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Title: The Picture of Dorian Gray



Author: Oscar Wilde



Release date: October 1, 1994 [eBook #174]

                Most recently updated: September 17, 2025



Language: English



Credits: Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.





*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY ***









The Picture of Dorian Gray



by Oscar Wilde





Contents



 THE PREFACE

 CHAPTER I.

 CHAPTER II.

 CHAPTER III.

 CHAPTER IV.

 CHAPTER V.

 CHAPTER VI.

 CHAPTER VII.

 CHAPTER VIII.

 CHAPTER IX.

 CHAPTER X.

 CHAPTER XI.

 CHAPTER XII.

 CHAPTER XIII.

 CHAPTER XIV.

 CHAPTER XV.

 CHAPTER XVI.

 CHAPTER XVII.

 CHAPTER XVIII.

 CHAPTER XIX.

 CHAPTER XX.









THE PREFACE





The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and

conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate

into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful

things.



The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without

being charming. This is a fault.



Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the

cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom

beautiful things mean only beauty.



There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well

written, or badly written. That is all.



The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing

his own face in a glass.



The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban

not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of

the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in

the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove

anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has

ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable

mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express

everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an

art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the

point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the

musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the

type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the

surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their

peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,

complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with

himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he

does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that

one admires it intensely.



All art is quite useless.



OSCAR WILDE









CHAPTER I.





The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light

summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through

the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate

perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.



From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was

lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry

Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured

blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to

bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then

the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long

tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,

producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of

those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of

an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of

swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their

way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous

insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,

seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London

was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.



In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the

full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,

and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist

himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago

caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many

strange conjectures.



As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so

skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his

face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and

closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought

to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he

might awake.



“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said

Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the

Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have

gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been

able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that

I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor

is really the only place.”



“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head

back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at

Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”



Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through

the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls

from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear

fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You

do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,

you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is

only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is

not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above

all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if

old men are ever capable of any emotion.”



“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit

it. I have put too much of myself into it.”



Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.



“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”



“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you

were so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with

your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young

Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,

my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an

intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends

where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode

of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one

sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something

horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.

How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But

then in the Church they don’t think. A bishop keeps on saying at the

age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,

and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.

Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but

whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure of

that. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here

in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer

when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don’t flatter

yourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him.”



“You don’t understand me, Harry,” answered the artist. “Of course I am

not like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorry to

look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.

There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,

the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering

steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows.

The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit

at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,

they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all

should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They

neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.

Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art,

whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer

for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”



“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the

studio towards Basil Hallward.



“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”



“But why not?”



“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their

names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown

to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life

mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if

one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I

am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit,

I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into

one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”



“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem

to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it

makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I

never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.

When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go

down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the

most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact,

than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But

when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimes wish

she would; but she merely laughs at me.”



“I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry,” said Basil

Hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. “I

believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are

thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinary

fellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.

Your cynicism is simply a pose.”



“Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know,”

cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the

garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that

stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped over the

polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous.



After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I am afraid I must be

going, Basil,” he murmured, “and before I go, I insist on your

answering a question I put to you some time ago.”



“What is that?” said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.



“You know quite well.”



“I do not, Harry.”



“Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why you

won’t exhibit Dorian Gray’s picture. I want the real reason.”



“I told you the real reason.”



“No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much of

yourself in it. Now, that is childish.”



“Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, “every

portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not

of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is

not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on

the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit

this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of

my own soul.”



Lord Henry laughed. “And what is that?” he asked.



“I will tell you,” said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity came

over his face.



“I am all expectation, Basil,” continued his companion, glancing at

him.



“Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry,” answered the painter;

“and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you will hardly

believe it.”



Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from

the grass and examined it. “I am quite sure I shall understand it,” he

replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk,

“and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that it

is quite incredible.”



The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy

lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the

languid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a

blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze

wings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart

beating, and wondered what was coming.



“The story is simply this,” said the painter after some time. “Two

months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon’s. You know we poor

artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to

remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a

white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain

a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room

about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious

academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at

me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.

When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation

of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some

one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to

do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art

itself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You know

yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been my

own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray.

Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to

tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had

a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and

exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was

not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take

no credit to myself for trying to escape.”



“Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience

is the trade-name of the firm. That is all.”



“I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t believe you do either.

However, whatever was my motive—and it may have been pride, for I used

to be very proud—I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I

stumbled against Lady Brandon. ‘You are not going to run away so soon,

Mr. Hallward?’ she screamed out. You know her curiously shrill voice?”



“Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty,” said Lord Henry,

pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers.



“I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, and people

with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and

parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had only met her

once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. I believe

some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had

been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the

nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myself

face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely

stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again.

It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.

Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We

would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sure of

that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined

to know each other.”



“And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?” asked his

companion. “I know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her

guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old

gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my

ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to

everybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. I

like to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests

exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them

entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants

to know.”



“Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!” said Hallward

listlessly.



“My dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in

opening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what did she

say about Mr. Dorian Gray?”



“Oh, something like, ‘Charming boy—poor dear mother and I absolutely

inseparable. Quite forget what he does—afraid he—doesn’t do

anything—oh, yes, plays the piano—or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?’

Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once.”



“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far

the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy.



Hallward shook his head. “You don’t understand what friendship is,

Harry,” he murmured—“or what enmity is, for that matter. You like every

one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one.”



“How horribly unjust of you!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back

and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of

glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the

summer sky. “Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great difference

between people. I choose my friends for their good looks, my

acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good

intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I

have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of some intellectual

power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is that very vain of

me? I think it is rather vain.”



“I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I must be

merely an acquaintance.”



“My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance.”



“And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?”



“Oh, brothers! I don’t care for brothers. My elder brother won’t die,

and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else.”



“Harry!” exclaimed Hallward, frowning.



“My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can’t help detesting my

relations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand

other people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize

with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices

of the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and

immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of

us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. When

poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite

magnificent. And yet I don’t suppose that ten per cent of the

proletariat live correctly.”



“I don’t agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is

more, Harry, I feel sure you don’t either.”



Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his

patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. “How English you are

Basil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If one

puts forward an idea to a true Englishman—always a rash thing to do—he

never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The

only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it

oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with

the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, the probabilities

are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual

will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his

wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don’t propose to

discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. I like persons

better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better

than anything else in the world. Tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray.

How often do you see him?”



“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He is

absolutely necessary to me.”



“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but

your art.”



“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes

think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the

world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,

and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.

What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of

Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will

some day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw from

him, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is much

more to me than a model or a sitter. I won’t tell you that I am

dissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is such

that art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express,

and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is good

work, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way—I wonder

will you understand me?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely

new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I see things

differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreate life in a

way that was hidden from me before. ‘A dream of form in days of

thought’—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray

has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to

me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely

visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means?

Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school

that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the

perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and

body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and

have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void.

Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that

landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price but

which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever

done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray

sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the

first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder I had

always looked for and always missed.”



“Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray.”



Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. After

some time he came back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is to me simply

a motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything in him.

He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.

He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I find him in the

curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain

colours. That is all.”



“Then why won’t you exhibit his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.



“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of

all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never

cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know

anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my

soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under

their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too

much of myself!”



“Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passion

is for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions.”



“I hate them for it,” cried Hallward. “An artist should create

beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We

live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of

autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day I

will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall

never see my portrait of Dorian Gray.”



“I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won’t argue with you. It is only

the intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray very

fond of you?”



The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered

after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully.

I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall

be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit

in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he

is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me

pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some

one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of

decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”



“Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger,” murmured Lord Henry.

“Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to think

of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. That

accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate

ourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have

something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and

facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughly

well-informed man—that is the modern ideal. And the mind of the

thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a

_bric-à-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above

its proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some day

you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little

out of drawing, or you won’t like his tone of colour, or something. You

will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that

he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, you will be

perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, for it will

alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art

one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is

that it leaves one so unromantic.”



“Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of

Dorian Gray will dominate me. You can’t feel what I feel. You change

too often.”



“Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who are

faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who

know love’s tragedies.” And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty

silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and

satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There was

a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy,

and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like

swallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful other

people’s emotions were!—much more delightful than their ideas, it

seemed to him. One’s own soul, and the passions of one’s friends—those

were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silent

amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long

with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure

to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have

been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model

lodging-houses. Each class would have preached the importance of those

virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives.

The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown

eloquent over the dignity of labour. It was charming to have escaped

all that! As he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. He

turned to Hallward and said, “My dear fellow, I have just remembered.”



“Remembered what, Harry?”



“Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray.”



“Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown.



“Don’t look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told

me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her

in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound to state

that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have no appreciation

of good looks; at least, good women have not. She said that he was very

earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at once pictured to myself a

creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping

about on huge feet. I wish I had known it was your friend.”



“I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.”



“Why?”



“I don’t want you to meet him.”



“You don’t want me to meet him?”



“No.”



“Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, coming into

the garden.



“You must introduce me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing.



The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight.

“Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments.” The man

bowed and went up the walk.



Then he looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he

said. “He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quite

right in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try to influence

him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, and has many

marvellous people in it. Don’t take away from me the one person who

gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist

depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you.” He spoke very slowly, and

the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.



“What nonsense you talk!” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward

by the arm, he almost led him into the house.









CHAPTER II.





As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with

his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann’s

“Forest Scenes.” “You must lend me these, Basil,” he cried. “I want to

learn them. They are perfectly charming.”



“That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.”



“Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-sized portrait of

myself,” answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a

wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint

blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. “I beg your

pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you had any one with you.”



“This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I

have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you

have spoiled everything.”



“You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,” said Lord

Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often

spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am

afraid, one of her victims also.”



“I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian with a

funny look of penitence. “I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel

with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to

have played a duet together—three duets, I believe. I don’t know what

she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.”



“Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you.

And I don’t think it really matters about your not being there. The

audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to

the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.”



“That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,” answered Dorian,

laughing.



Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome,

with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp

gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at

once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth’s

passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the

world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.



“You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far too

charming.” And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened

his cigarette-case.



The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes

ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last

remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said,

“Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it

awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?”



Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, Mr. Gray?” he

asked.



“Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky

moods, and I can’t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell

me why I should not go in for philanthropy.”



“I don’t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a

subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly

shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don’t

really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your

sitters to have some one to chat to.”



Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay.

Dorian’s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.”



Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. “You are very pressing, Basil,

but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the

Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon

Street. I am nearly always at home at five o’clock. Write to me when

you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.”



“Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go,

too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is

horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask

him to stay. I insist upon it.”



“Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,” said Hallward,

gazing intently at his picture. “It is quite true, I never talk when I

am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious

for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.”



“But what about my man at the Orleans?”



The painter laughed. “I don’t think there will be any difficulty about

that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,

and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry

says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single

exception of myself.”



Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek

martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom

he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a

delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few

moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord

Henry? As bad as Basil says?”



“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is

immoral—immoral from the scientific point of view.”



“Why?”



“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does

not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His

virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as

sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an

actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is

self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each

of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have

forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s

self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe

the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone

out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,

which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of

religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—”



“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good

boy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look

had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.



“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with

that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of

him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man

were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to

every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I

believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we

would forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the

Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it

may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The

mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial

that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse

that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body

sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of

purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,

or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is

to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for

the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its

monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that

the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the

brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place

also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your

rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,

thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping

dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—”



“Stop!” faltered Dorian Gray, “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t know what

to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don’t speak.

Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.”



For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and

eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh

influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come

really from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had said to

him—words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in

them—had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before,

but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.



Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But

music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another

chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they

were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them.

And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able

to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their

own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything

so real as words?



Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.

He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It

seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known

it?



With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise

psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested.

He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced,

and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book

which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he

wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.

He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How

fascinating the lad was!



Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had

the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes

only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.



“Basil, I am tired of standing,” cried Dorian Gray suddenly. “I must go

out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.”



“My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can’t think of

anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And

I have caught the effect I wanted—the half-parted lips and the bright

look in the eyes. I don’t know what Harry has been saying to you, but

he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose

he has been paying you compliments. You mustn’t believe a word that he

says.”



“He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the

reason that I don’t believe anything he has told me.”



“You know you believe it all,” said Lord Henry, looking at him with his

dreamy languorous eyes. “I will go out to the garden with you. It is

horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink,

something with strawberries in it.”



“Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will

tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I

will join you later on. Don’t keep Dorian too long. I have never been

in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my

masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”



Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his

face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their

perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand

upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured.

“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the

senses but the soul.”



The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had

tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There

was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are

suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some

hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.



“Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of

life—to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means

of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think

you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”



Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking

the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,

olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was

something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His

cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,

as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own.

But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been

left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil

Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered

him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to

have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be

afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be

frightened.



“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought

out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be

quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must

not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.”



“What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on

the seat at the end of the garden.



“It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.”



“Why?”



“Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing

worth having.”



“I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.”



“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and

ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion

branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will

feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it

always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.

Don’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher,

indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great

facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in

dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be

questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of

those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t

smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That

may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me,

beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not

judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not

the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But

what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in

which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your

beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there

are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those

mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than

defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something

dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your

roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You

will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it.

Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying

to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the

ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the

false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!

Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.

Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants.

You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing

you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment

I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,

of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me

that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how

tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time

that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers

wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next

June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the

clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold

its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy

that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses

rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the

passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite

temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!

There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”



Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell

from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for

a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe

of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in

trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make

us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we

cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays

sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the

bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian

convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and

fro.



Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made

staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and

smiled.



“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and

you can bring your drinks.”



They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white

butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of

the garden a thrush began to sing.



“You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, looking at

him.



“Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?”



“Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it.

Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to

make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only

difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice

lasts a little longer.”



As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry’s

arm. “In that case, let our friendship be a caprice,” he murmured,

flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and

resumed his pose.



Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him.

The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that

broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back

to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that

streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The

heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.



After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for

a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture,

biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. “It is quite

finished,” he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in

long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.



Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a

wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.



“My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,” he said. “It is the

finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at

yourself.”



The lad started, as if awakened from some dream.



“Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform.



“Quite finished,” said the painter. “And you have sat splendidly

to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.”



“That is entirely due to me,” broke in Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr.

Gray?”



Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture

and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks

flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes,

as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there

motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to

him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own

beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before.

Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the

charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed

at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had

come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his

terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and

now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full

reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a

day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and

colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet

would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The

life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become

dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.



As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a

knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes

deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt

as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.



“Don’t you like it?” cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the

lad’s silence, not understanding what it meant.



“Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like it? It is

one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you

like to ask for it. I must have it.”



“It is not my property, Harry.”



“Whose property is it?”



“Dorian’s, of course,” answered the painter.



“He is a very lucky fellow.”



“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon

his own portrait. “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and

dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be

older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the other

way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was

to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is

nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for

that!”



“You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,” cried Lord

Henry, laughing. “It would be rather hard lines on your work.”



“I should object very strongly, Harry,” said Hallward.



Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. “I believe you would, Basil. You

like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a

green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.”



The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like

that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed

and his cheeks burning.



“Yes,” he continued, “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your

silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till

I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses

one’s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your

picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth

is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I

shall kill myself.”



Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried,

“don’t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I

shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things,

are you?—you who are finer than any of them!”



“I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of

the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must

lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives

something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture

could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint

it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!” The hot tears welled

into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the

divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.



“This is your doing, Harry,” said the painter bitterly.



Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “It is the real Dorian Gray—that is

all.”



“It is not.”



“If it is not, what have I to do with it?”



“You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered.



“I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer.



“Harry, I can’t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between

you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever

done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will

not let it come across our three lives and mar them.”



Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid

face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal

painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was

he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin

tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long

palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at

last. He was going to rip up the canvas.



With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to

Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of

the studio. “Don’t, Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would be murder!”



“I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,” said the painter

coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. “I never thought you

would.”



“Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I

feel that.”



“Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and

sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.” And he walked

across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will have tea, of

course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple

pleasures?”



“I adore simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge

of the complex. But I don’t like scenes, except on the stage. What

absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as

a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man

is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after

all—though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You

had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn’t really

want it, and I really do.”



“If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!”

cried Dorian Gray; “and I don’t allow people to call me a silly boy.”



“You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it

existed.”



“And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you

don’t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.”



“I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.”



“Ah! this morning! You have lived since then.”



There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden

tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a

rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.

Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray

went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to

the table and examined what was under the covers.



“Let us go to the theatre to-night,” said Lord Henry. “There is sure to

be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White’s, but it

is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am

ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent

engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have

all the surprise of candour.”



“It is such a bore putting on one’s dress-clothes,” muttered Hallward.

“And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.”



“Yes,” answered Lord Henry dreamily, “the costume of the nineteenth

century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only

real colour-element left in modern life.”



“You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.”



“Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one

in the picture?”



“Before either.”



“I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,” said the

lad.



“Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”



“I can’t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.”



“Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.”



“I should like that awfully.”



The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture.

“I shall stay with the real Dorian,” he said, sadly.



“Is it the real Dorian?” cried the original of the portrait, strolling

across to him. “Am I really like that?”



“Yes; you are just like that.”



“How wonderful, Basil!”



“At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,”

sighed Hallward. “That is something.”



“What a fuss people make about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord Henry. “Why,

even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to

do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old

men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.”



“Don’t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stop and

dine with me.”



“I can’t, Basil.”



“Why?”



“Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.”



“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always

breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”



Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.



“I entreat you.”



The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them

from the tea-table with an amused smile.



“I must go, Basil,” he answered.



“Very well,” said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on

the tray. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better

lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon.

Come to-morrow.”



“Certainly.”



“You won’t forget?”



“No, of course not,” cried Dorian.



“And ... Harry!”



“Yes, Basil?”



“Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.”



“I have forgotten it.”



“I trust you.”



“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Henry, laughing. “Come, Mr.

Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place.

Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”



As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a

sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.









CHAPTER III.





At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon

Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial

if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called

selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was

considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His

father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and

Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a

capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at

Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by

reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches,

and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his

father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat

foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months

later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great

aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town

houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and

took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the

management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself

for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of

having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of

burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when

the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them

for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied

him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn.

Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the

country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but

there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.



When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough

shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. “Well,

Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I

thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till

five.”



“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get

something out of you.”



“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. “Well, sit

down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that

money is everything.”



“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; “and

when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only

people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay

mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly

upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and

consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not

useful information, of course; useless information.”



“Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,

although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in

the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in

now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure

humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite

enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for

him.”



“Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George,” said

Lord Henry languidly.



“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy

white eyebrows.



“That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who

he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux,

Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What

was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in

your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in

Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.”



“Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson! ... Of

course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her

christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret

Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless

young fellow—a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or

something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it

happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few

months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said

Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his

son-in-law in public—paid him, sir, to do it, paid him—and that the

fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed

up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time

afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she

never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl

died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had

forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he

must be a good-looking chap.”



“He is very good-looking,” assented Lord Henry.



“I hope he will fall into proper hands,” continued the old man. “He

should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing

by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her,

through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a

mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I

was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble

who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made

quite a story of it. I didn’t dare show my face at Court for a month. I

hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.”



“I don’t know,” answered Lord Henry. “I fancy that the boy will be well

off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ...

his mother was very beautiful?”



“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw,

Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could

understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was

mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family

were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.

Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at

him, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after

him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this

humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an

American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?”



“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”



“I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,” said Lord Fermor,

striking the table with his fist.



“The betting is on the Americans.”



“They don’t last, I am told,” muttered his uncle.



“A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a

steeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a

chance.”



“Who are her people?” grumbled the old gentleman. “Has she got any?”



Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing

their parents, as English women are at concealing their past,” he said,

rising to go.



“They are pork-packers, I suppose?”



“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that

pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after

politics.”



“Is she pretty?”



“She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the

secret of their charm.”



“Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are

always telling us that it is the paradise for women.”



“It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively

anxious to get out of it,” said Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle George. I

shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the

information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new

friends, and nothing about my old ones.”



“Where are you lunching, Harry?”



“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest

_protégé_.”



“Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with

her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that

I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.”



“All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect.

Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their

distinguishing characteristic.”



The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his

servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and

turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.



So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had

been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a

strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything

for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a

hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child

born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to

solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an

interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it

were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something

tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might

blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as

with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat

opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer

rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing

upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the

bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of

influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into

some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s

own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of

passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though

it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in

that—perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited

and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and

grossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad,

whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio, or could be

fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the

white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for

us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made

a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to

fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how

interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at

life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who

was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim

woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself,

Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there

had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful

things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it

were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they

were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose

shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something

like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had

first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the

coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was

strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without

knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful

portrait. He would seek to dominate him—had already, indeed, half done

so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something

fascinating in this son of love and death.



Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had

passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.

When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they

had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and

passed into the dining-room.



“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.



He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to

her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from

the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek.

Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and

good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample

architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are

described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on

her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who

followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the

best cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, in

accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was

occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable

charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence,

having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he

had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur,

one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so

dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book.

Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most

intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement

in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely

earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once

himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of

them ever quite escape.



“We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the duchess,

nodding pleasantly to him across the table. “Do you think he will

really marry this fascinating young person?”



“I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.”



“How dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha. “Really, some one should

interfere.”



“I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American

dry-goods store,” said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.



“My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.”



“Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?” asked the duchess, raising

her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb.



“American novels,” answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.



The duchess looked puzzled.



“Don’t mind him, my dear,” whispered Lady Agatha. “He never means

anything that he says.”



“When America was discovered,” said the Radical member—and he began to

give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a

subject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised

her privilege of interruption. “I wish to goodness it never had been

discovered at all!” she exclaimed. “Really, our girls have no chance

nowadays. It is most unfair.”



“Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,” said Mr.

Erskine; “I myself would say that it had merely been detected.”



“Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,” answered the

duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most of them are extremely

pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris.

I wish I could afford to do the same.”



“They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir

Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes.



“Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?” inquired the

duchess.



“They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry.



Sir Thomas frowned. “I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against

that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I have travelled all over

it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are

extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.”



“But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?” asked Mr.

Erskine plaintively. “I don’t feel up to the journey.”



Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on

his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about

them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are

absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing

characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I

assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.”



“How dreadful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can stand brute force, but brute

reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It

is hitting below the intellect.”



“I do not understand you,” said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.



“I do, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.



“Paradoxes are all very well in their way....” rejoined the baronet.



“Was that a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I did not think so. Perhaps

it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test reality

we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities become acrobats, we

can judge them.”



“Dear me!” said Lady Agatha, “how you men argue! I am sure I never can

make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with

you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the

East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love

his playing.”



“I want him to play to me,” cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked

down the table and caught a bright answering glance.



“But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” continued Lady Agatha.



“I can sympathize with everything except suffering,” said Lord Henry,

shrugging his shoulders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too

ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid

in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize with the

colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores,

the better.”



“Still, the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas

with a grave shake of the head.



“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and

we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”



The politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose,

then?” he asked.



Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England

except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic

contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through

an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal

to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that

they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not

emotional.”



“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur

timidly.



“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha.



Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too

seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how

to laugh, history would have been different.”



“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always

felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no

interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look

her in the face without a blush.”



“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry.



“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself

blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell

me how to become young again.”



He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you

committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across

the table.



“A great many, I fear,” she cried.



“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s

youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”



“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”



“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha

shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.



“Yes,” he continued, “that is one of the great secrets of life.

Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and

discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are

one’s mistakes.”



A laugh ran round the table.



He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and

transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent

with fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went

on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and

catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her

wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the

hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled

before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge

press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round

her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over

the vat’s black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary

improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him,

and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose

temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and

to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic,

irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they

followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him,

but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips

and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.



At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room

in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was

waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she

cried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take

him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be

in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t

have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would

ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are

quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know

what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some

night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?”



“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a

bow.



“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you

come”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the

other ladies.



When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking

a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.



“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?”



“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I

should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely

as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in

England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of

all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty

of literature.”



“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have

literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young

friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really

meant all that you said to us at lunch?”



“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?”



“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if

anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being

primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The

generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are

tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your

philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate

enough to possess.”



“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It

has a perfect host, and a perfect library.”



“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous

bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at

the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”



“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”



“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English

Academy of Letters.”



Lord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried.



As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm.

“Let me come with you,” he murmured.



“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,”

answered Lord Henry.



“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let

me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so

wonderfully as you do.”



“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling.

“All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with

me, if you care to.”









CHAPTER IV.





One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious

arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It

was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled

wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling

of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk,

long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette

by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for

Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies

that Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars and

parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small

leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a

summer day in London.



Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, his

principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was

looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages

of an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he had

found in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of the

Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going

away.



At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. “How late you

are, Harry!” he murmured.



“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” answered a shrill voice.



He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I

thought—”



“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me

introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my

husband has got seventeen of them.”



“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”



“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the

opera.” She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her

vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always

looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.

She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never

returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look

picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria,

and she had a perfect mania for going to church.



“That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?”



“Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner’s music better than

anybody’s. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other

people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don’t you

think so, Mr. Gray?”



The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her

fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife.



Dorian smiled and shook his head: “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady

Henry. I never talk during music—at least, during good music. If one

hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it in conversation.”



“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear

Harry’s views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know of

them. But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I

am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped

pianists—two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don’t know what it

is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are,

ain’t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after

a time, don’t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to

art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You have never been to

any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford

orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one’s rooms

look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came in to look for

you, to ask you something—I forget what it was—and I found Mr. Gray

here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the

same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been

most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”



“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his

dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused

smile. “So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old

brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays

people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”



“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an

awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive

with the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining

out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”



“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her

as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the

rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of

frangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the

sofa.



“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said after a

few puffs.



“Why, Harry?”



“Because they are so sentimental.”



“But I like sentimental people.”



“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women,

because they are curious: both are disappointed.”



“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That

is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do

everything that you say.”



“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause.



“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.



Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace

_début_.”



“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”



“Who is she?”



“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”



“Never heard of her.”



“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”



“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They

never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent

the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of

mind over morals.”



“Harry, how can you?”



“My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, so

I ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I

find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and

the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a

reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to

supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake,

however. They paint in order to try and look young. Our grandmothers

painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _Rouge_ and _esprit_ used

to go together. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten

years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for

conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and

two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me

about your genius. How long have you known her?”



“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.”



“Never mind that. How long have you known her?”



“About three weeks.”



“And where did you come across her?”



“I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it.

After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You

filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days

after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in

the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who

passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they

led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There

was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations....

Well, one evening about seven o’clock, I determined to go out in search

of some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with

its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as

you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a

thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I

remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we

first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret

of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered

eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black

grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd little

theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous

Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was

standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets,

and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ‘Have a

box, my Lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an

air of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that

amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I

really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the

present day I can’t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn’t—my dear

Harry, if I hadn’t—I should have missed the greatest romance of my

life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!”



“I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you

should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the

first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will

always be in love with love. A _grande passion_ is the privilege of

people who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classes

of a country. Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for

you. This is merely the beginning.”



“Do you think my nature so shallow?” cried Dorian Gray angrily.



“No; I think your nature so deep.”



“How do you mean?”



“My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really

the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I

call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination.

Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life

of the intellect—simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! I must

analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. There are many

things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might

pick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your

story.”



“Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a

vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind the

curtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and

cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were

fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and

there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the

dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there

was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.”



“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama.”



“Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonder what

on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you

think the play was, Harry?”



“I should think ‘The Idiot Boy’, or ‘Dumb but Innocent’. Our fathers

used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian,

the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is

not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont

toujours tort_.”



“This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I

must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare

done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a

sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There

was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who sat at a

cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene

was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman,

with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a

beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the

low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most

friendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as the

scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. But

Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a

little, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of

dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were

like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen

in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that

beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you,

Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came

across me. And her voice—I never heard such a voice. It was very low at

first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one’s

ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a

distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy

that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There

were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You

know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane

are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear

them, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to

follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is

everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One

evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have

seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from

her lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of

Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.

She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and

given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been

innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike

throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary

women never appeal to one’s imagination. They are limited to their

century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as

easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is

no mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning and

chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped

smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an

actress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn’t you tell me

that the only thing worth loving is an actress?”



“Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”



“Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.”



“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary

charm in them, sometimes,” said Lord Henry.



“I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”



“You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life

you will tell me everything you do.”



“Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things.

You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would

come and confess it to you. You would understand me.”



“People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don’t commit crimes,

Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now

tell me—reach me the matches, like a good boy—thanks—what are your

actual relations with Sibyl Vane?”



Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.

“Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!”



“It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,” said

Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why

should you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When

one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one

always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a

romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?”



“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the

horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over and

offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was

furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds

of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I

think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the

impression that I had taken too much champagne, or something.”



“I am not surprised.”



“Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I

never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and

confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy

against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought.”



“I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the other

hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all

expensive.”



“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” laughed Dorian.

“By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre,

and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly

recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the

place again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that I

was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though

he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with

an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to ‘The

Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a

distinction.”



“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most people

become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of

life. To have ruined one’s self over poetry is an honour. But when did

you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”



“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going

round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me—at least

I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed

determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not

wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”



“No; I don’t think so.”



“My dear Harry, why?”



“I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.”



“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of a child

about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her

what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of

her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood

grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate

speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like

children. He would insist on calling me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure

Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me,

‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”



“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.”



“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in

a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded

tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta

dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen

better days.”



“I know that look. It depresses me,” murmured Lord Henry, examining his

rings.



“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest

me.”



“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about

other people’s tragedies.”



“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came

from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and

entirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and every

night she is more marvellous.”



“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. I

thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is

not quite what I expected.”



“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have

been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his

blue eyes in wonder.



“You always come dreadfully late.”



“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play,” he cried, “even if it is

only for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think

of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I

am filled with awe.”



“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”



He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and

to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”



“When is she Sibyl Vane?”



“Never.”



“I congratulate you.”



“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one.

She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has

genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the

secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to

make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our

laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their

dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry,

how I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke.

Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.



Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different

he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s

studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of

scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and

desire had come to meet it on the way.



“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry at last.



“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I

have not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain to

acknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands.

She is bound to him for three years—at least for two years and eight

months—from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, of

course. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre and

bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made

me.”



“That would be impossible, my dear boy.”



“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in

her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it

is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”



“Well, what night shall we go?”



“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet

to-morrow.”



“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”



“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the

curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets

Romeo.”



“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, or

reading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines before

seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to

him?”



“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather

horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful

frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous

of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit

that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want

to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good

advice.”



Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need

most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”



“Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit

of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered

that.”



“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his

work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his

prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I

have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good

artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly

uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is

the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely

fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they

look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets

makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot

write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”



“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some

perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that

stood on the table. “It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.

Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.”



As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began

to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as

Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused

him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by

it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled

by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of

that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had

begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.

Human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.

Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as

one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one

could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous

fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with

monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle

that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were

maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to

understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received!

How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard

logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect—to

observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they

were in unison, and at what point they were at discord—there was a

delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too

high a price for any sensation.



He was conscious—and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his

brown agate eyes—that it was through certain words of his, musical

words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned

to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent

the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was

something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its

secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were

revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect

of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately

with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex

personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed,

in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces,

just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.



Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was

yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was

becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his

beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It

was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one

of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be

remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and

whose wounds are like red roses.



Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they were! There was

animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.

The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say

where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How

shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And

yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools!

Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body

really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit

from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a

mystery also.



He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a

science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it

was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others.

Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to

their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of

warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation

of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow

and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in

experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself.

All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same

as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we

would do many times, and with joy.



It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by

which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and

certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to

promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane

was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt

that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new

experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex

passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of

boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination,

changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from

sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the

passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most

strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we

were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were

experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.



While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the

door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for

dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had

smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The

panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a

faded rose. He thought of his friend’s young fiery-coloured life and

wondered how it was all going to end.



When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram

lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian

Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl

Vane.









CHAPTER V.





“Mother, Mother, I am so happy!” whispered the girl, burying her face

in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to

the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their

dingy sitting-room contained. “I am so happy!” she repeated, “and you

must be happy, too!”



Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her

daughter’s head. “Happy!” she echoed, “I am only happy, Sibyl, when I

see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs

has been very good to us, and we owe him money.”



The girl looked up and pouted. “Money, Mother?” she cried, “what does

money matter? Love is more than money.”



“Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to

get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty

pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate.”



“He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,”

said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window.



“I don’t know how we could manage without him,” answered the elder

woman querulously.



Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. “We don’t want him any more,

Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now.” Then she paused. A rose

shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the

petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept

over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. “I love him,” she

said simply.



“Foolish child! foolish child!” was the parrot-phrase flung in answer.

The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the

words.



The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her

eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a

moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a

dream had passed across them.



Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at

prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name

of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of

passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on

memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it

had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids

were warm with his breath.



Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This

young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against

the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of

craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled.



Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her.

“Mother, Mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so much? I know why I

love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be.

But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet—why, I

cannot tell—though I feel so much beneath him, I don’t feel humble. I

feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love

Prince Charming?”



The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her

cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to

her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me,

Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains

you because you loved him so much. Don’t look so sad. I am as happy

to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!”



“My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides,

what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The

whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away

to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you

should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he

is rich ...”



“Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!”



Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical

gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a

stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened

and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was

thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat

clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would

hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them.

Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally

elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the

_tableau_ was interesting.



“You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think,” said the

lad with a good-natured grumble.



“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a

dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him.



James Vane looked into his sister’s face with tenderness. “I want you

to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don’t suppose I shall ever see

this horrid London again. I am sure I don’t want to.”



“My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up

a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She

felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would

have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation.



“Why not, Mother? I mean it.”



“You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a

position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the

Colonies—nothing that I would call society—so when you have made your

fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London.”



“Society!” muttered the lad. “I don’t want to know anything about that.

I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I

hate it.”



“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl, laughing, “how unkind of you! But are you really

going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were

going to say good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave

you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking

it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where

shall we go? Let us go to the park.”



“I am too shabby,” he answered, frowning. “Only swell people go to the

park.”



“Nonsense, Jim,” she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.



He hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he said at last, “but don’t be

too long dressing.” She danced out of the door. One could hear her

singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.



He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to

the still figure in the chair. “Mother, are my things ready?” he asked.



“Quite ready, James,” she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For

some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this

rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when

their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The

silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her.

She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as

they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. “I hope you will be

contented, James, with your sea-faring life,” she said. “You must

remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a

solicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the

country often dine with the best families.”



“I hate offices, and I hate clerks,” he replied. “But you are quite

right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don’t

let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her.”



“James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl.”



“I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to

talk to her. Is that right? What about that?”



“You are speaking about things you don’t understand, James. In the

profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying

attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was

when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at

present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt

that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always

most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and

the flowers he sends are lovely.”



“You don’t know his name, though,” said the lad harshly.



“No,” answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. “He has

not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He

is probably a member of the aristocracy.”



James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch

over her.”



“My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special

care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why

she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the

aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a

most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.

His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them.”



The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane

with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when

the door opened and Sibyl ran in.



“How serious you both are!” she cried. “What is the matter?”



“Nothing,” he answered. “I suppose one must be serious sometimes.

Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is

packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.”



“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained stateliness.



She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and

there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.



“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the

withered cheek and warmed its frost.



“My child! my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in

search of an imaginary gallery.



“Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother’s

affectations.



They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled

down the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the

sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the

company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a common

gardener walking with a rose.



Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of

some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on

geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however,

was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was

trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of Prince Charming,

and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him,

but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about

the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life

he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not

to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be.

Oh, no! A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a

horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a

black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long

screaming ribands! He was to leave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a

polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields.

Before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure

gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it

down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The

bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with

immense slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all.

They were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other

in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,

and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful

heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase,

and rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with

her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense

house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him.

But he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money

foolishly. She was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much

more of life. He must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and

to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very

good, and would watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a

few years he would come back quite rich and happy.



The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sick

at leaving home.



Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose.

Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger

of Sibyl’s position. This young dandy who was making love to her could

mean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated

him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,

and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was

conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother’s nature,

and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness.

Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge

them; sometimes they forgive them.



His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something that

he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that he

had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears

one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of

horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of a

hunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedge-like

furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip.



“You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim,” cried Sibyl, “and I

am making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something.”



“What do you want me to say?”



“Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us,” she answered,

smiling at him.



He shrugged his shoulders. “You are more likely to forget me than I am

to forget you, Sibyl.”



She flushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked.



“You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told me

about him? He means you no good.”



“Stop, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You must not say anything against him. I

love him.”



“Why, you don’t even know his name,” answered the lad. “Who is he? I

have a right to know.”



“He is called Prince Charming. Don’t you like the name? Oh! you silly

boy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would think

him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meet

him—when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much.

Everybody likes him, and I ... love him. I wish you could come to the

theatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh!

how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet! To have

him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I may frighten

the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is to surpass

one’s self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting ‘genius’ to his

loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will

announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, his only,

Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I am poor

beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps in at the

door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs want rewriting.

They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, I

think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies.”



“He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly.



“A prince!” she cried musically. “What more do you want?”



“He wants to enslave you.”



“I shudder at the thought of being free.”



“I want you to beware of him.”



“To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him.”



“Sibyl, you are mad about him.”



She laughed and took his arm. “You dear old Jim, you talk as if you

were a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will

know what it is. Don’t look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to

think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I have

ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and

difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new world,

and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the

smart people go by.”



They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-beds across

the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust—tremulous

cloud of orris-root it seemed—hung in the panting air. The brightly

coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies.



She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He

spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as

players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not

communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all

the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly she

caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open

carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past.



She started to her feet. “There he is!” she cried.



“Who?” said Jim Vane.



“Prince Charming,” she answered, looking after the victoria.



He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. “Show him to me. Which

is he? Point him out. I must see him!” he exclaimed; but at that moment

the Duke of Berwick’s four-in-hand came between, and when it had left

the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park.



“He is gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly. “I wish you had seen him.”



“I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does

you any wrong, I shall kill him.”



She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air

like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close to

her tittered.



“Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered. He followed her doggedly as

she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.



When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There was pity

in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her head at

him. “You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that

is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don’t know what you

are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I wish you

would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said was

wicked.”



“I am sixteen,” he answered, “and I know what I am about. Mother is no

help to you. She doesn’t understand how to look after you. I wish now

that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuck

the whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn’t been signed.”



“Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those

silly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going

to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect

happiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I

love, would you?”



“Not as long as you love him, I suppose,” was the sullen answer.



“I shall love him for ever!” she cried.



“And he?”



“For ever, too!”



“He had better.”



She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He

was merely a boy.



At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to

their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock, and

Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted

that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when

their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he

detested scenes of every kind.



In Sybil’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart,

and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him,

had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck,

and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her

with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went

downstairs.



His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his

unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his

meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the

stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of

street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that

was left to him.



After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his

hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to

him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother

watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace

handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got

up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their

eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.



“Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes wandered

vaguely about the room. She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. I have

a right to know. Were you married to my father?”



She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment,

the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded,

had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure

it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question

called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up

to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.



“No,” she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.



“My father was a scoundrel then!” cried the lad, clenching his fists.



She shook her head. “I knew he was not free. We loved each other very

much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak

against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he

was highly connected.”



An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed,

“but don’t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love

with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.”



For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her

head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “Sibyl has a

mother,” she murmured; “I had none.”



The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed

her. “I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,” he

said, “but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget

that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me

that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him

down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.”



The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that

accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid

to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely,

and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She

would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional

scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers

looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the

bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It

was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the

tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She

was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled

herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now

that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase.

It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and

dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some

day.









CHAPTER VI.





“I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that

evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol

where dinner had been laid for three.



“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing

waiter. “What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don’t

interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons

worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little

whitewashing.”



“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him

as he spoke.



Hallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he

cried. “Impossible!”



“It is perfectly true.”



“To whom?”



“To some little actress or other.”



“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”



“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear

Basil.”



“Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.”



“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “But I didn’t say

he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great

difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have

no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I

never was engaged.”



“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be

absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.”



“If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is

sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it

is always from the noblest motives.”



“I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to

some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his

intellect.”



“Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful,” murmured Lord Henry,

sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. “Dorian says she is

beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your

portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal

appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst

others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his

appointment.”



“Are you serious?”



“Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever

be more serious than I am at the present moment.”



“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walking up and

down the room and biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it, possibly.

It is some silly infatuation.”



“I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd

attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air

our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people

say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a

personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality

selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with

a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?

If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know

I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that

it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack

individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage

makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other

egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more

highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the

object of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and

whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I

hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore

her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one

else. He would be a wonderful study.”



“You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t.

If Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than

yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.”



Lord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think so well of others

is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer

terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour

with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to

us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find

good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our

pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest

contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but

one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have

merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,

but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I

will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being

fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I

can.”



“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the

lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and

shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. “I have never been so

happy. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are. And

yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my

life.” He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked

extraordinarily handsome.



“I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward, “but I

don’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.

You let Harry know.”



“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord

Henry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder and smiling as he spoke.

“Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and

then you will tell us how it all came about.”



“There is really not much to tell,” cried Dorian as they took their

seats at the small round table. “What happened was simply this. After I

left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that

little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and

went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.

Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!

You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she

was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with

cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little

green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak

lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had

all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your

studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round

a pale rose. As for her acting—well, you shall see her to-night. She is

simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I

forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away

with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the

performance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were

sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had

never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each

other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to

me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of

rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white

narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I

feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of

course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own

mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to

be furious. I don’t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and

then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take

my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips

that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.

I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the

mouth.”



“Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,” said Hallward slowly.



“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord Henry.



Dorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the forest of Arden; I shall

find her in an orchard in Verona.”



Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. “At what

particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what

did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.”



“My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did

not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said

she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is

nothing to me compared with her.”



“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more

practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to

say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”



Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed

Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any

one. His nature is too fine for that.”



Lord Henry looked across the table. “Dorian is never annoyed with me,”

he answered. “I asked the question for the best reason possible, for

the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any

question—simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women

who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of

course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not

modern.”



Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. “You are quite incorrigible,

Harry; but I don’t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When

you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her

would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any

one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to

place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman

who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for

that. Ah! don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her

trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her,

I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you

have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s

hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,

delightful theories.”



“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.



“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories

about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.”



“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered

in his slow melodious voice. “But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory

as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test,

her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when

we are good, we are not always happy.”



“Ah! but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward.



“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord

Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the

centre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?”



“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touching

the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.

“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own

life—that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours,

if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral

views about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides,

individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in

accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of

culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest

immorality.”



“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a

terrible price for doing so?” suggested the painter.



“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that

the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but

self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege

of the rich.”



“One has to pay in other ways but money.”



“What sort of ways, Basil?”



“Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the

consciousness of degradation.”



Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, mediæval art is

charming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in

fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in

fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,

no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever

knows what a pleasure is.”



“I know what pleasure is,” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to adore some

one.”



“That is certainly better than being adored,” he answered, toying with

some fruits. “Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as

humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us

to do something for them.”



“I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to

us,” murmured the lad gravely. “They create love in our natures. They

have a right to demand it back.”



“That is quite true, Dorian,” cried Hallward.



“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry.



“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry, that women give

to men the very gold of their lives.”



“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want it back in such very

small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once

put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always

prevent us from carrying them out.”



“Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.”



“You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have some

coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and

some cigarettes. No, don’t mind the cigarettes—I have some. Basil, I

can’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette

is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it

leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will

always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never

had the courage to commit.”



“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a

fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.

“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will

have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you

have never known.”



“I have known everything,” said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his

eyes, “but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,

that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful

girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.

Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but

there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a

hansom.”



They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The

painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He

could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better

than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,

they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been

arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in

front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that

Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the

past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded

flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the

theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.









CHAPTER VII.





For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat

Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with

an oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of

pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top

of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he

had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry,

upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared he did, and

insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud

to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a

poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. The

heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a

monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youths in the gallery

had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side.

They talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges

with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some women were laughing in

the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of

the popping of corks came from the bar.



“What a place to find one’s divinity in!” said Lord Henry.



“Yes!” answered Dorian Gray. “It was here I found her, and she is

divine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forget

everything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces and

brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. They

sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them to

do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them,

and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one’s self.”



“The same flesh and blood as one’s self! Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed

Lord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his

opera-glass.



“Don’t pay any attention to him, Dorian,” said the painter. “I

understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love

must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must

be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age—that is something worth

doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without

one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have

been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and

lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of

all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage

is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The

gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been

incomplete.”



“Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that

you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here

is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about

five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom

I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is

good in me.”



A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of

applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly

lovely to look at—one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought,

that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace

and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror

of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded

enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to

tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.

Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord

Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, “Charming! charming!”



The scene was the hall of Capulet’s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim’s

dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such

as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through

the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a

creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a

plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a

white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.



Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes

rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak—



Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

    Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,

    And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss—





with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly

artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view

of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away

all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal.



Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious.

Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them

to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed.



Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of

the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was

nothing in her.



She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be

denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse

as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She

overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage—



Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night—





was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been

taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she

leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines—



Although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night:

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be

Ere one can say, “It lightens.” Sweet, good-night!

This bud of love by summer’s ripening breath

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet—





she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was

not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely

self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure.



Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their

interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and

to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the

dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was

the girl herself.



When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord

Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. “She is quite

beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let us go.”



“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard

bitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an

evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”



“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted

Hallward. “We will come some other night.”



“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply

callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great

artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”



“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more

wonderful thing than art.”



“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But do

let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good

for one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will

want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like

a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about

life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience.

There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people

who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.

Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of

remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to

the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to

the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”



“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must

go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to

his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he

leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.



“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his

voice, and the two young men passed out together.



A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose

on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,

and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed

interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots

and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played

to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some

groans.



As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the

greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on

her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a

radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of

their own.



When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy

came over her. “How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!” she cried.



“Horribly!” he answered, gazing at her in amazement. “Horribly! It was

dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea

what I suffered.”



The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, lingering over his name with

long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to

the red petals of her mouth. “Dorian, you should have understood. But

you understand now, don’t you?”



“Understand what?” he asked, angrily.



“Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall

never act well again.”



He shrugged his shoulders. “You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill

you shouldn’t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored.

I was bored.”



She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An

ecstasy of happiness dominated her.



“Dorian, Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, acting was the one

reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought

that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other.

The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine

also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me

seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew

nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came—oh, my beautiful

love!—and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality

really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the

hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had

always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that

the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the

orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I

had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to

say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is

but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My

love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of

shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do

with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not

understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that

I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly

it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to

me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love

such as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can

be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not

feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian,

Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it

would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me

see that.”



He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. “You have

killed my love,” he muttered.



She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came

across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt

down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a

shudder ran through him.



Then he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have

killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even

stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because

you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you

realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the

shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and

stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You

are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think

of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to

me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had

never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How

little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your

art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,

magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have

borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty

face.”



The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and

her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?”

she murmured. “You are acting.”



