his lip. \u0022You can't approve of it, possibly.\r\nIt is some silly infatuation.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd\r\nattitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air\r\nour moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people\r\nsay, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a\r\npersonality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality\r\nselects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with\r\na beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?\r\nIf he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You\r\nknow I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is\r\nthat it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless.\r\nThey lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that\r\nmarriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it\r\nmany other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They\r\nbecome more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should\r\nfancy, the object of man's existence. Besides, every experience is of\r\nvalue, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an\r\nexperience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife,\r\npassionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become\r\nfascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don't.\r\nIf Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than\r\nyourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry laughed. \u0022The reason we all like to think so well of others\r\nis that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is\r\nsheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our\r\nneighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a\r\nbenefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account,\r\nand find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare\r\nour pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest\r\ncontempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but\r\none whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have\r\nmerely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,\r\nbut there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women.\r\nI will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being\r\nfashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I\r\ncan.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!\u0022 said the\r\nlad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and\r\nshaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. \u0022I have never been so\r\nhappy. Of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are. And\r\nyet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my\r\nlife.\u0022 He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked\r\nextraordinarily handsome.\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,\u0022 said Hallward, \u0022but I\r\ndon't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.\r\nYou let Harry know.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner,\u0022 broke in Lord\r\nHenry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke.\r\n\u0022Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and then\r\nyou will tell us how it all came about.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There is really not much to tell,\u0022 cried Dorian as they took their\r\nseats at the small round table. \u0022What happened was simply this. After\r\nI left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that\r\nlittle Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and\r\nwent down at eight o'clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.\r\nOf course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!\r\nYou should have seen her! When she came on in her boy's clothes, she\r\nwas perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with\r\ncinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little\r\ngreen cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak\r\nlined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She\r\nhad all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in\r\nyour studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves\r\nround a pale rose. As for her acting--well, you shall see her\r\nto-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box\r\nabsolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and in the\r\nnineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man\r\nhad ever seen. After the performance was over, I went behind and spoke\r\nto her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes\r\na look that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers.\r\nWe kissed each other. I can't describe to you what I felt at that\r\nmoment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one\r\nperfect point of rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook\r\nlike a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed\r\nmy hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help\r\nit. Of course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told\r\nher own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley\r\nis sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a\r\nyear, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven't\r\nI, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's\r\nplays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their\r\nsecret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and\r\nkissed Juliet on the mouth.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,\u0022 said Hallward slowly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Have you seen her to-day?\u0022 asked Lord Henry.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray shook his head. \u0022I left her in the forest of Arden; I\r\nshall find her in an orchard in Verona.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. \u0022At what\r\nparticular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what\r\ndid she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did\r\nnot make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she\r\nsaid she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole\r\nworld is nothing to me compared with her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Women are wonderfully practical,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry, \u0022much more\r\npractical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to\r\nsay anything about marriage, and they always remind us.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward laid his hand upon his arm. \u0022Don't, Harry. You have annoyed\r\nDorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon\r\nany one. His nature is too fine for that.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry looked across the table. \u0022Dorian is never annoyed with me,\u0022\r\nhe answered. \u0022I asked the question for the best reason possible, for\r\nthe only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any\r\nquestion--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the\r\nwomen who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except,\r\nof course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not\r\nmodern.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. \u0022You are quite incorrigible,\r\nHarry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When\r\nyou see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her\r\nwould be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any\r\none can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want\r\nto place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the\r\nwoman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at\r\nit for that. Ah! don't mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to\r\ntake. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I\r\nam with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different\r\nfrom what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of\r\nSibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating,\r\npoisonous, delightful theories.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And those are ...?\u0022 asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories\r\nabout pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,\u0022 he answered\r\nin his slow melodious voice. \u0022But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory\r\nas my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature's\r\ntest, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but\r\nwhen we are good, we are not always happy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! but what do you mean by good?\u0022 cried Basil Hallward.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord\r\nHenry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the\r\ncentre of the table, \u0022what do you mean by good, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To be good is to be in harmony with one's self,\u0022 he replied, touching\r\nthe thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.\r\n\u0022Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's own\r\nlife--that is the important thing. As for the lives of one's\r\nneighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt\r\none's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern. Besides,\r\nindividualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in\r\naccepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man of\r\nculture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest\r\nimmorality.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays a\r\nterrible price for doing so?\u0022 suggested the painter.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that\r\nthe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but\r\nself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege\r\nof the rich.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022One has to pay in other ways but money.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What sort of ways, Basil?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the\r\nconsciousness of degradation.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \u0022My dear fellow, mediaeval art is\r\ncharming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them in\r\nfiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in\r\nfiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,\r\nno civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever\r\nknows what a pleasure is.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I know what pleasure is,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray. \u0022It is to adore some\r\none.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That is certainly better than being adored,\u0022 he answered, toying with\r\nsome fruits. \u0022Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as\r\nhumanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us\r\nto do something for them.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to\r\nus,\u0022 murmured the lad gravely. \u0022They create love in our natures. They\r\nhave a right to demand it back.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That is quite true, Dorian,\u0022 cried Hallward.\r\n\r\n\u0022Nothing is ever quite true,\u0022 said Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022This is,\u0022 interrupted Dorian. \u0022You must admit, Harry, that women give\r\nto men the very gold of their lives.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Possibly,\u0022 he sighed, \u0022but they invariably want it back in such very\r\nsmall change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once\r\nput it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always\r\nprevent us from carrying them out.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, you are dreadful! I don't know why I like you so much.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will always like me, Dorian,\u0022 he replied. \u0022Will you have some\r\ncoffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and\r\nsome cigarettes. No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some. Basil, I\r\ncan't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A\r\ncigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite,\r\nand it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian,\r\nyou will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you\r\nhave never had the courage to commit.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What nonsense you talk, Harry!\u0022 cried the lad, taking a light from a\r\nfire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.\r\n\u0022Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will\r\nhave a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you\r\nhave never known.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have known everything,\u0022 said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his\r\neyes, \u0022but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,\r\nthat, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your\r\nwonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real\r\nthan life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry,\r\nBasil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow\r\nus in a hansom.\u0022\r\n\r\nThey got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The\r\npainter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He\r\ncould not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better\r\nthan many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,\r\nthey all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been\r\narranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in\r\nfront of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that\r\nDorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the\r\npast. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the\r\ncrowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew\r\nup at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 7\r\n\r\nFor some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat\r\nJew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with\r\nan oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of\r\npompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top\r\nof his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if\r\nhe had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord\r\nHenry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he\r\ndid, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he\r\nwas proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone\r\nbankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces\r\nin the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight\r\nflamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths\r\nin the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them\r\nover the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared\r\ntheir oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women\r\nwere laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and\r\ndiscordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.\r\n\r\n\u0022What a place to find one's divinity in!\u0022 said Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes!\u0022 answered Dorian Gray. \u0022It was here I found her, and she is\r\ndivine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget\r\neverything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and\r\nbrutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They\r\nsit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to\r\ndo. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,\r\nand one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The same flesh and blood as one's self! Oh, I hope not!\u0022 exclaimed\r\nLord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his\r\nopera-glass.\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian,\u0022 said the painter. \u0022I\r\nunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love\r\nmust be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must\r\nbe fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age--that is something worth\r\ndoing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without\r\none, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have\r\nbeen sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and\r\nlend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of\r\nall your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This\r\nmarriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it\r\nnow. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have\r\nbeen incomplete.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Thanks, Basil,\u0022 answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. \u0022I knew that\r\nyou would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But\r\nhere is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for\r\nabout five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl\r\nto whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything\r\nthat is good in me.\u0022\r\n\r\nA quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of\r\napplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly\r\nlovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,\r\nthat he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy\r\ngrace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a\r\nmirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded\r\nenthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed\r\nto tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.\r\nMotionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her.\r\nLord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, \u0022Charming! charming!\u0022\r\n\r\nThe scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim's\r\ndress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such\r\nas it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through\r\nthe crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a\r\ncreature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a\r\nplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of\r\na white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.\r\n\r\nYet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her\r\neyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak--\r\n\r\n Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\r\n Which mannerly devotion shows in this;\r\n For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,\r\n And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss--\r\n\r\nwith the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly\r\nartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view\r\nof tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away\r\nall the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.\r\nNeither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to\r\nthem to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.\r\n\r\nYet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of\r\nthe second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was\r\nnothing in her.\r\n\r\nShe looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not\r\nbe denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew\r\nworse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She\r\noveremphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage--\r\n\r\n Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\r\n Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\r\n For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--\r\n\r\nwas declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been\r\ntaught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she\r\nleaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines--\r\n\r\n Although I joy in thee,\r\n I have no joy of this contract to-night:\r\n It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;\r\n Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be\r\n Ere one can say, \u0022It lightens.\u0022 Sweet, good-night!\r\n This bud of love by summer's ripening breath\r\n May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--\r\n\r\nshe spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was\r\nnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely\r\nself-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.\r\n\r\nEven the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their\r\ninterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and\r\nto whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the\r\ndress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was\r\nthe girl herself.\r\n\r\nWhen the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord\r\nHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. \u0022She is quite\r\nbeautiful, Dorian,\u0022 he said, \u0022but she can't act. Let us go.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am going to see the play through,\u0022 answered the lad, in a hard\r\nbitter voice. \u0022I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an\r\nevening, Harry. I apologize to you both.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,\u0022 interrupted\r\nHallward. \u0022We will come some other night.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish she were ill,\u0022 he rejoined. \u0022But she seems to me to be simply\r\ncallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a\r\ngreat artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre\r\nactress.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more\r\nwonderful thing than art.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They are both simply forms of imitation,\u0022 remarked Lord Henry. \u0022But\r\ndo let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not\r\ngood for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose you\r\nwill want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet\r\nlike a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little\r\nabout life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful\r\nexperience. There are only two kinds of people who are really\r\nfascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know\r\nabsolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic!\r\nThe secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is\r\nunbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke\r\ncigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful.\r\nWhat more can you want?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Go away, Harry,\u0022 cried the lad. \u0022I want to be alone. Basil, you must\r\ngo. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?\u0022 The hot tears came\r\nto his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he\r\nleaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.\r\n\r\n\u0022Let us go, Basil,\u0022 said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his\r\nvoice, and the two young men passed out together.\r\n\r\nA few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose\r\non the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,\r\nand proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed\r\ninterminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots\r\nand laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played\r\nto almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some\r\ngroans.\r\n\r\nAs soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the\r\ngreenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph\r\non her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a\r\nradiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of\r\ntheir own.\r\n\r\nWhen he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy\r\ncame over her. \u0022How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!\u0022 she cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022Horribly!\u0022 he answered, gazing at her in amazement. \u0022Horribly! It\r\nwas dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no\r\nidea what I suffered.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe girl smiled. \u0022Dorian,\u0022 she answered, lingering over his name with\r\nlong-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to\r\nthe red petals of her mouth. \u0022Dorian, you should have understood. But\r\nyou understand now, don't you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Understand what?\u0022 he asked, angrily.\r\n\r\n\u0022Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall\r\nnever act well again.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe shrugged his shoulders. \u0022You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill\r\nyou shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were\r\nbored. I was bored.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An\r\necstasy of happiness dominated her.\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian, Dorian,\u0022 she cried, \u0022before I knew you, acting was the one\r\nreality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I\r\nthought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the\r\nother. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia\r\nwere mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted\r\nwith me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world.\r\nI knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my\r\nbeautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what\r\nreality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw\r\nthrough the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in\r\nwhich I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became\r\nconscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the\r\nmoonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and\r\nthat the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not\r\nwhat I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something\r\nof which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what\r\nlove really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life!\r\nI have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever\r\nbe. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on\r\nto-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone\r\nfrom me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I\r\ncould do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant.\r\nThe knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled.\r\nWhat could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian--take\r\nme away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I\r\nmight mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that\r\nburns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it\r\nsignifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to\r\nplay at being in love. You have made me see that.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. \u0022You have\r\nkilled my love,\u0022 he muttered.\r\n\r\nShe looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came\r\nacross to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt\r\ndown and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a\r\nshudder ran through him.\r\n\r\nThen he leaped up and went to the door. \u0022Yes,\u0022 he cried, \u0022you have\r\nkilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even\r\nstir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because\r\nyou were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you\r\nrealized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the\r\nshadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and\r\nstupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been!\r\nYou are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never\r\nthink of you. I will never mention your name. You don't know what you\r\nwere to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I\r\nwish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of\r\nmy life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!\r\nWithout your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous,\r\nsplendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you\r\nwould have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with\r\na pretty face.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together,\r\nand her voice seemed to catch in her throat. \u0022You are not serious,\r\nDorian?\u0022 she murmured. \u0022You are acting.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,\u0022 he answered\r\nbitterly.\r\n\r\nShe rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her\r\nface, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and\r\nlooked into his eyes. He thrust her back. \u0022Don't touch me!\u0022 he cried.\r\n\r\nA low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay\r\nthere like a trampled flower. \u0022Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!\u0022 she\r\nwhispered. \u0022I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you\r\nall the time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly\r\nacross me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if\r\nyou had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again,\r\nmy love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Oh! don't go\r\naway from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn't mean it. He\r\nwas in jest.... But you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? I will\r\nwork so hard and try to improve. Don't be cruel to me, because I love\r\nyou better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that\r\nI have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should\r\nhave shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I\r\ncouldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me.\u0022 A fit of\r\npassionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a\r\nwounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at\r\nher, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is\r\nalways something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has\r\nceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic.\r\nHer tears and sobs annoyed him.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am going,\u0022 he said at last in his calm clear voice. \u0022I don't wish\r\nto be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little\r\nhands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He\r\nturned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of\r\nthe theatre.\r\n\r\nWhere he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly\r\nlit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking\r\nhouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after\r\nhim. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves\r\nlike monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon\r\ndoor-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.\r\n\r\nAs the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.\r\nThe darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed\r\nitself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies\r\nrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with\r\nthe perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an\r\nanodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men\r\nunloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some\r\ncherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money\r\nfor them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at\r\nmidnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long\r\nline of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red\r\nroses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,\r\njade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,\r\nsun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,\r\nwaiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging\r\ndoors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped\r\nand stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.\r\nSome of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked\r\nand pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.\r\n\r\nAfter a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few\r\nmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent\r\nsquare, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.\r\nThe sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like\r\nsilver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke\r\nwas rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.\r\n\r\nIn the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, that\r\nhung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,\r\nlights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals\r\nof flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,\r\nhaving thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library\r\ntowards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the\r\nground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had\r\ndecorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries\r\nthat had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As\r\nhe was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait\r\nBasil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.\r\nThen he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he\r\nhad taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.\r\nFinally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In\r\nthe dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk\r\nblinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The\r\nexpression looked different. One would have said that there was a\r\ntouch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.\r\n\r\nHe turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The\r\nbright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky\r\ncorners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he\r\nhad noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be\r\nmore intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the\r\nlines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking\r\ninto a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.\r\n\r\nHe winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory\r\nCupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly\r\ninto its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What\r\ndid it mean?\r\n\r\nHe rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it\r\nagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the\r\nactual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression\r\nhad altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was\r\nhorribly apparent.\r\n\r\nHe threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there\r\nflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the\r\nday the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly.\r\nHe had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the\r\nportrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the\r\nface on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that\r\nthe painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and\r\nthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness\r\nof his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been\r\nfulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to\r\nthink of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the\r\ntouch of cruelty in the mouth.\r\n\r\nCruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had\r\ndreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he\r\nhad thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been\r\nshallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over\r\nhim, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little\r\nchild. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why\r\nhad he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him?\r\nBut he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the\r\nplay had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of\r\ntorture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a\r\nmoment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better\r\nsuited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They\r\nonly thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely\r\nto have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told\r\nhim that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble\r\nabout Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now.\r\n\r\nBut the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of\r\nhis life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own\r\nbeauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look\r\nat it again?\r\n\r\nNo; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The\r\nhorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.\r\nSuddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that\r\nmakes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.