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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net - - -Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray - -Author: Oscar Wilde - -Release Date: June 9, 2008 [EBook #174] -[This file last updated on July 2 2011] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY *** - - - - -Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines. - - - - - -</pre> - - -<BR><BR> - -<H1 ALIGN="center"> -The Picture of Dorian Gray -</H1> - -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -by -</H3> - -<H2 ALIGN="center"> -Oscar Wilde -</H2> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<H2 ALIGN="center"> -CONTENTS -</H2> - -<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="100%"> -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> -<A HREF="#chap00">PREFACE</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> -<A HREF="#chap01">CHAPTER 1</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> -<A HREF="#chap02">CHAPTER 2</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="25%"> -<A HREF="#chap03">CHAPTER 3</A> -</TD> -</TR> - -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap04">CHAPTER 4</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap05">CHAPTER 5</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap06">CHAPTER 6</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap07">CHAPTER 7</A> -</TD> -</TR> - -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap08">CHAPTER 8</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap09">CHAPTER 9</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap10">CHAPTER 10</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap11">CHAPTER 11</A> -</TD> -</TR> - -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap12">CHAPTER 12</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap13">CHAPTER 13</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap14">CHAPTER 14</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap15">CHAPTER 15</A> -</TD> -</TR> - -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap16">CHAPTER 16</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap17">CHAPTER 17</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap18">CHAPTER 18</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap19">CHAPTER 19</A> -</TD> -</TR> - -<TR> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> -<A HREF="#chap20">CHAPTER 20</A> -</TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> -<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> -</TR> - -</TABLE> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap00"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -THE PREFACE -</H3> - -<P> -The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and -conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate -into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful -things. -</P> - -<P> -The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. -Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without -being charming. This is a fault. -</P> - -<P> -Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the -cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom -beautiful things mean only beauty. -</P> - -<P> -There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well -written, or badly written. That is all. -</P> - -<P> -The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing -his own face in a glass. -</P> - -<P> -The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban -not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part -of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists -in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove -anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has -ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an -unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist -can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist -instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for -an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is -the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the -actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. -Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read -the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, -that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art -shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, -the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making -a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for -making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. -</P> - -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -All art is quite useless.<BR> -OSCAR WILDE -</H3> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap01"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 1 -</H3> - -<P> -The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light -summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through -the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate -perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. -</P> - -<P> -From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was -lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry -Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured -blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to -bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then -the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long -tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, -producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of -those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of -an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of -swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their -way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous -insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, -seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London -was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. -</P> - -<P> -In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the -full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, -and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist -himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago -caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many -strange conjectures. -</P> - -<P> -As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so -skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his -face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, -and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he -sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he -feared he might awake. -</P> - -<P> -"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said -Lord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to the -Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have -gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been -able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that -I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor -is really the only place." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't think I shall send it anywhere," he answered, tossing his head -back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at -Oxford. "No, I won't send it anywhere." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through -the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls -from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My -dear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters -are! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as -you have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, -for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, -and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you -far above all the young men in England, and make the old men quite -jealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion." -</P> - -<P> -"I know you will laugh at me," he replied, "but I really can't exhibit -it. I have put too much of myself into it." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same." -</P> - -<P> -"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know you -were so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, with -your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young -Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, -my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an -intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends -where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode -of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one -sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something -horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. -How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But -then in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at the -age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, -and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. -Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but -whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of -that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always -here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in -summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatter -yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist. "Of course I am -not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry -to look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the -truth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual -distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the -faltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one's -fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. -They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing -of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They -live as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and without -disquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it -from alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they -are--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--we -shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across the -studio towards Basil Hallward. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you." -</P> - -<P> -"But why not?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their -names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have -grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make -modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is -delightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my -people where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It -is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great -deal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfully -foolish about it?" -</P> - -<P> -"Not at all," answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. You -seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that -it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I -never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. -When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go -down to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the -most serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact, -than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. -But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes -wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." -</P> - -<P> -"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said Basil -Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "I -believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are -thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary -fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. -Your cynicism is simply a pose." -</P> - -<P> -"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," -cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the -garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that -stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over -the polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. -</P> - -<P> -After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must be -going, Basil," he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on your -answering a question I put to you some time ago." -</P> - -<P> -"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. -</P> - -<P> -"You know quite well." -</P> - -<P> -"I do not, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you -won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason." -</P> - -<P> -"I told you the real reason." -</P> - -<P> -"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of -yourself in it. Now, that is childish." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every -portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not -of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is -not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on -the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit -this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of -my own soul." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. -</P> - -<P> -"I will tell you," said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came -over his face. -</P> - -<P> -"I am all expectation, Basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry," answered the painter; -"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will -hardly believe it." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from -the grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it," he -replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, -"and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it -is quite incredible." -</P> - -<P> -The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy -lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the -languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a -blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze -wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart -beating, and wondered what was coming. -</P> - -<P> -"The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two -months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor -artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to -remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a -white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain -a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room -about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious -academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at -me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. -When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation -of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some -one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to -do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art -itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know -yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my -own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. -Then--but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to -tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had -a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and -exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was -not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take -no credit to myself for trying to escape." -</P> - -<P> -"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. -Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. -However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used -to be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, -I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away so -soon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill -voice?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said Lord Henry, -pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. -</P> - -<P> -"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and -people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras -and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only -met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I -believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at -least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the -nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself -face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely -stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. -It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. -Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. -We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure -of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were -destined to know each other." -</P> - -<P> -"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his -companion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid precis of all her -guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old -gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my -ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to -everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I -like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests -exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them -entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants -to know." -</P> - -<P> -"Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallward -listlessly. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear fellow, she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded in -opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did -she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutely -inseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do -anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. -Gray?' Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at -once." -</P> - -<P> -"Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far -the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy. -</P> - -<P> -Hallward shook his head. "You don't understand what friendship is, -Harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You like -every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one." -</P> - -<P> -"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back -and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of -glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the -summer sky. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference -between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my -acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good -intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. -I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some -intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that -very vain of me? I think it is rather vain." -</P> - -<P> -"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must -be merely an acquaintance." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." -</P> - -<P> -"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, -and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting my -relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand -other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize -with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices -of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and -immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of -us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When -poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite -magnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the -proletariat live correctly." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is -more, Harry, I feel sure you don't either." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his -patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "How English you are -Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one -puts forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing to -do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. -The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes -it oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do -with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the -probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely -intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured -by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't -propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I -like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no -principles better than anything else in the world. Tell me more about -Mr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?" -</P> - -<P> -"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He is -absolutely necessary to me." -</P> - -<P> -"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but -your art." -</P> - -<P> -"He is all my art to me now," said the painter gravely. "I sometimes -think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the -world's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, -and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. -What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of -Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will -some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from -him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much -more to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that I am -dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such -that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, -and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good -work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonder -will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an -entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see -things differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate -life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in days -of thought'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian -Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad--for he -seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over -twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can you realize all -that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh -school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic -spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of -soul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have separated the -two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is -void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember -that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price -but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have -ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian -Gray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and -for the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I -had always looked for and always missed." -</P> - -<P> -"Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After -some time he came back. "Harry," he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simply -a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in -him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is -there. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find -him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of -certain colours. That is all." -</P> - -<P> -"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of -all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never -cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know -anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare -my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put -under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, -Harry--too much of myself!" -</P> - -<P> -"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion -is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." -</P> - -<P> -"I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create -beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We -live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of -autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I -will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall -never see my portrait of Dorian Gray." -</P> - -<P> -"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is only -the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very -fond of you?" -</P> - -<P> -The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me," he answered -after a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him -dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I -know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to -me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and -then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real -delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away -my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put -in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a -summer's day." -</P> - -<P> -"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry. -"Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think -of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That -accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate -ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have -something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and -facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly -well-informed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the -thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a -bric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above -its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day -you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little -out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something. -You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think -that he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you -will be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for -it will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance -of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind -is that it leaves one so unromantic." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of -Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You change -too often." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are -faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who -know love's tragedies." And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty -silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and -satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was -a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, -and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like -swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other -people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it -seemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one's -friends--those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to -himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed -by staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, he -would have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole -conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the -necessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the -importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity -in their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, -and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was -charming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea -seemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow, -I have just remembered." -</P> - -<P> -"Remembered what, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray." -</P> - -<P> -"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown. -</P> - -<P> -"Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's. She -told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help -her in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to -state that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no -appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said -that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once -pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly -freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was -your friend." -</P> - -<P> -"I am very glad you didn't, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Why?" -</P> - -<P> -"I don't want you to meet him." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't want me to meet him?" -</P> - -<P> -"No." -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into -the garden. -</P> - -<P> -"You must introduce me now," cried Lord Henry, laughing. -</P> - -<P> -The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. -"Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments." The -man bowed and went up the walk. -</P> - -<P> -Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend," he -said. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite -right in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try to -influence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and -has many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the one -person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an -artist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you." He spoke very -slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. -</P> - -<P> -"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward -by the arm, he almost led him into the house. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap02"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 2 -</H3> - -<P> -As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with -his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's -"Forest Scenes." "You must lend me these, Basil," he cried. "I want -to learn them. They are perfectly charming." -</P> - -<P> -"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait of -myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a -wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint -blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg your -pardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one with you." -</P> - -<P> -"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I -have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you -have spoiled everything." -</P> - -<P> -"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray," said Lord -Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has often -spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am -afraid, one of her victims also." -</P> - -<P> -"I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present," answered Dorian with a -funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel -with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to -have played a duet together--three duets, I believe. I don't know what -she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. -And I don't think it really matters about your not being there. The -audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to -the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." -</P> - -<P> -"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered Dorian, -laughing. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, -with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp -gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at -once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's -passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from -the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. -</P> - -<P> -"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray--far too -charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened -his cigarette-case. -</P> - -<P> -The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes -ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's last -remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, -"Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it -awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?" -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?" -he asked. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky -moods, and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell -me why I should not go in for philanthropy." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a -subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I -certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You -don't really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you -liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. -Dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, -but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the -Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon -Street. I am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me when -you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you." -</P> - -<P> -"Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, -too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is -horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask -him to stay. I insist upon it." -</P> - -<P> -"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, -gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when I -am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious -for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay." -</P> - -<P> -"But what about my man at the Orleans?" -</P> - -<P> -The painter laughed. "I don't think there will be any difficulty about -that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, -and don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry -says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the -single exception of myself." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek -martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he -had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a -delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few -moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord -Henry? As bad as Basil says?" -</P> - -<P> -"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence -is immoral--immoral from the scientific point of view." -</P> - -<P> -"Why?" -</P> - -<P> -"Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does -not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His -virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as -sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, an -actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is -self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly--that is what each -of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They -have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to -one's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and -clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage -has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror -of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is -the secret of religion--these are the two things that govern us. And -yet--" -</P> - -<P> -"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good -boy," said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look -had come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before. -</P> - -<P> -"And yet," continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with -that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of -him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one man -were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to -every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--I -believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we -would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the -Hellenic ideal--to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it -may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The -mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial -that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse -that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body -sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of -purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, -or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is -to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for -the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its -monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that -the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the -brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place -also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your -rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, -thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping -dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" -</P> - -<P> -"Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know -what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don't -speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think." -</P> - -<P> -For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and -eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh -influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have -come really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had said -to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in -them--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, -but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. -</P> - -<P> -Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. -But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather -another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How -terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not -escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They -seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to -have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere -words! Was there anything so real as words? -</P> - -<P> -Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. -He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. -It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not -known it? -</P> - -<P> -With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise -psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely -interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had -produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, -a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he -wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. -He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How -fascinating the lad was! -</P> - -<P> -Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had -the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes -only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. -</P> - -<P> -"Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must -go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think of -anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. -And I have caught the effect I wanted--the half-parted lips and the -bright look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been saying to -you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. -I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe a -word that he says." -</P> - -<P> -"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the -reason that I don't believe anything he has told me." -</P> - -<P> -"You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his -dreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is -horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to -drink, something with strawberries in it." -</P> - -<P> -"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will -tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I -will join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been -in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my -masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his -face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their -perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand -upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. -"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the -senses but the soul." -</P> - -<P> -The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had -tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. -There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are -suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some -hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of -life--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means -of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you -think you know, just as you know less than you want to know." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking -the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, -olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was -something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. -His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They -moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their -own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had -it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known -Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never -altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who -seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what was -there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was -absurd to be frightened. -</P> - -<P> -"Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought -out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be -quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must -not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming." -</P> - -<P> -"What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on -the seat at the end of the garden. -</P> - -<P> -"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray." -</P> - -<P> -"Why?" -</P> - -<P> -"Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing -worth having." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't feel that, Lord Henry." -</P> - -<P> -"No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled -and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and -passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you -will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. -Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. -Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius--is -higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the -great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the -reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It -cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It -makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost -it you won't smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only -superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as -thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only -shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of -the world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the -gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take -away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, -and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then -you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or -have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of -your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes -brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and -wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and -hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! -realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your -days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, -or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. -These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live -the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be -always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new -Hedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visible -symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The -world belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that -you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really -might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must -tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if -you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will -last--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they -blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. -In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after -year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we -never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty -becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into -hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were -too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the -courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in -the world but youth!" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell -from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it -for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated -globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest -in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import -make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we -cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays -sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the -bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian -convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to -and fro. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made -staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and -smiled. -</P> - -<P> -"I am waiting," he cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, -and you can bring your drinks." -</P> - -<P> -They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white -butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of -the garden a thrush began to sing. -</P> - -<P> -"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at -him. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?" -</P> - -<P> -"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. -Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to -make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only -difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice -lasts a little longer." -</P> - -<P> -As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's -arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, -flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and -resumed his pose. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. -The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that -broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back -to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that -streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The -heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. -</P> - -<P> -After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for -a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, -biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quite -finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in -long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a -wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "It is the -finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at -yourself." -</P> - -<P> -The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. -</P> - -<P> -"Is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. -</P> - -<P> -"Quite finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly -to-day. I am awfully obliged to you." -</P> - -<P> -"That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it, Mr. -Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture -and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks -flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, -as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there -motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to -him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own -beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. -Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the -charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed -at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had -come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his -terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and -now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full -reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a -day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and -colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet -would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The -life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become -dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. -</P> - -<P> -As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a -knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes -deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt -as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. -</P> - -<P> -"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the -lad's silence, not understanding what it meant. -</P> - -<P> -"Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? It -is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything -you like to ask for it. I must have it." -</P> - -<P> -"It is not my property, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Whose property is it?" -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian's, of course," answered the painter. -</P> - -<P> -"He is a very lucky fellow." -</P> - -<P> -"How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon -his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and -dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be -older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other -way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was -to grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there -is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul -for that!" -</P> - -<P> -"You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord -Henry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work." -</P> - -<P> -"I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. -You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a -green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say." -</P> - -<P> -The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like -that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed -and his cheeks burning. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your -silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? -Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one -loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. -Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. -Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing -old, I shall kill myself." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, -"don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I -shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, -are you?--you who are finer than any of them!" -</P> - -<P> -"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of -the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must -lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives -something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture -could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint -it? It will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled -into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the -divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. -</P> - -<P> -"This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray--that -is all." -</P> - -<P> -"It is not." -</P> - -<P> -"If it is not, what have I to do with it?" -</P> - -<P> -"You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered. -</P> - -<P> -"I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henry's answer. -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between -you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever -done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will -not let it come across our three lives and mar them." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid -face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal -painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What -was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter -of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for -the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had -found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. -</P> - -<P> -With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to -Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of -the studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!" -</P> - -<P> -"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the painter -coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought you -would." -</P> - -<P> -"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I -feel that." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and -sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he walked -across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of -course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such -simple pleasures?" -</P> - -<P> -"I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last refuge -of the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. What -absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man -as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. -Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after -all--though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You -had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't really -want it, and I really do." -</P> - -<P> -"If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!" -cried Dorian Gray; "and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy." -</P> - -<P> -"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it -existed." -</P> - -<P> -"And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you -don't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." -</P> - -<P> -"I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then." -</P> - -<P> -There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden -tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a -rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. -Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray -went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to -the table and examined what was under the covers. -</P> - -<P> -"Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure -to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but -it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I -am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a -subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it -would have all the surprise of candour." -</P> - -<P> -"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. -"And, when one has them on, they are so horrid." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth -century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the -only real colour-element left in modern life." -</P> - -<P> -"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the -one in the picture?" -</P> - -<P> -"Before either." -</P> - -<P> -"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the -lad. -</P> - -<P> -"Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?" -</P> - -<P> -"I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray." -</P> - -<P> -"I should like that awfully." -</P> - -<P> -The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. -"I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly. -</P> - -<P> -"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling -across to him. "Am I really like that?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes; you are just like that." -</P> - -<P> -"How wonderful, Basil!" -</P> - -<P> -"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," -sighed Hallward. "That is something." -</P> - -<P> -"What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, -even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to -do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old -men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and -dine with me." -</P> - -<P> -"I can't, Basil." -</P> - -<P> -"Why?" -</P> - -<P> -"Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him." -</P> - -<P> -"He won't like you the better for keeping your promises. He always -breaks his own. I beg you not to go." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. -</P> - -<P> -"I entreat you." -</P> - -<P> -The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them -from the tea-table with an amused smile. -</P> - -<P> -"I must go, Basil," he answered. -</P> - -<P> -"Very well," said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on -the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had -better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see -me soon. Come to-morrow." -</P> - -<P> -"Certainly." -</P> - -<P> -"You won't forget?" -</P> - -<P> -"No, of course not," cried Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"And ... Harry!" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, Basil?" -</P> - -<P> -"Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning." -</P> - -<P> -"I have forgotten it." -</P> - -<P> -"I trust you." -</P> - -<P> -"I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. -Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. -Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon." -</P> - -<P> -As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a -sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap03"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 3 -</H3> - -<P> -At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon -Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial -if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called -selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was -considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. -His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young -and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a -capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at -Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by -reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, -and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his -father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat -foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months -later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great -aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town -houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and -took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the -management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself -for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of -having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of -burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when -the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them -for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied -him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. -Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the -country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but -there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. -</P> - -<P> -When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough -shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. "Well, -Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I -thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till -five." -</P> - -<P> -"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get -something out of you." -</P> - -<P> -"Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sit -down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that -money is everything." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and -when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is only -people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay -mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly -upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and -consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not -useful information, of course; useless information." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, -although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in -the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in -now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure -humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite -enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said -Lord Henry languidly. -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy -white eyebrows. -</P> - -<P> -"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know -who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a -Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his -mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly -everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much -interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." -</P> - -<P> -"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso's grandson! ... -Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her -christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret -Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless -young fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or -something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if -it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few -months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They -said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult -his son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and that -the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was -hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some -time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, -and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The -girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had -forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he -must be a good-looking chap." -</P> - -<P> -"He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "He -should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing -by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to -her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him -a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, -I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble -who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They -made quite a story of it. I didn't dare show my face at Court for a -month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be -well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. -And ... his mother was very beautiful?" -</P> - -<P> -"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, -Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could -understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was -mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family -were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. -Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed -at him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after -him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is -this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an -American? Ain't English girls good enough for him?" -</P> - -<P> -"It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." -</P> - -<P> -"I'll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, -striking the table with his fist. -</P> - -<P> -"The betting is on the Americans." -</P> - -<P> -"They don't last, I am told," muttered his uncle. -</P> - -<P> -"A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a -steeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a -chance." -</P> - -<P> -"Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?" -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing -their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said, -rising to go. -</P> - -<P> -"They are pork-packers, I suppose?" -</P> - -<P> -"I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake. I am told that -pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after -politics." -</P> - -<P> -"Is she pretty?" -</P> - -<P> -"She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is -the secret of their charm." -</P> - -<P> -"Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They are -always telling us that it is the paradise for women." -</P> - -<P> -"It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively -anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. -I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me -the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my -new friends, and nothing about my old ones." -</P> - -<P> -"Where are you lunching, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest -protege." -</P> - -<P> -"Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with -her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks -that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads." -</P> - -<P> -"All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect. -Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their -distinguishing characteristic." -</P> - -<P> -The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his -servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street -and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. -</P> - -<P> -So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it had -been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a -strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything -for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a -hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a -child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to -solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an -interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it -were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something -tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might -blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as -with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat -opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer -rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing -upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the -bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of -influence. No other activity was like it. To project one's soul into -some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's -own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of -passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though -it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in -that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited -and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and -grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, -whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio, or could be -fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the -white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for -us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be -made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was -destined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, -how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of -looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence -of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in -dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing -herself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for -her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are -wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things -becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, -as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect -form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He -remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist -in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had -carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own -century it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray -what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned -the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him--had already, -indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. -There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had -passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. -When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they -had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and -passed into the dining-room. -</P> - -<P> -"Late as usual, Harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. -</P> - -<P> -He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to -her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from -the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. -Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and -good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample -architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are -described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on -her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who -followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the -best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in -accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was -occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable -charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, -having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he -had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, -one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so -dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. -Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most -intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement -in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely -earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once -himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of -them ever quite escape. -</P> - -<P> -"We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess, -nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he will -really marry this fascinating young person?" -</P> - -<P> -"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess." -</P> - -<P> -"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one should -interfere." -</P> - -<P> -"I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American -dry-goods store," said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. -</P> - -<P> -"My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas." -</P> - -<P> -"Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising -her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. -</P> - -<P> -"American novels," answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. -</P> - -<P> -The duchess looked puzzled. -</P> - -<P> -"Don't mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means -anything that he says." -</P> - -<P> -"When America was discovered," said the Radical member--and he began to -give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a -subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised -her privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been -discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chance -nowadays. It is most unfair." -</P> - -<P> -"Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered," said Mr. -Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the -duchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely -pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in -Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same." -</P> - -<P> -"They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris," chuckled Sir -Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes. -</P> - -<P> -"Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired the -duchess. -</P> - -<P> -"They go to America," murmured Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced -against that great country," he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelled -all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, -are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it." -</P> - -<P> -"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. -Erskine plaintively. "I don't feel up to the journey." -</P> - -<P> -Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on -his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about -them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are -absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing -characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I -assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans." -</P> - -<P> -"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute -reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. -It is hitting below the intellect." -</P> - -<P> -"I do not understand you," said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. -</P> - -<P> -"I do, Lord Henry," murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. -</P> - -<P> -"Paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. -</P> - -<P> -"Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhaps -it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test -reality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become -acrobats, we can judge them." -</P> - -<P> -"Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never can -make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with -you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up -the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would -love his playing." -</P> - -<P> -"I want him to play to me," cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked -down the table and caught a bright answering glance. -</P> - -<P> -"But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel," continued Lady Agatha. -</P> - -<P> -"I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry, -shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is too -ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly -morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with -the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's -sores, the better." -</P> - -<P> -"Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomas -with a grave shake of the head. -</P> - -<P> -"Quite so," answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, -and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves." -</P> - -<P> -The politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, -then?" he asked. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry laughed. "I don't desire to change anything in England -except the weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophic -contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt -through an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should -appeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is -that they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is -not emotional." -</P> - -<P> -"But we have such grave responsibilities," ventured Mrs. Vandeleur -timidly. -</P> - -<P> -"Terribly grave," echoed Lady Agatha. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity takes itself too -seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known -how to laugh, history would have been different." -</P> - -<P> -"You are really very comforting," warbled the duchess. "I have always -felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no -interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to -look her in the face without a blush." -</P> - -<P> -"A blush is very becoming, Duchess," remarked Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman like myself -blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell -me how to become young again." -</P> - -<P> -He thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that you -committed in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her across -the table. -</P> - -<P> -"A great many, I fear," she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"Then commit them over again," he said gravely. "To get back one's -youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies." -</P> - -<P> -"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice." -</P> - -<P> -"A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agatha -shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. -Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and -discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are -one's mistakes." -</P> - -<P> -A laugh ran round the table. -</P> - -<P> -He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and -transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent -with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went -on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and -catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her -wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the -hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled -before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge -press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round -her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over -the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary -improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, -and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose -temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and -to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, -irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they -followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, -but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips -and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. -</P> - -<P> -At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room -in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was -waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. "How annoying!" she -cried. "I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take -him to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be -in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn't -have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word -would ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you -are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don't -know what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some -night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?" -</P> - -<P> -"For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess," said Lord Henry with a -bow. -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you -come"; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the -other ladies. -</P> - -<P> -When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking -a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. -</P> - -<P> -"You talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?" -</P> - -<P> -"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I -should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely -as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in -England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. -Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the -beauty of literature." -</P> - -<P> -"I fear you are right," answered Mr. Erskine. "I myself used to have -literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear -young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you -really meant all that you said to us at lunch?" -</P> - -<P> -"I quite forget what I said," smiled Lord Henry. "Was it all very bad?" -</P> - -<P> -"Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if -anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being -primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. -The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you -are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your -philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate -enough to possess." -</P> - -<P> -"I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. -It has a perfect host, and a perfect library." -</P> - -<P> -"You will complete it," answered the old gentleman with a courteous -bow. "And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at -the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there." -</P> - -<P> -"All of you, Mr. Erskine?" -</P> - -<P> -"Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English -Academy of Letters." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry laughed and rose. "I am going to the park," he cried. -</P> - -<P> -As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. -"Let me come with you," he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -"But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him," -answered Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do -let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks -so wonderfully as you do." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day," said Lord Henry, smiling. -"All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with -me, if you care to." -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap04"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 4 -</H3> - -<P> -One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious -arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair. It -was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled -wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling -of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, -long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette -by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for -Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies -that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and -parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small -leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a -summer day in London. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his -principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was -looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages -of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had -found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the -Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going -away. -</P> - -<P> -At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late you -are, Harry!" he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray," answered a shrill voice. -</P> - -<P> -He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. I -thought--" -</P> - -<P> -"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me -introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think -my husband has got seventeen of them." -</P> - -<P> -"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?" -</P> - -<P> -"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the -opera." She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her -vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses -always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a -tempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion -was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look -picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was -Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. -</P> - -<P> -"That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better than -anybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other -people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't you -think so, Mr. Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her -fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, Lady -Henry. I never talk during music--at least, during good music. If one -hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? I always hear -Harry's views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of -them. But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, but -I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped -pianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don't know what -it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all -are, ain't they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners -after a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such a -compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You have -never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I -can't afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make -one's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in -to look for you, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and I -found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We -have quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. -But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him." -</P> - -<P> -"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said Lord Henry, elevating his -dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused -smile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of -old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. -Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." -</P> - -<P> -"I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an -awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drive -with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are -dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady -Thornbury's." -</P> - -<P> -"I dare say, my dear," said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her -as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the -rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of -frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the -sofa. -</P> - -<P> -"Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian," he said after a -few puffs. -</P> - -<P> -"Why, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"Because they are so sentimental." -</P> - -<P> -"But I like sentimental people." -</P> - -<P> -"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, -because they are curious: both are disappointed." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. -That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do -everything that you say." -</P> - -<P> -"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. -</P> - -<P> -"With an actress," said Dorian Gray, blushing. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplace -debut." -</P> - -<P> -"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Who is she?" -</P> - -<P> -"Her name is Sibyl Vane." -</P> - -<P> -"Never heard of her." -</P> - -<P> -"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They -never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women -represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the -triumph of mind over morals." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, how can you?" -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so -I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. -I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain -and the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to -gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down -to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one -mistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our -grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge and -esprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman -can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly -satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London -worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent -society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known -her?" -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me." -</P> - -<P> -"Never mind that. How long have you known her?" -</P> - -<P> -"About three weeks." -</P> - -<P> -"And where did you come across her?" -</P> - -<P> -"I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. -After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You -filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days -after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged -in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one -who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they -led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There -was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... -Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in search -of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, -with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, -as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied -a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I -remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we -first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret -of life. I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wandered -eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black -grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little -theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous -Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was -standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy -ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled -shirt. 'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off -his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something about -him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at -me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the -stage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet if -I hadn't--my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatest -romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!" -</P> - -<P> -"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you -should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the -first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will -always be in love with love. A grande passion is the privilege of -people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes -of a country. Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store -for you. This is merely the beginning." -</P> - -<P> -"Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray angrily. -</P> - -<P> -"No; I think your nature so deep." -</P> - -<P> -"How do you mean?" -</P> - -<P> -"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really -the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, -I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. -Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life -of the intellect--simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I -must analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There -are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that -others might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go on -with your story." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a -vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the -curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and -cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were -fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and -there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the -dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there -was a terrible consumption of nuts going on." -</P> - -<P> -"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama." -</P> - -<P> -"Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder -what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What -do you think the play was, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"I should think 'The Idiot Boy', or 'Dumb but Innocent'. Our fathers -used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, -the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is -not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grandperes ont -toujours tort." -</P> - -<P> -"This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I -must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare -done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in -a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. -There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat -at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the -drop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly -gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure -like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the -low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most -friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the -scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But -Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a -little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of -dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were -like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen -in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that -beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, -Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came -across me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very low -at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's -ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a -distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy -that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There -were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You -know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane -are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear -them, and each of them says something different. I don't know which to -follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is -everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One -evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have -seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from -her lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of -Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. -She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and -given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been -innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike -throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary -women never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their -century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as -easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is -no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and -chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped -smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an -actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell me -that the only thing worth loving is an actress?" -</P> - -<P> -"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary -charm in them, sometimes," said Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane." -</P> - -<P> -"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life -you will tell me everything you do." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. -You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would -come and confess it to you. You would understand me." -</P> - -<P> -"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, -Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And -now tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are -your actual relations with Sibyl Vane?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. -"Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!" -</P> - -<P> -"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian," said -Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But why -should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. -When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one -always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a -romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?" -</P> - -<P> -"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the -horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and -offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was -furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds -of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I -think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the -impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something." -</P> - -<P> -"I am not surprised." -</P> - -<P> -"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I -never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and -confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy -against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought." -</P> - -<P> -"I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other -hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all -expensive." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed Dorian. -"By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, -and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly -recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the -place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that -I was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, -though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me -once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely -due to 'The Bard,' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think -it a distinction." -</P> - -<P> -"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Most -people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose -of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But when -did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?" -</P> - -<P> -"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help -going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at -me--at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He -seemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my -not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" -</P> - -<P> -"No; I don't think so." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Harry, why?" -</P> - -<P> -"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl." -</P> - -<P> -"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a -child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told -her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious -of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood -grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate -speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like -children. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord,' so I had to assure -Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to -me, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.'" -</P> - -<P> -"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person -in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a -faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta -dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen -better days." -</P> - -<P> -"I know that look. It depresses me," murmured Lord Henry, examining -his rings. -</P> - -<P> -"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest -me." -</P> - -<P> -"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about -other people's tragedies." -</P> - -<P> -"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came -from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and -entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every -night she is more marvellous." -</P> - -<P> -"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I -thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it -is not quite what I expected." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have -been to the opera with you several times," said Dorian, opening his -blue eyes in wonder. -</P> - -<P> -"You always come dreadfully late." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is -only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think -of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I -am filled with awe." -</P> - -<P> -"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?" -</P> - -<P> -He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and -to-morrow night she will be Juliet." -</P> - -<P> -"When is she Sibyl Vane?" -</P> - -<P> -"Never." -</P> - -<P> -"I congratulate you." -</P> - -<P> -"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in -one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she -has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know -all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I -want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to -hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir -their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, -Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as he -spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly -excited. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different -he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward's -studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of -scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and -desire had come to meet it on the way. -</P> - -<P> -"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry at last. -</P> - -<P> -"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I -have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to -acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands. -She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight -months--from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of -course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and -bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made -me." -</P> - -<P> -"That would be impossible, my dear boy." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in -her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it -is personalities, not principles, that move the age." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, what night shall we go?" -</P> - -<P> -"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays -Juliet to-morrow." -</P> - -<P> -"All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil." -</P> - -<P> -"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the -curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets -Romeo." -</P> - -<P> -"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or -reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before -seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to -him?" -</P> - -<P> -"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather -horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful -frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous -of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit -that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't -want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good -advice." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry smiled. "People are very fond of giving away what they need -most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit -of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered -that." -</P> - -<P> -"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his -work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his -prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I -have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good -artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly -uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is -the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are -absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more -picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of -second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the -poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they -dare not realize." -</P> - -<P> -"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some -perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that -stood on the table. "It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. -Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye." -</P> - -<P> -As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he began -to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as -Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused -him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by -it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always -enthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary -subject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no -import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by -vivisecting others. Human life--that appeared to him the one thing -worth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of any -value. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of -pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass, -nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the -imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There -were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken -of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through -them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great -reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To -note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life -of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, -at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at -discord--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? -One could never pay too high a price for any sensation. -</P> - -<P> -He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his -brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical -words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had turned -to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent -the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was -something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its -secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were -revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect -of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately -with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex -personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, -in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, -just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. -</P> - -<P> -Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was -yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was -becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his -beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. -It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like -one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem -to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, -and whose wounds are like red roses. -</P> - -<P> -Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was -animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. -The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could -say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? -How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! -And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various -schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the -body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of -spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter -was a mystery also. -</P> - -<P> -He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a -science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it -was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. -Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to -their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of -warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation -of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow -and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in -experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. -All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same -as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we -would do many times, and with joy. -</P> - -<P> -It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by -which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and -certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to -promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane -was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no -doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire -for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex -passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of -boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, -changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from -sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the -passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most -strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we -were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were -experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. -</P> - -<P> -While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the -door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for -dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had -smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. -The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a -faded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and -wondered how it was all going to end. -</P> - -<P> -When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram -lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian -Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl -Vane. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap05"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 5 -</H3> - -<P> -"Mother, Mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face -in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to -the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their -dingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you -must be happy, too!" -</P> - -<P> -Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her -daughter's head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I -see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. -Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." -</P> - -<P> -The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does -money matter? Love is more than money." -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to -get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty -pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." -</P> - -<P> -"He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," -said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. -</P> - -<P> -"I don't know how we could manage without him," answered the elder -woman querulously. -</P> - -<P> -Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don't want him any more, -Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A -rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted -the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion -swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love -him," she said simply. -</P> - -<P> -"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. -The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the -words. -</P> - -<P> -The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her -eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a -moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of -a dream had passed across them. -</P> - -<P> -Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at -prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name -of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of -passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on -memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it -had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her -eyelids were warm with his breath. -</P> - -<P> -Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This -young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. -Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The -arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. -"Mother, Mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? I know why -I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. -But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet--why, I -cannot tell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel humble. I -feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love -Prince Charming?" -</P> - -<P> -The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her -cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed -to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, -Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only -pains you because you loved him so much. Don't look so sad. I am as -happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for -ever!" -</P> - -<P> -"My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, -what do you know of this young man? You don't even know his name. The -whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away -to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you -should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he -is rich ..." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" -</P> - -<P> -Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical -gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a -stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened -and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was -thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat -clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One -would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between -them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She -mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure -that the tableau was interesting. -</P> - -<P> -"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the -lad with a good-natured grumble. -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a -dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. -</P> - -<P> -James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "I want you -to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall ever -see this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to." -</P> - -<P> -"My son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up -a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She -felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would -have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. -</P> - -<P> -"Why not, Mother? I mean it." -</P> - -<P> -"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a -position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in -the Colonies--nothing that I would call society--so when you have made -your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." -</P> - -<P> -"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don't want to know anything about -that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the -stage. I hate it." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you -really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you -were going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, who -gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for -smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last -afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." -</P> - -<P> -"I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the -park." -</P> - -<P> -"Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. -</P> - -<P> -He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don't be -too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her -singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. -</P> - -<P> -He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to -the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. -</P> - -<P> -"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For -some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this -rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when -their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The -silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. -She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as -they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be -contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must -remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a -solicitor's office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in -the country often dine with the best families." -</P> - -<P> -"I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite -right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. -Don't let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her." -</P> - -<P> -"James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl." -</P> - -<P> -"I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to -talk to her. Is that right? What about that?" -</P> - -<P> -"You are speaking about things you don't understand, James. In the -profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying -attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That -was when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at -present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no -doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is -always most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being -rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't know his name, though," said the lad harshly. -</P> - -<P> -"No," answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. "He -has not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of -him. He is probably a member of the aristocracy." -</P> - -<P> -James Vane bit his lip. "Watch over Sibyl, Mother," he cried, "watch -over her." -</P> - -<P> -"My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special -care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why -she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the -aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be -a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming -couple. His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices -them." -</P> - -<P> -The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane -with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something -when the door opened and Sibyl ran in. -</P> - -<P> -"How serious you both are!" she cried. "What is the matter?" -</P> - -<P> -"Nothing," he answered. "I suppose one must be serious sometimes. -Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o'clock. Everything is -packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble." -</P> - -<P> -"Good-bye, my son," she answered with a bow of strained stateliness. -</P> - -<P> -She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and -there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. -</P> - -<P> -"Kiss me, Mother," said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the -withered cheek and warmed its frost. -</P> - -<P> -"My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in -search of an imaginary gallery. -</P> - -<P> -"Come, Sibyl," said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother's -affectations. -</P> - -<P> -They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled -down the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the -sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the -company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common -gardener walking with a rose. -</P> - -<P> -Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of -some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on -geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, -however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her -love was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince -Charming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not -talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to -sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful -heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted -bushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or -whatever he was going to be. Oh, no! A sailor's existence was -dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, -hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts -down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! He was to -leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain, -and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was to -come across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had -ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon -guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers were to attack them -three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. Or, no. He was -not to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid places, where -men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad -language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was -riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a -robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. Of course, -she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get -married, and come home, and live in an immense house in London. Yes, -there were delightful things in store for him. But he must be very -good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. She was -only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. He -must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his -prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very good, and -would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a few years -he would come back quite rich and happy. -</P> - -<P> -The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick -at leaving home. -</P> - -<P> -Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. -Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger -of Sibyl's position. This young dandy who was making love to her could -mean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated -him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, -and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was -conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature, -and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness. -Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge -them; sometimes they forgive them. -</P> - -<P> -His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that -he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he -had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears -one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of -horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a -hunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like -furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip. -</P> - -<P> -"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl, "and I -am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something." -</P> - -<P> -"What do you want me to say?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us," she answered, -smiling at him. -</P> - -<P> -He shrugged his shoulders. "You are more likely to forget me than I am -to forget you, Sibyl." -</P> - -<P> -She flushed. "What do you mean, Jim?" she asked. -</P> - -<P> -"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me -about him? He means you no good." -</P> - -<P> -"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against him. I -love him." -</P> - -<P> -"Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "Who is he? I -have a right to know." -</P> - -<P> -"He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name. Oh! you silly -boy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think -him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet -him--when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much. -Everybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the -theatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. -Oh! how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! -To have him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may -frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to -surpass one's self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting 'genius' -to his loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he -will announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his -only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am -poor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in -at the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want -rewriting. They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time -for me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies." -</P> - -<P> -"He is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly. -</P> - -<P> -"A prince!" she cried musically. "What more do you want?" -</P> - -<P> -"He wants to enslave you." -</P> - -<P> -"I shudder at the thought of being free." -</P> - -<P> -"I want you to beware of him." -</P> - -<P> -"To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him." -</P> - -<P> -"Sibyl, you are mad about him." -</P> - -<P> -She laughed and took his arm. "You dear old Jim, you talk as if you -were a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will -know what it is. Don't look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to -think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have -ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and -difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new -world, and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and -see the smart people go by." -</P> - -<P> -They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds -across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white -dust—tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air. -The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous -butterflies. -</P> - -<P> -She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He -spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as -players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not -communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all -the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly -she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open -carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past. -</P> - -<P> -She started to her feet. "There he is!" she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"Who?" said Jim Vane. -</P> - -<P> -"Prince Charming," she answered, looking after the victoria. -</P> - -<P> -He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. "Show him to me. -Which is he? Point him out. I must see him!" he exclaimed; but at -that moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when -it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. -</P> - -<P> -"He is gone," murmured Sibyl sadly. "I wish you had seen him." -</P> - -<P> -"I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does -you any wrong, I shall kill him." -</P> - -<P> -She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air -like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close -to her tittered. -</P> - -<P> -"Come away, Jim; come away," she whispered. He followed her doggedly -as she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said. -</P> - -<P> -When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was -pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head -at him. "You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, -that is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don't know -what you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I -wish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said -was wicked." -</P> - -<P> -"I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother is no -help to you. She doesn't understand how to look after you. I wish now -that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck -the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn't been signed." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, don't be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those -silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not -going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is -perfect happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm any -one I love, would you?" -</P> - -<P> -"Not as long as you love him, I suppose," was the sullen answer. -</P> - -<P> -"I shall love him for ever!" she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"And he?" -</P> - -<P> -"For ever, too!" -</P> - -<P> -"He had better." -</P> - -<P> -She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He -was merely a boy. -</P> - -<P> -At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to -their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock, and -Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim -insisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with -her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a -scene, and he detested scenes of every kind. -</P> - -<P> -In Sybil's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad's -heart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed -to him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his -neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed -her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went -downstairs. -</P> - -<P> -His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his -unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his -meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the -stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of -street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that -was left to him. -</P> - -<P> -After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his -hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told -to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother -watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered -lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, -he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. -Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged -him. -</P> - -<P> -"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered -vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I -have a right to know. Were you married to my father?" -</P> - -<P> -She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, -the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, -had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure -it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question -called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led -up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. -</P> - -<P> -"No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. -</P> - -<P> -"My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. -</P> - -<P> -She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very -much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don't -speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. -Indeed, he was highly connected." -</P> - -<P> -An oath broke from his lips. "I don't care for myself," he exclaimed, -"but don't let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love -with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." -</P> - -<P> -For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her -head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a -mother," she murmured; "I had none." -</P> - -<P> -The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed -her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father," he -said, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don't forget -that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me -that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him -down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." -</P> - -<P> -The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that -accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid -to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more -freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her -son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same -emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down -and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. -There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in -vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that -she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son -drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been -wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt -her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She -remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said -nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that -they would all laugh at it some day. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap06"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 6 -</H3> - -<P> -"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that -evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol -where dinner had been laid for three. -</P> - -<P> -"No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing -waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don't -interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons -worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little -whitewashing." -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him -as he spoke. -</P> - -<P> -Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he -cried. "Impossible!" -</P> - -<P> -"It is perfectly true." -</P> - -<P> -"To whom?" -</P> - -<P> -"To some little actress or other." -</P> - -<P> -"I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear -Basil." -</P> - -<P> -"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn't say -he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great -difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have -no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I -never was engaged." -</P> - -<P> -"But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would be -absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." -</P> - -<P> -"If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is -sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it -is always from the noblest motives." -</P> - -<P> -"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied to -some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his -intellect." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, -sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is -beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your -portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal -appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst -others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his -appointment." -</P> - -<P> -"Are you serious?" -</P> - -<P> -"Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should -ever be more serious than I am at the present moment." -</P> - -<P> -"But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and -down the room and biting his lip. "You can't approve of it, possibly. -It is some silly infatuation." -</P> - -<P> -"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd -attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air -our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people -say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a -personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality -selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with -a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? -If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You -know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is -that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. -They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that -marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it -many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They -become more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should -fancy, the object of man's existence. Besides, every experience is of -value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an -experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, -passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become -fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don't. -If Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than -yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of others -is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is -sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our -neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a -benefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, -and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare -our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest -contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but -one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have -merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, -but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. -I will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being -fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I -can." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the -lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and -shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been so -happy. Of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are. And -yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my -life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked -extraordinarily handsome. -</P> - -<P> -"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I -don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. -You let Harry know." -</P> - -<P> -"And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord -Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke. -"Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, and then -you will tell us how it all came about." -</P> - -<P> -"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian as they took their -seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this. After -I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that -little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and -went down at eight o'clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. -Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! -You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy's clothes, she -was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with -cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little -green cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak -lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She -had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in -your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves -round a pale rose. As for her acting--well, you shall see her -to-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box -absolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and in the -nineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man -had ever seen. After the performance was over, I went behind and spoke -to her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes -a look that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. -We kissed each other. I can't describe to you what I felt at that -moment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one -perfect point of rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook -like a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed -my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help -it. Of course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told -her own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley -is sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a -year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven't -I, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's -plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their -secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and -kissed Juliet on the mouth." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward slowly. -</P> - -<P> -"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden; I -shall find her in an orchard in Verona." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what -particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what -did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did -not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she -said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole -world is nothing to me compared with her." -</P> - -<P> -"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry, "much more -practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to -say anything about marriage, and they always remind us." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed -Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon -any one. His nature is too fine for that." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me," -he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for -the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any -question--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the -women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, -of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not -modern." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, -Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When -you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her -would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any -one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want -to place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the -woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at -it for that. Ah! don't mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to -take. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I -am with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different -from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of -Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, -poisonous, delightful theories." -</P> - -<P> -"And those are ...?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories -about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he answered -in his slow melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory -as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature's -test, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but -when we are good, we are not always happy." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord -Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the -centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"To be good is to be in harmony with one's self," he replied, touching -the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. -"Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's own -life--that is the important thing. As for the lives of one's -neighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt -one's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern. Besides, -individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in -accepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man of -culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest -immorality." -</P> - -<P> -"But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays a -terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that -the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but -self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege -of the rich." -</P> - -<P> -"One has to pay in other ways but money." -</P> - -<P> -"What sort of ways, Basil?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the -consciousness of degradation." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediaeval art is -charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them in -fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in -fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, -no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever -knows what a pleasure is." -</P> - -<P> -"I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some -one." -</P> - -<P> -"That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying with -some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as -humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us -to do something for them." -</P> - -<P> -"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to -us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They -have a right to demand it back." -</P> - -<P> -"That is quite true, Dorian," cried Hallward. -</P> - -<P> -"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"This is," interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women give -to men the very gold of their lives." -</P> - -<P> -"Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such very -small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once -put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always -prevent us from carrying them out." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, you are dreadful! I don't know why I like you so much." -</P> - -<P> -"You will always like me, Dorian," he replied. "Will you have some -coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and -some cigarettes. No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some. Basil, I -can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A -cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, -and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, -you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you -have never had the courage to commit." -</P> - -<P> -"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from a -fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. -"Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will -have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you -have never known." -</P> - -<P> -"I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his -eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, -that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your -wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real -than life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, -Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow -us in a hansom." -</P> - -<P> -They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The -painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He -could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better -than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, -they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been -arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in -front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that -Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the -past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the -crowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew -up at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap07"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 7 -</H3> - -<P> -For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat -Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with -an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of -pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top -of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if -he had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord -Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he -did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he -was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone -bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces -in the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight -flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths -in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them -over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and shared -their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women -were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and -discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. -</P> - -<P> -"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is -divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget -everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and -brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They -sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to -do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, -and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self." -</P> - -<P> -"The same flesh and blood as one's self! Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed -Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his -opera-glass. -</P> - -<P> -"Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian," said the painter. "I -understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love -must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must -be fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age--that is something worth -doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without -one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have -been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and -lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of -all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This -marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it -now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have -been incomplete." -</P> - -<P> -"Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew that -you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But -here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for -about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl -to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything -that is good in me." -</P> - -<P> -A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of -applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly -lovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, -that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy -grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a -mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded -enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed -to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. -Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. -Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!" -</P> - -<P> -The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim's -dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such -as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through -the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a -creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a -plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of -a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. -</P> - -<P> -Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her -eyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak-- -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,<BR> - Which mannerly devotion shows in this;<BR> -For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,<BR> - And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss--<BR> -</P> - -<P> -with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly -artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view -of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away -all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. -Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to -them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. -</P> - -<P> -Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of -the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was -nothing in her. -</P> - -<P> -She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not -be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew -worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She -overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage-- -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,<BR> -Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek<BR> -For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--<BR> -</P> - -<P> -was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been -taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she -leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines-- -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> - Although I joy in thee,<BR> -I have no joy of this contract to-night:<BR> -It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;<BR> -Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be<BR> -Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night!