“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.



She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her

face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and

looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t touch me!” he cried.



A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay

there like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she

whispered. “I am so sorry I didn’t act well. I was thinking of you all

the time. But I will try—indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across

me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had

not kissed me—if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love.

Don’t go away from me. I couldn’t bear it. Oh! don’t go away from me.

My brother ... No; never mind. He didn’t mean it. He was in jest....

But you, oh! can’t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and

try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you better than

anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not

pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown

myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn’t help

it. Oh, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.” A fit of passionate sobbing

choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian

Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled

lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous

about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane

seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed

him.



“I am going,” he said at last in his calm clear voice. “I don’t wish to

be unkind, but I can’t see you again. You have disappointed me.”



She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little

hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He

turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of

the theatre.



Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly

lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking

houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after

him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like

monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,

and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.



As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden.

The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed

itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies

rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with

the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an

anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men

unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some

cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money

for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at

midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long

line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red

roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge,

jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey,

sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,

waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging

doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped

and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings.

Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked

and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.



After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few

moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent

square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds.

The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like

silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke

was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air.



In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge’s barge, that

hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance,

lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals

of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and,

having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library

towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the

ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had

decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries

that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As

he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait

Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise.

Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he

had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate.

Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In

the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk

blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression

looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty

in the mouth. It was certainly strange.



He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The

bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky

corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he

had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be

more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the

lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking

into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.



He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory

Cupids, one of Lord Henry’s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly

into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What

did it mean?



He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it

again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual

painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had

altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly

apparent.



He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there

flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward’s studio the

day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He

had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the

portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the

face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that

the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and

thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness

of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been

fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to

think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the

touch of cruelty in the mouth.



Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl’s fault, not his. He had

dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he

had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been

shallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over

him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little

child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had

he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him? But he

had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had

lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. His

life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had

wounded her for an age. Besides, women were better suited to bear

sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of

their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one

with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and

Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl

Vane? She was nothing to him now.



But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his

life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty.

Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it

again?



No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The

horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly

there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men

mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.



Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel

smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met

his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted

image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, and would

alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses

would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and

wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or

unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would

resist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more—would not, at

any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil

Hallward’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for

impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,

marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She

must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfish

and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would

return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be

beautiful and pure.



He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the

portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. “How horrible!” he murmured

to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When he

stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning

air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only of

Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name

over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched

garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.









CHAPTER VIII.





It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several times

on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered

what made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and

Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a

small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains,

with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall

windows.



“Monsieur has well slept this morning,” he said, smiling.



“What o’clock is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray drowsily.



“One hour and a quarter, Monsieur.”



How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his

letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand

that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The

others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of

cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of

charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young

men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for

a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the

courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned

people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary

things are our only necessities; and there were several very

courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lenders

offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the

most reasonable rates of interest.



After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate

dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the

onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep.

He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. A dim sense

of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice,

but there was the unreality of a dream about it.



As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a

light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round

table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air

seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the

blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before

him. He felt perfectly happy.



Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the

portrait, and he started.



“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked his valet, putting an omelette on the

table. “I shut the window?”



Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured.



Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply

his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there

had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? The

thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It

would make him smile.



And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First in

the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of

cruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the

room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the

portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes

had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to

tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him

back. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a

moment. “I am not at home to any one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The

man bowed and retired.



Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on

a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screen

was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a

rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously,

wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man’s life.



Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? What was

the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If it was

not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate or deadlier

chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?

What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own

picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had to be

examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful

state of doubt.



He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when he

looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside and

saw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had

altered.



As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he

found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost

scientific interest. That such a change should have taken place was

incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtle

affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form

and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be

that what that soul thought, they realized?—that what it dreamed, they

made true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? He shuddered,

and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the

picture in sickened horror.



One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made him

conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not

too late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His

unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be

transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil

Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would

be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the

fear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could

lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the

degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men

brought upon their souls.



Three o’clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double

chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up the

scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his

way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was

wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, he

went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had

loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. He

covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of

pain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we

feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession,

not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished the

letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.



Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s

voice outside. “My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. I can’t

bear your shutting yourself up like this.”



He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking

still continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry

in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel

with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was

inevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture,

and unlocked the door.



“I am so sorry for it all, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But

you must not think too much about it.”



“Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?” asked the lad.



“Yes, of course,” answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly

pulling off his yellow gloves. “It is dreadful, from one point of view,

but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her,

after the play was over?”



“Yes.”



“I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?”



“I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am

not sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to know

myself better.”



“Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid I would

find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours.”



“I have got through all that,” said Dorian, shaking his head and

smiling. “I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, to begin

with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinest thing in

us. Don’t sneer at it, Harry, any more—at least not before me. I want

to be good. I can’t bear the idea of my soul being hideous.”



“A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate you

on it. But how are you going to begin?”



“By marrying Sibyl Vane.”



“Marrying Sibyl Vane!” cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him

in perplexed amazement. “But, my dear Dorian—”



“Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadful about

marriage. Don’t say it. Don’t ever say things of that kind to me again.

Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going to break my word

to her. She is to be my wife.”



“Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this

morning, and sent the note down by my own man.”



“Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I was

afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn’t like. You cut

life to pieces with your epigrams.”



“You know nothing then?”



“What do you mean?”



Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,

took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he

said, “my letter—don’t be frightened—was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is

dead.”



A cry of pain broke from the lad’s lips, and he leaped to his feet,

tearing his hands away from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It

is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?”



“It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, gravely. “It is in all the

morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till

I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not

be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris.

But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should never make

one’s _début_ with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an

interest to one’s old age. I suppose they don’t know your name at the

theatre? If they don’t, it is all right. Did any one see you going

round to her room? That is an important point.”



Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.

Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, “Harry, did you say an

inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl—? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear

it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once.”



“I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put

in that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving the theatre

with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had

forgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but she

did not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on the

floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake,

some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don’t know what it was, but

it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy it was

prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously.”



“Harry, Harry, it is terrible!” cried the lad.



“Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed

up in it. I see by _The Standard_ that she was seventeen. I should have

thought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, and

seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let this

thing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, and

afterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, and

everybody will be there. You can come to my sister’s box. She has got

some smart women with her.”



“So I have murdered Sibyl Vane,” said Dorian Gray, half to himself,

“murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife.

Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as

happily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then go

on to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. How

extraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book,

Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it has

happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears.

Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in my

life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been

addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent

people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh,

Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was

everything to me. Then came that dreadful night—was it really only last

night?—when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She

explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a

bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me

afraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I

would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My

God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don’t know the danger I am in,

and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for

me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.”



“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case

and producing a gold-latten matchbox, “the only way a woman can ever

reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible

interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been

wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always

be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon

found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman

finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,

or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay

for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been

abject—which, of course, I would not have allowed—but I assure you that

in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”



“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room

and looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my

fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.

I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good

resolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.”



“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific

laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely _nil_.

They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions

that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said

for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they

have no account.”



“Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,

“why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I

don’t think I am heartless. Do you?”



“You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be

entitled to give yourself that name, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry with

his sweet melancholy smile.



The lad frowned. “I don’t like that explanation, Harry,” he rejoined,

“but I am glad you don’t think I am heartless. I am nothing of the

kind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that has

happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simply

like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terrible

beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, but

by which I have not been wounded.”



“It is an interesting question,” said Lord Henry, who found an

exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad’s unconscious egotism, “an

extremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation is

this: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an

inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their

absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack

of style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give us an

impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,

however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses

our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply

appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we find that we are

no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are

both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle

enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that has really happened?

Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had

such an experience. It would have made me in love with love for the

rest of my life. The people who have adored me—there have not been very

many, but there have been some—have always insisted on living on, long

after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have

become stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once for

reminiscences. That awful memory of woman! What a fearful thing it is!

And what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! One should absorb

the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details

are always vulgar.”



“I must sow poppies in my garden,” sighed Dorian.



“There is no necessity,” rejoined his companion. “Life has always

poppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I once

wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic

mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it did

die. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing to sacrifice

the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one

with the terror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—a week ago, at

Lady Hampshire’s, I found myself seated at dinner next the lady in

question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and

digging up the past, and raking up the future. I had buried my romance

in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again and assured me that I

had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that she ate an enormous

dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lack of taste she

showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women

never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act,

and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose

to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, every comedy would

have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce.

They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are

more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the

women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you.

Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do it by going

in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman who wears mauve,

whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of

pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a

great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their

husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one’s face, as if it

were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Its

mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and

I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so vain as being

told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all. Yes;

there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern

life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one.”



“What is that, Harry?” said the lad listlessly.



“Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else’s admirer when one

loses one’s own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. But

really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the

women one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about her

death. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen.

They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with,

such as romance, passion, and love.”



“I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.”



“I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more

than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have

emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all

the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you were splendid. I

have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how

delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the day

before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful,

but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to

everything.”



“What was that, Harry?”



“You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines of

romance—that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; that

if she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen.”



“She will never come to life again now,” muttered the lad, burying his

face in his hands.



“No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you

must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a

strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene

from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived,

and so she has never really died. To you at least she was always a

dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare’s plays and left them

lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare’s music

sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touched actual

life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn

for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was

strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio

died. But don’t waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She was less real

than they are.”



There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and

with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours

faded wearily out of things.



After some time Dorian Gray looked up. “You have explained me to

myself, Harry,” he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. “I felt

all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and I could not

express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again

of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all.

I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous.”



“Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that

you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”



“But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What

then?”



“Ah, then,” said Lord Henry, rising to go, “then, my dear Dorian, you

would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought to

you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that reads

too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. We

cannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to the

club. We are rather late, as it is.”



“I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat

anything. What is the number of your sister’s box?”



“Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see her

name on the door. But I am sorry you won’t come and dine.”



“I don’t feel up to it,” said Dorian listlessly. “But I am awfully

obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly my

best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have.”



“We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian,” answered Lord

Henry, shaking him by the hand. “Good-bye. I shall see you before

nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing.”



As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and in

a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down.

He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take an

interminable time over everything.



As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;

there was no further change in the picture. It had received the news of

Sibyl Vane’s death before he had known of it himself. It was conscious

of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred

the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment

that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Or was it

indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed

within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the

change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.



Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked

death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken her

with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed

him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love would

always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by the

sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more of what

she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre.

When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent

on to the world’s stage to show the supreme reality of love. A

wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he remembered her

childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. He

brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture.



He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or had his

choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and

his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion,

pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins—he was to have

all these things. The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame:

that was all.



A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that

was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery

of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips

that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had sat

before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as

it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood to which

he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be

hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had

so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? The

pity of it! the pity of it!



For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that

existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in

answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain

unchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender

the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance

might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?

Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer

that had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curious

scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influence

upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon

dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,

might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods

and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?

But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by a

prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was to

alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?



For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able to

follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to him

the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so

it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he

would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer.

When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of

chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one

blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life

would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and

fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured

image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything.



He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,

smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was

already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord

Henry was leaning over his chair.









CHAPTER IX.





As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was shown

into the room.



“I am so glad I have found you, Dorian,” he said gravely. “I called

last night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knew

that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really

gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy

might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for me

when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a late

edition of _The Globe_ that I picked up at the club. I came here at

once and was miserable at not finding you. I can’t tell you how

heart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer.

But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl’s mother? For a

moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in the

paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn’t it? But I was afraid of

intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a

state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say about

it all?”



“My dear Basil, how do I know?” murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some

pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass

and looking dreadfully bored. “I was at the opera. You should have come

on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We

were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely.

Don’t talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn’t talk about a thing, it

has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harry says, that gives

reality to things. I may mention that she was not the woman’s only

child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. But he is not on

the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tell me about

yourself and what you are painting.”



“You went to the opera?” said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with a

strained touch of pain in his voice. “You went to the opera while Sibyl

Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me of other

women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl

you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there

are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!”



“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear it!” cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. “You

must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What is past is

past.”



“You call yesterday the past?”



“What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only

shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who is

master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a

pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use

them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”



“Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You

look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come

down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,

and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature in the

whole world. Now, I don’t know what has come over you. You talk as if

you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry’s influence. I see

that.”



The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few

moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. “I owe a great

deal to Harry, Basil,” he said at last, “more than I owe to you. You

only taught me to be vain.”



“Well, I am punished for that, Dorian—or shall be some day.”



“I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he exclaimed, turning round. “I

don’t know what you want. What do you want?”



“I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint,” said the artist sadly.



“Basil,” said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his

shoulder, “you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that Sibyl

Vane had killed herself—”



“Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?” cried

Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.



“My dear Basil! Surely you don’t think it was a vulgar accident? Of

course she killed herself.”



The elder man buried his face in his hands. “How fearful,” he muttered,

and a shudder ran through him.



“No,” said Dorian Gray, “there is nothing fearful about it. It is one

of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who act

lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithful

wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean—middle-class virtue

and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived her

finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night she played—the

night you saw her—she acted badly because she had known the reality of

love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died.

She passed again into the sphere of art. There is something of the

martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of

martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not

think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular

moment—about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would

have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the

news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered

immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can,

except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come

down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled,

and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a

story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty

years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some

unjust law altered—I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded,

and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had absolutely nothing

to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And

besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me

rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic

point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la

consolation des arts_? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered

book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase.

Well, I am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at

Marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could

console one for all the miseries of life. I love beautiful things that

one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work,

carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp—there is much to

be got from all these. But the artistic temperament that they create,

or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. To become the spectator of

one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. I

know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. You have not

realized how I have developed. I was a schoolboy when you knew me. I am

a man now. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I am

different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you must

always be my friend. Of course, I am very fond of Harry. But I know

that you are better than he is. You are not stronger—you are too much

afraid of life—but you are better. And how happy we used to be

together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I

am. There is nothing more to be said.”



The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him,

and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. He

could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, his

indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. There was

so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble.



“Well, Dorian,” he said at length, with a sad smile, “I won’t speak to

you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust your

name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to take

place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?”



Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at

the mention of the word “inquest.” There was something so crude and

vulgar about everything of the kind. “They don’t know my name,” he

answered.



“But surely she did?”



“Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentioned

to any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious to learn

who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince

Charming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl,

Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory of a

few kisses and some broken pathetic words.”



“I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But you

must come and sit to me yourself again. I can’t get on without you.”



“I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!” he exclaimed,

starting back.



The painter stared at him. “My dear boy, what nonsense!” he cried. “Do

you mean to say you don’t like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have

you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. It is the best

thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply

disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. I felt the room

looked different as I came in.”



“My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t imagine I let

him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me sometimes—that

is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strong on the portrait.”



“Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place for

it. Let me see it.” And Hallward walked towards the corner of the room.



A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray’s lips, and he rushed between

the painter and the screen. “Basil,” he said, looking very pale, “you

must not look at it. I don’t wish you to.”



“Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn’t I look at

it?” exclaimed Hallward, laughing.



“If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will never

speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don’t offer

any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you

touch this screen, everything is over between us.”



Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute

amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actually

pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes

were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over.



“Dorian!”



“Don’t speak!”



“But what is the matter? Of course I won’t look at it if you don’t want

me to,” he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over

towards the window. “But, really, it seems rather absurd that I

shouldn’t see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it in

Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of

varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?”



“To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, a

strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be

shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That

was impossible. Something—he did not know what—had to be done at once.



“Yes; I don’t suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going

to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de

Sèze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait will only

be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it for that

time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keep it

always behind a screen, you can’t care much about it.”



Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of

perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible

danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,” he

cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being

consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only difference

is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can’t have forgotten

that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would

induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactly the

same thing.” He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his

eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half

seriously and half in jest, “If you want to have a strange quarter of

an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won’t exhibit your picture. He

told me why he wouldn’t, and it was a revelation to me.” Yes, perhaps

Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.