\r\n\r\nYet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel\r\nsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes\r\nmet his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the\r\npainted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and\r\nwould alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white\r\nroses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck\r\nand wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or\r\nunchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would\r\nresist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at\r\nany rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil\r\nHallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for\r\nimpossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,\r\nmarry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She\r\nmust have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish\r\nand cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him\r\nwould return. They would be happy together. His life with her would\r\nbe beautiful and pure.\r\n\r\nHe got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the\r\nportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. \u0022How horrible!\u0022 he murmured\r\nto himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he\r\nstepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning\r\nair seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of\r\nSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her\r\nname over and over again. The birds that were singing in the\r\ndew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 8\r\n\r\nIt was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times\r\non tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered\r\nwhat made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded,\r\nand Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on\r\na small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin\r\ncurtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the\r\nthree tall windows.\r\n\r\n\u0022Monsieur has well slept this morning,\u0022 he said, smiling.\r\n\r\n\u0022What o'clock is it, Victor?\u0022 asked Dorian Gray drowsily.\r\n\r\n\u0022One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.\u0022\r\n\r\nHow late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over\r\nhis letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by\r\nhand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside.\r\nThe others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection\r\nof cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes\r\nof charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable\r\nyoung men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy\r\nbill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet\r\nhad the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely\r\nold-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when\r\nunnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several\r\nvery courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders\r\noffering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the\r\nmost reasonable rates of interest.\r\n\r\nAfter about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate\r\ndressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the\r\nonyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long\r\nsleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A\r\ndim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once\r\nor twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it.\r\n\r\nAs soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a\r\nlight French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round\r\ntable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air\r\nseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the\r\nblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before\r\nhim. He felt perfectly happy.\r\n\r\nSuddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the\r\nportrait, and he started.\r\n\r\n\u0022Too cold for Monsieur?\u0022 asked his valet, putting an omelette on the\r\ntable. \u0022I shut the window?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shook his head. \u0022I am not cold,\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\nWas it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been\r\nsimply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where\r\nthere had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter?\r\nThe thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day.\r\nIt would make him smile.\r\n\r\nAnd, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in\r\nthe dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of\r\ncruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the\r\nroom. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the\r\nportrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes\r\nhad been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to\r\ntell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him\r\nback. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for\r\na moment. \u0022I am not at home to any one, Victor,\u0022 he said with a sigh.\r\nThe man bowed and retired.\r\n\r\nThen he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on\r\na luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen\r\nwas an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a\r\nrather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,\r\nwondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life.\r\n\r\nShould he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What\r\nwas the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it\r\nwas not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or\r\ndeadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible\r\nchange? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at\r\nhis own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to\r\nbe examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful\r\nstate of doubt.\r\n\r\nHe got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he\r\nlooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and\r\nsaw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had\r\naltered.\r\n\r\nAs he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he\r\nfound himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost\r\nscientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was\r\nincredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle\r\naffinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form\r\nand colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be\r\nthat what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they\r\nmade true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He\r\nshuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there,\r\ngazing at the picture in sickened horror.\r\n\r\nOne thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him\r\nconscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not\r\ntoo late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife.\r\nHis unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would\r\nbe transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil\r\nHallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would\r\nbe to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the\r\nfear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that\r\ncould lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of\r\nthe degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men\r\nbrought upon their souls.\r\n\r\nThree o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double\r\nchime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the\r\nscarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his\r\nway through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was\r\nwandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he\r\nwent over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had\r\nloved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He\r\ncovered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of\r\npain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we\r\nfeel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession,\r\nnot the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the\r\nletter, he felt that he had been forgiven.\r\n\r\nSuddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's\r\nvoice outside. \u0022My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I\r\ncan't bear your shutting yourself up like this.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking\r\nstill continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry\r\nin, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel\r\nwith him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was\r\ninevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,\r\nand unlocked the door.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,\u0022 said Lord Henry as he entered.\r\n\u0022But you must not think too much about it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?\u0022 asked the lad.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, of course,\u0022 answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly\r\npulling off his yellow gloves. \u0022It is dreadful, from one point of\r\nview, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see\r\nher, after the play was over?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am\r\nnot sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know\r\nmyself better.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I\r\nwould find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of\r\nyours.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have got through all that,\u0022 said Dorian, shaking his head and\r\nsmiling. \u0022I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to\r\nbegin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest\r\nthing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before\r\nme. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being\r\nhideous.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you\r\non it. But how are you going to begin?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022By marrying Sibyl Vane.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Marrying Sibyl Vane!\u0022 cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him\r\nin perplexed amazement. \u0022But, my dear Dorian--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful\r\nabout marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to\r\nme again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to\r\nbreak my word to her. She is to be my wife.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this\r\nmorning, and sent the note down by my own man.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I\r\nwas afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. You\r\ncut life to pieces with your epigrams.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You know nothing then?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What do you mean?\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,\r\ntook both his hands in his own and held them tightly. \u0022Dorian,\u0022 he\r\nsaid, \u0022my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane\r\nis dead.\u0022\r\n\r\nA cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet,\r\ntearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. \u0022Dead! Sibyl dead!\r\nIt is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is quite true, Dorian,\u0022 said Lord Henry, gravely. \u0022It is in all\r\nthe morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one\r\ntill I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must\r\nnot be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in\r\nParis. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never\r\nmake one's _debut_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an\r\ninterest to one's old age. I suppose they don't know your name at the\r\ntheatre? If they don't, it is all right. Did any one see you going\r\nround to her room? That is an important point.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.\r\nFinally he stammered, in a stifled voice, \u0022Harry, did you say an\r\ninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, Harry, I can't\r\nbear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put\r\nin that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the\r\ntheatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had\r\nforgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she\r\ndid not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the\r\nfloor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake,\r\nsome dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was,\r\nbut it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it\r\nwas prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, Harry, it is terrible!\u0022 cried the lad.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed\r\nup in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have\r\nthought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and\r\nseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let this\r\nthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and\r\nafterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and\r\neverybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She has got\r\nsome smart women with her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,\u0022 said Dorian Gray, half to himself,\r\n\u0022murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.\r\nYet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as\r\nhappily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go\r\non to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How\r\nextraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,\r\nHarry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has\r\nhappened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.\r\nHere is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my\r\nlife. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been\r\naddressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent\r\npeople we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen?\r\nOh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She\r\nwas everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it really\r\nonly last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke.\r\nShe explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not\r\nmoved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that\r\nmade me afraid. I can't tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I\r\nsaid I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is\r\ndead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know the\r\ndanger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would\r\nhave done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was\r\nselfish of her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Dorian,\u0022 answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case\r\nand producing a gold-latten matchbox, \u0022the only way a woman can ever\r\nreform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible\r\ninterest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been\r\nwretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can\r\nalways be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would\r\nhave soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And\r\nwhen a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes\r\ndreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's\r\nhusband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which\r\nwould have been abject--which, of course, I would not have allowed--but\r\nI assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an\r\nabsolute failure.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I suppose it would,\u0022 muttered the lad, walking up and down the room\r\nand looking horribly pale. \u0022But I thought it was my duty. It is not\r\nmy fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was\r\nright. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good\r\nresolutions--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific\r\nlaws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.\r\nThey give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions\r\nthat have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said\r\nfor them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they\r\nhave no account.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,\r\n\u0022why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I\r\ndon't think I am heartless. Do you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be\r\nentitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,\u0022 answered Lord Henry with\r\nhis sweet melancholy smile.\r\n\r\nThe lad frowned. \u0022I don't like that explanation, Harry,\u0022 he rejoined,\r\n\u0022but I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I am nothing of the\r\nkind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has\r\nhappened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply\r\nlike a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible\r\nbeauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but\r\nby which I have not been wounded.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is an interesting question,\u0022 said Lord Henry, who found an\r\nexquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, \u0022an\r\nextremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is\r\nthis: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such\r\nan inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their\r\nabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack\r\nof style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us\r\nan impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that.\r\nSometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of\r\nbeauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the\r\nwhole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly\r\nwe find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the\r\nplay. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder\r\nof the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that\r\nhas really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I\r\nwish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in\r\nlove with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored\r\nme--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have\r\nalways insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them,\r\nor they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I\r\nmeet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of\r\nwoman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual\r\nstagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life, but one\r\nshould never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I must sow poppies in my garden,\u0022 sighed Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022There is no necessity,\u0022 rejoined his companion. \u0022Life has always\r\npoppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once\r\nwore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic\r\nmourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did\r\ndie. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to\r\nsacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment.\r\nIt fills one with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe\r\nit?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner\r\nnext the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole\r\nthing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had\r\nburied my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and\r\nassured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she\r\nate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack\r\nof taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past.\r\nBut women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a\r\nsixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over,\r\nthey propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every\r\ncomedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in\r\na farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of\r\nart. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not\r\none of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane\r\ndid for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them\r\ndo it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who\r\nwears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who\r\nis fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history.\r\nOthers find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good\r\nqualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in\r\none's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion\r\nconsoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a\r\nwoman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing\r\nmakes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes\r\negotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations\r\nthat women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most\r\nimportant one.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What is that, Harry?\u0022 said the lad listlessly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirer when one\r\nloses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But\r\nreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the\r\nwomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her\r\ndeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.\r\nThey make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with,\r\nsuch as romance, passion, and love.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more\r\nthan anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We\r\nhave emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their\r\nmasters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were\r\nsplendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can\r\nfancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to\r\nme the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely\r\nfanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key\r\nto everything.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What was that, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of\r\nromance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that\r\nif she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She will never come to life again now,\u0022 muttered the lad, burying his\r\nface in his hands.\r\n\r\n\u0022No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But\r\nyou must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply\r\nas a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful\r\nscene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really\r\nlived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was\r\nalways a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and\r\nleft them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's\r\nmusic sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched\r\nactual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away.\r\nMourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because\r\nCordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of\r\nBrabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was\r\nless real than they are.\u0022\r\n\r\nThere was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly,\r\nand with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The\r\ncolours faded wearily out of things.\r\n\r\nAfter some time Dorian Gray looked up. \u0022You have explained me to\r\nmyself, Harry,\u0022 he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. \u0022I\r\nfelt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I\r\ncould not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not\r\ntalk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience.\r\nThat is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as\r\nmarvellous.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that\r\nyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What\r\nthen?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, then,\u0022 said Lord Henry, rising to go, \u0022then, my dear Dorian, you\r\nwould have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to\r\nyou. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads\r\ntoo much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We\r\ncannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the\r\nclub. We are rather late, as it is.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat\r\nanything. What is the number of your sister's box?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her\r\nname on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't feel up to it,\u0022 said Dorian listlessly. \u0022But I am awfully\r\nobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my\r\nbest friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,\u0022 answered Lord\r\nHenry, shaking him by the hand. \u0022Good-bye. I shall see you before\r\nnine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in\r\na few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.\r\nHe waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an\r\ninterminable time over everything.\r\n\r\nAs soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;\r\nthere was no further change in the picture. It had received the news\r\nof Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was\r\nconscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty\r\nthat marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the\r\nvery moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or\r\nwas it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what\r\npassed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would\r\nsee the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he\r\nhoped it.\r\n\r\nPoor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked\r\ndeath on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her\r\nwith him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed\r\nhim, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would\r\nalways be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the\r\nsacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of\r\nwhat she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the\r\ntheatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic\r\nfigure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of\r\nlove. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he\r\nremembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy\r\ntremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and looked again at the\r\npicture.\r\n\r\nHe felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had\r\nhis choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for\r\nhim--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth,\r\ninfinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder\r\nsins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the\r\nburden of his shame: that was all.\r\n\r\nA feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that\r\nwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery\r\nof Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips\r\nthat now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat\r\nbefore the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as\r\nit seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to\r\nwhich he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to\r\nbe hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that\r\nhad so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair?\r\nThe pity of it! the pity of it!\r\n\r\nFor a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that\r\nexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in\r\nanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain\r\nunchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would\r\nsurrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that\r\nchance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?\r\nBesides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer\r\nthat had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious\r\nscientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence\r\nupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon\r\ndead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,\r\nmight not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods\r\nand passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?\r\nBut the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a\r\nprayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to\r\nalter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?\r\n\r\nFor there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to\r\nfollow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him\r\nthe most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body,\r\nso it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it,\r\nhe would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of\r\nsummer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid\r\nmask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood.\r\nNot one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of\r\nhis life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be\r\nstrong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the\r\ncoloured image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.\r\n\r\nHe drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,\r\nsmiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was\r\nalready waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord\r\nHenry was leaning over his chair.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 9\r\n\r\nAs he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown\r\ninto the room.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,\u0022 he said gravely. \u0022I called\r\nlast night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew\r\nthat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really\r\ngone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy\r\nmight be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for\r\nme when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late\r\nedition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at once\r\nand was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how\r\nheart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.\r\nBut where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a\r\nmoment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the\r\npaper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of\r\nintruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a\r\nstate she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about\r\nit all?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Basil, how do I know?\u0022 murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some\r\npale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass\r\nand looking dreadfully bored. \u0022I was at the opera. You should have\r\ncome on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first\r\ntime. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang\r\ndivinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk about\r\na thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry\r\nsays, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not the\r\nwoman's only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But\r\nhe is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell\r\nme about yourself and what you are painting.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You went to the opera?\u0022 said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a\r\nstrained touch of pain in his voice. \u0022You went to the opera while\r\nSibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me\r\nof other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before\r\nthe girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why,\r\nman, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!\u0022 cried Dorian, leaping to his feet.\r\n\u0022You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is\r\npast is past.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You call yesterday the past?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only\r\nshallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who\r\nis master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a\r\npleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to\r\nuse them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You\r\nlook exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come\r\ndown to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple,\r\nnatural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature\r\nin the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You\r\ntalk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's\r\ninfluence. I see that.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few\r\nmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. \u0022I owe a great\r\ndeal to Harry, Basil,\u0022 he said at last, \u0022more than I owe to you. You\r\nonly taught me to be vain.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't know what you mean, Basil,\u0022 he exclaimed, turning round. \u0022I\r\ndon't know what you want. What do you want?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,\u0022 said the artist sadly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil,\u0022 said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his\r\nshoulder, \u0022you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl\r\nVane had killed herself--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?\u0022 cried\r\nHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? Of\r\ncourse she killed herself.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe elder man buried his face in his hands. \u0022How fearful,\u0022 he\r\nmuttered, and a shudder ran through him.\r\n\r\n\u0022No,\u0022 said Dorian Gray, \u0022there is nothing fearful about it. It is one\r\nof the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act\r\nlead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful\r\nwives, or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtue\r\nand all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her\r\nfinest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she\r\nplayed--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known\r\nthe reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet\r\nmight have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is\r\nsomething of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic\r\nuselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying,\r\nyou must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday\r\nat a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to\r\nsix--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who\r\nbrought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I\r\nsuffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion.\r\nNo one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil.\r\nYou come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find\r\nme consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You\r\nremind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who\r\nspent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance\r\nredressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget exactly what it was.\r\nFinally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He\r\nhad absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a\r\nconfirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really\r\nwant to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to\r\nsee it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who\r\nused to write about _la consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a\r\nlittle vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that\r\ndelightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of\r\nwhen we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say\r\nthat yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I\r\nlove beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades,\r\ngreen bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings,\r\nluxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic\r\ntemperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to\r\nme. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to\r\nescape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking\r\nto you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a\r\nschoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new\r\nthoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I\r\nam changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very\r\nfond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not\r\nstronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how\r\nhappy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel\r\nwith me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,\r\nand his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He\r\ncould not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his\r\nindifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There\r\nwas so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, Dorian,\u0022 he said at length, with a sad smile, \u0022I won't speak to\r\nyou again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your\r\nname won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take\r\nplace this afternoon. Have they summoned you?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at\r\nthe mention of the word \u0022inquest.\u0022 There was something so crude and\r\nvulgar about everything of the kind. \u0022They don't know my name,\u0022 he\r\nanswered.\r\n\r\n\u0022But surely she did?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned\r\nto any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to\r\nlearn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince\r\nCharming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,\r\nBasil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of\r\na few kisses and some broken pathetic words.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you\r\nmust come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!\u0022 he exclaimed,\r\nstarting back.\r\n\r\nThe painter stared at him. \u0022My dear boy, what nonsense!\u0022 he cried.\r\n\u0022Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it?\r\nWhy have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It\r\nis the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian.\r\nIt is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I\r\nfelt the room looked different as I came in.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don't imagine I let\r\nhim arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me\r\nsometimes--that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong\r\non the portrait.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for\r\nit. Let me see it.\u0022 And Hallward walked towards the corner of the\r\nroom.\r\n\r\nA cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between\r\nthe painter and the screen. \u0022Basil,\u0022 he said, looking very pale, \u0022you\r\nmust not look at it. I don't wish you to.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn't I look\r\nat it?\u0022 exclaimed Hallward, laughing.\r\n\r\n\u0022If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never\r\nspeak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don't\r\noffer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember,\r\nif you touch this screen, everything is over between us.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute\r\namazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was\r\nactually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of\r\nhis eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't speak!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it if you don't\r\nwant me to,\u0022 he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over\r\ntowards the window. \u0022But, really, it seems rather absurd that I\r\nshouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in\r\nParis in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of\r\nvarnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?\u0022 exclaimed Dorian Gray, a\r\nstrange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be\r\nshown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life?\r\nThat was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done\r\nat once.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going\r\nto collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de\r\nSeze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will\r\nonly be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for\r\nthat time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep\r\nit always behind a screen, you can't care much about it.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of\r\nperspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible\r\ndanger. \u0022You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,\u0022 he\r\ncried. \u0022Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for\r\nbeing consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only\r\ndifference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have\r\nforgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world\r\nwould induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly\r\nthe same thing.\u0022 He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into\r\nhis eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half\r\nseriously and half in jest, \u0022If you want to have a strange quarter of\r\nan hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. He\r\ntold me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me.\u0022 Yes, perhaps\r\nBasil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil,\u0022 he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in\r\nthe face, \u0022we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall\r\ntell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my\r\npicture?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe painter shuddered in spite of himself. \u0022Dorian, if I told you, you\r\nmight like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I\r\ncould not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me\r\nnever to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you\r\nto look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden\r\nfrom the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than\r\nany fame or reputation.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, Basil, you must tell me,\u0022 insisted Dorian Gray. \u0022I think I have a\r\nright to know.\u0022 His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity\r\nhad taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's\r\nmystery.\r\n\r\n\u0022Let us sit down, Dorian,\u0022 said the painter, looking troubled. \u0022Let us\r\nsit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the\r\npicture something curious?--something that probably at first did not\r\nstrike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Basil!\u0022 cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling\r\nhands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.\r\n\r\n\u0022I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.\r\nDorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most\r\nextraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and\r\npower, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen\r\nideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I\r\nworshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I\r\nwanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with\r\nyou. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art....\r\nOf course, I never let you know anything about this. It would have\r\nbeen impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly\r\nunderstood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to\r\nface, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too\r\nwonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril\r\nof losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and\r\nweeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a\r\nnew development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as\r\nAdonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with\r\nheavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing\r\nacross the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of\r\nsome Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of\r\nyour own face. And it had all been what art should be--unconscious,\r\nideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I\r\ndetermined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are,\r\nnot in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own\r\ntime. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of\r\nyour own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or\r\nveil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake\r\nand film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid\r\nthat others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told\r\ntoo much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that\r\nI resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a\r\nlittle annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me.\r\nHarry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind\r\nthat. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt\r\nthat I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio,\r\nand as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its\r\npresence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I\r\nhad seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking\r\nand that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a\r\nmistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really\r\nshown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we\r\nfancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. It\r\noften seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than\r\nit ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I\r\ndetermined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.\r\nIt never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were\r\nright. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me,\r\nDorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are\r\nmade to be worshipped.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks,\r\nand a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe\r\nfor the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the\r\npainter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered\r\nif he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a\r\nfriend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that\r\nwas all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of.\r\nWould there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange\r\nidolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?\r\n\r\n\u0022It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,\u0022 said Hallward, \u0022that you should\r\nhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I saw something in it,\u0022 he answered, \u0022something that seemed to me very\r\ncurious.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shook his head. \u0022You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not\r\npossibly let you stand in front of that picture.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will some day, surely?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been\r\nthe one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I\r\nhave done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don't know what it cost\r\nme to tell you all that I have told you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Basil,\u0022 said Dorian, \u0022what have you told me? Simply that you\r\nfelt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I\r\nhave made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one\r\nshould never put one's worship into words.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It was a very disappointing confession.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in the\r\npicture, did you? There was nothing else to see?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn't\r\ntalk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and\r\nwe must always remain so.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have got Harry,\u0022 said the painter sadly.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, Harry!\u0022 cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. \u0022Harry spends\r\nhis days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is\r\nimprobable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I\r\ndon't think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner\r\ngo to you, Basil.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will sit to me again?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Impossible!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes\r\nacross two ideal things. Few come across one.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.\r\nThere is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own.\r\nI will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,\u0022 murmured Hallward regretfully. \u0022And\r\nnow good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once\r\nagain. But that can't be helped. I quite understand what you feel\r\nabout it.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How\r\nlittle he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that,\r\ninstead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had\r\nsucceeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How\r\nmuch that strange confession explained to him! The painter's absurd\r\nfits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his\r\ncurious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry.\r\nThere seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured\r\nby romance.\r\n\r\nHe sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at\r\nall costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had\r\nbeen mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour,\r\nin a room to which any of his friends had access.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 10\r\n\r\nWhen his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if\r\nhe had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite\r\nimpassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked\r\nover to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of\r\nVictor's face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility.\r\nThere was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be\r\non his guard.\r\n\r\nSpeaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he\r\nwanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to\r\nsend two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man\r\nleft the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was\r\nthat merely his own fancy?\r\n\r\nAfter a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread\r\nmittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He\r\nasked her for the key of the schoolroom.\r\n\r\n\u0022The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?\u0022 she exclaimed. \u0022Why, it is full of\r\ndust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it.\r\nIt is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it\r\nhasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories\r\nof him. \u0022That does not matter,\u0022 he answered. \u0022I simply want to see\r\nthe place--that is all. Give me the key.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And here is the key, sir,\u0022 said the old lady, going over the contents\r\nof her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. \u0022Here is the key. I'll\r\nhave it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living up\r\nthere, sir, and you so comfortable here?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, no,\u0022 he cried petulantly. \u0022Thank you, Leaf. That will do.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of\r\nthe household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought\r\nbest. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.\r\n\r\nAs the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round\r\nthe room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily\r\nembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century\r\nVenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.\r\nYes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps\r\nserved often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that\r\nhad a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death\r\nitself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die.\r\nWhat the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image\r\non the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They\r\nwould defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still\r\nlive on. It would be always alive.\r\n\r\nHe shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil\r\nthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil\r\nwould have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still\r\nmore poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love\r\nthat he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was\r\nnot noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration\r\nof beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses\r\ntire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and\r\nWinckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him.\r\nBut it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated.\r\nRegret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was\r\ninevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible\r\noutlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.\r\n\r\nHe took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that\r\ncovered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen.\r\nWas the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it\r\nwas unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair,\r\nblue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the\r\nexpression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty.\r\nCompared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's\r\nreproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little\r\naccount! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and\r\ncalling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung\r\nthe rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the\r\ndoor. He passed out as his servant entered.\r\n\r\n\u0022The persons are here, Monsieur.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be\r\nallowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was\r\nsomething sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes.\r\nSitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry,\r\nasking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that\r\nthey were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.\r\n\r\n\u0022Wait for an answer,\u0022 he said, handing it to him, \u0022and show the men in\r\nhere.\u0022\r\n\r\nIn two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard\r\nhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in\r\nwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a\r\nflorid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was\r\nconsiderably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the\r\nartists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He\r\nwaited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in\r\nfavour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed\r\neverybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.\r\n\r\n\u0022What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?\u0022 he said, rubbing his fat freckled\r\nhands. \u0022I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in\r\nperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a\r\nsale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably\r\nsuited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.\r\nHubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I\r\ndon't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a\r\npicture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so\r\nI thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to\r\nyou. Which is the work of art, sir?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022This,\u0022 replied Dorian, moving the screen back. \u0022Can you move it,\r\ncovering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched\r\ngoing upstairs.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There will be no difficulty, sir,\u0022 said the genial frame-maker,\r\nbeginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from\r\nthe long brass chains by which it was suspended. \u0022And, now, where\r\nshall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me.\r\nOr perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the\r\ntop of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is\r\nwider.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and\r\nbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the\r\npicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious\r\nprotests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike\r\nof seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it\r\nso as to help them.\r\n\r\n\u0022Something of a load to carry, sir,\u0022 gasped the little man when they\r\nreached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am afraid it is rather heavy,\u0022 murmured Dorian as he unlocked the\r\ndoor that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious\r\nsecret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.\r\n\r\nHe had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed,\r\nsince he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then\r\nas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,\r\nwell-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord\r\nKelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness\r\nto his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and\r\ndesired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but\r\nlittle changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its\r\nfantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which\r\nhe had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case\r\nfilled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was\r\nhanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen\r\nwere playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by,\r\ncarrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he\r\nremembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to\r\nhim as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish\r\nlife, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait\r\nwas to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days,\r\nof all that was in store for him!\r\n\r\nBut there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as\r\nthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its\r\npurple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,\r\nand unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself\r\nwould not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his\r\nsoul? He kept his youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not\r\nhis nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future\r\nshould be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and\r\npurify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already\r\nstirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose\r\nvery mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some\r\nday, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive\r\nmouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.\r\n\r\nNo; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing\r\nupon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of\r\nsin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would\r\nbecome hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the\r\nfading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its\r\nbrightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross,\r\nas the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the\r\ncold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the\r\ngrandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture\r\nhad to be concealed. There was no help for it.\r\n\r\n\u0022Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,\u0022 he said, wearily, turning round.\r\n\u0022I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,\u0022 answered the frame-maker, who\r\nwas still gasping for breath. \u0022Where shall we put it, sir?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up.\r\nJust lean it against the wall. Thanks.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Might one look at the work of art, sir?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian started. \u0022It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,\u0022 he said,\r\nkeeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling\r\nhim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that\r\nconcealed the secret of his life. \u0022I shan't trouble you any more now.\r\nI am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,\r\nsir.\u0022 And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,\r\nwho glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough\r\nuncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.\r\n\r\nWhen the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door\r\nand put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever\r\nlook upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.\r\n\r\nOn reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock\r\nand that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of\r\ndark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady\r\nRadley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had\r\nspent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry,\r\nand beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn\r\nand the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James's\r\nGazette_ had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had\r\nreturned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were\r\nleaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.\r\nHe would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already,\r\nwhile he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set\r\nback, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he\r\nmight find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the\r\nroom. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had\r\nheard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some\r\nservant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked\r\nup a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower\r\nor a shred of crumpled lace.\r\n\r\nHe sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's\r\nnote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,\r\nand a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at\r\neight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James's_ languidly, and looked through\r\nit. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew\r\nattention to the following paragraph:\r\n\r\n\r\nINQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell\r\nTavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of\r\nSibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,\r\nHolborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned.\r\nConsiderable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who\r\nwas greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of\r\nDr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.\r\n\r\n\r\nHe frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and\r\nflung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real\r\nugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for\r\nhaving sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have\r\nmarked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew\r\nmore than enough English for that.\r\n\r\nPerhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,\r\nwhat did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's\r\ndeath? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.\r\n\r\nHis eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was\r\nit, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal\r\nstand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange\r\nEgyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung\r\nhimself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a\r\nfew minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had\r\never read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the\r\ndelicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb\r\nshow before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly\r\nmade real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually\r\nrevealed.\r\n\r\nIt was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,\r\nindeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who\r\nspent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the\r\npassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his\r\nown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through\r\nwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere\r\nartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,\r\nas much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The\r\nstyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid\r\nand obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical\r\nexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work\r\nof some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.\r\nThere were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in\r\ncolour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical\r\nphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the\r\nspiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions\r\nof a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of\r\nincense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The\r\nmere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so\r\nfull as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,\r\nproduced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,\r\na form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of\r\nthe falling day and creeping shadows.\r\n\r\nCloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed\r\nthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no\r\nmore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the\r\nlateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed\r\nthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his\r\nbedside and began to dress for dinner.\r\n\r\nIt was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found\r\nLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am so sorry, Harry,\u0022 he cried, \u0022but really it is entirely your\r\nfault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the\r\ntime was going.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, I thought you would like it,\u0022 replied his host, rising from his\r\nchair.\r\n\r\n\u0022I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a\r\ngreat difference.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, you have discovered that?\u0022 murmured Lord Henry. And they passed\r\ninto the dining-room.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 11\r\n\r\nFor years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of\r\nthis book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never\r\nsought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than\r\nnine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in\r\ndifferent colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the\r\nchanging fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have\r\nalmost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian\r\nin whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely\r\nblended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And,\r\nindeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own\r\nlife, written before he had lived it.\r\n\r\nIn one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. He\r\nnever knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat\r\ngrotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still\r\nwater which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was\r\noccasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently,\r\nbeen so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in\r\nnearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its\r\nplace--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its\r\nreally tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and\r\ndespair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he\r\nhad most dearly valued.\r\n\r\nFor the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and\r\nmany others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had\r\nheard the most evil things against him--and from time to time strange\r\nrumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the\r\nchatter of the clubs--could not believe anything to his dishonour when\r\nthey saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself\r\nunspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when\r\nDorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his\r\nface that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the\r\nmemory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one\r\nso charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an\r\nage that was at once sordid and sensual.\r\n\r\nOften, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged\r\nabsences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were\r\nhis friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep\r\nupstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left\r\nhim now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil\r\nHallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on\r\nthe canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him\r\nfrom the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to\r\nquicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his\r\nown beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.\r\nHe would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and\r\nterrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead\r\nor crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which\r\nwere the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would\r\nplace his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,\r\nand smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.\r\n\r\nThere were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own\r\ndelicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little\r\nill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in\r\ndisguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he\r\nhad brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant\r\nbecause it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare.\r\nThat curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as\r\nthey sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase\r\nwith gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He\r\nhad mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.\r\n\r\nYet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to\r\nsociety. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each\r\nWednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the\r\nworld his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the\r\nday to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little\r\ndinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were\r\nnoted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited,\r\nas for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with\r\nits subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered\r\ncloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,\r\nespecially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw,\r\nin Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often\r\ndreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of\r\nthe real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and\r\nperfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of\r\nthe company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to \u0022make\r\nthemselves perfect by the worship of beauty.\u0022 Like Gautier, he was one\r\nfor whom \u0022the visible world existed.\u0022\r\n\r\nAnd, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the\r\narts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.\r\nFashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment\r\nuniversal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert\r\nthe absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for\r\nhim. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to\r\ntime he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of\r\nthe Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in\r\neverything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of\r\nhis graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.