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diff --git a/old/dgray10h.htm b/old/dgray10h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index e8ed6ce..0000000 --- a/old/dgray10h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7843 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> -<html> -<head> -<title>The Picture of Dorian Gray</title> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> -</head> - -<body bgcolor="#FFFFFF" text="#000000"> -<h1 align="center">The Picture of Dorian Gray<br> -by Oscar Wilde</h1> - -<pre> -*Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde* - -*** Etexts From The Original Internet Information Providers *** - -Please take a look at the important information in this header. -We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an -electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. - - -**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** - -**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** - -*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* - -Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and -further information is included below. We need your donations. - - -The Picture of Dorian Gray -by Oscar Wilde - -October, 1994 Etext #174 -[Date last updated: April 11, 2006] - - -*Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde* -This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska. The -equipment: an IBM-compatible 486/33, a Hewlett-Packard ScanJet -IIc flatbed scanner, and Calera Recognition Systems' M/Series -Professional OCR software and RISC Accelerator Board. - -</pre> -<p> - THE PREFACE</p> -<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> -<blockquote> - <p> All art is quite useless.</p> - <p> OSCAR WILDE</p> - <p> </p> -</blockquote> -<p> - CHAPTER 1</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 2</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 3</p> -<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 Devereaux. - 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 4</p> -<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 share 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 5</p> -<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 wedgelike 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 6</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 7</p> -<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> -<blockquote> - 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> -</blockquote> -<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> -<blockquote> - 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> -</blockquote> -<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> -<blockquote> - 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> -</blockquote> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 8</p> -<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. - ??? - 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> -<p> - CHAPTER 9</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 10</p> -<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> -<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> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 11</p> -<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 her 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 12</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 13</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 14</p> -<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> -<blockquote> - <p>Sur une gamme chromatique,</p> - <p>Le sein de peries ruisselant,</p> - <p>La Venus de l'Adriatique</p> - <p>Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. </p> - <p> Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes</p> - <p>Suivant la phrase au pur contour,</p> - <p>S'enflent comme des gorges rondes</p> - <p>Que souleve un soupir d'amour.</p> - <p> L'esquif aborde et me depose,</p> - <p>Jetant son amarre au pilier,</p> - <p> Devant une facade rose,</p> - <p>Sur le marbre d'un escalier.</p> -</blockquote> -<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> -<blockquote> - <p> "Devant une facade rose, </p> - <p>Sur le marbre d'un escalier."</p> -</blockquote> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 15</p> -<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 - nerves 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 16</p> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 17</p> -<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 if 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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 18</p> -<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> -<p> - CHAPTER 19</p> -<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> -<blockquote> - <p> "Like the painting of a sorrow,</p> - <p> A face without a heart."</p> -</blockquote> -<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> -<p></p> -<p>CHAPTER 20</p> -<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> -<p> -<pre> -*****This file should be named dgray10h.htm or dgray10h.zip***** - -Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, dgray11h.htm. -VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, dgray10ah.htm. - -Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US -unless a copyright notice is included. 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