<BR> -This bud of love by summer's ripening breath<BR> -May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--<BR> -</P> - -<P> -she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was -not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely -self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. -</P> - -<P> -Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their -interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and -to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the -dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was -the girl herself. -</P> - -<P> -When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord -Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite -beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can't act. Let us go." -</P> - -<P> -"I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard -bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an -evening, Harry. I apologize to you both." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted -Hallward. "We will come some other night." -</P> - -<P> -"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply -callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a -great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre -actress." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more -wonderful thing than art." -</P> - -<P> -"They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But -do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not -good for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose you -will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet -like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little -about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful -experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really -fascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know -absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic! -The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is -unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke -cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. -What more can you want?" -</P> - -<P> -"Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must -go. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came -to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he -leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. -</P> - -<P> -"Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his -voice, and the two young men passed out together. -</P> - -<P> -A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose -on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, -and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed -interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots -and laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was played -to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some -groans. -</P> - -<P> -As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the -greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph -on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a -radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of -their own. -</P> - -<P> -When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy -came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It -was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no -idea what I suffered." -</P> - -<P> -The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with -long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to -the red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. But -you understand now, don't you?" -</P> - -<P> -"Understand what?" he asked, angrily. -</P> - -<P> -"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall -never act well again." -</P> - -<P> -He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill -you shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were -bored. I was bored." -</P> - -<P> -She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An -ecstasy of happiness dominated her. -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one -reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I -thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the -other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia -were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted -with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. -I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my -beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what -reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw -through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in -which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became -conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the -moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and -that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not -what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something -of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what -love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! -I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever -be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on -to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone -from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I -could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. -The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. -What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian--take -me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I -might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that -burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it -signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to -play at being in love. You have made me see that." -</P> - -<P> -He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have -killed my love," he muttered. -</P> - -<P> -She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came -across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt -down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a -shudder ran through him. -</P> - -<P> -Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have -killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even -stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because -you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you -realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the -shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and -stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! -You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never -think of you. I will never mention your name. You don't know what you -were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it! I -wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of -my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! -Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, -splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you -would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with -a pretty face." -</P> - -<P> -The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, -and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, -Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." -</P> - -<P> -"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered -bitterly. -</P> - -<P> -She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her -face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and -looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried. -</P> - -<P> -A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay -there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" she -whispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of you -all the time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly -across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if -you had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, -my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Oh! don't go -away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn't mean it. He -was in jest.... But you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? I will -work so hard and try to improve. Don't be cruel to me, because I love -you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that -I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should -have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I -couldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." A fit of -passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a -wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at -her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is -always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has -ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. -Her tears and sobs annoyed him. -</P> - -<P> -"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don't wish -to be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me." -</P> - -<P> -She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little -hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He -turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of -the theatre. -</P> - -<P> -Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly -lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking -houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after -him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves -like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon -door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. -</P> - -<P> -As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. -The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed -itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies -rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with -the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an -anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men -unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some -cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money -for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at -midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long -line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red -roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, -jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, -sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, -waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging -doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped -and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. -Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked -and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. -</P> - -<P> -After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few -moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent -square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. -The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like -silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke -was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. -</P> - -<P> -In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, that -hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, -lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals -of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, -having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library -towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the -ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had -decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries -that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As -he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait -Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. -Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he -had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. -Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In -the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk -blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The -expression looked different. One would have said that there was a -touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange. -</P> - -<P> -He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The -bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky -corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he -had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be -more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the -lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking -into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. -</P> - -<P> -He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory -Cupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly -into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What -did it mean? -</P> - -<P> -He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it -again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the -actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression -had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was -horribly apparent. -</P> - -<P> -He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there -flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the -day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. -He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the -portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the -face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that -the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and -thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness -of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been -fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to -think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the -touch of cruelty in the mouth. -</P> - -<P> -Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had -dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he -had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been -shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over -him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little -child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why -had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? -But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the -play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of -torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a -moment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better -suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They -only thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely -to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told -him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble -about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now. -</P> - -<P> -But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of -his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own -beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look -at it again? -</P> - -<P> -No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The -horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. -Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that -makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so. -</P> - -<P> -Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel -smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes -met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the -painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and -would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white -roses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck -and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or -unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would -resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at -any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil -Hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for -impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, -marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She -must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish -and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him -would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would -be beautiful and pure. -</P> - -<P> -He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the -portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured -to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he -stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning -air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of -Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her -name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the -dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap08"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 8 -</H3> - -<P> -It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times -on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered -what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, -and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on -a small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin -curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the -three tall windows. -</P> - -<P> -"Monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling. -</P> - -<P> -"What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily. -</P> - -<P> -"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur." -</P> - -<P> -How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over -his letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by -hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. -The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection -of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes -of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable -young men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy -bill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet -had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely -old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when -unnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several -very courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders -offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the -most reasonable rates of interest. -</P> - -<P> -After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate -dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the -onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long -sleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A -dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once -or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. -</P> - -<P> -As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a -light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round -table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air -seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the -blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before -him. He felt perfectly happy. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the -portrait, and he started. -</P> - -<P> -"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the -table. "I shut the window?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold," he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been -simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where -there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? -The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. -It would make him smile. -</P> - -<P> -And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in -the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of -cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the -room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the -portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes -had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to -tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him -back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for -a moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor," he said with a sigh. -The man bowed and retired. -</P> - -<P> -Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on -a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen -was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a -rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, -wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. -</P> - -<P> -Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What -was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it -was not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or -deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible -change? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at -his own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to -be examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful -state of doubt. -</P> - -<P> -He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he -looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and -saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had -altered. -</P> - -<P> -As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he -found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost -scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was -incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle -affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form -and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be -that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they -made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He -shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, -gazing at the picture in sickened horror. -</P> - -<P> -One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him -conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not -too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. -His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would -be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil -Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would -be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the -fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that -could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of -the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men -brought upon their souls. -</P> - -<P> -Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double -chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the -scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his -way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was -wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he -went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had -loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He -covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of -pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we -feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, -not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the -letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's -voice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I -can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." -</P> - -<P> -He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking -still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry -in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel -with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was -inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, -and unlocked the door. -</P> - -<P> -"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. -"But you must not think too much about it." -</P> - -<P> -"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly -pulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point of -view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see -her, after the play was over?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes." -</P> - -<P> -"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?" -</P> - -<P> -"I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am -not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know -myself better." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I -would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of -yours." -</P> - -<P> -"I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and -smiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to -begin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest -thing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before -me. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being -hideous." -</P> - -<P> -"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you -on it. But how are you going to begin?" -</P> - -<P> -"By marrying Sibyl Vane." -</P> - -<P> -"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him -in perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful -about marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind to -me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to -break my word to her. She is to be my wife." -</P> - -<P> -"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this -morning, and sent the note down by my own man." -</P> - -<P> -"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I -was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. You -cut life to pieces with your epigrams." -</P> - -<P> -"You know nothing then?" -</P> - -<P> -"What do you mean?" -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, -took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian," he -said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane -is dead." -</P> - -<P> -A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, -tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead! -It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?" -</P> - -<P> -"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in all -the morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one -till I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must -not be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in -Paris. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never -make one's debut with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an -interest to one's old age. I suppose they don't know your name at the -theatre? If they don't, it is all right. Did any one see you going -round to her room? That is an important point." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. -Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say an -inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, Harry, I can't -bear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once." -</P> - -<P> -"I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put -in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the -theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had -forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she -did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the -floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, -some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was, -but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it -was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed -up in it. I see by The Standard that she was seventeen. I should have -thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and -seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let this -thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and -afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and -everybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She has got -some smart women with her." -</P> - -<P> -"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself, -"murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. -Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as -happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go -on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How -extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, -Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has -happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. -Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my -life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been -addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent -people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? -Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She -was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it really -only last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. -She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not -moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that -made me afraid. I can't tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I -said I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is -dead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know the -danger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would -have done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was -selfish of her." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case -and producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can ever -reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible -interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been -wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can -always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would -have soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And -when a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomes -dreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman's -husband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which -would have been abject--which, of course, I would not have allowed--but -I assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been an -absolute failure." -</P> - -<P> -"I suppose it would," muttered the lad, walking up and down the room -and looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is not -my fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was -right. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good -resolutions--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were." -</P> - -<P> -"Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific -laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. -They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions -that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said -for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they -have no account." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, -"why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I -don't think I am heartless. Do you?" -</P> - -<P> -"You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be -entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian," answered Lord Henry with -his sweet melancholy smile. -</P> - -<P> -The lad frowned. "I don't like that explanation, Harry," he rejoined, -"but I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I am nothing of the -kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has -happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply -like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible -beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but -by which I have not been wounded." -</P> - -<P> -"It is an interesting question," said Lord Henry, who found an -exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, "an -extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is -this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such -an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their -absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack -of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us -an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. -Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of -beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the -whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly -we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the -play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder -of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that -has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I -wish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me in -love with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adored -me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have -always insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, -or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when I -meet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory of -woman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectual -stagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life, but one -should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar." -</P> - -<P> -"I must sow poppies in my garden," sighed Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"There is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "Life has always -poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once -wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic -mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did -die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to -sacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. -It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believe -it?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinner -next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole -thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had -buried my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and -assured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she -ate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack -of taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. -But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a -sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, -they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every -comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in -a farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of -art. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not -one of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane -did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them -do it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who -wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who -is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. -Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good -qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in -one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion -consoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a -woman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing -makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes -egotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolations -that women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most -important one." -</P> - -<P> -"What is that, Harry?" said the lad listlessly. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirer when one -loses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But -really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the -women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her -death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. -They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, -such as romance, passion, and love." -</P> - -<P> -"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that." -</P> - -<P> -"I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more -than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We -have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their -masters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were -splendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can -fancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to -me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely -fanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key -to everything." -</P> - -<P> -"What was that, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of -romance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that -if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen." -</P> - -<P> -"She will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his -face in his hands. -</P> - -<P> -"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But -you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply -as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful -scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really -lived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she was -always a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and -left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare's -music sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched -actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. -Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because -Cordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of -Brabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was -less real than they are." -</P> - -<P> -There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, -and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The -colours faded wearily out of things. -</P> - -<P> -After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me to -myself, Harry," he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. "I -felt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I -could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not -talk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. -That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as -marvellous." -</P> - -<P> -"Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that -you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." -</P> - -<P> -"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What -then?" -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go, "then, my dear Dorian, you -would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to -you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads -too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We -cannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the -club. We are rather late, as it is." -</P> - -<P> -"I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat -anything. What is the number of your sister's box?" -</P> - -<P> -"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her -name on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't feel up to it," said Dorian listlessly. "But I am awfully -obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my -best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have." -</P> - -<P> -"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered Lord -Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you before -nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing." -</P> - -<P> -As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in -a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. -He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an -interminable time over everything. -</P> - -<P> -As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No; -there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news -of Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was -conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty -that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the -very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or -was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what -passed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would -see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he -hoped it. -</P> - -<P> -Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked -death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her -with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed -him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would -always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the -sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of -what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the -theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic -figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of -love. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he -remembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy -tremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and looked again at the -picture. -</P> - -<P> -He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had -his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for -him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, -infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder -sins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the -burden of his shame: that was all. -</P> - -<P> -A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that -was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery -of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips -that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat -before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as -it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to -which he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to -be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that -had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? -The pity of it! the pity of it! -</P> - -<P> -For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that -existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in -answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain -unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would -surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that -chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? -Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer -that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious -scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence -upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon -dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, -might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods -and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity? -But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a -prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to -alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it? -</P> - -<P> -For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to -follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him -the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, -so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, -he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of -summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid -mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. -Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of -his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be -strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the -coloured image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. -</P> - -<P> -He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, -smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was -already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord -Henry was leaning over his chair. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap09"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 9 -</H3> - -<P> -As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown -into the room. -</P> - -<P> -"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said gravely. "I called -last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew -that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really -gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy -might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for -me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late -edition of The Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at once -and was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how -heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. -But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a -moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the -paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of -intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a -state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about -it all?" -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some -pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass -and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the opera. You should have -come on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first -time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang -divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk about -a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry -says, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not the -woman's only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But -he is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell -me about yourself and what you are painting." -</P> - -<P> -"You went to the opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a -strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the opera while -Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me -of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before -the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, -man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!" -</P> - -<P> -"Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. -"You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is -past is past." -</P> - -<P> -"You call yesterday the past?" -</P> - -<P> -"What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only -shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who -is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a -pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to -use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them." -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You -look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come -down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, -natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature -in the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You -talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's -influence. I see that." -</P> - -<P> -The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few -moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great -deal to Harry, Basil," he said at last, "more than I owe to you. You -only taught me to be vain." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't know what you mean, Basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "I -don't know what you want. What do you want?" -</P> - -<P> -"I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint," said the artist sadly. -</P> - -<P> -"Basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his -shoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl -Vane had killed herself--" -</P> - -<P> -"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried -Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? Of -course she killed herself." -</P> - -<P> -The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he -muttered, and a shudder ran through him. -</P> - -<P> -"No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is one -of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act -lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful -wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtue -and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her -finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she -played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known -the reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet -might have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There is -something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic -uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, -you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday -at a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to -six--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who -brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I -suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. -No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. -You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find -me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You -remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who -spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance -redressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget exactly what it was. -Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He -had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a -confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really -want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to -see it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who -used to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a -little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that -delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of -when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say -that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I -love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, -green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, -luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic -temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to -me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to -escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking -to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was a -schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new -thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. I -am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am very -fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are not -stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And how -happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrel -with me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said." -</P> - -<P> -The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, -and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He -could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his -indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There -was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. -</P> - -<P> -"Well, Dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak to -you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your -name won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take -place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at -the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and -vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my name," he -answered. -</P> - -<P> -"But surely she did?" -</P> - -<P> -"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned -to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to -learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince -Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, -Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of -a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." -</P> - -<P> -"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you -must come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you." -</P> - -<P> -"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, -starting back. -</P> - -<P> -The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. -"Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it? -Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It -is the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. -It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I -felt the room looked different as I came in." -</P> - -<P> -"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don't imagine I let -him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me -sometimes--that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong -on the portrait." -</P> - -<P> -"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for -it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the -room. -</P> - -<P> -A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between -the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale, "you -must not look at it. I don't wish you to." -</P> - -<P> -"Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn't I look -at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. -</P> - -<P> -"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never -speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don't -offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, -if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute -amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was -actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of -his eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian!" -</P> - -<P> -"Don't speak!" -</P> - -<P> -"But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it if you don't -want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over -towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I -shouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in -Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of -varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?" -</P> - -<P> -"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a -strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be -shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? -That was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done -at once. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going -to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de -Seze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will -only be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for -that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep -it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of -perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible -danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he -cried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for -being consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only -difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have -forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world -would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly -the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into -his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half -seriously and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange quarter of -an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. He -told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." Yes, perhaps -Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. -</P> - -<P> -"Basil," he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in -the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall -tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my -picture?" -</P> - -<P> -The painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, you -might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I -could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me -never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you -to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden -from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than -any fame or reputation." -</P> - -<P> -"No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have a -right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity -had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's -mystery. -</P> - -<P> -"Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "Let us -sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the -picture something curious?--something that probably at first did not -strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" -</P> - -<P> -"Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling -hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes. -</P> - -<P> -"I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. -Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most -extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and -power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen -ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I -worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I -wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with -you. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... -Of course, I never let you know anything about this. It would have -been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly -understood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to -face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too -wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril -of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and -weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a -new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as -Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with -heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing -across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of -some Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of -your own face. And it had all been what art should be--unconscious, -ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I -determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, -not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own -time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of -your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or -veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake -and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid -that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told -too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that -I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a -little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. -Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind -that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt -that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, -and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its -presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I -had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking -and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a -mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really -shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we -fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. It -often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than -it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I -determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. -It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were -right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, -Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are -made to be worshipped." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, -and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe -for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the -painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered -if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a -friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that -was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. -Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange -idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? -</P> - -<P> -"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should -have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" -</P> - -<P> -"I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very -curious." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not -possibly let you stand in front of that picture." -</P> - -<P> -"You will some day, surely?" -</P> - -<P> -"Never." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been -the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I -have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don't know what it cost -me to tell you all that I have told you." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you -felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." -</P> - -<P> -"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I -have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one -should never put one's worship into words." -</P> - -<P> -"It was a very disappointing confession." -</P> - -<P> -"Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in the -picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?" -</P> - -<P> -"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn't -talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and -we must always remain so." -</P> - -<P> -"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends -his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is -improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I -don't think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner -go to you, Basil." -</P> - -<P> -"You will sit to me again?" -</P> - -<P> -"Impossible!" -</P> - -<P> -"You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes -across two ideal things. Few come across one." -</P> - -<P> -"I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. -There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. -I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." -</P> - -<P> -"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And -now good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once -again. But that can't be helped. I quite understand what you feel -about it." -</P> - -<P> -As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How -little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, -instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had -succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How -much that strange confession explained to him! The painter's absurd -fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his -curious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. -There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured -by romance. -</P> - -<P> -He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at -all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had -been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, -in a room to which any of his friends had access. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap10"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 10 -</H3> - -<P> -When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if -he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite -impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked -over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of -Victor's face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. -There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be -on his guard. -</P> - -<P> -Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he -wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to -send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man -left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was -that merely his own fancy? -</P> - -<P> -After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread -mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He -asked her for the key of the schoolroom. -</P> - -<P> -"The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of -dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. -It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it -hasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died." -</P> - -<P> -He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories -of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see -the place--that is all. Give me the key." -</P> - -<P> -"And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents -of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'll -have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living up -there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" -</P> - -<P> -"No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do." -</P> - -<P> -She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of -the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought -best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. -</P> - -<P> -As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round -the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily -embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century -Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. -Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps -served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that -had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death -itself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. -What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image -on the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They -would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still -live on. It would be always alive. -</P> - -<P> -He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil -the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil -would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still -more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love -that he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was -not noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration -of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses -tire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and -Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. -But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. -Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was -inevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terrible -outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. -</P> - -<P> -He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that -covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. -Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it -was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, -blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply the -expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. -Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil's -reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little -account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and -calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung -the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the -door. He passed out as his servant entered. -</P> - -<P> -"The persons are here, Monsieur." -</P> - -<P> -He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be -allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was -something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. -Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, -asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that -they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. -</P> - -<P> -"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in -here." -</P> - -<P> -In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard -himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in -with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a -florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was -considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the -artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He -waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in -favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed -everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him. -</P> - -<P> -"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled -hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in -person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a -sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably -suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray." -</P> - -<P> -"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. -Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though I -don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want a -picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so -I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." -</P> - -<P> -"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to -you. Which is the work of art, sir?" -</P> - -<P> -"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, -covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched -going upstairs." -</P> - -<P> -"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, -beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from -the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where -shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. -Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the -top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is -wider." -</P> - -<P> -He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and -began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the -picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious -protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike -of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it -so as to help them. -</P> - -<P> -"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they -reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. -</P> - -<P> -"I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian as he unlocked the -door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious -secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. -</P> - -<P> -He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, -since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then -as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, -well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord -Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness -to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and -desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but -little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with its -fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which -he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case -filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was -hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen -were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, -carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he -remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back to -him as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish -life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait -was to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, -of all that was in store for him! -</P> - -<P> -But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as -this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its -purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, -and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself -would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his -soul? He kept his youth--that was enough. And, besides, might not -his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the future -should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, and -purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already -stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose -very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some -day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive -mouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece. -</P> - -<P> -No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing -upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of -sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would -become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round the -fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its -brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, -as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the -cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the -grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture -had to be concealed. There was no help for it. -</P> - -<P> -"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. -"I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else." -</P> - -<P> -"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, who -was still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. -Just lean it against the wall. Thanks." -</P> - -<P> -"Might one look at the work of art, sir?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard," he said, -keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling -him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that -concealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. -I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." -</P> - -<P> -"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, -sir." And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, -who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough -uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. -</P> - -<P> -When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door -and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever -look upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. -</P> - -<P> -On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock -and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of -dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady -Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had -spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, -and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn -and the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. James's -Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had -returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were -leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. -He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, -while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set -back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he -might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the -room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He had -heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some -servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked -up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower -or a shred of crumpled lace. -</P> - -<P> -He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry's -note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, -and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at -eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's languidly, and looked through -it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew -attention to the following paragraph: -</P> - -<BR> - -<P> -INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell -Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of -Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, -Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. -Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who -was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of -Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. -</P> - -<BR> - -<P> -He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and -flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real -ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for -having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have -marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew -more than enough English for that. -</P> - -<P> -Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, -what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane's -death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. -</P> - -<P> -His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was -it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal -stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange -Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung -himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a -few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had -ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the -delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb -show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly -made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually -revealed. -</P> - -<P> -It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, -indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who -spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the -passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his -own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through -which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere -artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, -as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The -style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid -and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical -expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work -of some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. -There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in -colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical -philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the -spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions -of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of -incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The -mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so -full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, -produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, -a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of -the falling day and creeping shadows. -</P> - -<P> -Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed -through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no -more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the -lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed -the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his -bedside and began to dress for dinner. -</P> - -<P> -It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found -Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. -</P> - -<P> -"I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your -fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the -time was going." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his -chair. -</P> - -<P> -"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a -great difference." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed -into the dining-room. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap11"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 11 -</H3> - -<P> -For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of -this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never -sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than -nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in -different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the -changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have -almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian -in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely -blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, -indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own -life, written before he had lived it. -</P> - -<P> -In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. He -never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat -grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still -water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was -occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, -been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in -nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its -place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its -really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and -despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he -had most dearly valued. -</P> - -<P> -For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and -many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had -heard the most evil things against him--and from time to time strange -rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the -chatter of the clubs--could not believe anything to his dishonour when -they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself -unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when -Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his -face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the -memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one -so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an -age that was at once sordid and sensual. -</P> - -<P> -Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged -absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were -his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep -upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left -him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil -Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on -the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him -from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to -quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his -own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. -He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and -terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead -or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which -were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would -place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, -and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. -</P> - -<P> -There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own -delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little -ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in -disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he -had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant -because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. -That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as -they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase -with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He -had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. -</P> - -<P> -Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to -society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each -Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the -world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the -day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little -dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were -noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, -as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with -its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered -cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, -especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, -in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often -dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of -the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and -perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of -the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to "make -themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." Like Gautier, he was one -for whom "the visible world existed." -</P> - -<P> -And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the -arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. -Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment -universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert -the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for -him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to -time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of -the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in -everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of -his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. -</P> - -<P> -For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost -immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a -subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the -London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the -Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be -something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the -wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a -cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have -its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the -spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. -</P> - -<P> -The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been -decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and -sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are -conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. -But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had -never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal -merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or -to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a -new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the -dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through -history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been -surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful -rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose -origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more -terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, -they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out -the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to -the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. -</P> - -<P> -Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism -that was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely -puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was -to have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to -accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any -mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience -itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might -be. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar -profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to -teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is -itself but a moment. -</P> - -<P> -There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either -after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of -death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through -the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality -itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, -and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one -might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled -with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the -curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb -shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, -there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men -going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down -from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it -feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from -her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by -degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we -watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan -mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we -had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been -studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the -letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. -Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night -comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where -we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the -necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of -stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids -might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in -the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh -shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in -which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, -in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of -joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain. -</P> - -<P> -It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray -to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his -search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and -possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he -would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really -alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and -then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his -intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that -is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that, -indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition -of it. -</P> - -<P> -It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman -Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great -attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all -the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb -rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity -of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it -sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble -pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly -and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or -raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid -wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis -caelestis," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the -Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his -breast for his sins. The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their -lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their -subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with -wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of -one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn -grating the true story of their lives. -</P> - -<P> -But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual -development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of -mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable -for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which -there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its -marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle -antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a -season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of -the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in -tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the -brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of -the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, -morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him -before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance -compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all -intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. -He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual -mysteries to reveal. -</P> - -<P> -And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their -manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums -from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not -its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their -true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one -mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets -that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the -brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often -to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several -influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers; -of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that -sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to -be able to expel melancholy from the soul. -</P> - -<P> -At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long -latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of -olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad -gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled -Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while -grinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching -upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of -reed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes and -horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of -barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin's -beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell -unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world -the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of -dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact -with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had -the mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not -allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been -subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the -Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human -bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green -jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular -sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when -they were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which the -performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the -harsh ture of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who -sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a -distance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that has two vibrating -tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an -elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of -the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge -cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the -one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican -temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a -description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated -him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like -Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous -voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his -box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt -pleasure to "Tannhauser" and seeing in the prelude to that great work -of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. -</P> - -<P> -On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a -costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered -with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for -years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often -spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various -stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that -turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, -the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, -carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red -cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their -alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the -sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow -of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of -extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise de la -vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. -</P> - -<P> -He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso's -Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real -jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of -Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes "with -collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." There was a gem in -the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition -of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into -a magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de -Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India -made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth -provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The -garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her -colour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, -that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. -Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a -newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The -bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm -that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the -aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any -danger by fire. -</P> - -<P> -The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, -as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the -Priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake -inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable -were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the -gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's -strange romance 'A Margarite of America', it was stated that in the -chamber of the queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of the -world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of -chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo -had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the -mouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that -the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned -for seven moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the -great pit, he flung it away--Procopius tells the story--nor was it ever -found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight -of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain -Venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god -that he worshipped. -</P> - -<P> -When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of -France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantome, -and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. -Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and -twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousand -marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII, -on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a -jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other -rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." -The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold -filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armour -studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with -turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parseme with pearls. Henry II wore -jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with -twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles -the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with -pear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires. -</P> - -<P> -How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and -decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. -</P> - -<P> -Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that -performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern -nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject--and he always had -an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment -in whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the -ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any -rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow -jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the -story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face -or stained his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material -things! Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured -robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked -by brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium -that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail -of purple on which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a -chariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the -curious table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were -displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; -the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden -bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of -Pontus and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, -rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature"; and -the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which -were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "Madame, je suis tout -joyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold -thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four -pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims -for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with "thirteen -hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the -king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings -were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked -in gold." Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of -black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of -damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver -ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it -stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black -velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatides -fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of -Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with -verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully -chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It -had been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of -Mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. -</P> - -<P> -And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite -specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting -the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and -stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that -from their transparency are known in the East as "woven air," and -"running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java; -elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair -blue silks and wrought with fleurs-de-lis, birds and images; veils of -lacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish -velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas, -with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds. -</P> - -<P> -He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed -he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the -long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had -stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the -raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and -fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by -the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. -He possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, -figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in -six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the -pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided -into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the -coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. -This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of -green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, -from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which -were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse -bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were -woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with -medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. -He had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold -brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with -representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and -embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of -white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins -and fleurs-de-lis; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and -many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to -which such things were put, there was something that quickened his -imagination. -</P> - -<P> -For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely -house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he -could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times -to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely -locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with -his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him -the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the -purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, -would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, -his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. -Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to -dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, -until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the -picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other -times, with that pride of individualism that is half the -fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen -shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. -</P> - -<P> -After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and -gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as -well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more -than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture -that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his -absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the -elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. -</P> - -<P> -He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true -that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness -of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn -from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had -not painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it -looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it? -</P> - -<P> -Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in -Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank -who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton -luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly -leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not -been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it -should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely -the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already -suspected it. -</P> - -<P> -For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. -He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth -and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was -said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the -smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another -gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories -became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It -was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a -low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with -thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His -extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear -again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass -him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though -they were determined to discover his secret. -</P> - -<P> -Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, -and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his -charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth -that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer -to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about -him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most -intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had -wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and -set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or -horror if Dorian Gray entered the room. -</P> - -<P> -Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his -strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of -security. Society--civilized society, at least--is never very ready to -believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and -fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more -importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability -is of much less value than the possession of a good chef. And, after -all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has -given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private -life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrees, as -Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is -possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good -society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is -absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, -as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of -a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful -to us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is -merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. -</P> - -<P> -Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at the -shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing -simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a -being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform -creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and -passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies -of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery -of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose -blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by -Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and -King James, as one who was "caressed by the Court for his handsome -face, which kept him not long company." Was it young Herbert's life -that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body -to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that -ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, -give utterance, in Basil Hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had -so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled -surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, -with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this -man's legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him -some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the -dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the -fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl -stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, -and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On -a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large -green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and -the strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something -of her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to -look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered -hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was -saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with -disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that -were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth -century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the -second Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his -wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. -Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls -and insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had -looked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. -The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the -portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, -also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother -with her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knew -what he had got from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his -passion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose -Bacchante dress. There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple -spilled from the cup she was holding. The carnations of the painting -had withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and -brilliancy of colour. They seemed to follow him wherever he went. -</P> - -<P> -Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, -nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly -with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There -were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history -was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act -and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it -had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known -them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the -stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of -subtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had -been his own. -</P> - -<P> -The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had -himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how, -crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as -Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of -Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the -flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had -caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in -an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had -wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round -with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his -days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible taedium vitae, that comes -on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear -emerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of -pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the -Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero -Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with -colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon -from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun. -</P> - -<P> -Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the -two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious -tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and -beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made -monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and -painted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death -from the dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as -Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of -Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was -bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used -hounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered with -roses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, -with Fratricide riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood -of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, -child and minion of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by his -debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white -and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy -that he might serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose -melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a -passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the -Fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when -gambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery -took the name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of -three lads was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the -lover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome -as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and -gave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a -shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles -VI, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned -him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had -sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen cards -painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his -trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto -Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, -and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow -piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, -and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. -</P> - -<P> -There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, -and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of -strange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted -torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander -and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There -were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he -could realize his conception of the beautiful. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap12"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 12 -</H3> - -<P> -It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth -birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. -</P> - -<P> -He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where he -had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold -and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, -a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of -his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian -recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for -which he could not account, came over him. He made no sign of -recognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house. -</P> - -<P> -But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the -pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was -on his arm. -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for -you in your library ever since nine o'clock. Finally I took pity on -your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am -off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see -you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as -you passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?" -</P> - -<P> -"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize Grosvenor -Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel -at all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not -seen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?" -</P> - -<P> -"No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take -a studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great -picture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to -talk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have -something to say to you." -</P> - -<P> -"I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Gray -languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his -latch-key. -</P> - -<P> -The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his -watch. "I have heaps of time," he answered. "The train doesn't go -till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my -way to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan't -have any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I -have with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty -minutes." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painter -to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will -get into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. -Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the -library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open -hearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case -stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on -a little marqueterie table. -</P> - -<P> -"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me -everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is -a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman -you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley's -maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. -Anglomania is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly -of the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a bad -servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One -often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very -devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another -brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take -hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room." -</P> - -<P> -"Thanks, I won't have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap -and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the -corner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. -Don't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me." -</P> - -<P> -"What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging -himself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tired -of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else." -</P> - -<P> -"It is about yourself," answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "and -I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -"It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own -sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that -the most dreadful things are being said against you in London." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other -people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not got -the charm of novelty." -</P> - -<P> -"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his -good name. You don't want people to talk of you as something vile and -degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all -that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind -you, I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't believe -them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's -face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. -There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows -itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the -moulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won't mention his name, but -you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had -never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the -time, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant -price. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers -that I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied -about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, -bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--I can't -believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you -never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I -hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I -don't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of -Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so -many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to -theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner -last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in -connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the -Dudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most -artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl -should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the -same room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked -him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. -It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There -was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were -his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England -with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian -Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son and -his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James's Street. He -seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of -Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would -associate with him?" -</P> - -<P> -"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing," -said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt -in his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. -It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows -anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could -his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. -Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent's -silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If -Adrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I his -keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air -their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper -about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try -and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with -the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to -have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. -And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead -themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land -of the hypocrite." -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is bad -enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason -why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to -judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to -lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them -with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You -led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as -you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry -are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should -not have made his sister's name a by-word." -</P> - -<P> -"Take care, Basil. You go too far." -</P> - -<P> -"I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met -Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there -a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the -park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then -there are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at -dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest -dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard -them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What -about your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you -don't know what is said about you. I won't tell you that I don't want -to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who -turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by -saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach -to you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect -you. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to -get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don't shrug your -shoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderful -influence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that you -corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite -sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow -after. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? But -it is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. -Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me -a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in -her villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terrible -confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--that I knew you -thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know -you? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I should -have to see your soul." -</P> - -<P> -"To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and -turning almost white from fear. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his -voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that." -</P> - -<P> -A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "You -shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the -table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look at -it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. -Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me -all the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you -will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have -chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to -face." -</P> - -<P> -There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped -his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a -terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, -and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of -all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the -hideous memory of what he had done. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into -his stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing -that you fancy only God can see." -</P> - -<P> -Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You -must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't mean -anything." -</P> - -<P> -"You think so?" He laughed again. -</P> - -<P> -"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your -good. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say." -</P> - -<P> -A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused for -a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what -right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a -tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! -Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and -stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and -their throbbing cores of flame. -</P> - -<P> -"I am waiting, Basil," said the young man in a hard clear voice. -</P> - -<P> -He turned round. "What I have to say is this," he cried. "You must -give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against -you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to -end, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see -what I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, and -corrupt, and shameful." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Come -upstairs, Basil," he said quietly. "I keep a diary of my life from day -to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall -show it to you if you come with me." -</P> - -<P> -"I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my -train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me to -read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question." -</P> - -<P> -"That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You -will not have to read long." -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap13"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 13 -</H3> - -<P> -He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward -following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at -night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A -rising wind made some of the windows rattle. -</P> - -<P> -When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the -floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. "You insist on -knowing, Basil?" he asked in a low voice. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes." -</P> - -<P> -"I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat -harshly, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know -everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you -think"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A -cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in -a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he -whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. -</P> - -<P> -Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked -as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a -curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty -book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and -a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was -standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered -with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling -behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew. -</P> - -<P> -"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that -curtain back, and you will see mine." -</P> - -<P> -The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or -playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning. -</P> - -<P> -"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore -the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground. -</P> - -<P> -An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the -dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was -something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. -Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! -The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that -marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and -some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something -of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet -completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. -Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to -recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The -idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, -and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, -traced in long letters of bright vermilion. -</P> - -<P> -It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never -done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as -if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His -own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and -looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, -and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand -across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. -</P> - -<P> -The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with -that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are -absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither -real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the -spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken -the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. -</P> - -<P> -"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded -shrill and curious in his ears. -</P> - -<P> -"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in -his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my -good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who -explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me -that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even -now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you -would call it a prayer...." -</P> - -<P> -"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is -impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The -paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the -thing is impossible." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the -window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. -</P> - -<P> -"You told me you had destroyed it." -</P> - -<P> -"I was wrong. It has destroyed me." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't believe it is my picture." -</P> - -<P> -"Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. -</P> - -<P> -"My ideal, as you call it..." -</P> - -<P> -"As you called it." -</P> - -<P> -"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such -an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." -</P> - -<P> -"It is the face of my soul." -</P> - -<P> -"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a -devil." -</P> - -<P> -"Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a -wild gesture of despair. -</P> - -<P> -Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it -is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, -why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you -to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The -surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was -from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. -Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were -slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery -grave was not so fearful. -</P> - -<P> -His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and -lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then -he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table -and buried his face in his hands. -</P> - -<P> -"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no -answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, -Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in -one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. -Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of -your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be -answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You -worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed -eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. -</P> - -<P> -"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot -remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be -as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?" -</P> - -<P> -"Those words mean nothing to me now." -</P> - -<P> -"Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My -God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable -feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had -been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his -ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal -stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, -more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced -wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest -that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a -knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, -and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, -passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized -it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going -to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that -is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and -stabbing again and again. -</P> - -<P> -There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking -with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, -waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him -twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on -the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then -he threw the knife on the table, and listened. -</P> - -<P> -He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He -opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely -quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the -balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. -Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in -as he did so. -</P> - -<P> -The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with -bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been -for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was -slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was -simply asleep. -</P> - -<P> -How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking -over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind -had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's -tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the -policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on -the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom -gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl -was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and -then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse -voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She -stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The -gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their -black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the -window behind him. -</P> - -<P> -Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not -even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole -thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the -fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his -life. That was enough. -</P> - -<P> -Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish -workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished -steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed -by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a -moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not -help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the -long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image. -</P> - -<P> -Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The -woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped -several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely -the sound of his own footsteps. -</P> - -<P> -When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. -They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that -was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious -disguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. -Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. -</P> - -<P> -He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--men -were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a -madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the -earth.... And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward -had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most -of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... -Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight -train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would -be months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything -could be destroyed long before then. -</P> - -<P> -A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went -out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of -the policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the -bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath. -</P> - -<P> -After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting -the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In -about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very -drowsy. -</P> - -<P> -"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in; -"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?" -</P> - -<P> -"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and -blinking. -</P> - -<P> -"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine -to-morrow. I have some work to do." -</P> - -<P> -"All right, sir." -</P> - -<P> -"Did any one call this evening?" -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away -to catch his train." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?" -</P> - -<P> -"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not -find you at the club." -</P> - -<P> -"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow." -</P> - -<P> -"No, sir." -</P> - -<P> -The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the -library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, -biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one -of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, -Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap14"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 14 -</H3> - -<P> -At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of -chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite -peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his -cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. -</P> - -<P> -The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as -he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he -had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. -His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. -But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. -</P> - -<P> -He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his -chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The -sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was -almost like a morning in May. -</P> - -<P> -Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, -blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there -with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had -suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for -Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came -back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still -sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! -Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. -</P> - -<P> -He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken -or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory -than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride -more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of -joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the -senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out -of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might -strangle one itself. -</P> - -<P> -When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and -then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual -care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and -scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time -also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet -about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the -servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of -the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several -times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his -face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had once -said. -</P> - -<P> -After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly -with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the -table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the -other he handed to the valet. -</P> - -<P> -"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell -is out of town, get his address." -</P> - -<P> -As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a -piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and -then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew -seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and -getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. -He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until -it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. -</P> - -<P> -When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page -of the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's -Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was -of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted -pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he -turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of -Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavee," with -its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." He glanced at his own -white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and -passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice: -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -Sur une gamme chromatique,<BR> - Le sein de peries ruisselant,<BR> -La Venus de l'Adriatique<BR> - Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc.<BR> -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes<BR> - Suivant la phrase au pur contour,<BR> -S'enflent comme des gorges rondes<BR> - Que souleve un soupir d'amour.<BR> -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -L'esquif aborde et me depose,<BR> - Jetant son amarre au pilier,<BR> -Devant une facade rose,<BR> - Sur le marbre d'un escalier.<BR> -</P> - -<BR> - -<P> -How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating -down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black -gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked -to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as -one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him -of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the -tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through -the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he -kept saying over and over to himself: -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -"Devant une facade rose,<BR> - Sur le marbre d'un escalier."<BR> -</P> - -<P> -The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn -that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to -mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, -like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true -romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had -been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor -Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die! -</P> - -<P> -He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read -of the swallows that fly in and out of the little cafe at Smyrna where -the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants -smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he -read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of -granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, -lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and -white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes -that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those -verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that -curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstre -charmant" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a -time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit -of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of -England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he -might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of -vital importance. -</P> - -<P> -They had been great friends once, five years before--almost -inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. -When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan -Campbell never did. -</P> - -<P> -He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real -appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the -beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His -dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had -spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken -a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was -still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his -own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the -annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for -Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up -prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and -played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In -fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray -together--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to -be able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised often -without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's the -night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always -seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For -eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at -Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian -Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in -life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one -ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when -they met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any -party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--was -strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing -music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was -called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time -left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he -seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once -or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain -curious experiments. -</P> - -<P> -This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept -glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly -agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, -looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. -His hands were curiously cold. -</P> - -<P> -The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with -feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the -jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting -for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands -his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight -and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The -brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made -grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, -danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving -masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, -slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being -dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its -grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made -him stone. -</P> - -<P> -At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes -upon him. -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man. -</P> - -<P> -A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back -to his cheeks. -</P> - -<P> -"Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself -again. His mood of cowardice had passed away. -</P> - -<P> -The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, -looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his -coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. -</P> - -<P> -"Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming." -</P> - -<P> -"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it -was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He -spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the -steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in -the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the -gesture with which he had been greeted. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one -person. Sit down." -</P> - -<P> -Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. -The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew -that what he was going to do was dreadful. -</P> - -<P> -After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very -quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he -had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room -to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. -He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like -that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do -not concern you. What you have to do is this--" -</P> - -<P> -"Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you -have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirely -decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to -yourself. They don't interest me any more." -</P> - -<P> -"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest -you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You -are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into -the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know -about chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. -What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to -destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this -person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is -supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is -missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must -change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes -that I may scatter in the air." -</P> - -<P> -"You are mad, Dorian." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian." -</P> - -<P> -"You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to -help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing -to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to -peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you -are up to?" -</P> - -<P> -"It was suicide, Alan." -</P> - -<P> -"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy." -</P> - -<P> -"Do you still refuse to do this for me?" -</P> - -<P> -"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I -don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not -be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask -me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should -have thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord -Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else -he has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. -You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't -come to me." -</P> - -<P> -"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made -me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or -the marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended -it, the result was the same." -</P> - -<P> -"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not -inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring -in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a -crime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do -with it." -</P> - -<P> -"You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to -me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain -scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the -horrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous -dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a -leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow -through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You -would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing -anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were -benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the -world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. -What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. -Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are -accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence -against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be -discovered unless you help me." -</P> - -<P> -"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply -indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me." -</P> - -<P> -"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you -came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some -day. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from the -scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on -which you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you -too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, -Alan." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead." -</P> - -<P> -"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is -sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! -Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will -hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I -have done." -</P> - -<P> -"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do -anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me." -</P> - -<P> -"You refuse?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes." -</P> - -<P> -"I entreat you, Alan." -</P> - -<P> -"It is useless." -</P> - -<P> -The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched -out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He -read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the -table. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window. -</P> - -<P> -Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and -opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell -back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He -felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. -</P> - -<P> -After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and -came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. -</P> - -<P> -"I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no -alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see -the address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help -me, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are -going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to -spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, -harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat -me--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to -dictate terms." -</P> - -<P> -Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. -The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever. -The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it." -</P> - -<P> -A groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. The -ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing -time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be -borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his -forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already -come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. -It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him. -</P> - -<P> -"Come, Alan, you must decide at once." -</P> - -<P> -"I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter -things. -</P> - -<P> -"You must. You have no choice. Don't delay." -</P> - -<P> -He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." -</P> - -<P> -"I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." -</P> - -<P> -"No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of -notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the -things back to you." -</P> - -<P> -Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope -to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then -he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as -soon as possible and to bring the things with him. -</P> - -<P> -As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up -from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a -kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A -fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was -like the beat of a hammer. -</P> - -<P> -As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian -Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in -the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. -"You are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. -</P> - -<P> -"Hush, Alan. You have saved my life," said Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from -corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In -doing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of your -life that I am thinking." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth -part of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned away as he -spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer. -</P> - -<P> -After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant -entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil -of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. -</P> - -<P> -"Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another -errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies -Selby with orchids?" -</P> - -<P> -"Harden, sir." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden -personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, -and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any -white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty -place--otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it." -</P> - -<P> -"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?" -he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in -the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. -</P> - -<P> -Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," he -answered. -</P> - -<P> -"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, -Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can -have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not -want you." -</P> - -<P> -"Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. -</P> - -<P> -"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is! -I'll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly -and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They -left the room together. -</P> - -<P> -When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned -it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his -eyes. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in, Alan," he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -"It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said Campbell coldly. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his -portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn -curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had -forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, -and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. -</P> - -<P> -What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on -one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible -it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the -silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing -whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that -it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. -</P> - -<P> -He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with -half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that -he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and -taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the -picture. -</P> - -<P> -There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed -themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard -Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other -things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder -if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had -thought of each other. -</P> - -<P> -"Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him. -</P> - -<P> -He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been -thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a -glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key -being turned in the lock. -</P> - -<P> -It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He -was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," -he muttered "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again." -</P> - -<P> -"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian -simply. -</P> - -<P> -As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible -smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting -at the table was gone. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap15"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 15 -</H3> - -<P> -That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large -button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady -Narborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was -throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his -manner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful as -ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to -play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could -have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any -tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have -clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God -and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his -demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a -double life. -</P> - -<P> -It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who -was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the -remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent -wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her -husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, -and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she -devoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, -and French esprit when she could get it. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that -she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, my -dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you," she used to say, -"and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most -fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our -bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to -raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. -However, that was all Narborough's fault. He was dreadfully -short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who -never sees anything." -</P> - -<P> -Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she -explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married -daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make -matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think it -is most unkind of her, my dear," she whispered. "Of course I go and -stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old -woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake -them up. You don't know what an existence they lead down there. It is -pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have -so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to -think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since -the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep -after dinner. You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by me -and amuse me." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes: -it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen -before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those -middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, -but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an -overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always -trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to -her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against -her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and -Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy -dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once -seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, -white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the -impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of -ideas. -</P> - -<P> -He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the -great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the -mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to be -so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised -faithfully not to disappoint me." -</P> - -<P> -It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door -opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some -insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. -</P> - -<P> -But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away -untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an -insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the menu specially for you," and -now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence -and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass -with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handed -round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of -sorts." -</P> - -<P> -"I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is -afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I -certainly should." -</P> - -<P> -"Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in -love for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town." -</P> - -<P> -"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. -"I really cannot understand it." -</P> - -<P> -"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, -Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us and -your short frocks." -</P> - -<P> -"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I -remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how decolletee -she was then." -</P> - -<P> -"She is still decolletee," he answered, taking an olive in his long -fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an -edition de luxe of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and -full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. -When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief." -</P> - -<P> -"How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her -third husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?" -</P> - -<P> -"Certainly, Lady Narborough." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't believe a word of it." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends." -</P> - -<P> -"Is it true, Mr. Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -"She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her -whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and -hung at her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had -had any hearts at all." -</P> - -<P> -"Four husbands! Upon my word that is trop de zele." -</P> - -<P> -"Trop d'audace, I tell her," said Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol -like? I don't know him." -</P> - -<P> -"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes," -said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. -</P> - -<P> -Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all -surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked." -</P> - -<P> -"But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. -"It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent -terms." -</P> - -<P> -"Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady, -shaking her head. -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly -monstrous," he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying -things against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely -true." -</P> - -<P> -"Isn't he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. -</P> - -<P> -"I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all -worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry -again so as to be in the fashion." -</P> - -<P> -"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry. -"You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she -detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he -adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs." -</P> - -<P> -"Narborough wasn't perfect," cried the old lady. -</P> - -<P> -"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady," was the -rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, -they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never -ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, -but it is quite true." -</P> - -<P> -"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for -your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be -married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, -that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like -bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men." -</P> - -<P> -"Fin de siecle," murmured Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"Fin du globe," answered his hostess. -</P> - -<P> -"I wish it were fin du globe," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a -great disappointment." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don't -tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows -that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I -sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you look -so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you think -that Mr. Gray should get married?" -</P> - -<P> -"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a -bow. -</P> - -<P> -"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go -through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the -eligible young ladies." -</P> - -<P> -"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done -in a hurry. I want it to be what The Morning Post calls a suitable -alliance, and I want you both to be happy." -</P> - -<P> -"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord -Henry. "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love -her." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair -and nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon -again. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir -Andrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like -to meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering." -</P> - -<P> -"I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered. -"Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?" -</P> - -<P> -"I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons, -my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished your -cigarette." -</P> - -<P> -"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am -going to limit myself, for the future." -</P> - -<P> -"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal -thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a -feast." -</P> - -<P> -Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that -to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she -murmured, as she swept out of the room. -</P> - -<P> -"Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal," -cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to -squabble upstairs." -</P> - -<P> -The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the -table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went -and sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about -the situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. -The word doctrinaire--word full of terror to the British -mind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions. An -alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the -Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of the -race--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to be -the proper bulwark for society. -</P> - -<P> -A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at -Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out of -sorts at dinner." -</P> - -<P> -"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all." -</P> - -<P> -"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to -you. She tells me she is going down to Selby." -</P> - -<P> -"She has promised to come on the twentieth." -</P> - -<P> -"Is Monmouth to be there, too?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, yes, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very -clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of -weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image -precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. -White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, -and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences." -</P> - -<P> -"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is -ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, -with time thrown in. Who else is coming?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey -Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian." -</P> - -<P> -"I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I find -him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by -being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to -Monte Carlo with his father." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come. By -the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before -eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. -</P> - -<P> -"No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three." -</P> - -<P> -"Did you go to the club?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don't mean that. I -didn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How -inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been -doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at -half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my -latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any -corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared! -Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. -Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are -not yourself to-night." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall -come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady -Narborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home." -</P> - -<P> -"All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. -The duchess is coming." -</P> - -<P> -"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room. As he -drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror -he thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry's casual -questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted -his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He -winced. He hated the idea of even touching them. -</P> - -<P> -Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the -door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had -thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He -piled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning -leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume -everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some -Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and -forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed -nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large -Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue -lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate -and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet -almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. -He lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till -the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched -the cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been -lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden -spring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved -instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a -small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, -the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with -round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. -Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and -persistent. -</P> - -<P> -He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his -face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly -hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty -minutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as -he did so, and went into his bedroom. -</P> - -<P> -As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray, -dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept -quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good -horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address. -</P> - -<P> -The man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered. -</P> - -<P> -"Here is a sovereign for you," said Dorian. "You shall have another if -you drive fast." -</P> - -<P> -"All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour," and -after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly -towards the river. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap16"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 16 -</H3> - -<P> -A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly -in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men -and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From -some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, -drunkards brawled and screamed. -</P> - -<P> -Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian -Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and -now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said -to him on the first day they had met, "To cure the soul by means of the -senses, and the senses by means of the soul." Yes, that was the -secret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were -opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the -memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were -new. -</P> - -<P> -The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a -huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The -gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the -man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from -the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom -were clogged with a grey-flannel mist. -</P> - -<P> -"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of -the soul!" How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was -sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent -blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there -was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness -was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing -out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. -Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who -had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were -dreadful, horrible, not to be endured. -</P> - -<P> -On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each -step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. -The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned -and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the -horse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He -laughed in answer, and the man was silent. -</P> - -<P> -The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some -sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist -thickened, he felt afraid. -</P> - -<P> -Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and -he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, -fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in -the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a -rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop. -</P> - -<P> -After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over -rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then -fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He -watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made -gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his -heart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from -an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred -yards. The driver beat at them with his whip. -</P> - -<P> -It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with -hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped -those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in -them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by -intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would -still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept -the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all -man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. -Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, -became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one -reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of -disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more -vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious -shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed -for forgetfulness. In three days he would be free. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over -the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black -masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the -yards. -</P> - -<P> -"Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the -trap. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian started and peered round. "This will do," he answered, and -having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had -promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and -there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The -light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an -outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like -a wet mackintosh. -</P> - -<P> -He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he -was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small -shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of -the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock. -</P> - -<P> -After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being -unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a -word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the -shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green -curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him -in from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room -which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill -flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that -faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed -tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was -covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, -and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were -crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and -showing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his -head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the -tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two -haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his -coat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he's got red ants on -him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her -in terror and began to whimper. -</P> - -<P> -At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a -darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the -heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his -nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with -smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin -pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. -</P> - -<P> -"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps -will speak to me now." -</P> - -<P> -"I thought you had left England." -</P> - -<P> -"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at -last. George doesn't speak to me either.... I don't care," he added -with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. -I think I have had too many friends." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such -fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the -gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in -what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were -teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he -was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was -eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of -Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The -presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no -one would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself. -</P> - -<P> -"I am going on to the other place," he said after a pause. -</P> - -<P> -"On the wharf?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes." -</P> - -<P> -"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place -now." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. -Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is -better." -</P> - -<P> -"Much the same." -</P> - -<P> -"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have -something." -</P> - -<P> -"I don't want anything," murmured the young man. -</P> - -<P> -"Never mind." -</P> - -<P> -Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A -half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous -greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of -them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his -back on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. -</P> - -<P> -A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of -the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered. -</P> - -<P> -"For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his foot on -the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't ever talk -to me again." -</P> - -<P> -Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then -flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and -raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion -watched her enviously. -</P> - -<P> -"It's no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back. -What does it matter? I am quite happy here." -</P> - -<P> -"You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian, -after a pause. -</P> - -<P> -"Perhaps." -</P> - -<P> -"Good night, then." -</P> - -<P> -"Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping -his parched mouth with a handkerchief. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew -the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the -woman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil's bargain!" she -hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. -</P> - -<P> -"Curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that." -</P> - -<P> -She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be -called, ain't it?" she yelled after him. -</P> - -<P> -The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly -round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He -rushed out as if in pursuit. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His -meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered -if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as -Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his -lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did -it matter to him? One's days were too brief to take the burden of -another's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life and -paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so -often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. -In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. -</P> - -<P> -There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or -for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of -the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful -impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their -will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is -taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at -all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its -charm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are -sins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of -evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. -</P> - -<P> -Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for -rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but -as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a -short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself -suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, -he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his -throat. -</P> - -<P> -He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the -tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, -and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, -and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. -</P> - -<P> -"What do you want?" he gasped. -</P> - -<P> -"Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you." -</P> - -<P> -"You are mad. What have I done to you?" -</P> - -<P> -"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer, "and Sibyl Vane -was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your -door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought -you. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described -you were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call -you. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for -to-night you are going to die." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "I -never heard of her. You are mad." -</P> - -<P> -"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you -are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know -what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give you -one minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board to-night for -India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That's all." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know -what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop," he -cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!" -</P> - -<P> -"Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me? What do years -matter?" -</P> - -<P> -"Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his -voice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!" -</P> - -<P> -James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. -Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. -</P> - -<P> -Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him -the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face -of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the -unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty -summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been -when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was -not the man who had destroyed her life. -</P> - -<P> -He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "and -I would have murdered you!" -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of -committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. -"Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own -hands." -</P> - -<P> -"Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chance -word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." -</P> - -<P> -"You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into -trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the -street. -</P> - -<P> -James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head -to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping -along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him -with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked -round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at -the bar. -</P> - -<P> -"Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite -close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from -Daly's. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, -and he's as bad as bad." -</P> - -<P> -"He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man's -money. I want a man's life. The man whose life I want must be nearly -forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not -got his blood upon my hands." -</P> - -<P> -The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. -"Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me -what I am." -</P> - -<P> -"You lie!" cried James Vane. -</P> - -<P> -She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth," -she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"Before God?" -</P> - -<P> -"Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here. -They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nigh -on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then. -I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. -</P> - -<P> -"You swear this?" -</P> - -<P> -"I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don't give -me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some -money for my night's lodging." -</P> - -<P> -He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, -but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had -vanished also. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap17"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 17 -</H3> - -<P> -A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby -Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, -a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, -and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the -table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at -which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily -among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that -Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a -silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan -sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description of -the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three -young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of -the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were -more expected to arrive on the next day. -</P> - -<P> -"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to -the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about -my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." -</P> - -<P> -"But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, -looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with -my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are -both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an -orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as -effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked -one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine -specimen of Robinsoniana, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a -sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to -things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one -quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in -literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled -to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." -</P> - -<P> -"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. -</P> - -<P> -"His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. -</P> - -<P> -"I won't hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From -a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." -</P> - -<P> -"Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. -</P> - -<P> -"You wish me to defend my throne, then?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes." -</P> - -<P> -"I give the truths of to-morrow." -</P> - -<P> -"I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. -</P> - -<P> -"You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. -</P> - -<P> -"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." -</P> - -<P> -"I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. -</P> - -<P> -"That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." -</P> - -<P> -"How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be -beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready -than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." -</P> - -<P> -"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. -"What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" -</P> - -<P> -"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good -Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly -virtues have made our England what she is." -</P> - -<P> -"You don't like your country, then?" she asked. -</P> - -<P> -"I live in it." -</P> - -<P> -"That you may censure it the better." -</P> - -<P> -"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. -</P> - -<P> -"What do they say of us?" -</P> - -<P> -"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." -</P> - -<P> -"Is that yours, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"I give it to you." -</P> - -<P> -"I could not use it. It is too true." -</P> - -<P> -"You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." -</P> - -<P> -"They are practical." -</P> - -<P> -"They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, -they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." -</P> - -<P> -"Still, we have done great things." -</P> - -<P> -"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." -</P> - -<P> -"We have carried their burden." -</P> - -<P> -"Only as far as the Stock Exchange." -</P> - -<P> -She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. -</P> - -<P> -"It represents the survival of the pushing." -</P> - -<P> -"It has development." -</P> - -<P> -"Decay fascinates me more." -</P> - -<P> -"What of art?" she asked. -</P> - -<P> -"It is a malady." -</P> - -<P> -"Love?" -</P> - -<P> -"An illusion." -</P> - -<P> -"Religion?" -</P> - -<P> -"The fashionable substitute for belief." -</P> - -<P> -"You are a sceptic." -</P> - -<P> -"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." -</P> - -<P> -"What are you?" -</P> - -<P> -"To define is to limit." -</P> - -<P> -"Give me a clue." -</P> - -<P> -"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." -</P> - -<P> -"You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." -</P> - -<P> -"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince -Charming." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! don't remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. -</P> - -<P> -"Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, -colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely -scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern -butterfly." -</P> - -<P> -"Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." -</P> - -<P> -"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" -</P> - -<P> -"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because -I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by -half-past eight." -</P> - -<P> -"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." -</P> - -<P> -"I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the -one I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice -of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All -good hats are made out of nothing." -</P> - -<P> -"Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every -effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be -a mediocrity." -</P> - -<P> -"Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule -the world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities. We women, as some -one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if -you ever love at all." -</P> - -<P> -"It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with -mock sadness. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance -lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. -Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. -Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely -intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, -and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as -possible." -</P> - -<P> -"Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after -a pause. -</P> - -<P> -"Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression -in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and -laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." -</P> - -<P> -"Even when he is wrong?" -</P> - -<P> -"Harry is never wrong, Duchess." -</P> - -<P> -"And does his philosophy make you happy?" -</P> - -<P> -"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have -searched for pleasure." -</P> - -<P> -"And found it, Mr. Gray?" -</P> - -<P> -"Often. Too often." -</P> - -<P> -The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I -don't go and dress, I shall have none this evening." -</P> - -<P> -"Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his -feet and walking down the conservatory. -</P> - -<P> -"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his -cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." -</P> - -<P> -"If he were not, there would be no battle." -</P> - -<P> -"Greek meets Greek, then?" -</P> - -<P> -"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." -</P> - -<P> -"They were defeated." -</P> - -<P> -"There are worse things than capture," she answered. -</P> - -<P> -"You gallop with a loose rein." -</P> - -<P> -"Pace gives life," was the riposte. -</P> - -<P> -"I shall write it in my diary to-night." -</P> - -<P> -"What?" -</P> - -<P> -"That a burnt child loves the fire." -</P> - -<P> -"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched." -</P> - -<P> -"You use them for everything, except flight." -</P> - -<P> -"Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us." -</P> - -<P> -"You have a rival." -</P> - -<P> -"Who?" -</P> - -<P> -He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores -him." -</P> - -<P> -"You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us -who are romanticists." -</P> - -<P> -"Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." -</P> - -<P> -"Men have educated us." -</P> - -<P> -"But not explained you." -</P> - -<P> -"Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. -</P> - -<P> -"Sphinxes without secrets." -</P> - -<P> -She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let us -go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys." -</P> - -<P> -"That would be a premature surrender." -</P> - -<P> -"Romantic art begins with its climax." -</P> - -<P> -"I must keep an opportunity for retreat." -</P> - -<P> -"In the Parthian manner?" -</P> - -<P> -"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that." -</P> - -<P> -"Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he -finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came -a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody -started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in -his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian -Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. -</P> - -<P> -He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of -the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round -with a dazed expression. -</P> - -<P> -"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, -Harry?" He began to tremble. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was -all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down -to dinner. I will take your place." -</P> - -<P> -"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would -rather come down. I must not be alone." -</P> - -<P> -He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of -gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of -terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the -window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the -face of James Vane watching him. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap18"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 18 -</H3> - -<P> -The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the -time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet -indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, -tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but -tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against -the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild -regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face -peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to -lay its hand upon his heart. -</P> - -<P> -But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of -the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual -life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the -imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet -of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen -brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor -the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust -upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling -round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the -keepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the -gardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. -Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away -in his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he -was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he -was. The mask of youth had saved him. -</P> - -<P> -And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think -that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them -visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would -his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from -silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear -as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! -As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and -the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a -wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere -memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came -back to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible -and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry -came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will -break. -</P> - -<P> -It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was -something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that -seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But -it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had -caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of -anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. -With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their -strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, -or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The -loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. -Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a -terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with -something of pity and not a little of contempt. -</P> - -<P> -After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden -and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp -frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of -blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. -</P> - -<P> -At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey -Clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of -his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take -the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered -bracken and rough undergrowth. -</P> - -<P> -"Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked. -</P> - -<P> -"Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the -open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new -ground." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown -and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the -beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns -that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful -freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the -high indifference of joy. -</P> - -<P> -Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front -of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it -forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir -Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the -animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he -cried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live." -</P> - -<P> -"What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded -into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a -hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is -worse. -</P> - -<P> -"Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What an -ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" he -called out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt." -</P> - -<P> -The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. -</P> - -<P> -"Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time, the firing -ceased along the line. -</P> - -<P> -"Here," answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. -"Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for -the day." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the -lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging -a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It -seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir -Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of -the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with -faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of -voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the -boughs overhead. -</P> - -<P> -After a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like -endless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started -and looked round. -</P> - -<P> -"Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting is -stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on." -</P> - -<P> -"I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered bitterly. "The -whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?" -</P> - -<P> -He could not finish the sentence. -</P> - -<P> -"I am afraid so," rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge of -shot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; -let us go home." -</P> - -<P> -They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly -fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and -said, with a heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen." -</P> - -<P> -"What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear -fellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did he -get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather -awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It -makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he -shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if -something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, -perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of -pain. -</P> - -<P> -The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is ennui, -Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we -are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering -about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to be -tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destiny -does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. -Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have -everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would -not be delighted to change places with you." -</P> - -<P> -"There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't -laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who -has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It -is the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to -wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a man -moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand -was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting for -you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on -the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You -must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The -man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating -manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. -"Her Grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I am -coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in -the direction of the house. -</P> - -<P> -"How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. -"It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will -flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." -</P> - -<P> -"How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present -instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I -don't love her." -</P> - -<P> -"And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you -are excellently matched." -</P> - -<P> -"You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for -scandal." -</P> - -<P> -"The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry, -lighting a cigarette. -</P> - -<P> -"You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram." -</P> - -<P> -"The world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. -</P> - -<P> -"I wish I could love," cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in -his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the -desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has -become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It -was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire -to Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe." -</P> - -<P> -"Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me -what it is? You know I would help you." -</P> - -<P> -"I can't tell you, Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is -only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have -a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." -</P> - -<P> -"What nonsense!" -</P> - -<P> -"I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, -looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, -Duchess." -</P> - -<P> -"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey is -terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. -How curious!" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Some -whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I -am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject." -</P> - -<P> -"It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no -psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on -purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one -who had committed a real murder." -</P> - -<P> -"How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray? -Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, -Duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is -all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what -Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I -think I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?" -</P> - -<P> -They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the -conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind -Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous -eyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. -</P> - -<P> -She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. -"I wish I knew," she said at last. -</P> - -<P> -He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty -that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful." -</P> - -<P> -"One may lose one's way." -</P> - -<P> -"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys." -</P> - -<P> -"What is that?" -</P> - -<P> -"Disillusion." -</P> - -<P> -"It was my debut in life," she sighed. -</P> - -<P> -"It came to you crowned." -</P> - -<P> -"I am tired of strawberry leaves." -</P> - -<P> -"They become you." -</P> - -<P> -"Only in public." -</P> - -<P> -"You would miss them," said Lord Henry. -</P> - -<P> -"I will not part with a petal." -</P> - -<P> -"Monmouth has ears." -</P> - -<P> -"Old age is dull of hearing." -</P> - -<P> -"Has he never been jealous?" -</P> - -<P> -"I wish he had been." -</P> - -<P> -He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you looking -for?" she inquired. -</P> - -<P> -"The button from your foil," he answered. "You have dropped it." -</P> - -<P> -She laughed. "I have still the mask." -</P> - -<P> -"It makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. -</P> - -<P> -She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet -fruit. -</P> - -<P> -Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror -in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too -hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky -beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to -pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord -Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. -</P> - -<P> -At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to -pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham -at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another -night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there -in the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. -</P> - -<P> -Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to -town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in -his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to -the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see -him. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in," he muttered, after -some moments' hesitation. -</P> - -<P> -As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a -drawer and spread it out before him. -</P> - -<P> -"I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this -morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. -</P> - -<P> -"Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?" -asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be left -in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." -</P> - -<P> -"We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of -coming to you about." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean? -Wasn't he one of your men?" -</P> - -<P> -"No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir." -</P> - -<P> -The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart -had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say -a sailor?" -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on -both arms, and that kind of thing." -</P> - -<P> -"Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward and -looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell his -name?" -</P> - -<P> -"Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any -kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we -think." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He -clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I -must see it at once." -</P> - -<P> -"It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like -to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings -bad luck." -</P> - -<P> -"The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms -to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables -myself. It will save time." -</P> - -<P> -In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the -long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him -in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his -path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. -He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air -like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. -</P> - -<P> -At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. -He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the -farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him -that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand -upon the latch. -</P> - -<P> -There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a -discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the -door open and entered. -</P> - -<P> -On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man -dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted -handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in -a bottle, sputtered beside it. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take -the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to -come to him. -</P> - -<P> -"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching -at the door-post for support. -</P> - -<P> -When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy -broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was -James Vane. -</P> - -<P> -He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode -home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap19"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 19 -</H3> - -<P> -"There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried -Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled -with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray, don't change." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful -things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good -actions yesterday." -</P> - -<P> -"Where were you yesterday?" -</P> - -<P> -"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear boy," said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the -country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why -people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. -Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are -only two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the -other by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being -either, so they stagnate." -</P> - -<P> -"Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian. "I have known something of -both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found -together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I -think I have altered." -</P> - -<P> -"You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say -you had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into his -plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a -perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them. -</P> - -<P> -"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one -else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I -mean. She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I -think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, -don't you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our -own class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I -really loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during this -wonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her -two or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. -The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was -laughing. We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. -Suddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her." -</P> - -<P> -"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill -of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry. "But I can finish -your idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. -That was the beginning of your reformation." -</P> - -<P> -"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful things. -Hetty's heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But -there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her -garden of mint and marigold." -</P> - -<P> -"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as he -leaned back in his chair. "My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously -boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now -with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day -to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having -met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she -will be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I -think much of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is -poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating at the -present moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies -round her, like Ophelia?" -</P> - -<P> -"I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest -the most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don't care -what you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor -Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at -the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let us talk about it any -more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have -done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever -known, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be -better. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in town? -I have not been to the club for days." -</P> - -<P> -"The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance." -</P> - -<P> -"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said -Dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly. -</P> - -<P> -"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and -the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having -more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate -lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell's -suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. -Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left -for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor -Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris -at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has -been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who -disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a -delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world." -</P> - -<P> -"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up his -Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could -discuss the matter so calmly. -</P> - -<P> -"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it -is no business of mine. If he is dead, I don't want to think about -him. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it." -</P> - -<P> -"Why?" said the younger man wearily. -</P> - -<P> -"Because," said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt -trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything -nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in -the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our -coffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man -with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! -I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of -course, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one -regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them -the most. They are such an essential part of one's personality." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next -room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white -and black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he -stopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it ever -occur to you that Basil was murdered?" -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry yawned. "Basil was very popular, and always wore a -Waterbury watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever -enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for -painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as -possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, -and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration -for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art." -</P> - -<P> -"I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian with a note of sadness in his -voice. "But don't people say that he was murdered?" -</P> - -<P> -"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all -probable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not -the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his -chief defect." -</P> - -<P> -"What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?" -said the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken. -</P> - -<P> -"I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that -doesn't suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. -It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt -your vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs -exclusively to the lower orders. I don't blame them in the smallest -degree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, -simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations." -</P> - -<P> -"A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who -has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again? -Don't tell me that." -</P> - -<P> -"Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried Lord -Henry, laughing. "That is one of the most important secrets of life. -I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should -never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us -pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such -a really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fell -into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the -scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now -on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges -floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I -don't think he would have done much more good work. During the last -ten years his painting had gone off very much." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began -to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged -bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo -perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf -of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards -and forwards. -</P> - -<P> -"Yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of -his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have -lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be -great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated -you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It's a -habit bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful -portrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever seen it since he -finished it. Oh! I remember your telling me years ago that you had -sent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the -way. You never got it back? What a pity! it was really a -masterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it. I wish I had now. It -belonged to Basil's best period. Since then, his work was that curious -mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man -to be called a representative British artist. Did you advertise for -it? You should." -</P> - -<P> -"I forget," said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really liked -it. I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to -me. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious -lines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?-- -</P> - -<P CLASS="poem"> -"Like the painting of a sorrow,<BR> -A face without a heart."<BR> -</P> - -<P> -Yes: that is what it was like." -</P> - -<P> -Lord Henry laughed. "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is -his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair. -</P> - -<P> -Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano. -"'Like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a -heart.'" -</P> - -<P> -The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "By -the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if -he gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his own -soul'?" -</P> - -<P> -The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend. -"Why do you ask me that, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, -"I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer. -That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by -the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people -listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the -man yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being -rather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. -A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly -white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful -phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very -good in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet -that art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he -would not have understood me." -</P> - -<P> -"Don't, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and -sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There -is a soul in each one of us. I know it." -</P> - -<P> -"Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?" -</P> - -<P> -"Quite sure." -</P> - -<P> -"Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely -certain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the -lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don't be so serious. What have -you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given -up our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, -Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept -your youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than -you are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really -wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do -to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather -cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of -course, but not in appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. -To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take -exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing -like it. It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only -people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much -younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to -them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. -I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something that -happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in -1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew -absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I -wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the -villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvellously -romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that -is not imitative! Don't stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me -that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you. -I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The -tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am -amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! -What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply of -everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing -has been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than the -sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same." -</P> - -<P> -"I am not the same, Harry." -</P> - -<P> -"Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be. -Don't spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. -Don't make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need -not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't deceive -yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a -question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which -thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy -yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour -in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once -loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten -poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music -that you had ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things -like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about that -somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There are -moments when the odour of lilas blanc passes suddenly across me, and I -have to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could -change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us -both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. -You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is -afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, -never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything -outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself to -music. Your days are your sonnets." -</P> - -<P> -Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. -"Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to -have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant -things to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if you -did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh." -</P> - -<P> -"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the -nocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that -hangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if -you play she will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to -the club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it -charmingly. There is some one at White's who wants immensely to know -you--young Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son. He has already copied -your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite -delightful and rather reminds me of you." -</P> - -<P> -"I hope not," said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tired -to-night, Harry. I shan't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I -want to go to bed early." -</P> - -<P> -"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was -something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression -than I had ever heard from it before." -</P> - -<P> -"It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a -little changed already." -</P> - -<P> -"You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "You and I will -always be friends." -</P> - -<P> -"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. -Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It -does harm." -</P> - -<P> -"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be -going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people -against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too -delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we -are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, -there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It -annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that -the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. -That is all. But we won't discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I -am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you -to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and -wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. -Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says -she never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought -you would be. Her clever tongue gets on one's nerves. Well, in any -case, be here at eleven." -</P> - -<P> -"Must I really come, Harry?" -</P> - -<P> -"Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have -been such lilacs since the year I met you." -</P> - -<P> -"Very well. I shall be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good night, -Harry." As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he -had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR> - -<A NAME="chap20"></A> -<H3 ALIGN="center"> -CHAPTER 20 -</H3> - -<P> -It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and -did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, -smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He -heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He -remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared -at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half -the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was -that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had -lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had -told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and -answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a -laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had -been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but -she had everything that he had lost. -</P> - -<P> -When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent -him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and -began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. -</P> - -<P> -Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing -for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as -Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, -filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he -had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible -joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had -been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to -shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? -</P> - -<P> -Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that -the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the -unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to -that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure -swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. -Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be -the prayer of man to a most just God. -</P> - -<P> -The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many -years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids -laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that -night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal -picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished -shield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a -mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "The world is changed -because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips -rewrite history." The phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated -them over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and -flinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters -beneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty -and the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his -life might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but a -mask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, an -unripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he -worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him. -</P> - -<P> -It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It -was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James -Vane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell -had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the -secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it -was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was -already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the -death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the -living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the -portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It -was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to -him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The -murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, -his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was -nothing to him. -</P> - -<P> -A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting -for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent -thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be -good. -</P> - -<P> -As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in -the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it -had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel -every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil -had already gone away. He would go and look. -</P> - -<P> -He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the -door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face -and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and -the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror -to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. -</P> - -<P> -He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and -dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and -indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the -eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of -the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if -possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed -brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it -been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the -desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking -laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things -finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the -red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a -horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the -painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand -that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to -confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt -that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who -would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. -Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned -what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. -They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was -his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public -atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to -earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him -till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. -The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking -of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul -that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there -been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been -something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. -There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In -hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he -had tried the denial of self. He recognized that now. -</P> - -<P> -But this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be -burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was -only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that -was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once -it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of -late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. -When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes -should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. -Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like -conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. -</P> - -<P> -He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He -had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It -was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would -kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the -past, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this -monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at -peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. -</P> - -<P> -There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its -agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. -Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked -up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and -brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was -no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was -all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico -and watched. -</P> - -<P> -"Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. -</P> - -<P> -"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman. -</P> - -<P> -They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of -them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. -</P> - -<P> -Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics -were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying -and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. -</P> - -<P> -After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the -footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. -They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying -to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the -balcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old. -</P> - -<P> -When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait -of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his -exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in -evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, -and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings -that they recognized who it was. -</P> - -<BR><BR><BR><BR> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY *** - -***** This file should be named 174-h.htm or 174-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/174/ - -Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines. - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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