\r\n\r\nFor, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost\r\nimmediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a\r\nsubtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the\r\nLondon of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the\r\nSatyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be\r\nsomething more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on the\r\nwearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a\r\ncane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have\r\nits reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the\r\nspiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.\r\n\r\nThe worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been\r\ndecried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and\r\nsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are\r\nconscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.\r\nBut it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had\r\nnever been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal\r\nmerely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or\r\nto kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a\r\nnew spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the\r\ndominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through\r\nhistory, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been\r\nsurrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful\r\nrejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose\r\norigin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more\r\nterrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance,\r\nthey had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out\r\nthe anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to\r\nthe hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.\r\n\r\nYes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism\r\nthat was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely\r\npuritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was\r\nto have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to\r\naccept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any\r\nmode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience\r\nitself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might\r\nbe. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar\r\nprofligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to\r\nteach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is\r\nitself but a moment.\r\n\r\nThere are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either\r\nafter one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of\r\ndeath, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through\r\nthe chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality\r\nitself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,\r\nand that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one\r\nmight fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled\r\nwith the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the\r\ncurtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb\r\nshadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,\r\nthere is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men\r\ngoing forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down\r\nfrom the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it\r\nfeared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from\r\nher purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by\r\ndegrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we\r\nwatch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan\r\nmirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we\r\nhad left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been\r\nstudying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the\r\nletter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.\r\nNothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night\r\ncomes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where\r\nwe had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the\r\nnecessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of\r\nstereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids\r\nmight open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in\r\nthe darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh\r\nshapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in\r\nwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,\r\nin no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of\r\njoy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.\r\n\r\nIt was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray\r\nto be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his\r\nsearch for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and\r\npossess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he\r\nwould often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really\r\nalien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and\r\nthen, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his\r\nintellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that\r\nis not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that,\r\nindeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition\r\nof it.\r\n\r\nIt was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman\r\nCatholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great\r\nattraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all\r\nthe sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb\r\nrejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity\r\nof its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it\r\nsought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble\r\npavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly\r\nand with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or\r\nraising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid\r\nwafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the \u0022_panis\r\ncaelestis_,\u0022 the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the\r\nPassion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his\r\nbreast for his sins. The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their\r\nlace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their\r\nsubtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with\r\nwonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of\r\none of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn\r\ngrating the true story of their lives.\r\n\r\nBut he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual\r\ndevelopment by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of\r\nmistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable\r\nfor the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which\r\nthere are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its\r\nmarvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle\r\nantinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a\r\nseason; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of\r\nthe _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in\r\ntracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the\r\nbrain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of\r\nthe absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,\r\nmorbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him\r\nbefore, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance\r\ncompared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all\r\nintellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.\r\nHe knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual\r\nmysteries to reveal.\r\n\r\nAnd so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their\r\nmanufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums\r\nfrom the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not\r\nits counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their\r\ntrue relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one\r\nmystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets\r\nthat woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the\r\nbrain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often\r\nto elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several\r\ninfluences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;\r\nof aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that\r\nsickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to\r\nbe able to expel melancholy from the soul.\r\n\r\nAt another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long\r\nlatticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of\r\nolive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad\r\ngipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled\r\nTunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while\r\ngrinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching\r\nupon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of\r\nreed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes and\r\nhorrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of\r\nbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin's\r\nbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell\r\nunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world\r\nthe strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of\r\ndead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact\r\nwith Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had\r\nthe mysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not\r\nallowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been\r\nsubjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the\r\nPeruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human\r\nbones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green\r\njaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular\r\nsweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when\r\nthey were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the\r\nperformer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the\r\nharsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who\r\nsit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a\r\ndistance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating\r\ntongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an\r\nelastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells of\r\nthe Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge\r\ncylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the\r\none that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican\r\ntemple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a\r\ndescription. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated\r\nhim, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like\r\nNature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous\r\nvoices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his\r\nbox at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt\r\npleasure to \u0022Tannhauser\u0022 and seeing in the prelude to that great work\r\nof art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.\r\n\r\nOn one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a\r\ncostume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered\r\nwith five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for\r\nyears, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often\r\nspend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various\r\nstones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that\r\nturns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver,\r\nthe pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,\r\ncarbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red\r\ncinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their\r\nalternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the\r\nsunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow\r\nof the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of\r\nextraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la\r\nvieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.\r\n\r\nHe discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso's\r\nClericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real\r\njacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of\r\nEmathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes \u0022with\r\ncollars of real emeralds growing on their backs.\u0022 There was a gem in\r\nthe brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and \u0022by the exhibition\r\nof golden letters and a scarlet robe\u0022 the monster could be thrown into\r\na magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de\r\nBoniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India\r\nmade him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth\r\nprovoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The\r\ngarnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her\r\ncolour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,\r\nthat discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.\r\nLeonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a\r\nnewly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The\r\nbezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm\r\nthat could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the\r\naspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any\r\ndanger by fire.\r\n\r\nThe King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,\r\nas the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the\r\nPriest were \u0022made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake\r\ninwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.\u0022 Over the gable\r\nwere \u0022two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,\u0022 so that the\r\ngold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's\r\nstrange romance 'A Margarite of America', it was stated that in the\r\nchamber of the queen one could behold \u0022all the chaste ladies of the\r\nworld, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of\r\nchrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.\u0022 Marco Polo\r\nhad seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the\r\nmouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that\r\nthe diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned\r\nfor seven moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the\r\ngreat pit, he flung it away--Procopius tells the story--nor was it ever\r\nfound again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight\r\nof gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain\r\nVenetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god\r\nthat he worshipped.\r\n\r\nWhen the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of\r\nFrance, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantome,\r\nand his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light.\r\nCharles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and\r\ntwenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousand\r\nmarks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII,\r\non his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing \u0022a\r\njacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other\r\nrich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses.\u0022\r\nThe favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold\r\nfiligrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armour\r\nstudded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with\r\nturquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parseme_ with pearls. Henry II wore\r\njewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with\r\ntwelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles\r\nthe Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with\r\npear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires.\r\n\r\nHow exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and\r\ndecoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.\r\n\r\nThen he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that\r\nperformed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern\r\nnations of Europe. As he investigated the subject--and he always had\r\nan extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment\r\nin whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the\r\nruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any\r\nrate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow\r\njonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the\r\nstory of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face\r\nor stained his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material\r\nthings! Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured\r\nrobe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked\r\nby brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium\r\nthat Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail\r\nof purple on which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a\r\nchariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the\r\ncurious table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were\r\ndisplayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;\r\nthe mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden\r\nbees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of\r\nPontus and were figured with \u0022lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests,\r\nrocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature\u0022; and\r\nthe coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which\r\nwere embroidered the verses of a song beginning \u0022_Madame, je suis tout\r\njoyeux_,\u0022 the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold\r\nthread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four\r\npearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims\r\nfor the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with \u0022thirteen\r\nhundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the\r\nking's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings\r\nwere similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked\r\nin gold.\u0022 Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of\r\nblack velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of\r\ndamask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver\r\nground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it\r\nstood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black\r\nvelvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatides\r\nfifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of\r\nPoland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with\r\nverses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully\r\nchased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It\r\nhad been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of\r\nMohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.\r\n\r\nAnd so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite\r\nspecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting\r\nthe dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and\r\nstitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that\r\nfrom their transparency are known in the East as \u0022woven air,\u0022 and\r\n\u0022running water,\u0022 and \u0022evening dew\u0022; strange figured cloths from Java;\r\nelaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair\r\nblue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of\r\n_lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish\r\nvelvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_,\r\nwith their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.\r\n\r\nHe had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed\r\nhe had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the\r\nlong cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had\r\nstored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the\r\nraiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and\r\nfine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by\r\nthe suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain.\r\nHe possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask,\r\nfigured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in\r\nsix-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the\r\npine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided\r\ninto panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the\r\ncoronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood.\r\nThis was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of\r\ngreen velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves,\r\nfrom which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which\r\nwere picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse\r\nbore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were\r\nwoven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with\r\nmedallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian.\r\nHe had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold\r\nbrocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with\r\nrepresentations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and\r\nembroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of\r\nwhite satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins\r\nand _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and\r\nmany corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to\r\nwhich such things were put, there was something that quickened his\r\nimagination.\r\n\r\nFor these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely\r\nhouse, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he\r\ncould escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times\r\nto be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely\r\nlocked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with\r\nhis own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him\r\nthe real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the\r\npurple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,\r\nwould forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,\r\nhis wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.\r\nThen, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to\r\ndreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,\r\nuntil he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the\r\npicture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other\r\ntimes, with that pride of individualism that is half the\r\nfascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen\r\nshadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.\r\n\r\nAfter a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and\r\ngave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as\r\nwell as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more\r\nthan once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture\r\nthat was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his\r\nabsence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the\r\nelaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.\r\n\r\nHe was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true\r\nthat the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness\r\nof the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn\r\nfrom that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had\r\nnot painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it\r\nlooked? Even if he told them, would they believe it?\r\n\r\nYet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in\r\nNottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank\r\nwho were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton\r\nluxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly\r\nleave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not\r\nbeen tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it\r\nshould be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely\r\nthe world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already\r\nsuspected it.\r\n\r\nFor, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.\r\nHe was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth\r\nand social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was\r\nsaid that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the\r\nsmoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another\r\ngentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories\r\nbecame current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It\r\nwas rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a\r\nlow den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with\r\nthieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His\r\nextraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear\r\nagain in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass\r\nhim with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though\r\nthey were determined to discover his secret.\r\n\r\nOf such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,\r\nand in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his\r\ncharming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth\r\nthat seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer\r\nto the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about\r\nhim. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most\r\nintimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had\r\nwildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and\r\nset convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or\r\nhorror if Dorian Gray entered the room.\r\n\r\nYet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his\r\nstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of\r\nsecurity. Society--civilized society, at least--is never very ready to\r\nbelieve anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and\r\nfascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more\r\nimportance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability\r\nis of much less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after\r\nall, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has\r\ngiven one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private\r\nlife. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrees_, as\r\nLord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is\r\npossibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good\r\nsociety are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is\r\nabsolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony,\r\nas well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of\r\na romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful\r\nto us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is\r\nmerely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.\r\n\r\nSuch, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at the\r\nshallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing\r\nsimple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a\r\nbeing with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform\r\ncreature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and\r\npassion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies\r\nof the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery\r\nof his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose\r\nblood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by\r\nFrancis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and\r\nKing James, as one who was \u0022caressed by the Court for his handsome\r\nface, which kept him not long company.\u0022 Was it young Herbert's life\r\nthat he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body\r\nto body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that\r\nruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause,\r\ngive utterance, in Basil Hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had\r\nso changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled\r\nsurcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard,\r\nwith his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this\r\nman's legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him\r\nsome inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the\r\ndreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the\r\nfading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl\r\nstomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand,\r\nand her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On\r\na table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large\r\ngreen rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and\r\nthe strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something\r\nof her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to\r\nlook curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered\r\nhair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was\r\nsaturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with\r\ndisdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that\r\nwere so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth\r\ncentury, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the\r\nsecond Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his\r\nwildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs.\r\nFitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls\r\nand insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had\r\nlooked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House.\r\nThe star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the\r\nportrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood,\r\nalso, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother\r\nwith her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knew\r\nwhat he had got from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his\r\npassion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose\r\nBacchante dress. There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple\r\nspilled from the cup she was holding. The carnations of the painting\r\nhad withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and\r\nbrilliancy of colour. They seemed to follow him wherever he went.\r\n\r\nYet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race,\r\nnearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly\r\nwith an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There\r\nwere times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history\r\nwas merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act\r\nand circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it\r\nhad been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known\r\nthem all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the\r\nstage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of\r\nsubtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had\r\nbeen his own.\r\n\r\nThe hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had\r\nhimself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,\r\ncrowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as\r\nTiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of\r\nElephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the\r\nflute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had\r\ncaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in\r\nan ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had\r\nwandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round\r\nwith haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his\r\ndays, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _taedium vitae_, that comes\r\non those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear\r\nemerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of\r\npearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the\r\nStreet of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero\r\nCaesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with\r\ncolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon\r\nfrom Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.\r\n\r\nOver and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the\r\ntwo chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious\r\ntapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and\r\nbeautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made\r\nmonstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and\r\npainted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death\r\nfrom the dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as\r\nPaul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of\r\nFormosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was\r\nbought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used\r\nhounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered with\r\nroses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse,\r\nwith Fratricide riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood\r\nof Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence,\r\nchild and minion of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by his\r\ndebauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white\r\nand crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy\r\nthat he might serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose\r\nmelancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a\r\npassion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the\r\nFiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when\r\ngambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery\r\ntook the name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of\r\nthree lads was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the\r\nlover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome\r\nas the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and\r\ngave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a\r\nshameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles\r\nVI, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned\r\nhim of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had\r\nsickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen cards\r\npainted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his\r\ntrimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto\r\nBaglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page,\r\nand whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow\r\npiazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep,\r\nand Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.\r\n\r\nThere was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night,\r\nand they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of\r\nstrange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted\r\ntorch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander\r\nand by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There\r\nwere moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he\r\ncould realize his conception of the beautiful.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 12\r\n\r\nIt was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth\r\nbirthday, as he often remembered afterwards.\r\n\r\nHe was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he\r\nhad been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold\r\nand foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street,\r\na man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of\r\nhis grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian\r\nrecognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for\r\nwhich he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of\r\nrecognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house.\r\n\r\nBut Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the\r\npavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was\r\non his arm.\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for\r\nyou in your library ever since nine o'clock. Finally I took pity on\r\nyour tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am\r\noff to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see\r\nyou before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as\r\nyou passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor\r\nSquare. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel\r\nat all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not\r\nseen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take\r\na studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great\r\npicture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to\r\ntalk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have\r\nsomething to say to you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?\u0022 said Dorian Gray\r\nlanguidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his\r\nlatch-key.