“Basil,” he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in

the face, “we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shall

tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my

picture?”



The painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you

might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. I

could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish me

never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always you to

look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hidden from

the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me than any

fame or reputation.”



“No, Basil, you must tell me,” insisted Dorian Gray. “I think I have a

right to know.” His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity

had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward’s

mystery.



“Let us sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking troubled. “Let us

sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the

picture something curious?—something that probably at first did not

strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?”



“Basil!” cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling

hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes.



“I see you did. Don’t speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say.

Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most

extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and

power, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen

ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I

worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted

to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When

you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course,

I never let you know anything about this. It would have been

impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it

myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that

the world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps, for

in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less

than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew

more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn

you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman’s cloak and

polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on

the prow of Adrian’s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You

had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the

water’s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been

what art should be—unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day

I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as

you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own

dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method,

or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to

me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at

it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I

grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that

I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it

was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You

were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant

to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not

mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I

felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my

studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of

its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that

I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely

good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling

that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is

ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract

than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour—that is all.

It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely

than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I

determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition.

It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were

right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me,

Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are

made to be worshipped.”



Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and

a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the

time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who

had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he

himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord

Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was

too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be

some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of

the things that life had in store?



“It is extraordinary to me, Dorian,” said Hallward, “that you should

have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?”



“I saw something in it,” he answered, “something that seemed to me very

curious.”



“Well, you don’t mind my looking at the thing now?”



Dorian shook his head. “You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not

possibly let you stand in front of that picture.”



“You will some day, surely?”



“Never.”



“Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been

the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I

have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don’t know what it cost

me to tell you all that I have told you.”



“My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what have you told me? Simply that you

felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment.”



“It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I

have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one

should never put one’s worship into words.”



“It was a very disappointing confession.”



“Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the

picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?”



“No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn’t

talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we

must always remain so.”



“You have got Harry,” said the painter sadly.



“Oh, Harry!” cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. “Harry spends

his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is

improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I

don’t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go

to you, Basil.”



“You will sit to me again?”



“Impossible!”



“You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes

across two ideal things. Few come across one.”



“I can’t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again.

There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I

will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant.”



“Pleasanter for you, I am afraid,” murmured Hallward regretfully. “And

now good-bye. I am sorry you won’t let me look at the picture once

again. But that can’t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about

it.”



As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How

little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead

of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded,

almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that

strange confession explained to him! The painter’s absurd fits of

jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious

reticences—he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed

to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance.



He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all

costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad

of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room

to which any of his friends had access.









CHAPTER X.





When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if

he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite

impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked

over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of

Victor’s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There

was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his

guard.



Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he

wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to

send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man

left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was

that merely his own fancy?



After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread

mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He

asked her for the key of the schoolroom.



“The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed. “Why, it is full of

dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It

is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed.”



“I don’t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key.”



“Well, sir, you’ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it

hasn’t been opened for nearly five years—not since his lordship died.”



He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of

him. “That does not matter,” he answered. “I simply want to see the

place—that is all. Give me the key.”



“And here is the key, sir,” said the old lady, going over the contents

of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. “Here is the key. I’ll

have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don’t think of living up

there, sir, and you so comfortable here?”



“No, no,” he cried petulantly. “Thank you, Leaf. That will do.”



She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of

the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought

best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.



As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round

the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily

embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century

Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna.

Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps

served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that

had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death

itself—something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What

the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on

the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. They

would defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would still

live on. It would be always alive.



He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil

the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil would

have helped him to resist Lord Henry’s influence, and the still more

poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love that

he bore him—for it was really love—had nothing in it that was not noble

and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty

that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. It was

such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann,

and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was

too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or

forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were

passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that

would make the shadow of their evil real.



He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that

covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was

the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it was

unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue

eyes, and rose-red lips—they all were there. It was simply the

expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared

to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil’s

reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of what little

account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and

calling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flung

the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to the door.

He passed out as his servant entered.



“The persons are here, Monsieur.”



He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not be allowed

to know where the picture was being taken to. There was something sly

about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the

writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him

round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at

eight-fifteen that evening.



“Wait for an answer,” he said, handing it to him, “and show the men in

here.”



In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard

himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in

with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a

florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was

considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the

artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He

waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in

favour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed

everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.



“What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fat freckled

hands. “I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in

person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a

sale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited

for a religious subject, Mr. Gray.”



“I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.

Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame—though I don’t

go in much at present for religious art—but to-day I only want a

picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so

I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men.”



“No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service to

you. Which is the work of art, sir?”



“This,” replied Dorian, moving the screen back. “Can you move it,

covering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it to get scratched going

upstairs.”



“There will be no difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker,

beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from

the long brass chains by which it was suspended. “And, now, where shall

we carry it to, Mr. Gray?”



“I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or

perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top

of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider.”



He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and

began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made the

picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious

protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman’s spirited dislike

of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it

so as to help them.



“Something of a load to carry, sir,” gasped the little man when they

reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.



“I am afraid it is rather heavy,” murmured Dorian as he unlocked the

door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious

secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.



He had not entered the place for more than four years—not, indeed,

since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then

as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,

well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord

Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness

to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and

desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have but little

changed. There was the huge Italian _cassone_, with its fantastically

painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so

often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-case filled

with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the

same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing

chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded

birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every

moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. He

recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed

horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden

away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in

store for him!



But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as

this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its

purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,

and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself would

not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He

kept his youth—that was enough. And, besides, might not his nature grow

finer, after all? There was no reason that the future should be so full

of shame. Some love might come across his life, and purify him, and

shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit

and in flesh—those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them

their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would

have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to

the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece.



No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon

the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of sin, but

the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks would become

hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow’s feet would creep round the fading eyes

and make them horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, the mouth

would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old

men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined

hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had

been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had to be concealed.

There was no help for it.



“Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please,” he said, wearily, turning round. “I

am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else.”



“Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame-maker, who

was still gasping for breath. “Where shall we put it, sir?”



“Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it hung up.

Just lean it against the wall. Thanks.”



“Might one look at the work of art, sir?”



Dorian started. “It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard,” he said,

keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling

him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that

concealed the secret of his life. “I shan’t trouble you any more now. I

am much obliged for your kindness in coming round.”



“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,

sir.” And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant,

who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough

uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.



When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the door

and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would ever look

upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame.



On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o’clock

and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table of dark

perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley,

his guardian’s wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the

preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside

it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the

edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of _The St. James’s Gazette_

had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had

returned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were

leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing.

He would be sure to miss the picture—had no doubt missed it already,

while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been set

back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he

might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the

room. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one’s house. He had

heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some

servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked

up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower

or a shred of crumpled lace.



He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry’s

note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,

and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at

eight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James’s_ languidly, and looked

through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew

attention to the following paragraph:



INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.—An inquest was held this morning at the Bell

Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of

Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,

Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable

sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly

affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr.

Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased.





He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and

flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real

ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for

having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have

marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more

than enough English for that.



Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,

what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane’s death?

There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.



His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was

it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal

stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange

Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung

himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a

few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had

ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the

delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb

show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made

real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually

revealed.



It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being,

indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who

spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the

passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his

own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through

which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere

artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,

as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The

style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid

and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical

expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work

of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_.

There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in

colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical

philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the

spiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of

a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense

seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere

cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full

as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,

produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,

a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of

the falling day and creeping shadows.



Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed

through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no

more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the

lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed

the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his

bedside and began to dress for dinner.



It was almost nine o’clock before he reached the club, where he found

Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored.



“I am so sorry, Harry,” he cried, “but really it is entirely your

fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the

time was going.”



“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his

chair.



“I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a

great difference.”



“Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed

into the dining-room.









CHAPTER XI.





For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of

this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never

sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than

nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in

different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the

changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have

almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in

whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely

blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And,

indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own

life, written before he had lived it.



In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He

never knew—never, indeed, had any cause to know—that somewhat grotesque

dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which

came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned

by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so

remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy—and perhaps in nearly every

joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place—that he used

to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if

somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who

had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly

valued.



For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and

many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had

heard the most evil things against him—and from time to time strange

rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the

chatter of the clubs—could not believe anything to his dishonour when

they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself

unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when

Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his

face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the

memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one

so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an

age that was at once sordid and sensual.



Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged

absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were

his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep

upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left

him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil

Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on

the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him

from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to

quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his

own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul.

He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and

terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead

or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which

were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would

place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture,

and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.



There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own

delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little

ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in

disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he

had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant

because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare.

That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as

they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase

with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He

had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.



Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to

society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each

Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the

world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the

day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little

dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were

noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited,

as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with

its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered

cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,

especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw,

in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often

dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of

the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and

perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of

the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make

themselves perfect by the worship of beauty.” Like Gautier, he was one

for whom “the visible world existed.”



And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the

arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation.

Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment

universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert

the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for

him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to

time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of

the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in

everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of

his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.



For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost

immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a

subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the

London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the

Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be

something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on

the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of

a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have

its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the

spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.



The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been

decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and

sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are

conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.

But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had

never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal

merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or

to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a

new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the

dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through

history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been

surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful

rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose

origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more

terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance,

they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out

the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to

the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.



Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that

was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism

that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its

service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any

theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of

passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself,

and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of

the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy

that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to

concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a

moment.



There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either

after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of

death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through

the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality

itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,

and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one

might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled

with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the

curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb

shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,

there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men

going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down

from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it

feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from

her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by

degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we

watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan

mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we

had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been

studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the

letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.

Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night

comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where

we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the

necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of

stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids

might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in

the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh

shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in

which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,

in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of

joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.



It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray

to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his

search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and

possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he

would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really

alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and

then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his

intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that

is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that,

indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition

of it.



It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman

Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great

attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the

sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb

rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity

of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it

sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement

and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with

white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft

the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at

times, one would fain think, is indeed the “_panis cælestis_,” the

bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ,

breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins.

The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet,

tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle

fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at

the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of

them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating

the true story of their lives.



But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual

development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of

mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable

for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which

there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its

marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle

antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a

season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of

the _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in

tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the

brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of

the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions,

morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him

before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance

compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all

intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment.

He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual

mysteries to reveal.



And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their

manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums

from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not

its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their

true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one

mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one’s passions, and in violets

that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the

brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often

to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several

influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;

of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that

sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to

be able to expel melancholy from the soul.



At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long

latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of

olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad

gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled

Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while

grinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching

upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of

reed or brass and charmed—or feigned to charm—great hooded snakes and

horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of

barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert’s grace, and Chopin’s

beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell

unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world

the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of

dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact

with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the

mysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not

allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been

subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the

Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human

bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green

jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular

sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when

they were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the

performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the

harsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who

sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a

distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating

tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an

elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells

of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge

cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the

one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican

temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a

description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated

him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like

Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous

voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his

box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt

pleasure to “Tannhauser” and seeing in the prelude to that great work

of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.



On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a

costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered

with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for

years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often

spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various

stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that

turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver,

the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes,

carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red

cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their

alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the

sunstone, and the moonstone’s pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow

of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of

extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la

vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.



He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s

Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real

jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of

Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes “with

collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” There was a gem in

the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and “by the exhibition

of golden letters and a scarlet robe” the monster could be thrown into

a magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de

Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India

made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth

provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The

garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her

colour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus,

that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids.

Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a

newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The

bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm

that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the

aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any

danger by fire.



The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand,

as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the

Priest were “made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake

inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within.” Over the gable

were “two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles,” so that the

gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge’s strange

romance ‘A Margarite of America’, it was stated that in the chamber of

the queen one could behold “all the chaste ladies of the world,

inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites,

carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults.” Marco Polo had seen the

inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the

dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver

brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven

moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit,

he flung it away—Procopius tells the story—nor was it ever found again,

though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold

pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a

rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he

worshipped.



When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII.

of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to

Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great

light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred

and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty

thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described

Henry VIII., on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as

wearing “a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds

and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large

balasses.” The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in

gold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold

armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with

turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. Henry II. wore

jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with

twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the

Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped

pearls and studded with sapphires.



How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and

decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.



Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that

performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern

nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject—and he always had an

extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in

whatever he took up—he was almost saddened by the reflection of the

ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any

rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils

bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of

their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained

his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where

had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which

the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls

for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had

stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on

which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot

drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious

table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were

displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;

the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden

bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of

Pontus and were figured with “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests,

rocks, hunters—all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature”; and

the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which

were embroidered the verses of a song beginning “_Madame, je suis tout

joyeux_,” the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold

thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four

pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims

for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with “thirteen

hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the

king’s arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings

were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked

in gold.” Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black

velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask,

with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground,

and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in

a room hung with rows of the queen’s devices in cut black velvet upon

cloth of silver. Louis XIV. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen

feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland,

was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses

from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased,

and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been

taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed

had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy.



And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite

specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting

the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and

stitched over with iridescent beetles’ wings; the Dacca gauzes, that

from their transparency are known in the East as “woven air,” and

“running water,” and “evening dew”; strange figured cloths from Java;

elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair

blue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of

_lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish

velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_,

with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.



He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed

he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the

long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had

stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the

raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and

fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by

the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He

possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask,

figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in

six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the

pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided

into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the

coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood.

This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of

green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves,

from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which

were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse

bore a seraph’s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were

woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with

medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He

had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold

brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with

representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and

embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of

white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins

and _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen;

and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices

to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his

imagination.



For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely

house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he

could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times

to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked

room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his

own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the

real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the

purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there,

would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart,

his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence.

Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to

dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day,

until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the

picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times,

with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin,

and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to

bear the burden that should have been his own.



After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and

gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as

well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more

than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture

that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his

absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the

elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.



He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true

that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness

of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn

from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not

painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked?

Even if he told them, would they believe it?



Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in

Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank

who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton

luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly

leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not

been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it

should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely

the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already

suspected it.



For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him.

He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth

and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was

said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the

smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another

gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories

became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It

was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a

low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with

thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His

extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear

again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass

him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though

they were determined to discover his secret.



Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice,

and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his

charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth

that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer

to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about

him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most

intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had

wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and

set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or

horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.



Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his

strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of

security. Society—civilized society, at least—is never very ready to

believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and

fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance

than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much

less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is

a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad

dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the

cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as Lord Henry

remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a

good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are,

or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely

essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as

its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic

play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is

insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method

by which we can multiply our personalities.



Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He used to wonder at the

shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing

simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a

being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform

creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and

passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies

of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery

of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose

blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by

Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and

King James, as one who was “caressed by the Court for his handsome

face, which kept him not long company.” Was it young Herbert’s life

that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body

to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that

ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause,

give utterance, in Basil Hallward’s studio, to the mad prayer that had

so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled

surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard,

with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man’s

legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some

inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams

that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading

canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl

stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand,

and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On

a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green

rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the

strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of

her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look

curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and

fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and

swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain.

Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so

overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century,

and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord

Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and

one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How

proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose!

What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as

infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the

Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his

wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred

within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady

Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips—he knew what he had got

from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the

beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress.

There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she

was holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes

were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They

seemed to follow him wherever he went.



Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one’s own race,

nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly

with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There

were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history

was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act

and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it

had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known

them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the

stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of

subtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had

been his own.



The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had

himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how,

crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as

Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of

Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the

flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had

caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in

an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had

wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round

with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his

days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes

on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear

emerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of

pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the

Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero

Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with

colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon

from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.



Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the

two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious

tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and

beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made

monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted

her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the

dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the

Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and

whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the

price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase

living men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot

who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide

riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto;

Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and

minion of Sixtus IV., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery,

and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson

silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might

serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy

could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion

for red blood, as other men have for red wine—the son of the Fiend, as

was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling

with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the

name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads

was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of

Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the

enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave

poison to Ginevra d’Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a

shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles

VI., who had so wildly adored his brother’s wife that a leper had

warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his

brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen

cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in

his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto

Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page,

and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow

piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep,

and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.



There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and

they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of

strange manners of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch,

by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by

an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were

moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could

realize his conception of the beautiful.









CHAPTER XII.





It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighth

birthday, as he often remembered afterwards.



He was walking home about eleven o’clock from Lord Henry’s, where he

had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold

and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a

man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of

his grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized

him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, for which he could

not account, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and went on

quickly in the direction of his own house.



But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on the

pavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand was on

his arm.



“Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for

you in your library ever since nine o’clock. Finally I took pity on

your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I am

off to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to see

you before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as

you passed me. But I wasn’t quite sure. Didn’t you recognize me?”



“In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can’t even recognize Grosvenor

Square. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don’t feel at

all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have not seen

you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?”



“No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to take a

studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a great picture

I have in my head. However, it wasn’t about myself I wanted to talk.

Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I have something

to say to you.”



“I shall be charmed. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray

languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his

latch-key.



The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at his

watch. “I have heaps of time,” he answered. “The train doesn’t go till

twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on my way to

the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan’t have any

delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All I have with

me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twenty minutes.”



Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What a way for a fashionable painter

to travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog will get

into the house. And mind you don’t talk about anything serious. Nothing

is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be.”



Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into the

library. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth.

The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-case stood, with

some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little

marqueterie table.



“You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave me

everything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He is

a most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchman

you used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?”



Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s

maid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker.

_Anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems silly

of the French, doesn’t it? But—do you know?—he was not at all a bad

servant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. One

often imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really very devoted

to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have another

brandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always take

hock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room.”



“Thanks, I won’t have anything more,” said the painter, taking his cap

and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the

corner. “And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously.

Don’t frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me.”



“What is it all about?” cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinging

himself down on the sofa. “I hope it is not about myself. I am tired of

myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.”



“It is about yourself,” answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, “and

I must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour.”



Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” he murmured.



“It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your own

sake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know that the

most dreadful things are being said against you in London.”



“I don’t wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about other

people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got

the charm of novelty.”



“They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his

good name. You don’t want people to talk of you as something vile and

degraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all

that kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mind

you, I don’t believe these rumours at all. At least, I can’t believe

them when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s

face. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices.

There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself

in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of

his hands even. Somebody—I won’t mention his name, but you know

him—came to me last year to have his portrait done. I had never seen

him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though

I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagant price. I

refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingers that I

hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him.

His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent

face, and your marvellous untroubled youth—I can’t believe anything

against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to

the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these

hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don’t know what

to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves

the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen

in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You

used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week.

Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the

miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley

curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes,

but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to

know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. I

reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant.

He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why

is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy

in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There

was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name.

You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his

dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his

father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and

sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he

got now? What gentleman would associate with him?”



“Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing,”

said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt

in his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It

is because I know everything about his life, not because he knows

anything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how could

his record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did

I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s

silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? If

Adrian Singleton writes his friend’s name across a bill, am I his

keeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes air

their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper

about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try

and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with

the people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man to

have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.

And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead

themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land

of the hypocrite.”



“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the question. England is bad

enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reason why

I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right to judge

of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem to lose all

sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a

madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. You led them

there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are

smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harry are

inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not

have made his sister’s name a by-word.”



“Take care, Basil. You go too far.”



“I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met Lady

Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a

single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the park?

Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then there are

other stories—stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of

dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in

London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them, I

laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What about your

country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don’t know

what is said about you. I won’t tell you that I don’t want to preach to

you. I remember Harry saying once that every man who turned himself

into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and

then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preach to you. I want

you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. I want you

to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you to get rid of the

dreadful people you associate with. Don’t shrug your shoulders like

that. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it

be for good, not for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with

whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to

enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. I don’t know

whether it is so or not. How should I know? But it is said of you. I am

told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one

of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife

had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone.

Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever read. I

told him that it was absurd—that I knew you thoroughly, and that you

were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do I know

you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your soul.”



“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa and

turning almost white from fear.



“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his

voice, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.”



A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. “You

shall see it yourself, to-night!” he cried, seizing a lamp from the

table. “Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn’t you look at it?

You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody

would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like me all the

better for it. I know the age better than you do, though you will prate

about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You have chattered enough

about corruption. Now you shall look on it face to face.”



There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his

foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt a terrible

joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that

the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his

shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous

memory of what he had done.



“Yes,” he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into

his stern eyes, “I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thing that

you fancy only God can see.”



Hallward started back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” he cried. “You must

not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don’t mean

anything.”



“You think so?” He laughed again.



“I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your

good. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you.”



“Don’t touch me. Finish what you have to say.”



A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter’s face. He paused for a

moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, what right

had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of

what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! Then he

straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood

there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their

throbbing cores of flame.



“I am waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a hard clear voice.



He turned round. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give

me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If

you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I

shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can’t you see what I

am going through? My God! don’t tell me that you are bad, and corrupt,

and shameful.”



Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. “Come

upstairs, Basil,” he said quietly. “I keep a diary of my life from day

to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shall

show it to you if you come with me.”



“I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed my

train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don’t ask me to

read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question.”



“That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. You

will not have to read long.”









CHAPTER XIII.





He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward

following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at

night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A

rising wind made some of the windows rattle.



When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the

floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. “You insist on

knowing, Basil?” he asked in a low voice.



“Yes.”



“I am delighted,” he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat

harshly, “You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know

everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you

think”; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A cold

current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a

flame of murky orange. He shuddered. “Shut the door behind you,” he

whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.



Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room looked

as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a

curtained picture, an old Italian _cassone_, and an almost empty

book-case—that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a

table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was

standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered

with dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scuffling

behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.



“So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw that

curtain back, and you will see mine.”



The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. “You are mad, Dorian, or

playing a part,” muttered Hallward, frowning.



“You won’t? Then I must do it myself,” said the young man, and he tore

the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.



An exclamation of horror broke from the painter’s lips as he saw in the

dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There was

something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.

Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray’s own face that he was looking at! The

horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous

beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet

on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the

loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely

passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it

was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own

brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous,

yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the

picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long

letters of bright vermilion.



It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never

done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if

his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own

picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at

Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his

parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across

his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.



The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with

that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are

absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither

real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the

spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken

the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do

so.



“What does this mean?” cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded

shrill and curious in his ears.



“Years ago, when I was a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in

his hand, “you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my

good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who

explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me

that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even

now, I don’t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you

would call it a prayer....”



“I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is

impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The

paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the

thing is impossible.”



“Ah, what is impossible?” murmured the young man, going over to the

window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.



“You told me you had destroyed it.”



“I was wrong. It has destroyed me.”



“I don’t believe it is my picture.”



“Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dorian bitterly.



“My ideal, as you call it...”



“As you called it.”



“There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an

ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr.”



“It is the face of my soul.”



“Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a

devil.”



“Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil,” cried Dorian with a

wild gesture of despair.



Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. “My God! If it

is true,” he exclaimed, “and this is what you have done with your life,

why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you

to be!” He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The

surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was

from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through

some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly

eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was

not so fearful.



His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and

lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he

flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and

buried his face in his hands.



“Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!” There was no

answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Pray,

Dorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in

one’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash

away our iniquities.’ Let us say that together. The prayer of your

pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered

also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped

yourself too much. We are both punished.”



Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed

eyes. “It is too late, Basil,” he faltered.



“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot

remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere, ‘Though your sins be

as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?”



“Those words mean nothing to me now.”



“Hush! Don’t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God!

Don’t you see that accursed thing leering at us?”



Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable

feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had

been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his

ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred

within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more

than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly

around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced

him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he

had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had

forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing

Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and

turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise.

He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind

the ear, crushing the man’s head down on the table and stabbing again

and again.



There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking

with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,

waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice

more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the

floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he

threw the knife on the table, and listened.



He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He

opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely

quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the

balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness.

Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in

as he did so.



The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with

bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been

for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was

slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was

simply asleep.



How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking

over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind

had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s

tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the

policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on

the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom

gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl

was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and

then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse

voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She

stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The

gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their

black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the

window behind him.



Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not

even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole

thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the

fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his

life. That was enough.



Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish

workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished

steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed

by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a

moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could not

help seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white the

long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image.



Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. The

woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped

several times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the

sound of his own footsteps.



When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.

They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was

in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises,

and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he

pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.



He sat down and began to think. Every year—every month, almost—men were

strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a madness of

murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to the earth....

And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallward had left

the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Most of the

servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes.

It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he

had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it would be months

before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be

destroyed long before then.



A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and went

out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the

policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the

bull’s-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath.



After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting

the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In

about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very

drowsy.



“I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis,” he said, stepping in;

“but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?”



“Ten minutes past two, sir,” answered the man, looking at the clock and

blinking.



“Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine

to-morrow. I have some work to do.”



“All right, sir.”



“Did any one call this evening?”



“Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went away

to catch his train.”



“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave any message?”



“No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did not

find you at the club.”



“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-morrow.”



“No, sir.”



The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.



Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the

library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room,

biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from one

of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152,

Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes; that was the man he wanted.









CHAPTER XIV.





At nine o’clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of

chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite

peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his

cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.



The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as

he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he

had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all.

His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But

youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.



He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his

chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The

sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost

like a morning in May.



Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,

blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there

with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had

suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for

Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came

back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still

sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!

Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day.



He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken

or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory

than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride

more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of

joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the

senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out

of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might

strangle one itself.



When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and

then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual

care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and

scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time

also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet

about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the

servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the

letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times

over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face.

“That awful thing, a woman’s memory!” as Lord Henry had once said.



After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly

with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the

table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the

other he handed to the valet.



“Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell

is out of town, get his address.”



As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a

piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and

then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew

seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and

getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard.

He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until

it became absolutely necessary that he should do so.



When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page

of the book. It was Gautier’s “Émaux et Camées”, Charpentier’s

Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of

citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted

pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he

turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of

Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand “_du supplice encore mal lavée_,” with

its downy red hairs and its “_doigts de faune_.” He glanced at his own

white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and

passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:



Sur une gamme chromatique,

    Le sein de perles ruisselant,

La Vénus de l’Adriatique

    Sort de l’eau son corps rose et blanc.



Les dômes, sur l’azur des ondes

    Suivant la phrase au pur contour,

S’enflent comme des gorges rondes

    Que soulève un soupir d’amour.



L’esquif aborde et me dépose,

    Jetant son amarre au pilier,

Devant une façade rose,

    Sur le marbre d’un escalier.





How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating

down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black

gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked

to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as

one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him

of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the

tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through

the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he

kept saying over and over to himself:



“Devant une façade rose,

Sur le marbre d’un escalier.”





The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn

that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to

mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,

like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true

romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had

been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor

Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die!



He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read

of the swallows that fly in and out of the little _café_ at Smyrna

where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned

merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each

other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps

tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by

the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red

ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small

beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood

over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell

of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the

“_monstre charmant_” that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre.

But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a

horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be

out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he

might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital

importance.



They had been great friends once, five years before—almost inseparable,

indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in

society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never

did.



He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real

appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the

beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His

dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had

spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken

a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was

still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his

own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the

annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for

Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up

prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and

played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In

fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray

together—music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be

able to exercise whenever he wished—and, indeed, exercised often

without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire’s the

night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always

seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For

eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at

Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian

Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in

life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever

knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they

met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at

which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too—was strangely

melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and

would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called

upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in

which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to

become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice

in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious

experiments.



This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept

glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly

agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room,

looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides.

His hands were curiously cold.



The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with

feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the

jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting

for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands

his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight

and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain

had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made

grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,

danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving

masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind,

slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being

dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its

grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him

stone.



At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes

upon him.



“Mr. Campbell, sir,” said the man.



A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back

to his cheeks.



“Ask him to come in at once, Francis.” He felt that he was himself

again. His mood of cowardice had passed away.



The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,

looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his

coal-black hair and dark eyebrows.



“Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming.”



“I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it

was a matter of life and death.” His voice was hard and cold. He spoke

with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady

searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the

pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the

gesture with which he had been greeted.



“Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one

person. Sit down.”



Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The

two men’s eyes met. In Dorian’s there was infinite pity. He knew that

what he was going to do was dreadful.



After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very

quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he

had sent for, “Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room

to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table.

He has been dead ten hours now. Don’t stir, and don’t look at me like

that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not

concern you. What you have to do is this—”



“Stop, Gray. I don’t want to know anything further. Whether what you

have told me is true or not true doesn’t concern me. I entirely decline

to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself.

They don’t interest me any more.”



“Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest

you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can’t help myself. You are

the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the

matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about

chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you

have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs—to destroy it

so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come

into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in

Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must

be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and

everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may

scatter in the air.”



“You are mad, Dorian.”



“Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian.”



“You are mad, I tell you—mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to

help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to

do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril

my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil’s work you are up

to?”



“It was suicide, Alan.”



“I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy.”



“Do you still refuse to do this for me?”



“Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I

don’t care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be

sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of

all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have

thought you knew more about people’s characters. Your friend Lord Henry

Wotton can’t have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he

has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You

have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don’t come to

me.”



“Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don’t know what he had made me

suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the

marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the

result was the same.”



“Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not

inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in

the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime

without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it.”



“You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to

me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain

scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the

horrors that you do there don’t affect you. If in some hideous

dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a

leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow

through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You

would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing

anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were

benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the

world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.

What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.

Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are

accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence

against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be

discovered unless you help me.”



“I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent

to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me.”



“Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you

came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some

day. No! don’t think of that. Look at the matter purely from the

scientific point of view. You don’t inquire where the dead things on

which you experiment come from. Don’t inquire now. I have told you too

much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once,

Alan.”



“Don’t speak about those days, Dorian—they are dead.”



“The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is

sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan!

If you don’t come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang

me, Alan! Don’t you understand? They will hang me for what I have

done.”



“There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do

anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me.”



“You refuse?”



“Yes.”



“I entreat you, Alan.”



“It is useless.”



The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray’s eyes. Then he stretched

out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read

it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.

Having done this, he got up and went over to the window.



Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and

opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back

in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if

his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.



After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and

came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.



“I am so sorry for you, Alan,” he murmured, “but you leave me no

alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the

address. If you don’t help me, I must send it. If you don’t help me, I

will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to

help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you.

You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh,

offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me—no

living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate

terms.”



Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through

him.



“Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The

thing is quite simple. Come, don’t work yourself into this fever. The

thing has to be done. Face it, and do it.”



A groan broke from Campbell’s lips and he shivered all over. The

ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing

time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be

borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his

forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already

come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.

It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.



“Come, Alan, you must decide at once.”



“I cannot do it,” he said, mechanically, as though words could alter

things.



“You must. You have no choice. Don’t delay.”



He hesitated a moment. “Is there a fire in the room upstairs?”



“Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos.”



“I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory.”



“No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of

notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the

things back to you.”



Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope

to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then

he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as

soon as possible and to bring the things with him.



As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up

from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a

kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A

fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was

like the beat of a hammer.



As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian

Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in

the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him.

“You are infamous, absolutely infamous!” he muttered.



“Hush, Alan. You have saved my life,” said Dorian.



“Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from

corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In

doing what I am going to do—what you force me to do—it is not of your

life that I am thinking.”