\r\n\r\nThe lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his\r\nwatch. \u0022I have heaps of time,\u0022 he answered. \u0022The train doesn't go\r\ntill twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my\r\nway to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't\r\nhave any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I\r\nhave with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty\r\nminutes.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian looked at him and smiled. \u0022What a way for a fashionable painter\r\nto travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will\r\nget into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious.\r\nNothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the\r\nlibrary. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open\r\nhearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case\r\nstood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on\r\na little marqueterie table.\r\n\r\n\u0022You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me\r\neverything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is\r\na most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman\r\nyou used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shrugged his shoulders. \u0022I believe he married Lady Radley's\r\nmaid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.\r\nAnglomania is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly\r\nof the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad\r\nservant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One\r\noften imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very\r\ndevoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another\r\nbrandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take\r\nhock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Thanks, I won't have anything more,\u0022 said the painter, taking his cap\r\nand coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the\r\ncorner. \u0022And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.\r\nDon't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What is it all about?\u0022 cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging\r\nhimself down on the sofa. \u0022I hope it is not about myself. I am tired\r\nof myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is about yourself,\u0022 answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, \u0022and\r\nI must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian sighed and lit a cigarette. \u0022Half an hour!\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own\r\nsake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that\r\nthe most dreadful things are being said against you in London.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other\r\npeople, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not got\r\nthe charm of novelty.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his\r\ngood name. You don't want people to talk of you as something vile and\r\ndegraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all\r\nthat kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind\r\nyou, I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't believe\r\nthem when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's\r\nface. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.\r\nThere are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows\r\nitself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the\r\nmoulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won't mention his name, but\r\nyou know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had\r\nnever seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the\r\ntime, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant\r\nprice. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers\r\nthat I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied\r\nabout him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure,\r\nbright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--I can't\r\nbelieve anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you\r\nnever come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I\r\nhear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I\r\ndon't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of\r\nBerwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so\r\nmany gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to\r\ntheirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner\r\nlast week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in\r\nconnection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the\r\nDudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most\r\nartistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl\r\nshould be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the\r\nsame room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked\r\nhim what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody.\r\nIt was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There\r\nwas that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were\r\nhis great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England\r\nwith a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian\r\nSingleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son and\r\nhis career? I met his father yesterday in St. James's Street. He\r\nseemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of\r\nPerth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would\r\nassociate with him?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,\u0022\r\nsaid Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt\r\nin his voice. \u0022You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it.\r\nIt is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows\r\nanything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could\r\nhis record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth.\r\nDid I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent's\r\nsilly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If\r\nAdrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I his\r\nkeeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air\r\ntheir moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper\r\nabout what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try\r\nand pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with\r\nthe people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to\r\nhave distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.\r\nAnd what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead\r\nthemselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land\r\nof the hypocrite.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian,\u0022 cried Hallward, \u0022that is not the question. England is bad\r\nenough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason\r\nwhy I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to\r\njudge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to\r\nlose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them\r\nwith a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You\r\nled them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as\r\nyou are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry\r\nare inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should\r\nnot have made his sister's name a by-word.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Take care, Basil. You go too far.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met\r\nLady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there\r\na single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the\r\npark? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then\r\nthere are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at\r\ndawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest\r\ndens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard\r\nthem, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What\r\nabout your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you\r\ndon't know what is said about you. I won't tell you that I don't want\r\nto preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who\r\nturned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by\r\nsaying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach\r\nto you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect\r\nyou. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to\r\nget rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don't shrug your\r\nshoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful\r\ninfluence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you\r\ncorrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite\r\nsufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow\r\nafter. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But\r\nit is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt.\r\nLord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me\r\na letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in\r\nher villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible\r\nconfession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--that I knew you\r\nthoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know\r\nyou? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should\r\nhave to see your soul.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To see my soul!\u0022 muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and\r\nturning almost white from fear.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his\r\nvoice, \u0022to see your soul. But only God can do that.\u0022\r\n\r\nA bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. \u0022You\r\nshall see it yourself, to-night!\u0022 he cried, seizing a lamp from the\r\ntable. \u0022Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at\r\nit? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose.\r\nNobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me\r\nall the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you\r\nwill prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have\r\nchattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to\r\nface.\u0022\r\n\r\nThere was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped\r\nhis foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a\r\nterrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret,\r\nand that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of\r\nall his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the\r\nhideous memory of what he had done.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into\r\nhis stern eyes, \u0022I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing\r\nthat you fancy only God can see.\u0022\r\n\r\nHallward started back. \u0022This is blasphemy, Dorian!\u0022 he cried. \u0022You\r\nmust not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't mean\r\nanything.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You think so?\u0022 He laughed again.\r\n\r\n\u0022I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your\r\ngood. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say.\u0022\r\n\r\nA twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused for\r\na moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what\r\nright had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a\r\ntithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered!\r\nThen he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and\r\nstood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and\r\ntheir throbbing cores of flame.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am waiting, Basil,\u0022 said the young man in a hard clear voice.\r\n\r\nHe turned round. \u0022What I have to say is this,\u0022 he cried. \u0022You must\r\ngive me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against\r\nyou. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to\r\nend, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see\r\nwhat I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, and\r\ncorrupt, and shameful.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. \u0022Come\r\nupstairs, Basil,\u0022 he said quietly. \u0022I keep a diary of my life from day\r\nto day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall\r\nshow it to you if you come with me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my\r\ntrain. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me to\r\nread anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You\r\nwill not have to read long.\u0022\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 13\r\n\r\nHe passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward\r\nfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at\r\nnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A\r\nrising wind made some of the windows rattle.\r\n\r\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the\r\nfloor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. \u0022You insist on\r\nknowing, Basil?\u0022 he asked in a low voice.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am delighted,\u0022 he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat\r\nharshly, \u0022You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know\r\neverything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you\r\nthink\u0022; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A\r\ncold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in\r\na flame of murky orange. He shuddered. \u0022Shut the door behind you,\u0022 he\r\nwhispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.\r\n\r\nHallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked\r\nas if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a\r\ncurtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty\r\nbook-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and\r\na table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was\r\nstanding on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered\r\nwith dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling\r\nbehind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.\r\n\r\n\u0022So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that\r\ncurtain back, and you will see mine.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe voice that spoke was cold and cruel. \u0022You are mad, Dorian, or\r\nplaying a part,\u0022 muttered Hallward, frowning.\r\n\r\n\u0022You won't? Then I must do it myself,\u0022 said the young man, and he tore\r\nthe curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.\r\n\r\nAn exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the\r\ndim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was\r\nsomething in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.\r\nGood heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at!\r\nThe horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that\r\nmarvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and\r\nsome scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something\r\nof the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet\r\ncompletely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat.\r\nYes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to\r\nrecognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The\r\nidea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle,\r\nand held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name,\r\ntraced in long letters of bright vermilion.\r\n\r\nIt was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never\r\ndone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as\r\nif his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His\r\nown picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and\r\nlooked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched,\r\nand his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand\r\nacross his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.\r\n\r\nThe young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with\r\nthat strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are\r\nabsorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither\r\nreal sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the\r\nspectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken\r\nthe flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.\r\n\r\n\u0022What does this mean?\u0022 cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded\r\nshrill and curious in his ears.\r\n\r\n\u0022Years ago, when I was a boy,\u0022 said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in\r\nhis hand, \u0022you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my\r\ngood looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who\r\nexplained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me\r\nthat revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even\r\nnow, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you\r\nwould call it a prayer....\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is\r\nimpossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The\r\npaints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the\r\nthing is impossible.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, what is impossible?\u0022 murmured the young man, going over to the\r\nwindow and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.\r\n\r\n\u0022You told me you had destroyed it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I was wrong. It has destroyed me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't believe it is my picture.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Can't you see your ideal in it?\u0022 said Dorian bitterly.\r\n\r\n\u0022My ideal, as you call it...\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022As you called it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such\r\nan ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is the face of my soul.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a\r\ndevil.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil,\u0022 cried Dorian with a\r\nwild gesture of despair.\r\n\r\nHallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. \u0022My God! If it\r\nis true,\u0022 he exclaimed, \u0022and this is what you have done with your life,\r\nwhy, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you\r\nto be!\u0022 He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The\r\nsurface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was\r\nfrom within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come.\r\nThrough some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were\r\nslowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery\r\ngrave was not so fearful.\r\n\r\nHis hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and\r\nlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then\r\nhe flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table\r\nand buried his face in his hands.\r\n\r\n\u0022Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!\u0022 There was no\r\nanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. \u0022Pray,\r\nDorian, pray,\u0022 he murmured. \u0022What is it that one was taught to say in\r\none's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins.\r\nWash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of\r\nyour pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be\r\nanswered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You\r\nworshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed\r\neyes. \u0022It is too late, Basil,\u0022 he faltered.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot\r\nremember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be\r\nas scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Those words mean nothing to me now.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My\r\nGod! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable\r\nfeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had\r\nbeen suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his\r\near by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal\r\nstirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table,\r\nmore than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced\r\nwildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest\r\nthat faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a\r\nknife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord,\r\nand had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it,\r\npassing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized\r\nit and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going\r\nto rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that\r\nis behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and\r\nstabbing again and again.\r\n\r\nThere was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking\r\nwith blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,\r\nwaving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him\r\ntwice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on\r\nthe floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then\r\nhe threw the knife on the table, and listened.\r\n\r\nHe could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He\r\nopened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely\r\nquiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the\r\nbalustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.\r\nThen he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in\r\nas he did so.\r\n\r\nThe thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with\r\nbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been\r\nfor the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was\r\nslowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was\r\nsimply asleep.\r\n\r\nHow quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking\r\nover to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind\r\nhad blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's\r\ntail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the\r\npoliceman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on\r\nthe doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom\r\ngleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl\r\nwas creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and\r\nthen she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse\r\nvoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She\r\nstumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The\r\ngas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their\r\nblack iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the\r\nwindow behind him.\r\n\r\nHaving reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not\r\neven glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole\r\nthing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the\r\nfatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his\r\nlife. That was enough.\r\n\r\nThen he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish\r\nworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished\r\nsteel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed\r\nby his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a\r\nmoment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not\r\nhelp seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the\r\nlong hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.\r\n\r\nHaving locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The\r\nwoodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped\r\nseveral times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely\r\nthe sound of his own footsteps.\r\n\r\nWhen he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.\r\nThey must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that\r\nwas in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious\r\ndisguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards.\r\nThen he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.\r\n\r\nHe sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men\r\nwere strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a\r\nmadness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the\r\nearth.... And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward\r\nhad left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most\r\nof the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed....\r\nParis! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight\r\ntrain, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would\r\nbe months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything\r\ncould be destroyed long before then.\r\n\r\nA sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went\r\nout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of\r\nthe policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the\r\nbull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.\r\n\r\nAfter a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting\r\nthe door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In\r\nabout five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very\r\ndrowsy.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,\u0022 he said, stepping in;\r\n\u0022but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ten minutes past two, sir,\u0022 answered the man, looking at the clock and\r\nblinking.\r\n\r\n\u0022Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine\r\nto-morrow. I have some work to do.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All right, sir.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Did any one call this evening?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away\r\nto catch his train.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not\r\nfind you at the club.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, sir.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe man shambled down the passage in his slippers.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the\r\nlibrary. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,\r\nbiting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one\r\nof the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. \u0022Alan Campbell, 152,\r\nHertford Street, Mayfair.\u0022 Yes; that was the man he wanted.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 14\r\n\r\nAt nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of\r\nchocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite\r\npeacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his\r\ncheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.\r\n\r\nThe man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as\r\nhe opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he\r\nhad been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all.\r\nHis night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain.\r\nBut youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.\r\n\r\nHe turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his\r\nchocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The\r\nsky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was\r\nalmost like a morning in May.\r\n\r\nGradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,\r\nblood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there\r\nwith terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had\r\nsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for\r\nBasil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came\r\nback to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still\r\nsitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!\r\nSuch hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.\r\n\r\nHe felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken\r\nor grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory\r\nthan in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride\r\nmore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of\r\njoy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the\r\nsenses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out\r\nof the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might\r\nstrangle one itself.\r\n\r\nWhen the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and\r\nthen got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual\r\ncare, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and\r\nscarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time\r\nalso over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet\r\nabout some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the\r\nservants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of\r\nthe letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several\r\ntimes over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his\r\nface. \u0022That awful thing, a woman's memory!\u0022 as Lord Henry had once\r\nsaid.\r\n\r\nAfter he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly\r\nwith a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the\r\ntable, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the\r\nother he handed to the valet.\r\n\r\n\u0022Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell\r\nis out of town, get his address.\u0022\r\n\r\nAs soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a\r\npiece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and\r\nthen human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew\r\nseemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and\r\ngetting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard.\r\nHe was determined that he would not think about what had happened until\r\nit became absolutely necessary that he should do so.\r\n\r\nWhen he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page\r\nof the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's\r\nJapanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was\r\nof citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted\r\npomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he\r\nturned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of\r\nLacenaire, the cold yellow hand \u0022_du supplice encore mal lavee_,\u0022 with\r\nits downy red hairs and its \u0022_doigts de faune_.\u0022 He glanced at his own\r\nwhite taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and\r\npassed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:\r\n\r\n Sur une gamme chromatique,\r\n Le sein de perles ruisselant,\r\n La Venus de l'Adriatique\r\n Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc.\r\n\r\n Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes\r\n Suivant la phrase au pur contour,\r\n S'enflent comme des gorges rondes\r\n Que souleve un soupir d'amour.\r\n\r\n L'esquif aborde et me depose,\r\n Jetant son amarre au pilier,\r\n Devant une facade rose,\r\n Sur le marbre d'un escalier.\r\n\r\n\r\nHow exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating\r\ndown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black\r\ngondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked\r\nto him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as\r\none pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him\r\nof the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the\r\ntall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through\r\nthe dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he\r\nkept saying over and over to himself:\r\n\r\n \u0022Devant une facade rose,\r\n Sur le marbre d'un escalier.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn\r\nthat he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to\r\nmad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,\r\nlike Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true\r\nromantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had\r\nbeen with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor\r\nBasil! What a horrible way for a man to die!\r\n\r\nHe sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read\r\nof the swallows that fly in and out of the little _cafe_ at Smyrna where\r\nthe Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants\r\nsmoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he\r\nread of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of\r\ngranite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot,\r\nlotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and\r\nwhite vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes\r\nthat crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those\r\nverses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that\r\ncurious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the \u0022_monstre\r\ncharmant_\u0022 that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a\r\ntime the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit\r\nof terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of\r\nEngland? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he\r\nmight refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of\r\nvital importance.\r\n\r\nThey had been great friends once, five years before--almost\r\ninseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end.\r\nWhen they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan\r\nCampbell never did.\r\n\r\nHe was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real\r\nappreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the\r\nbeauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His\r\ndominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had\r\nspent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken\r\na good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was\r\nstill devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his\r\nown in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the\r\nannoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for\r\nParliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up\r\nprescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and\r\nplayed both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In\r\nfact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray\r\ntogether--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to\r\nbe able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised often\r\nwithout being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's the\r\nnight that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always\r\nseen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For\r\neighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at\r\nSelby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian\r\nGray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in\r\nlife. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one\r\never knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when\r\nthey met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any\r\nparty at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--was\r\nstrangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing\r\nmusic, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was\r\ncalled upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time\r\nleft in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he\r\nseemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once\r\nor twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain\r\ncurious experiments.\r\n\r\nThis was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept\r\nglancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly\r\nagitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room,\r\nlooking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides.\r\nHis hands were curiously cold.\r\n\r\nThe suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with\r\nfeet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the\r\njagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting\r\nfor him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands\r\nhis burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight\r\nand driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The\r\nbrain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made\r\ngrotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,\r\ndanced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving\r\nmasks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,\r\nslow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being\r\ndead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its\r\ngrave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made\r\nhim stone.\r\n\r\nAt last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes\r\nupon him.\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Campbell, sir,\u0022 said the man.\r\n\r\nA sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back\r\nto his cheeks.\r\n\r\n\u0022Ask him to come in at once, Francis.\u0022 He felt that he was himself\r\nagain. His mood of cowardice had passed away.\r\n\r\nThe man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,\r\nlooking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his\r\ncoal-black hair and dark eyebrows.\r\n\r\n\u0022Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it\r\nwas a matter of life and death.\u0022 His voice was hard and cold. He\r\nspoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the\r\nsteady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in\r\nthe pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the\r\ngesture with which he had been greeted.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one\r\nperson. Sit down.\u0022\r\n\r\nCampbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him.\r\nThe two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew\r\nthat what he was going to do was dreadful.\r\n\r\nAfter a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very\r\nquietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he\r\nhad sent for, \u0022Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room\r\nto which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.\r\nHe has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like\r\nthat. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do\r\nnot concern you. What you have to do is this--\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you\r\nhave told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirely\r\ndecline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to\r\nyourself. They don't interest me any more.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest\r\nyou. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You\r\nare the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into\r\nthe matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know\r\nabout chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments.\r\nWhat you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to\r\ndestroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this\r\nperson come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is\r\nsupposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is\r\nmissed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must\r\nchange him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes\r\nthat I may scatter in the air.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are mad, Dorian.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to\r\nhelp you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing\r\nto do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to\r\nperil my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you\r\nare up to?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It was suicide, Alan.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Do you still refuse to do this for me?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I\r\ndon't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not\r\nbe sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask\r\nme, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should\r\nhave thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord\r\nHenry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else\r\nhe has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you.\r\nYou have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't\r\ncome to me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made\r\nme suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or\r\nthe marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended\r\nit, the result was the same.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not\r\ninform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring\r\nin the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a\r\ncrime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do\r\nwith it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to\r\nme. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain\r\nscientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the\r\nhorrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous\r\ndissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a\r\nleaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow\r\nthrough, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You\r\nwould not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing\r\nanything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were\r\nbenefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the\r\nworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.\r\nWhat I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.\r\nIndeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are\r\naccustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence\r\nagainst me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be\r\ndiscovered unless you help me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply\r\nindifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you\r\ncame I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some\r\nday. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from the\r\nscientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on\r\nwhich you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you\r\ntoo much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once,\r\nAlan.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is\r\nsitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan!\r\nAlan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will\r\nhang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I\r\nhave done.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do\r\nanything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You refuse?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I entreat you, Alan.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is useless.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched\r\nout his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He\r\nread it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the\r\ntable. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window.\r\n\r\nCampbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and\r\nopened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell\r\nback in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He\r\nfelt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.\r\n\r\nAfter two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and\r\ncame and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am so sorry for you, Alan,\u0022 he murmured, \u0022but you leave me no\r\nalternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see\r\nthe address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help\r\nme, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are\r\ngoing to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to\r\nspare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern,\r\nharsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat\r\nme--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to\r\ndictate terms.\u0022\r\n\r\nCampbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are.\r\nThe thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever.\r\nThe thing has to be done. Face it, and do it.\u0022\r\n\r\nA groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. The\r\nticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing\r\ntime into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be\r\nborne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his\r\nforehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already\r\ncome upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.\r\nIt was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.\r\n\r\n\u0022Come, Alan, you must decide at once.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I cannot do it,\u0022 he said, mechanically, as though words could alter\r\nthings.\r\n\r\n\u0022You must. You have no choice. Don't delay.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe hesitated a moment. \u0022Is there a fire in the room upstairs?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of\r\nnotepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the\r\nthings back to you.\u0022\r\n\r\nCampbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope\r\nto his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then\r\nhe rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as\r\nsoon as possible and to bring the things with him.\r\n\r\nAs the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up\r\nfrom the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a\r\nkind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A\r\nfly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was\r\nlike the beat of a hammer.\r\n\r\nAs the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian\r\nGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in\r\nthe purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.\r\n\u0022You are infamous, absolutely infamous!\u0022 he muttered.\r\n\r\n\u0022Hush, Alan. You have saved my life,\u0022 said Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from\r\ncorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In\r\ndoing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of your\r\nlife that I am thinking.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, Alan,\u0022 murmured Dorian with a sigh, \u0022I wish you had a thousandth\r\npart of the pity for me that I have for you.\u0022 He turned away as he\r\nspoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.\r\n\r\nAfter about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant\r\nentered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil\r\nof steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.\r\n\r\n\u0022Shall I leave the things here, sir?\u0022 he asked Campbell.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 said Dorian. \u0022And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another\r\nerrand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies\r\nSelby with orchids?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harden, sir.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden\r\npersonally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered,\r\nand to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any\r\nwhite ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty\r\nplace--otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian looked at Campbell. \u0022How long will your experiment take, Alan?\u0022\r\nhe said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in\r\nthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.\r\n\r\nCampbell frowned and bit his lip. \u0022It will take about five hours,\u0022 he\r\nanswered.\r\n\r\n\u0022It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,\r\nFrancis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can\r\nhave the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not\r\nwant you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Thank you, sir,\u0022 said the man, leaving the room.\r\n\r\n\u0022Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!\r\nI'll take it for you. You bring the other things.\u0022 He spoke rapidly\r\nand in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They\r\nleft the room together.\r\n\r\nWhen they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned\r\nit in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his\r\neyes. He shuddered. \u0022I don't think I can go in, Alan,\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is nothing to me. I don't require you,\u0022 said Campbell coldly.\r\n\r\nDorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his\r\nportrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn\r\ncurtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had\r\nforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas,\r\nand was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.\r\n\r\nWhat was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on\r\none of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible\r\nit was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the\r\nsilent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing\r\nwhose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that\r\nit had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.\r\n\r\nHe heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with\r\nhalf-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that\r\nhe would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and\r\ntaking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the\r\npicture.\r\n\r\nThere he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed\r\nthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard\r\nCampbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other\r\nthings that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder\r\nif he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had\r\nthought of each other.\r\n\r\n\u0022Leave me now,\u0022 said a stern voice behind him.\r\n\r\nHe turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been\r\nthrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a\r\nglistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key\r\nbeing turned in the lock.\r\n\r\nIt was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He\r\nwas pale, but absolutely calm. \u0022I have done what you asked me to do,\u0022\r\nhe muttered. \u0022And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,\u0022 said Dorian\r\nsimply.\r\n\r\nAs soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible\r\nsmell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting\r\nat the table was gone.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 15\r\n\r\nThat evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large\r\nbutton-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady\r\nNarborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was\r\nthrobbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his\r\nmanner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful as\r\never. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to\r\nplay a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could\r\nhave believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any\r\ntragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have\r\nclutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God\r\nand goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his\r\ndemeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a\r\ndouble life.\r\n\r\nIt was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who\r\nwas a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the\r\nremains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent\r\nwife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her\r\nhusband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed,\r\nand married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she\r\ndevoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery,\r\nand French _esprit_ when she could get it.\r\n\r\nDorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that\r\nshe was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. \u0022I know, my\r\ndear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,\u0022 she used to say,\r\n\u0022and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most\r\nfortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our\r\nbonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to\r\nraise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.\r\nHowever, that was all Narborough's fault. He was dreadfully\r\nshort-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who\r\nnever sees anything.\u0022\r\n\r\nHer guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she\r\nexplained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married\r\ndaughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make\r\nmatters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. \u0022I think it\r\nis most unkind of her, my dear,\u0022 she whispered. \u0022Of course I go and\r\nstay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old\r\nwoman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake\r\nthem up. You don't know what an existence they lead down there. It is\r\npure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have\r\nso much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to\r\nthink about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since\r\nthe time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep\r\nafter dinner. You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by me\r\nand amuse me.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:\r\nit was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen\r\nbefore, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those\r\nmiddle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,\r\nbut are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an\r\noverdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always\r\ntrying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to\r\nher great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against\r\nher; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and\r\nVenetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy\r\ndull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once\r\nseen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,\r\nwhite-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the\r\nimpression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of\r\nideas.\r\n\r\nHe was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the\r\ngreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the\r\nmauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: \u0022How horrid of Henry Wotton to be\r\nso late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised\r\nfaithfully not to disappoint me.\u0022\r\n\r\nIt was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door\r\nopened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some\r\ninsincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.\r\n\r\nBut at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away\r\nuntasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called \u0022an\r\ninsult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,\u0022 and\r\nnow and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence\r\nand abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass\r\nwith champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian,\u0022 said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being handed\r\nround, \u0022what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of\r\nsorts.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I believe he is in love,\u0022 cried Lady Narborough, \u0022and that he is\r\nafraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I\r\ncertainly should.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Dear Lady Narborough,\u0022 murmured Dorian, smiling, \u0022I have not been in\r\nlove for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How you men can fall in love with that woman!\u0022 exclaimed the old lady.\r\n\u0022I really cannot understand it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,\r\nLady Narborough,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022She is the one link between us and\r\nyour short frocks.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I\r\nremember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _decolletee_\r\nshe was then.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She is still _decolletee_,\u0022 he answered, taking an olive in his long\r\nfingers; \u0022and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an\r\n_edition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and\r\nfull of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.\r\nWhen her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How can you, Harry!\u0022 cried Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is a most romantic explanation,\u0022 laughed the hostess. \u0022But her\r\nthird husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Certainly, Lady Narborough.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't believe a word of it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Is it true, Mr. Gray?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She assures me so, Lady Narborough,\u0022 said Dorian. \u0022I asked her\r\nwhether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and\r\nhung at her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had\r\nhad any hearts at all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zele_.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022_Trop d'audace_, I tell her,\u0022 said Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol\r\nlike? I don't know him.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,\u0022\r\nsaid Lord Henry, sipping his wine.\r\n\r\nLady Narborough hit him with her fan. \u0022Lord Henry, I am not at all\r\nsurprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But what world says that?\u0022 asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.\r\n\u0022It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent\r\nterms.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Everybody I know says you are very wicked,\u0022 cried the old lady,\r\nshaking her head.\r\n\r\nLord Henry looked serious for some moments. \u0022It is perfectly\r\nmonstrous,\u0022 he said, at last, \u0022the way people go about nowadays saying\r\nthings against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely\r\ntrue.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Isn't he incorrigible?\u0022 cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope so,\u0022 said his hostess, laughing. \u0022But really, if you all\r\nworship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry\r\nagain so as to be in the fashion.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,\u0022 broke in Lord Henry.\r\n\u0022You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she\r\ndetested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he\r\nadored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Narborough wasn't perfect,\u0022 cried the old lady.\r\n\r\n\u0022If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,\u0022 was the\r\nrejoinder. \u0022Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,\r\nthey will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never\r\nask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,\r\nbut it is quite true.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for\r\nyour defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be\r\nmarried. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,\r\nthat that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like\r\nbachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022_Fin de siecle_,\u0022 murmured Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022_Fin du globe_,\u0022 answered his hostess.\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish it were _fin du globe_,\u0022 said Dorian with a sigh. \u0022Life is a\r\ngreat disappointment.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah, my dear,\u0022 cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, \u0022don't\r\ntell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows\r\nthat life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I\r\nsometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you look\r\nso good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you think\r\nthat Mr. Gray should get married?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,\u0022 said Lord Henry with a\r\nbow.\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go\r\nthrough Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the\r\neligible young ladies.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022With their ages, Lady Narborough?\u0022 asked Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done\r\nin a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable\r\nalliance, and I want you both to be happy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!\u0022 exclaimed Lord\r\nHenry. \u0022A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love\r\nher.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! what a cynic you are!\u0022 cried the old lady, pushing back her chair\r\nand nodding to Lady Ruxton. \u0022You must come and dine with me soon\r\nagain. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir\r\nAndrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like\r\nto meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I like men who have a future and women who have a past,\u0022 he answered.\r\n\u0022Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I fear so,\u0022 she said, laughing, as she stood up. \u0022A thousand pardons,\r\nmy dear Lady Ruxton,\u0022 she added, \u0022I didn't see you hadn't finished your\r\ncigarette.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am\r\ngoing to limit myself, for the future.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Pray don't, Lady Ruxton,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022Moderation is a fatal\r\nthing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a\r\nfeast.\u0022\r\n\r\nLady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. \u0022You must come and explain that\r\nto me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,\u0022 she\r\nmurmured, as she swept out of the room.\r\n\r\n\u0022Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal,\u0022\r\ncried Lady Narborough from the door. \u0022If you do, we are sure to\r\nsquabble upstairs.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the\r\ntable and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went\r\nand sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about\r\nthe situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries.\r\nThe word _doctrinaire_--word full of terror to the British\r\nmind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An\r\nalliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the\r\nUnion Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the\r\nrace--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to be\r\nthe proper bulwark for society.\r\n\r\nA smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at\r\nDorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Are you better, my dear fellow?\u0022 he asked. \u0022You seemed rather out of\r\nsorts at dinner.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to\r\nyou. She tells me she is going down to Selby.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022She has promised to come on the twentieth.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Is Monmouth to be there, too?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, yes, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very\r\nclever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of\r\nweakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image\r\nprecious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.\r\nWhite porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire,\r\nand what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How long has she been married?\u0022 asked Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is\r\nten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,\r\nwith time thrown in. Who else is coming?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey\r\nClouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I like him,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022A great many people don't, but I find\r\nhim charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by\r\nbeing always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to\r\nMonte Carlo with his father.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come. By\r\nthe way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before\r\neleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.\r\n\r\n\u0022No, Harry,\u0022 he said at last, \u0022I did not get home till nearly three.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Did you go to the club?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 he answered. Then he bit his lip. \u0022No, I don't mean that. I\r\ndidn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How\r\ninquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been\r\ndoing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at\r\nhalf-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my\r\nlatch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any\r\ncorroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \u0022My dear fellow, as if I cared!\r\nLet us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.\r\nSomething has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are\r\nnot yourself to-night.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall\r\ncome round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady\r\nNarborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.\r\nThe duchess is coming.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I will try to be there, Harry,\u0022 he said, leaving the room. As he\r\ndrove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror\r\nhe thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry's casual\r\nquestioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted\r\nhis nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He\r\nwinced. He hated the idea of even touching them.\r\n\r\nYet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the\r\ndoor of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had\r\nthrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He\r\npiled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning\r\nleather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume\r\neverything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some\r\nAlgerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and\r\nforehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed\r\nnervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large\r\nFlorentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue\r\nlapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate\r\nand make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet\r\nalmost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him.\r\nHe lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till\r\nthe long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched\r\nthe cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been\r\nlying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden\r\nspring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved\r\ninstinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a\r\nsmall Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought,\r\nthe sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with\r\nround crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it.\r\nInside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and\r\npersistent.\r\n\r\nHe hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his\r\nface. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly\r\nhot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty\r\nminutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as\r\nhe did so, and went into his bedroom.\r\n\r\nAs midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,\r\ndressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept\r\nquietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good\r\nhorse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.\r\n\r\nThe man shook his head. \u0022It is too far for me,\u0022 he muttered.\r\n\r\n\u0022Here is a sovereign for you,\u0022 said Dorian. \u0022You shall have another if\r\nyou drive fast.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All right, sir,\u0022 answered the man, \u0022you will be there in an hour,\u0022 and\r\nafter his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly\r\ntowards the river.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 16\r\n\r\nA cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly\r\nin the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men\r\nand women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From\r\nsome of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others,\r\ndrunkards brawled and screamed.\r\n\r\nLying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian\r\nGray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and\r\nnow and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said\r\nto him on the first day they had met, \u0022To cure the soul by means of the\r\nsenses, and the senses by means of the soul.\u0022 Yes, that was the\r\nsecret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were\r\nopium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the\r\nmemory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were\r\nnew.\r\n\r\nThe moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a\r\nhuge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The\r\ngas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the\r\nman lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from\r\nthe horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom\r\nwere clogged with a grey-flannel mist.\r\n\r\n\u0022To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of\r\nthe soul!\u0022 How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was\r\nsick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent\r\nblood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there\r\nwas no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness\r\nwas possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing\r\nout, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one.\r\nIndeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who\r\nhad made him a judge over others? He had said things that were\r\ndreadful, horrible, not to be endured.\r\n\r\nOn and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each\r\nstep. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster.\r\nThe hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned\r\nand his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the\r\nhorse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He\r\nlaughed in answer, and the man was silent.\r\n\r\nThe way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some\r\nsprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist\r\nthickened, he felt afraid.\r\n\r\nThen they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and\r\nhe could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,\r\nfanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in\r\nthe darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a\r\nrut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.\r\n\r\nAfter some time they left the clay road and rattled again over\r\nrough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then\r\nfantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He\r\nwatched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made\r\ngestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his\r\nheart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from\r\nan open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred\r\nyards. The driver beat at them with his whip.\r\n\r\nIt is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with\r\nhideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped\r\nthose subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in\r\nthem the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by\r\nintellectual approval, passions that without such justification would\r\nstill have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept\r\nthe one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all\r\nman's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.\r\nUgliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,\r\nbecame dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one\r\nreality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of\r\ndisordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more\r\nvivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious\r\nshapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed\r\nfor forgetfulness. In three days he would be free.\r\n\r\nSuddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over\r\nthe low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black\r\nmasts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the\r\nyards.\r\n\r\n\u0022Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?\u0022 he asked huskily through the\r\ntrap.\r\n\r\nDorian started and peered round. \u0022This will do,\u0022 he answered, and\r\nhaving got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had\r\npromised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and\r\nthere a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The\r\nlight shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an\r\noutward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like\r\na wet mackintosh.