“Ah, Alan,” murmured Dorian with a sigh, “I wish you had a thousandth

part of the pity for me that I have for you.” He turned away as he

spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer.



After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant

entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil

of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.



“Shall I leave the things here, sir?” he asked Campbell.



“Yes,” said Dorian. “And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another

errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies

Selby with orchids?”



“Harden, sir.”



“Yes—Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden

personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered,

and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don’t want any

white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty

place—otherwise I wouldn’t bother you about it.”



“No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?”



Dorian looked at Campbell. “How long will your experiment take, Alan?”

he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in

the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.



Campbell frowned and bit his lip. “It will take about five hours,” he

answered.



“It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven,

Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have

the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want

you.”



“Thank you, sir,” said the man, leaving the room.



“Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!

I’ll take it for you. You bring the other things.” He spoke rapidly and

in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left

the room together.



When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned

it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his

eyes. He shuddered. “I don’t think I can go in, Alan,” he murmured.



“It is nothing to me. I don’t require you,” said Campbell coldly.



Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his

portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn

curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had

forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas,

and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder.



What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on

one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible

it was!—more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent

thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose

grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had

not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.



He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with

half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that

he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and

taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the

picture.



There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed

themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard

Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other

things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder

if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had

thought of each other.



“Leave me now,” said a stern voice behind him.



He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been

thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a

glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key

being turned in the lock.



It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He

was pale, but absolutely calm. “I have done what you asked me to do,”

he muttered. “And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again.”



“You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,” said Dorian

simply.



As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible

smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting

at the table was gone.









CHAPTER XV.





That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large

button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady

Narborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was

throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his

manner as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as easy and graceful as

ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to

play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could

have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any

tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have

clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God

and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his

demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a

double life.



It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who

was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the

remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife

to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband

properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and

married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted

herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and

French _esprit_ when she could get it.



Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that

she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. “I know, my

dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,” she used to say,

“and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most

fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our

bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to

raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.

However, that was all Narborough’s fault. He was dreadfully

short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who

never sees anything.”



Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she

explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married

daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make

matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. “I think it

is most unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered. “Of course I go and

stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old

woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake

them up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is

pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have

so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to

think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since

the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep

after dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me

and amuse me.”



Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:

it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen

before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those

middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,

but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an

overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always

trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to

her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against

her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and

Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy

dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once

seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,

white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the

impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of

ideas.



He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the

great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the

mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be

so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised

faithfully not to disappoint me.”



It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door

opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some

insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.



But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away

untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an

insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and

now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence

and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass

with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.



“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being

handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out

of sorts.”



“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is

afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I

certainly should.”



“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in

love for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”



“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.

“I really cannot understand it.”



“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,

Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and

your short frocks.”



“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I

remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_

she was then.”



“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long

fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an

_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and

full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.

When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”



“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian.



“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her

third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?”



“Certainly, Lady Narborough.”



“I don’t believe a word of it.”



“Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.”



“Is it true, Mr. Gray?”



“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her

whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and

hung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had

had any hearts at all.”



“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.”



“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian.



“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol

like? I don’t know him.”



“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,”

said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.



Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all

surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.”



“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.

“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent

terms.”



“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady,

shaking her head.



Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly

monstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying

things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely

true.”



“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.



“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all

worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry

again so as to be in the fashion.”



“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry.

“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she

detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he

adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”



“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady.



“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the

rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,

they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never

ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,

but it is quite true.”



“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for

your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be

married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,

that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like

bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.”



“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry.



“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess.



“I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a

great disappointment.”



“Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t

tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows

that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes

wish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I

must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray

should get married?”



“I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a

bow.



“Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go

through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the

eligible young ladies.”



“With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian.



“Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done

in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable

alliance, and I want you both to be happy.”



“What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” exclaimed Lord

Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love

her.”



“Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair

and nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and dine with me soon again.

You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew

prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,

though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.”



“I like men who have a future and women who have a past,” he answered.

“Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?”



“I fear so,” she said, laughing, as she stood up. “A thousand pardons,

my dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t see you hadn’t finished your

cigarette.”



“Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going

to limit myself, for the future.”



“Pray don’t, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal

thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a

feast.”



Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. “You must come and explain that

to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,” she

murmured, as she swept out of the room.



“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,”

cried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to

squabble upstairs.”



The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the

table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and

sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the

situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The

word _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared

from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served

as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles

of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race—sound English common

sense he jovially termed it—was shown to be the proper bulwark for

society.



A smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at

Dorian.



“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of

sorts at dinner.”



“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.”



“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to

you. She tells me she is going down to Selby.”



“She has promised to come on the twentieth.”



“Is Monmouth to be there, too?”



“Oh, yes, Harry.”



“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very

clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of

weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image

precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.

White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and

what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.”



“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian.



“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is

ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,

with time thrown in. Who else is coming?”



“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey

Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.”



“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find

him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by

being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.”



“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to

Monte Carlo with his father.”



“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him come. By the

way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.

What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?”



Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.



“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly three.”



“Did you go to the club?”



“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I

didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How

inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been

doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at

half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my

latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any

corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”



Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let

us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.

Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not

yourself to-night.”



“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come

round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady

Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.”



“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.

The duchess is coming.”



“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. As he drove

back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he

thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual

questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted

his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He

winced. He hated the idea of even touching them.



Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the

door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had

thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled

another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning

leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume

everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some

Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and

forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.



Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed

nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large

Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue

lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and

make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet

almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He

lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the

long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the

cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,

went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A

triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively

towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese

box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides

patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round

crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside

was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and

persistent.



He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his

face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly

hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes

to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did

so, and went into his bedroom.



As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,

dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept

quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good

horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.



The man shook his head. “It is too far for me,” he muttered.



“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian. “You shall have another if

you drive fast.”



“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you will be there in an hour,” and

after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly

towards the river.









CHAPTER XVI.





A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly

in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim men

and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some

of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards

brawled and screamed.



Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, Dorian

Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and

now and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had said

to him on the first day they had met, “To cure the soul by means of the

senses, and the senses by means of the soul.” Yes, that was the secret.

He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There were opium

dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of

old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.



The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time a

huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. The

gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the

man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from

the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansom

were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.



“To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of

the soul!” How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was

sick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent

blood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there

was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness

was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing

out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one.

Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who

had made him a judge over others? He had said things that were

dreadful, horrible, not to be endured.



On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each

step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The

hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned and

his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse

madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in

answer, and the man was silent.



The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some

sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mist

thickened, he felt afraid.



Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and

he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,

fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in

the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a

rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop.



After some time they left the clay road and rattled again over

rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then

fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. He

watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and made

gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.

As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open

door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The

driver beat at them with his whip.



It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with

hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshaped

those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in

them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by

intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would

still have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept

the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all

man’s appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.

Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,

became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one

reality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of

disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more

vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious

shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he needed for

forgetfulness. In three days he would be free.



Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Over

the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black

masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the

yards.



“Somewhere about here, sir, ain’t it?” he asked huskily through the

trap.



Dorian started and peered round. “This will do,” he answered, and

having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had

promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here and

there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. The

light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from an

outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked like

a wet mackintosh.



He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he

was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a small

shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of

the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock.



After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being

unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word

to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as

he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that

swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the

street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as

if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill flaring

gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced

them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin

backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor was covered

with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and

stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays were crouching

by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing

their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with his head

buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily

painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women,

mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an

expression of disgust. “He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed

one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and

began to whimper.



At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a

darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the

heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils

quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow

hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up

at him and nodded in a hesitating manner.



“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.



“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly. “None of the chaps

will speak to me now.”



“I thought you had left England.”



“Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at

last. George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added

with a sigh. “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends.

I think I have had too many friends.”



Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such

fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the

gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew in

what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were

teaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than he

was. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, was

eating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes of

Basil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. The

presence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where no one

would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself.



“I am going on to the other place,” he said after a pause.



“On the wharf?”



“Yes.”



“That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won’t have her in this place

now.”



Dorian shrugged his shoulders. “I am sick of women who love one. Women

who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better.”



“Much the same.”



“I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must have

something.”



“I don’t want anything,” murmured the young man.



“Never mind.”



Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. A

half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous

greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of

them. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back

on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton.



A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one of

the women. “We are very proud to-night,” she sneered.



“For God’s sake don’t talk to me,” cried Dorian, stamping his foot on

the ground. “What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don’t ever talk to me

again.”



Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s sodden eyes, then

flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head and

raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion

watched her enviously.



“It’s no use,” sighed Adrian Singleton. “I don’t care to go back. What

does it matter? I am quite happy here.”



“You will write to me if you want anything, won’t you?” said Dorian,

after a pause.



“Perhaps.”



“Good night, then.”



“Good night,” answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping

his parched mouth with a handkerchief.



Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drew

the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the

woman who had taken his money. “There goes the devil’s bargain!” she

hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice.



“Curse you!” he answered, “don’t call me that.”



She snapped her fingers. “Prince Charming is what you like to be

called, ain’t it?” she yelled after him.



The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly

round. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He

rushed out as if in pursuit.



Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. His

meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered

if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as

Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit his

lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what did

it matter to him? One’s days were too brief to take the burden of

another’s errors on one’s shoulders. Each man lived his own life and

paid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay so

often for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed.

In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts.



There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or

for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of

the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful

impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will.

They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken

from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all,

lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm.

For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of

disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell

from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.



Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for

rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but

as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a

short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself

suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself,

he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his

throat.



He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the

tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver,

and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head,

and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him.



“What do you want?” he gasped.



“Keep quiet,” said the man. “If you stir, I shoot you.”



“You are mad. What have I done to you?”



“You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane,” was the answer, “and Sibyl Vane

was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at your

door. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have sought you.

I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have described you

were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you.

I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, for to-night

you are going to die.”



Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. “I never knew her,” he stammered. “I

never heard of her. You are mad.”



“You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, you

are going to die.” There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not know

what to say or do. “Down on your knees!” growled the man. “I give you

one minute to make your peace—no more. I go on board to-night for

India, and I must do my job first. One minute. That’s all.”



Dorian’s arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not know

what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. “Stop,” he

cried. “How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!”



“Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask me? What do years

matter?”



“Eighteen years,” laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his

voice. “Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!”



James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.

Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.



Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him

the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face

of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the

unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twenty

summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been

when they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this was

not the man who had destroyed her life.



He loosened his hold and reeled back. “My God! my God!” he cried, “and

I would have murdered you!”



Dorian Gray drew a long breath. “You have been on the brink of

committing a terrible crime, my man,” he said, looking at him sternly.

“Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own

hands.”



“Forgive me, sir,” muttered James Vane. “I was deceived. A chance word

I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track.”



“You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into

trouble,” said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the

street.



James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from head

to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping

along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him

with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked

round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at

the bar.



“Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed out, putting haggard face quite

close to his. “I knew you were following him when you rushed out from

Daly’s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and

he’s as bad as bad.”



“He is not the man I am looking for,” he answered, “and I want no man’s

money. I want a man’s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly

forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not

got his blood upon my hands.”



The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Little more than a boy!” she sneered.

“Why, man, it’s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me

what I am.”



“You lie!” cried James Vane.



She raised her hand up to heaven. “Before God I am telling the truth,”

she cried.



“Before God?”



“Strike me dumb if it ain’t so. He is the worst one that comes here.

They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It’s nigh

on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. I

have, though,” she added, with a sickly leer.



“You swear this?”



“I swear it,” came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. “But don’t give

me away to him,” she whined; “I am afraid of him. Let me have some

money for my night’s lodging.”



He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,

but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had

vanished also.









CHAPTER XVII.





A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby

Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,

a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time,

and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the

table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at

which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily

among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that

Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped

wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady

Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke’s description of the last

Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men

in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women.

The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more

expected to arrive on the next day.



“What are you two talking about?” said Lord Henry, strolling over to

the table and putting his cup down. “I hope Dorian has told you about

my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea.”



“But I don’t want to be rechristened, Harry,” rejoined the duchess,

looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. “I am quite satisfied with

my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his.”



“My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are

both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an

orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as

effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one

of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen

of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad

truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.

Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is

with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The

man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It

is the only thing he is fit for.”



“Then what should we call you, Harry?” she asked.



“His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian.



“I recognize him in a flash,” exclaimed the duchess.



“I won’t hear of it,” laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. “From a

label there is no escape! I refuse the title.”



“Royalties may not abdicate,” fell as a warning from pretty lips.



“You wish me to defend my throne, then?”



“Yes.”



“I give the truths of to-morrow.”



“I prefer the mistakes of to-day,” she answered.



“You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.



“Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear.”



“I never tilt against beauty,” he said, with a wave of his hand.



“That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much.”



“How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be

beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready

than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly.”



“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?” cried the duchess.

“What becomes of your simile about the orchid?”



“Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good

Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly

virtues have made our England what she is.”



“You don’t like your country, then?” she asked.



“I live in it.”



“That you may censure it the better.”



“Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?” he inquired.



“What do they say of us?”



“That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop.”



“Is that yours, Harry?”



“I give it to you.”



“I could not use it. It is too true.”



“You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description.”



“They are practical.”



“They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,

they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy.”



“Still, we have done great things.”



“Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys.”



“We have carried their burden.”



“Only as far as the Stock Exchange.”



She shook her head. “I believe in the race,” she cried.



“It represents the survival of the pushing.”



“It has development.”



“Decay fascinates me more.”



“What of art?” she asked.



“It is a malady.”



“Love?”



“An illusion.”



“Religion?”



“The fashionable substitute for belief.”



“You are a sceptic.”



“Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.”



“What are you?”



“To define is to limit.”



“Give me a clue.”



“Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth.”



“You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else.”



“Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince

Charming.”



“Ah! don’t remind me of that,” cried Dorian Gray.



“Our host is rather horrid this evening,” answered the duchess,

colouring. “I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely

scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern

butterfly.”



“Well, I hope he won’t stick pins into you, Duchess,” laughed Dorian.



“Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me.”



“And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?”



“For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I

come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by

half-past eight.”



“How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning.”



“I daren’t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the

one I wore at Lady Hilstone’s garden-party? You don’t, but it is nice

of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All

good hats are made out of nothing.”



“Like all good reputations, Gladys,” interrupted Lord Henry. “Every

effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be

a mediocrity.”



“Not with women,” said the duchess, shaking her head; “and women rule

the world. I assure you we can’t bear mediocrities. We women, as some

one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if

you ever love at all.”



“It seems to me that we never do anything else,” murmured Dorian.



“Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray,” answered the duchess with

mock sadness.



“My dear Gladys!” cried Lord Henry. “How can you say that? Romance

lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art.

Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.

Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely

intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best,

and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as

possible.”



“Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?” asked the duchess after

a pause.



“Especially when one has been wounded by it,” answered Lord Henry.



The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression

in her eyes. “What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?” she inquired.



Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.

“I always agree with Harry, Duchess.”



“Even when he is wrong?”



“Harry is never wrong, Duchess.”



“And does his philosophy make you happy?”



“I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have

searched for pleasure.”



“And found it, Mr. Gray?”



“Often. Too often.”



The duchess sighed. “I am searching for peace,” she said, “and if I

don’t go and dress, I shall have none this evening.”



“Let me get you some orchids, Duchess,” cried Dorian, starting to his

feet and walking down the conservatory.



“You are flirting disgracefully with him,” said Lord Henry to his

cousin. “You had better take care. He is very fascinating.”



“If he were not, there would be no battle.”



“Greek meets Greek, then?”



“I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman.”



“They were defeated.”



“There are worse things than capture,” she answered.



“You gallop with a loose rein.”



“Pace gives life,” was the _riposte_.



“I shall write it in my diary to-night.”



“What?”



“That a burnt child loves the fire.”



“I am not even singed. My wings are untouched.”