\r\n\r\nHe hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he\r\nwas being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small\r\nshabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of\r\nthe top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.\r\n\r\nAfter a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being\r\nunhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a\r\nword to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the\r\nshadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green\r\ncurtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him\r\nin from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room\r\nwhich looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill\r\nflaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that\r\nfaced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed\r\ntin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was\r\ncovered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud,\r\nand stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were\r\ncrouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and\r\nshowing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his\r\nhead buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the\r\ntawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two\r\nhaggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his\r\ncoat with an expression of disgust. \u0022He thinks he's got red ants on\r\nhim,\u0022 laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her\r\nin terror and began to whimper.\r\n\r\nAt the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a\r\ndarkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the\r\nheavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his\r\nnostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with\r\nsmooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin\r\npipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.\r\n\r\n\u0022You here, Adrian?\u0022 muttered Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Where else should I be?\u0022 he answered, listlessly. \u0022None of the chaps\r\nwill speak to me now.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I thought you had left England.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at\r\nlast. George doesn't speak to me either.... I don't care,\u0022 he added\r\nwith a sigh. \u0022As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends.\r\nI think I have had too many friends.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such\r\nfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the\r\ngaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in\r\nwhat strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were\r\nteaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he\r\nwas. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was\r\neating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of\r\nBasil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The\r\npresence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no\r\none would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am going on to the other place,\u0022 he said after a pause.\r\n\r\n\u0022On the wharf?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place\r\nnow.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shrugged his shoulders. \u0022I am sick of women who love one.\r\nWomen who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is\r\nbetter.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Much the same.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have\r\nsomething.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I don't want anything,\u0022 murmured the young man.\r\n\r\n\u0022Never mind.\u0022\r\n\r\nAdrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A\r\nhalf-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous\r\ngreeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of\r\nthem. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his\r\nback on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.\r\n\r\nA crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of\r\nthe women. \u0022We are very proud to-night,\u0022 she sneered.\r\n\r\n\u0022For God's sake don't talk to me,\u0022 cried Dorian, stamping his foot on\r\nthe ground. \u0022What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't ever talk\r\nto me again.\u0022\r\n\r\nTwo red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then\r\nflickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and\r\nraked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion\r\nwatched her enviously.\r\n\r\n\u0022It's no use,\u0022 sighed Adrian Singleton. \u0022I don't care to go back.\r\nWhat does it matter? I am quite happy here.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?\u0022 said Dorian,\r\nafter a pause.\r\n\r\n\u0022Perhaps.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Good night, then.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Good night,\u0022 answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping\r\nhis parched mouth with a handkerchief.\r\n\r\nDorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew\r\nthe curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the\r\nwoman who had taken his money. \u0022There goes the devil's bargain!\u0022 she\r\nhiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.\r\n\r\n\u0022Curse you!\u0022 he answered, \u0022don't call me that.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe snapped her fingers. \u0022Prince Charming is what you like to be\r\ncalled, ain't it?\u0022 she yelled after him.\r\n\r\nThe drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly\r\nround. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He\r\nrushed out as if in pursuit.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His\r\nmeeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered\r\nif the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as\r\nBasil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his\r\nlip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did\r\nit matter to him? One's days were too brief to take the burden of\r\nanother's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life and\r\npaid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so\r\noften for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed.\r\nIn her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.\r\n\r\nThere are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or\r\nfor what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of\r\nthe body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful\r\nimpulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their\r\nwill. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is\r\ntaken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at\r\nall, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its\r\ncharm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are\r\nsins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of\r\nevil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.\r\n\r\nCallous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for\r\nrebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but\r\nas he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a\r\nshort cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself\r\nsuddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself,\r\nhe was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his\r\nthroat.\r\n\r\nHe struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the\r\ntightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,\r\nand saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head,\r\nand the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.\r\n\r\n\u0022What do you want?\u0022 he gasped.\r\n\r\n\u0022Keep quiet,\u0022 said the man. \u0022If you stir, I shoot you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are mad. What have I done to you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,\u0022 was the answer, \u0022and Sibyl Vane\r\nwas my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your\r\ndoor. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought\r\nyou. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described\r\nyou were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call\r\nyou. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for\r\nto-night you are going to die.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray grew sick with fear. \u0022I never knew her,\u0022 he stammered. \u0022I\r\nnever heard of her. You are mad.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you\r\nare going to die.\u0022 There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know\r\nwhat to say or do. \u0022Down on your knees!\u0022 growled the man. \u0022I give you\r\none minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board to-night for\r\nIndia, and I must do my job first. One minute. That's all.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know\r\nwhat to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. \u0022Stop,\u0022 he\r\ncried. \u0022How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Eighteen years,\u0022 said the man. \u0022Why do you ask me? What do years\r\nmatter?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Eighteen years,\u0022 laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his\r\nvoice. \u0022Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!\u0022\r\n\r\nJames Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.\r\nThen he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.\r\n\r\nDim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him\r\nthe hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face\r\nof the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the\r\nunstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty\r\nsummers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been\r\nwhen they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was\r\nnot the man who had destroyed her life.\r\n\r\nHe loosened his hold and reeled back. \u0022My God! my God!\u0022 he cried, \u0022and\r\nI would have murdered you!\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray drew a long breath. \u0022You have been on the brink of\r\ncommitting a terrible crime, my man,\u0022 he said, looking at him sternly.\r\n\u0022Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own\r\nhands.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Forgive me, sir,\u0022 muttered James Vane. \u0022I was deceived. A chance\r\nword I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into\r\ntrouble,\u0022 said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the\r\nstreet.\r\n\r\nJames Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head\r\nto foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping\r\nalong the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him\r\nwith stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked\r\nround with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at\r\nthe bar.\r\n\r\n\u0022Why didn't you kill him?\u0022 she hissed out, putting haggard face quite\r\nclose to his. \u0022I knew you were following him when you rushed out from\r\nDaly's. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money,\r\nand he's as bad as bad.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022He is not the man I am looking for,\u0022 he answered, \u0022and I want no man's\r\nmoney. I want a man's life. The man whose life I want must be nearly\r\nforty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not\r\ngot his blood upon my hands.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe woman gave a bitter laugh. \u0022Little more than a boy!\u0022 she sneered.\r\n\u0022Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me\r\nwhat I am.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You lie!\u0022 cried James Vane.\r\n\r\nShe raised her hand up to heaven. \u0022Before God I am telling the truth,\u0022\r\nshe cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022Before God?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here.\r\nThey say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nigh\r\non eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then.\r\nI have, though,\u0022 she added, with a sickly leer.\r\n\r\n\u0022You swear this?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I swear it,\u0022 came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. \u0022But don't give\r\nme away to him,\u0022 she whined; \u0022I am afraid of him. Let me have some\r\nmoney for my night's lodging.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,\r\nbut Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had\r\nvanished also.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 17\r\n\r\nA week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby\r\nRoyal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,\r\na jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,\r\nand the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the\r\ntable lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at\r\nwhich the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily\r\namong the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that\r\nDorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a\r\nsilk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan\r\nsat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description of\r\nthe last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three\r\nyoung men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of\r\nthe women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were\r\nmore expected to arrive on the next day.\r\n\r\n\u0022What are you two talking about?\u0022 said Lord Henry, strolling over to\r\nthe table and putting his cup down. \u0022I hope Dorian has told you about\r\nmy plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry,\u0022 rejoined the duchess,\r\nlooking up at him with her wonderful eyes. \u0022I am quite satisfied with\r\nmy own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are\r\nboth perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an\r\norchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as\r\neffective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked\r\none of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine\r\nspecimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a\r\nsad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to\r\nthings. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one\r\nquarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in\r\nliterature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled\r\nto use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Then what should we call you, Harry?\u0022 she asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022His name is Prince Paradox,\u0022 said Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022I recognize him in a flash,\u0022 exclaimed the duchess.\r\n\r\n\u0022I won't hear of it,\u0022 laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. \u0022From\r\na label there is no escape! I refuse the title.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Royalties may not abdicate,\u0022 fell as a warning from pretty lips.\r\n\r\n\u0022You wish me to defend my throne, then?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I give the truths of to-morrow.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I prefer the mistakes of to-day,\u0022 she answered.\r\n\r\n\u0022You disarm me, Gladys,\u0022 he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.\r\n\r\n\u0022Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I never tilt against beauty,\u0022 he said, with a wave of his hand.\r\n\r\n\u0022That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be\r\nbeautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready\r\nthan I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?\u0022 cried the duchess.\r\n\u0022What becomes of your simile about the orchid?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good\r\nTory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly\r\nvirtues have made our England what she is.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You don't like your country, then?\u0022 she asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022I live in it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That you may censure it the better.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?\u0022 he inquired.\r\n\r\n\u0022What do they say of us?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Is that yours, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I give it to you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I could not use it. It is too true.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They are practical.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,\r\nthey balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Still, we have done great things.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022We have carried their burden.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Only as far as the Stock Exchange.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe shook her head. \u0022I believe in the race,\u0022 she cried.\r\n\r\n\u0022It represents the survival of the pushing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It has development.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Decay fascinates me more.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What of art?\u0022 she asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022It is a malady.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Love?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022An illusion.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Religion?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The fashionable substitute for belief.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are a sceptic.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What are you?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022To define is to limit.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Give me a clue.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince\r\nCharming.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! don't remind me of that,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray.\r\n\r\n\u0022Our host is rather horrid this evening,\u0022 answered the duchess,\r\ncolouring. \u0022I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely\r\nscientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern\r\nbutterfly.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess,\u0022 laughed Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because\r\nI come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by\r\nhalf-past eight.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the\r\none I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice\r\nof you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All\r\ngood hats are made out of nothing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Like all good reputations, Gladys,\u0022 interrupted Lord Henry. \u0022Every\r\neffect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be\r\na mediocrity.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Not with women,\u0022 said the duchess, shaking her head; \u0022and women rule\r\nthe world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities. We women, as some\r\none says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if\r\nyou ever love at all.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It seems to me that we never do anything else,\u0022 murmured Dorian.\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,\u0022 answered the duchess with\r\nmock sadness.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Gladys!\u0022 cried Lord Henry. \u0022How can you say that? Romance\r\nlives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.\r\nBesides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.\r\nDifference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely\r\nintensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,\r\nand the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as\r\npossible.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?\u0022 asked the duchess after\r\na pause.\r\n\r\n\u0022Especially when one has been wounded by it,\u0022 answered Lord Henry.\r\n\r\nThe duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression\r\nin her eyes. \u0022What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?\u0022 she inquired.\r\n\r\nDorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and\r\nlaughed. \u0022I always agree with Harry, Duchess.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Even when he is wrong?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry is never wrong, Duchess.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And does his philosophy make you happy?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have\r\nsearched for pleasure.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And found it, Mr. Gray?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Often. Too often.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe duchess sighed. \u0022I am searching for peace,\u0022 she said, \u0022and if I\r\ndon't go and dress, I shall have none this evening.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,\u0022 cried Dorian, starting to his\r\nfeet and walking down the conservatory.\r\n\r\n\u0022You are flirting disgracefully with him,\u0022 said Lord Henry to his\r\ncousin. \u0022You had better take care. He is very fascinating.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022If he were not, there would be no battle.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Greek meets Greek, then?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They were defeated.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There are worse things than capture,\u0022 she answered.\r\n\r\n\u0022You gallop with a loose rein.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Pace gives life,\u0022 was the _riposte_.\r\n\r\n\u0022I shall write it in my diary to-night.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That a burnt child loves the fire.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You use them for everything, except flight.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have a rival.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Who?\u0022\r\n\r\nHe laughed. \u0022Lady Narborough,\u0022 he whispered. \u0022She perfectly adores\r\nhim.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us\r\nwho are romanticists.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Romanticists! You have all the methods of science.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Men have educated us.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022But not explained you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Describe us as a sex,\u0022 was her challenge.\r\n\r\n\u0022Sphinxes without secrets.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe looked at him, smiling. \u0022How long Mr. Gray is!\u0022 she said. \u0022Let us\r\ngo and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022That would be a premature surrender.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Romantic art begins with its climax.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I must keep an opportunity for retreat.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022In the Parthian manner?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They found safety in the desert. I could not do that.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Women are not always allowed a choice,\u0022 he answered, but hardly had he\r\nfinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came\r\na stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody\r\nstarted up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in\r\nhis eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian\r\nGray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.\r\n\r\nHe was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of\r\nthe sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round\r\nwith a dazed expression.\r\n\r\n\u0022What has happened?\u0022 he asked. \u0022Oh! I remember. Am I safe here,\r\nHarry?\u0022 He began to tremble.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear Dorian,\u0022 answered Lord Henry, \u0022you merely fainted. That was\r\nall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down\r\nto dinner. I will take your place.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, I will come down,\u0022 he said, struggling to his feet. \u0022I would\r\nrather come down. I must not be alone.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of\r\ngaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of\r\nterror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the\r\nwindow of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the\r\nface of James Vane watching him.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 18\r\n\r\nThe next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the\r\ntime in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet\r\nindifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,\r\ntracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but\r\ntremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against\r\nthe leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild\r\nregrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face\r\npeering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to\r\nlay its hand upon his heart.\r\n\r\nBut perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of\r\nthe night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual\r\nlife was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the\r\nimagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet\r\nof sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen\r\nbrood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor\r\nthe good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust\r\nupon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling\r\nround the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the\r\nkeepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the\r\ngardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy.\r\nSibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away\r\nin his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he\r\nwas safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he\r\nwas. The mask of youth had saved him.\r\n\r\nAnd yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think\r\nthat conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them\r\nvisible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would\r\nhis be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from\r\nsilent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear\r\nas he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!\r\nAs the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and\r\nthe air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a\r\nwild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere\r\nmemory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came\r\nback to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible\r\nand swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry\r\ncame in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will\r\nbreak.\r\n\r\nIt was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was\r\nsomething in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that\r\nseemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But\r\nit was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had\r\ncaused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of\r\nanguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm.\r\nWith subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their\r\nstrong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man,\r\nor themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The\r\nloves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.\r\nBesides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a\r\nterror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with\r\nsomething of pity and not a little of contempt.\r\n\r\nAfter breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden\r\nand then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp\r\nfrost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of\r\nblue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.\r\n\r\nAt the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey\r\nClouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of\r\nhis gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take\r\nthe mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered\r\nbracken and rough undergrowth.\r\n\r\n\u0022Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?\u0022 he asked.\r\n\r\n\u0022Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the\r\nopen. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new\r\nground.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown\r\nand red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the\r\nbeaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns\r\nthat followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful\r\nfreedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the\r\nhigh indifference of joy.\r\n\r\nSuddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front\r\nof them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it\r\nforward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir\r\nGeoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the\r\nanimal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he\r\ncried out at once, \u0022Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What nonsense, Dorian!\u0022 laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded\r\ninto the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a\r\nhare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is\r\nworse.\r\n\r\n\u0022Good heavens! I have hit a beater!\u0022 exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. \u0022What an\r\nass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!\u0022 he\r\ncalled out at the top of his voice. \u0022A man is hurt.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.\r\n\r\n\u0022Where, sir? Where is he?\u0022 he shouted. At the same time, the firing\r\nceased along the line.\r\n\r\n\u0022Here,\u0022 answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.\r\n\u0022Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for\r\nthe day.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the\r\nlithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging\r\na body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It\r\nseemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir\r\nGeoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of\r\nthe keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with\r\nfaces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of\r\nvoices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the\r\nboughs overhead.\r\n\r\nAfter a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like\r\nendless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started\r\nand looked round.\r\n\r\n\u0022Dorian,\u0022 said Lord Henry, \u0022I had better tell them that the shooting is\r\nstopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,\u0022 he answered bitterly. \u0022The\r\nwhole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?\u0022\r\n\r\nHe could not finish the sentence.\r\n\r\n\u0022I am afraid so,\u0022 rejoined Lord Henry. \u0022He got the whole charge of\r\nshot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come;\r\nlet us go home.\u0022\r\n\r\nThey walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly\r\nfifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and\r\nsaid, with a heavy sigh, \u0022It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What is?\u0022 asked Lord Henry. \u0022Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear\r\nfellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did he\r\nget in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather\r\nawkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It\r\nmakes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he\r\nshoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian shook his head. \u0022It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if\r\nsomething horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself,\r\nperhaps,\u0022 he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of\r\npain.\r\n\r\nThe elder man laughed. \u0022The only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_,\r\nDorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we\r\nare not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering\r\nabout this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be\r\ntabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny\r\ndoes not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.\r\nBesides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have\r\neverything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would\r\nnot be delighted to change places with you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't\r\nlaugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who\r\nhas just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It\r\nis the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to\r\nwheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a man\r\nmoving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand\r\nwas pointing. \u0022Yes,\u0022 he said, smiling, \u0022I see the gardener waiting for\r\nyou. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on\r\nthe table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You\r\nmust come and see my doctor, when we get back to town.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The\r\nman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating\r\nmanner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master.\r\n\u0022Her Grace told me to wait for an answer,\u0022 he murmured.\r\n\r\nDorian put the letter into his pocket. \u0022Tell her Grace that I am\r\ncoming in,\u0022 he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in\r\nthe direction of the house.\r\n\r\n\u0022How fond women are of doing dangerous things!\u0022 laughed Lord Henry.\r\n\u0022It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will\r\nflirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present\r\ninstance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I\r\ndon't love her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you\r\nare excellently matched.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for\r\nscandal.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,\u0022 said Lord Henry,\r\nlighting a cigarette.\r\n\r\n\u0022You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The world goes to the altar of its own accord,\u0022 was the answer.\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish I could love,\u0022 cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in\r\nhis voice. \u0022But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the\r\ndesire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has\r\nbecome a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It\r\nwas silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire\r\nto Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me\r\nwhat it is? You know I would help you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't tell you, Harry,\u0022 he answered sadly. \u0022And I dare say it is\r\nonly a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have\r\na horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What nonsense!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,\r\nlooking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,\r\nDuchess.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,\u0022 she answered. \u0022Poor Geoffrey is\r\nterribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.\r\nHow curious!\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Some\r\nwhim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I\r\nam sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is an annoying subject,\u0022 broke in Lord Henry. \u0022It has no\r\npsychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on\r\npurpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one\r\nwho had committed a real murder.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022How horrid of you, Harry!\u0022 cried the duchess. \u0022Isn't it, Mr. Gray?\r\nHarry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. \u0022It is nothing,\r\nDuchess,\u0022 he murmured; \u0022my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is\r\nall. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what\r\nHarry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I\r\nthink I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?\u0022\r\n\r\nThey had reached the great flight of steps that led from the\r\nconservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind\r\nDorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous\r\neyes. \u0022Are you very much in love with him?\u0022 he asked.\r\n\r\nShe did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape.\r\n\u0022I wish I knew,\u0022 she said at last.\r\n\r\nHe shook his head. \u0022Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty\r\nthat charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022One may lose one's way.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What is that?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Disillusion.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It was my _debut_ in life,\u0022 she sighed.\r\n\r\n\u0022It came to you crowned.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am tired of strawberry leaves.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022They become you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Only in public.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You would miss them,\u0022 said Lord Henry.\r\n\r\n\u0022I will not part with a petal.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Monmouth has ears.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Old age is dull of hearing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Has he never been jealous?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I wish he had been.\u0022\r\n\r\nHe glanced about as if in search of something. \u0022What are you looking\r\nfor?\u0022 she inquired.\r\n\r\n\u0022The button from your foil,\u0022 he answered. \u0022You have dropped it.\u0022\r\n\r\nShe laughed. \u0022I have still the mask.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It makes your eyes lovelier,\u0022 was his reply.\r\n\r\nShe laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet\r\nfruit.\r\n\r\nUpstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror\r\nin every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too\r\nhideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky\r\nbeater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to\r\npre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord\r\nHenry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.\r\n\r\nAt five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to\r\npack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham\r\nat the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another\r\nnight at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there\r\nin the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.\r\n\r\nThen he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to\r\ntown to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in\r\nhis absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to\r\nthe door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see\r\nhim. He frowned and bit his lip. \u0022Send him in,\u0022 he muttered, after\r\nsome moments' hesitation.\r\n\r\nAs soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a\r\ndrawer and spread it out before him.\r\n\r\n\u0022I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this\r\nmorning, Thornton?\u0022 he said, taking up a pen.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, sir,\u0022 answered the gamekeeper.\r\n\r\n\u0022Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?\u0022\r\nasked Dorian, looking bored. \u0022If so, I should not like them to be left\r\nin want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of\r\ncoming to you about.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't know who he is?\u0022 said Dorian, listlessly. \u0022What do you mean?\r\nWasn't he one of your men?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.\u0022\r\n\r\nThe pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart\r\nhad suddenly stopped beating. \u0022A sailor?\u0022 he cried out. \u0022Did you say\r\na sailor?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on\r\nboth arms, and that kind of thing.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Was there anything found on him?\u0022 said Dorian, leaning forward and\r\nlooking at the man with startled eyes. \u0022Anything that would tell his\r\nname?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any\r\nkind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we\r\nthink.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He\r\nclutched at it madly. \u0022Where is the body?\u0022 he exclaimed. \u0022Quick! I\r\nmust see it at once.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like\r\nto have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings\r\nbad luck.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms\r\nto bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables\r\nmyself. It will save time.\u0022\r\n\r\nIn less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the\r\nlong avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him\r\nin spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his\r\npath. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.\r\nHe lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air\r\nlike an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.\r\n\r\nAt last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.\r\nHe leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the\r\nfarthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him\r\nthat the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand\r\nupon the latch.\r\n\r\nThere he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a\r\ndiscovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the\r\ndoor open and entered.\r\n\r\nOn a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man\r\ndressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted\r\nhandkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in\r\na bottle, sputtered beside it.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take\r\nthe handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to\r\ncome to him.\r\n\r\n\u0022Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,\u0022 he said, clutching\r\nat the door-post for support.\r\n\r\nWhen the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy\r\nbroke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was\r\nJames Vane.\r\n\r\nHe stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode\r\nhome, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 19\r\n\r\n\u0022There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,\u0022 cried\r\nLord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled\r\nwith rose-water. \u0022You are quite perfect. Pray, don't change.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian Gray shook his head. \u0022No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful\r\nthings in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good\r\nactions yesterday.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Where were you yesterday?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear boy,\u0022 said Lord Henry, smiling, \u0022anybody can be good in the\r\ncountry. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why\r\npeople who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized.\r\nCivilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are\r\nonly two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the\r\nother by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being\r\neither, so they stagnate.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Culture and corruption,\u0022 echoed Dorian. \u0022I have known something of\r\nboth. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found\r\ntogether. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I\r\nthink I have altered.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say\r\nyou had done more than one?\u0022 asked his companion as he spilled into his\r\nplate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a\r\nperforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.\r\n\r\n\u0022I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one\r\nelse. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I\r\nmean. She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I\r\nthink it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl,\r\ndon't you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our\r\nown class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I\r\nreally loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during this\r\nwonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her\r\ntwo or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard.\r\nThe apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was\r\nlaughing. We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn.\r\nSuddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill\r\nof real pleasure, Dorian,\u0022 interrupted Lord Henry. \u0022But I can finish\r\nyour idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart.\r\nThat was the beginning of your reformation.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful things.\r\nHetty's heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But\r\nthere is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her\r\ngarden of mint and marigold.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022And weep over a faithless Florizel,\u0022 said Lord Henry, laughing, as he\r\nleaned back in his chair. \u0022My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously\r\nboyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now\r\nwith any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day\r\nto a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having\r\nmet you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she\r\nwill be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I\r\nthink much of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is\r\npoor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating at the\r\npresent moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies\r\nround her, like Ophelia?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest\r\nthe most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don't care\r\nwhat you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor\r\nHetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at\r\nthe window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let us talk about it any\r\nmore, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have\r\ndone for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever\r\nknown, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be\r\nbetter. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in town?\r\nI have not been to the club for days.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,\u0022 said\r\nDorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and\r\nthe British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having\r\nmore than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate\r\nlately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell's\r\nsuicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.\r\nScotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left\r\nfor Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor\r\nBasil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris\r\nat all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has\r\nbeen seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who\r\ndisappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a\r\ndelightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What do you think has happened to Basil?\u0022 asked Dorian, holding up his\r\nBurgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could\r\ndiscuss the matter so calmly.\r\n\r\n\u0022I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it\r\nis no business of mine. If he is dead, I don't want to think about\r\nhim. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why?\u0022 said the younger man wearily.\r\n\r\n\u0022Because,\u0022 said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt\r\ntrellis of an open vinaigrette box, \u0022one can survive everything\r\nnowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in\r\nthe nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our\r\ncoffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man\r\nwith whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria!\r\nI was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of\r\ncourse, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one\r\nregrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them\r\nthe most. They are such an essential part of one's personality.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next\r\nroom, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white\r\nand black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he\r\nstopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, \u0022Harry, did it ever\r\noccur to you that Basil was murdered?\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry yawned. \u0022Basil was very popular, and always wore a\r\nWaterbury watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever\r\nenough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for\r\npainting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as\r\npossible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once,\r\nand that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration\r\nfor you and that you were the dominant motive of his art.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I was very fond of Basil,\u0022 said Dorian with a note of sadness in his\r\nvoice. \u0022But don't people say that he was murdered?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all\r\nprobable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not\r\nthe sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his\r\nchief defect.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?\u0022\r\nsaid the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.\r\n\r\n\u0022I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that\r\ndoesn't suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.\r\nIt is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt\r\nyour vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs\r\nexclusively to the lower orders. I don't blame them in the smallest\r\ndegree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us,\r\nsimply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who\r\nhas once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?\r\nDon't tell me that.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,\u0022 cried Lord\r\nHenry, laughing. \u0022That is one of the most important secrets of life.\r\nI should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should\r\nnever do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us\r\npass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such\r\na really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fell\r\ninto the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the\r\nscandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now\r\non his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges\r\nfloating over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I\r\ndon't think he would have done much more good work. During the last\r\nten years his painting had gone off very much.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began\r\nto stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged\r\nbird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo\r\nperch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf\r\nof crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards\r\nand forwards.\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes,\u0022 he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of\r\nhis pocket; \u0022his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have\r\nlost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be\r\ngreat friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated\r\nyou? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It's a\r\nhabit bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful\r\nportrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever seen it since he\r\nfinished it. Oh! I remember your telling me years ago that you had\r\nsent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the\r\nway. You never got it back? What a pity! it was really a\r\nmasterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it. I wish I had now. It\r\nbelonged to Basil's best period. Since then, his work was that curious\r\nmixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man\r\nto be called a representative British artist. Did you advertise for\r\nit? You should.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I forget,\u0022 said Dorian. \u0022I suppose I did. But I never really liked\r\nit. I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to\r\nme. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious\r\nlines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?--\r\n\r\n \u0022Like the painting of a sorrow,\r\n A face without a heart.\u0022\r\n\r\nYes: that is what it was like.\u0022\r\n\r\nLord Henry laughed. \u0022If a man treats life artistically, his brain is\r\nhis heart,\u0022 he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.\r\n\r\nDorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.\r\n\u0022'Like the painting of a sorrow,'\u0022 he repeated, \u0022'a face without a\r\nheart.'\u0022\r\n\r\nThe elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. \u0022By\r\nthe way, Dorian,\u0022 he said after a pause, \u0022'what does it profit a man if\r\nhe gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his own\r\nsoul'?\u0022\r\n\r\nThe music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.\r\n\u0022Why do you ask me that, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear fellow,\u0022 said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,\r\n\u0022I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.\r\nThat is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by\r\nthe Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people\r\nlistening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the\r\nman yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being\r\nrather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind.\r\nA wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly\r\nwhite faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful\r\nphrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very\r\ngood in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet\r\nthat art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he\r\nwould not have understood me.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Don't, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and\r\nsold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There\r\nis a soul in each one of us. I know it.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Quite sure.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely\r\ncertain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the\r\nlesson of romance. How grave you are! Don't be so serious. What have\r\nyou or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given\r\nup our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne,\r\nDorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept\r\nyour youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than\r\nyou are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really\r\nwonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do\r\nto-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather\r\ncheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of\r\ncourse, but not in appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret.\r\nTo get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take\r\nexercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing\r\nlike it. It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only\r\npeople to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much\r\nyounger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to\r\nthem her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged.\r\nI do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that\r\nhappened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in\r\n1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew\r\nabsolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I\r\nwonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the\r\nvilla and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvellously\r\nromantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that\r\nis not imitative! Don't stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me\r\nthat you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you.\r\nI have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The\r\ntragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am\r\namazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are!\r\nWhat an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply of\r\neverything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing\r\nhas been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than the\r\nsound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I am not the same, Harry.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.\r\nDon't spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.\r\nDon't make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need\r\nnot shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't deceive\r\nyourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a\r\nquestion of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which\r\nthought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy\r\nyourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour\r\nin a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once\r\nloved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten\r\npoem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music\r\nthat you had ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things\r\nlike these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that\r\nsomewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There are\r\nmoments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I\r\nhave to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could\r\nchange places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us\r\nboth, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you.\r\nYou are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is\r\nafraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything,\r\nnever carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything\r\noutside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to\r\nmusic. Your days are your sonnets.\u0022\r\n\r\nDorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.\r\n\u0022Yes, life has been exquisite,\u0022 he murmured, \u0022but I am not going to\r\nhave the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant\r\nthings to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if you\r\ndid, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the\r\nnocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that\r\nhangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if\r\nyou play she will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to\r\nthe club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it\r\ncharmingly. There is some one at White's who wants immensely to know\r\nyou--young Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son. He has already copied\r\nyour neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite\r\ndelightful and rather reminds me of you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022I hope not,\u0022 said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. \u0022But I am tired\r\nto-night, Harry. I shan't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I\r\nwant to go to bed early.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was\r\nsomething in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression\r\nthan I had ever heard from it before.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022It is because I am going to be good,\u0022 he answered, smiling. \u0022I am a\r\nlittle changed already.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022You cannot change to me, Dorian,\u0022 said Lord Henry. \u0022You and I will\r\nalways be friends.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.\r\nHarry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It\r\ndoes harm.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be\r\ngoing about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people\r\nagainst all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too\r\ndelightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we\r\nare, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book,\r\nthere is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It\r\nannihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that\r\nthe world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.\r\nThat is all. But we won't discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I\r\nam going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you\r\nto lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and\r\nwants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.\r\nMind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says\r\nshe never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought\r\nyou would be. Her clever tongue gets on one's nerves. Well, in any\r\ncase, be here at eleven.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Must I really come, Harry?\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have\r\nbeen such lilacs since the year I met you.\u0022\r\n\r\n\u0022Very well. I shall be here at eleven,\u0022 said Dorian. \u0022Good night,\r\nHarry.\u0022 As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he\r\nhad something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHAPTER 20\r\n\r\nIt was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and\r\ndid not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,\r\nsmoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He\r\nheard one of them whisper to the other, \u0022That is Dorian Gray.\u0022 He\r\nremembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared\r\nat, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half\r\nthe charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was\r\nthat no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had\r\nlured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had\r\ntold her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and\r\nanswered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a\r\nlaugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had\r\nbeen in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but\r\nshe had everything that he had lost.\r\n\r\nWhen he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent\r\nhim to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and\r\nbegan to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.\r\n\r\nWas it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing\r\nfor the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as\r\nLord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself,\r\nfilled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he\r\nhad been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible\r\njoy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had\r\nbeen the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to\r\nshame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?\r\n\r\nAh! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that\r\nthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the\r\nunsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to\r\nthat. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure\r\nswift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment.\r\nNot \u0022Forgive us our sins\u0022 but \u0022Smite us for our iniquities\u0022 should be\r\nthe prayer of man to a most just God.\r\n\r\nThe curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many\r\nyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids\r\nlaughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that\r\nnight of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal\r\npicture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished\r\nshield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a\r\nmad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: \u0022The world is changed\r\nbecause you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips\r\nrewrite history.\u0022 The phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated\r\nthem over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and\r\nflinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters\r\nbeneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty\r\nand the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his\r\nlife might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but a\r\nmask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, an\r\nunripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he\r\nworn its livery? Youth had spoiled him.\r\n\r\nIt was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It\r\nwas of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James\r\nVane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell\r\nhad shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the\r\nsecret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it\r\nwas, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was\r\nalready waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the\r\ndeath of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the\r\nliving death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the\r\nportrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It\r\nwas the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to\r\nhim that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The\r\nmurder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell,\r\nhis suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was\r\nnothing to him.\r\n\r\nA new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting\r\nfor. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent\r\nthing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be\r\ngood.\r\n\r\nAs he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in\r\nthe locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it\r\nhad been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel\r\nevery sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil\r\nhad already gone away. He would go and look.\r\n\r\nHe took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the\r\ndoor, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face\r\nand lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and\r\nthe hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror\r\nto him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.\r\n\r\nHe went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and\r\ndragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and\r\nindignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the\r\neyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of\r\nthe hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if\r\npossible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed\r\nbrighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it\r\nbeen merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the\r\ndesire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking\r\nlaugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things\r\nfiner than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the\r\nred stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a\r\nhorrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the\r\npainted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand\r\nthat had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to\r\nconfess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt\r\nthat the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who\r\nwould believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.\r\nEverything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned\r\nwhat had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad.\r\nThey would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was\r\nhis duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public\r\natonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to\r\nearth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him\r\ntill he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders.\r\nThe death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking\r\nof Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul\r\nthat he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there\r\nbeen nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been\r\nsomething more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No.\r\nThere had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In\r\nhypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he\r\nhad tried the denial of self. He recognized that now.\r\n\r\nBut this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be\r\nburdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was\r\nonly one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that\r\nwas evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once\r\nit had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of\r\nlate he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night.\r\nWhen he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes\r\nshould look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions.\r\nIts mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like\r\nconscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.\r\n\r\nHe looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He\r\nhad cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It\r\nwas bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would\r\nkill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the\r\npast, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this\r\nmonstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at\r\npeace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.\r\n\r\nThere was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its\r\nagony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.\r\nTwo gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked\r\nup at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and\r\nbrought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was\r\nno answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was\r\nall dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico\r\nand watched.\r\n\r\n\u0022Whose house is that, Constable?\u0022 asked the elder of the two gentlemen.\r\n\r\n\u0022Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir,\u0022 answered the policeman.\r\n\r\nThey looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of\r\nthem was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.\r\n\r\nInside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics\r\nwere talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying\r\nand wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.\r\n\r\nAfter about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the\r\nfootmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply.\r\nThey called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying\r\nto force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the\r\nbalcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old.\r\n\r\nWhen they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait\r\nof their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his\r\nexquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in\r\nevening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled,\r\nand loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings\r\nthat they recognized who it was.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde\r\n\r\n*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY ***\r\n\r\n***** This file should be named 174.txt or 174.zip *****\r\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\r\n http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/174/\r\n\r\nProduced by Judith Boss. 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