“You use them for everything, except flight.”



“Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us.”



“You have a rival.”



“Who?”



He laughed. “Lady Narborough,” he whispered. “She perfectly adores

him.”



“You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us

who are romanticists.”



“Romanticists! You have all the methods of science.”



“Men have educated us.”



“But not explained you.”



“Describe us as a sex,” was her challenge.



“Sphinxes without secrets.”



She looked at him, smiling. “How long Mr. Gray is!” she said. “Let us

go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock.”



“Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys.”



“That would be a premature surrender.”



“Romantic art begins with its climax.”



“I must keep an opportunity for retreat.”



“In the Parthian manner?”



“They found safety in the desert. I could not do that.”



“Women are not always allowed a choice,” he answered, but hardly had he

finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came

a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybody

started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear in

his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find Dorian

Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon.



He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of

the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with

a dazed expression.



“What has happened?” he asked. “Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?”

He began to tremble.



“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, “you merely fainted. That was

all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to

dinner. I will take your place.”



“No, I will come down,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I would

rather come down. I must not be alone.”



He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of

gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of

terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the

window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the

face of James Vane watching him.









CHAPTER XVIII.





The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the

time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet

indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,

tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but

tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against

the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild

regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face

peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to

lay its hand upon his heart.



But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of

the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actual

life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the

imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of

sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen

brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor

the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon

the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round

the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. Had

any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have

reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane’s brother had

not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in his ship to founder in

some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did

not know who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had

saved him.



And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think

that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them

visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would

his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from

silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear

as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!

As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and

the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what a

wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the mere

memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail came back

to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terrible and

swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in

at six o’clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break.



It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There was

something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that

seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. But it

was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused

the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish

that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle

and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Their strong passions

must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves

die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The loves and sorrows

that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had

convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken

imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity

and not a little of contempt.



After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden

and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crisp

frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup of blue

metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake.



At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey

Clouston, the duchess’s brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of

his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the

mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken

and rough undergrowth.



“Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?” he asked.



“Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the

open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new

ground.”



Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brown and

red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters

ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that

followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful

freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high

indifference of joy.



Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front

of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it

forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. Sir

Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the

animal’s grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he

cried out at once, “Don’t shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live.”



“What nonsense, Dorian!” laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded

into the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of a

hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is

worse.



“Good heavens! I have hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an

ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!” he

called out at the top of his voice. “A man is hurt.”



The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand.



“Where, sir? Where is he?” he shouted. At the same time, the firing

ceased along the line.



“Here,” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket.

“Why on earth don’t you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting for the

day.”



Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the

lithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragging

a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. It

seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard Sir

Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of

the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with

faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of

voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the

boughs overhead.



After a few moments—that were to him, in his perturbed state, like

endless hours of pain—he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started

and looked round.



“Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I had better tell them that the shooting is

stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on.”



“I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry,” he answered bitterly. “The

whole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ...?”



He could not finish the sentence.



“I am afraid so,” rejoined Lord Henry. “He got the whole charge of shot

in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come; let us go

home.”



They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly

fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and

said, with a heavy sigh, “It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen.”



“What is?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dear

fellow, it can’t be helped. It was the man’s own fault. Why did he get

in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is rather

awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. It

makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; he

shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter.”



Dorian shook his head. “It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something

horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps,” he

added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain.



The elder man laughed. “The only horrible thing in the world is

_ennui_, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness.

But we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep

chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the

subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an

omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel

for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have

everything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who would

not be delighted to change places with you.”



“There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don’t

laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant who

has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. It is

the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem to

wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don’t you see a man

moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?”



Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand

was pointing. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I see the gardener waiting for

you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the

table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! You must

come and see my doctor, when we get back to town.”



Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The

man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitating

manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her

Grace told me to wait for an answer,” he murmured.



Dorian put the letter into his pocket. “Tell her Grace that I am coming

in,” he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly in the

direction of the house.



“How fond women are of doing dangerous things!” laughed Lord Henry. “It

is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman will flirt

with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on.”



“How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the present

instance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but I

don’t love her.”



“And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you

are excellently matched.”



“You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for

scandal.”



“The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry,

lighting a cigarette.



“You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.”



“The world goes to the altar of its own accord,” was the answer.



“I wish I could love,” cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos in

his voice. “But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the

desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has

become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was

silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wire to

Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe.”



“Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell me what

it is? You know I would help you.”



“I can’t tell you, Harry,” he answered sadly. “And I dare say it is

only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a

horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me.”



“What nonsense!”



“I hope it is, but I can’t help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess,

looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back,

Duchess.”



“I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray,” she answered. “Poor Geoffrey is

terribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare.

How curious!”



“Yes, it was very curious. I don’t know what made me say it. Some whim,

I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But I am

sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject.”



“It is an annoying subject,” broke in Lord Henry. “It has no

psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on

purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one

who had committed a real murder.”



“How horrid of you, Harry!” cried the duchess. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?

Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint.”



Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. “It is nothing,

Duchess,” he murmured; “my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That is

all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn’t hear what

Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think

I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won’t you?”



They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the

conservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,

Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes.

“Are you very much in love with him?” he asked.



She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. “I

wish I knew,” she said at last.



He shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertainty

that charms one. A mist makes things wonderful.”



“One may lose one’s way.”



“All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys.”



“What is that?”



“Disillusion.”



“It was my _début_ in life,” she sighed.



“It came to you crowned.”



“I am tired of strawberry leaves.”



“They become you.”



“Only in public.”



“You would miss them,” said Lord Henry.



“I will not part with a petal.”



“Monmouth has ears.”



“Old age is dull of hearing.”



“Has he never been jealous?”



“I wish he had been.”



He glanced about as if in search of something. “What are you looking

for?” she inquired.



“The button from your foil,” he answered. “You have dropped it.”



She laughed. “I have still the mask.”



“It makes your eyes lovelier,” was his reply.



She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet

fruit.



Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terror

in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too

hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unlucky

beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to

pre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what Lord

Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.



At five o’clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to

pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham

at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep another

night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked there in

the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood.



Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up to

town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in

his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to

the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see

him. He frowned and bit his lip. “Send him in,” he muttered, after some

moments’ hesitation.



As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of a

drawer and spread it out before him.



“I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this

morning, Thornton?” he said, taking up a pen.



“Yes, sir,” answered the gamekeeper.



“Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?”

asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I should not like them to be left

in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary.”



“We don’t know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty of

coming to you about.”



“Don’t know who he is?” said Dorian, listlessly. “What do you mean?

Wasn’t he one of your men?”



“No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir.”



The pen dropped from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart

had suddenly stopped beating. “A sailor?” he cried out. “Did you say a

sailor?”



“Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on

both arms, and that kind of thing.”



“Was there anything found on him?” said Dorian, leaning forward and

looking at the man with startled eyes. “Anything that would tell his

name?”



“Some money, sir—not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of any

kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor we

think.”



Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He

clutched at it madly. “Where is the body?” he exclaimed. “Quick! I must

see it at once.”



“It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don’t like to

have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad

luck.”



“The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms to

bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I’ll go to the stables myself. It

will save time.”



In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down the

long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him

in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his

path. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him.

He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky air

like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.



At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard.

He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the

farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell him

that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand

upon the latch.



There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a

discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the

door open and entered.



On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man

dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted

handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck in a

bottle, sputtered beside it.



Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to take

the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to

come to him.



“Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it,” he said, clutching at

the door-post for support.



When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joy

broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James

Vane.



He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode

home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe.









CHAPTER XIX.





“There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,” cried

Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled

with rose-water. “You are quite perfect. Pray, don’t change.”



Dorian Gray shook his head. “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful

things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good

actions yesterday.”



“Where were you yesterday?”



“In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.”



“My dear boy,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anybody can be good in the

country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people

who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not

by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by

which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being

corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either, so they

stagnate.”



“Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of

both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found

together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I

have altered.”



“You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you say you

had done more than one?” asked his companion as he spilled into his

plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a

perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them.



“I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one else.

I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She

was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was

that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you?

How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of

course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really loved her. I

am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful May that we

have been having, I used to run down and see her two or three times a

week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept

tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. We were to have gone

away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her

as flowerlike as I had found her.”



“I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill

of real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish

your idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That

was the beginning of your reformation.”



“Harry, you are horrible! You mustn’t say these dreadful things.

Hetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But

there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her

garden of mint and marigold.”



“And weep over a faithless Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing, as he

leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously

boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now

with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to

a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met

you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will

be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much

of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides,

how do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some

starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?”



“I can’t bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest the

most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don’t care what

you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor Hetty! As I

rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at the window,

like a spray of jasmine. Don’t let us talk about it any more, and don’t

try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years,

the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known, is really a

sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be better. Tell me

something about yourself. What is going on in town? I have not been to

the club for days.”



“The people are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”



“I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time,” said

Dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly.



“My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and

the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of having

more than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate

lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell’s

suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist.

Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left

for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poor

Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris

at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has

been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one who

disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be a delightful

city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.”



“What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, holding up his

Burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could

discuss the matter so calmly.



“I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is

no business of mine. If he is dead, I don’t want to think about him.

Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.”



“Why?” said the younger man wearily.



“Because,” said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt

trellis of an open vinaigrette box, “one can survive everything

nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the

nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our coffee

in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The man with

whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was

very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course,

married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then one regrets the

loss even of one’s worst habits. Perhaps one regrets them the most.

They are such an essential part of one’s personality.”



Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next

room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white

and black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he

stopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, “Harry, did it ever

occur to you that Basil was murdered?”



Lord Henry yawned. “Basil was very popular, and always wore a Waterbury

watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to

have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a

man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was

really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he

told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you

were the dominant motive of his art.”



“I was very fond of Basil,” said Dorian with a note of sadness in his

voice. “But don’t people say that he was murdered?”



“Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all

probable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not

the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his

chief defect.”



“What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?”

said the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken.



“I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that

doesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime.

It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurt your

vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongs

exclusively to the lower orders. I don’t blame them in the smallest

degree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply

a method of procuring extraordinary sensations.”



“A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who

has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?

Don’t tell me that.”



“Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often,” cried Lord

Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. I

should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should

never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us

pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to such a

really romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t. I dare say he fell

into the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the

scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now on

his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating

over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, I don’t

think he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years

his painting had gone off very much.”



Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began

to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged

bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo

perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of

crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards

and forwards.



“Yes,” he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of

his pocket; “his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have

lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be

great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated

you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It’s a habit

bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he

did of you? I don’t think I have ever seen it since he finished it. Oh!

I remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to

Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got

it back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I wanted

to buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil’s best period. Since

then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good

intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative

British artist. Did you advertise for it? You should.”



“I forget,” said Dorian. “I suppose I did. But I never really liked it.

I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why

do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some

play—Hamlet, I think—how do they run?—



“Like the painting of a sorrow,

A face without a heart.”





Yes: that is what it was like.”



Lord Henry laughed. “If a man treats life artistically, his brain is

his heart,” he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.



Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.

“‘Like the painting of a sorrow,’” he repeated, “‘a face without a

heart.’”



The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “By the

way, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “‘what does it profit a man if he

gain the whole world and lose—how does the quotation run?—his own

soul’?”



The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.

“Why do you ask me that, Harry?”



“My dear fellow,” said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise,

“I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.

That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the

Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people

listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard the

man yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being

rather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A

wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly

white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful

phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips—it was really very

good in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet

that art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he

would not have understood me.”



“Don’t, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and

sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is

a soul in each one of us. I know it.”



“Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?”



“Quite sure.”



“Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely

certain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the

lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What have

you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up

our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian,

and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your

youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you

are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really wonderful,

Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You

remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy,

and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in

appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth

I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early,

or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It’s absurd to talk

of the ignorance of youth. The only people to whose opinions I listen

now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in

front of me. Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the

aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask

them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly

give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore high stocks,

believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that

thing you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca,

with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against

the panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that

there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don’t stop. I want

music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I

am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that

even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is

old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity.

Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You

have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against

your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been to

you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are

still the same.”



“I am not the same, Harry.”



“Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be.

Don’t spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type.

Don’t make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need

not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don’t deceive

yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a question

of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides

itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and

think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a

morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that

brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you

had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had

ceased to play—I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that

our lives depend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own

senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odour of

_lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the

strangest month of my life over again. I wish I could change places

with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against us both, but it has

always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of

what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. I am

so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or

painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! Life has

been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your

sonnets.”



Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair.

“Yes, life has been exquisite,” he murmured, “but I am not going to

have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant

things to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think that if you

did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don’t laugh.”



“Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the nocturne

over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the

dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she

will come closer to the earth. You won’t? Let us go to the club, then.

It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. There is

some one at White’s who wants immensely to know you—young Lord Poole,

Bournemouth’s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties, and has

begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and rather

reminds me of you.”



“I hope not,” said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. “But I am tired

to-night, Harry. I shan’t go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and I

want to go to bed early.”



“Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was

something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression than

I had ever heard from it before.”



“It is because I am going to be good,” he answered, smiling. “I am a

little changed already.”



“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will

always be friends.”



“Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.

Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It

does harm.”



“My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be

going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people

against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too

delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we

are, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book,

there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. It

annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books that

the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.

That is all. But we won’t discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. I

am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take you

to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and

wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying.

Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She says she

never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thought you

would be. Her clever tongue gets on one’s nerves. Well, in any case, be

here at eleven.”



“Must I really come, Harry?”



“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been

such lilacs since the year I met you.”



“Very well. I shall be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night,

Harry.” As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had

something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.









CHAPTER XX.





It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and

did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home,

smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He

heard one of them whisper to the other, “That is Dorian Gray.” He

remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared

at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the

charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that

no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to

love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her

once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that

wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she

had!—just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her

cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had

everything that he had lost.



When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent

him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and

began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him.



Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing

for the unstained purity of his boyhood—his rose-white boyhood, as Lord

Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled

his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had

been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in

being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been

the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame.

But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?



Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that

the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the

unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to

that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure

swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not

“Forgive us our sins” but “Smite us for our iniquities” should be the

prayer of man to a most just God.



The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many

years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids

laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night

of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and

with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some

one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending

with these idolatrous words: “The world is changed because you are made

of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” The

phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to

himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the

floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his

beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed

for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from

stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery.

What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow

moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had

spoiled him.



It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It

was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane

was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had

shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the

secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was,

over Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon pass away. It was

already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the

death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the

living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the

portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It

was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him

that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The

murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell,

his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was

nothing to him.



A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for.

Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at

any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good.



As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in

the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it

had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel

every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had

already gone away. He would go and look.



He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the

door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face

and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and

the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror

to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.



He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and

dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and

indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the

eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of

the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome—more loathsome, if

possible, than before—and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed

brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it

been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the

desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking

laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things

finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the

red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a

horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the

painted feet, as though the thing had dripped—blood even on the hand

that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to

confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt

that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would

believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere.

Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned

what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad.

They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his

duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement.

There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well

as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had

told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of

Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty

Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he

was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing

more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At

least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing

more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the

mask of goodness. For curiosity’s sake he had tried the denial of self.

He recognized that now.



But this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be

burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only

one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself—that was

evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had

given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had

felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been

away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon

it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had

marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it

had been conscience. He would destroy it.



He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He

had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was

bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill

the painter’s work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past,

and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous

soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He

seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it.



There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its

agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms.

Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked

up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and

brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no

answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all

dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and

watched.



“Whose house is that, Constable?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen.



“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” answered the policeman.



They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of

them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle.



Inside, in the servants’ part of the house, the half-clad domestics

were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying

and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.



After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the

footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They

called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force

the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The

windows yielded easily—their bolts were old.



When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait

of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his

exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in

evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled,

and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings

that they recognized who it was.



THE END









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