The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde

The

picture of Dorian Gray

First published in complete book form in 1891 by Messrs Ward, Lock & C. (London) Made and Printed in Canada by Heinson Printing, Ltd. Stayner

The picture of Dorian Gray

a novel

Oscar wilde

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 autobiogra‑   phy. 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 culti‑    vated. 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.

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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 ii

The Picture of Dorian Gray

CHAPTER 1

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. 1

Chapter One

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 fanci‑ ful 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 repu‑ tation. 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, 2

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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 some‑ thing horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned profes‑ sions. 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 distinc‑ tion, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the falter‑ ing 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 3

Chapter One

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, 4

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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 lilacblooms, 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 5

Chapter One

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 precis of all her guests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room,the most astounding details. I simply fled. I like to find outpeople for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactlyas an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know.” 6

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“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 abso‑ lutely 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 that drunkenness, stupidity, and can stand other people having immorality should be their own the same faults as ourselves. special property, and that if any I quite sympathize with the rage one of us makes an ass of himself, of the English democracy against he is poaching on their preserves. what they call the vices of the When poor Southwark got into upper orders. The masses feel the divorce court, their indigna‑ 7

Chapter One

tion was quite magnificent. you don’t either.” And yet I don’t suppose that Lord Henry stroked his pointed ten per cent of the proletariat brown beard and tapped the toe live correctly.” of his patent-leather boot with   “I don’t agree with a single a tasselled ebony cane. “How word that you have said, and, English you are Basil! That is the what is more, Harry, I feel sure 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, an 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 8

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that was hidden from me before. all the perfection of the spirit ‘A dream of form in days of that is Greek. The harmony of thought’--who is it who says soul and body--how much that that? I forget; but it is what is! We in our madness have sepa‑ Dorian Grayhas been to me. The rated the two, and have invented merely visible presence of this a realism that is vulgar, an ideali‑ lad--for he seems to me little ty that is void. Harry! if you only more than a lad, though he is knew what Dorian Gray is to me! really over twenty--his merely You remember that landscape of visible presence--ah! I wonder mine, for which Agnew offered can you realize all that that me such a huge price but which means? Unconsciously he defines I would not part with? It is one of for me the lines of a fresh school, the best things I have ever done. a school that is to have in it all And why is it so? Because, while I the passion of the romantic spirit, 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 sawing the plain woodland the wonder expression of all this curious I had always looked for and artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to always missed.”   “Basil, this is extraordinary! speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know I must see Dorian Gray.”   Hallward got up from the seat anything about it. But the world and walked up and down the might guess it, and I will not garden. After some time he came bare my soul to their shallow back. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian prying eyes. My heart shall never Gray is to me simply a motive in be put under their microscope. art. You might see nothing in There is too much of myself him. I see everything in him. He in the thing, Harry--too much is never more present in my work of myself!” than when no image of him is   “Poets are not so scrupulous as there. He is a suggestion, as I you are. They know how useful have said, of a new manner. I find passion is for publication. him in the curves of certain lines, Nowadays a broken heart will in the loveliness and subtleties of run to many editions.”   “I hate them for it,” cried certain colours. That is all.”   “Then why won’t you exhibit Hallward. “An artist should create beautiful things, but his portrait?” asked Lord Henry.   “Because, without intending should put nothing of his own it, I have put into it some life into them. We live in an age 9

Chapter One

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 when men treat art as if it were his vanity, an ornament for meant to be a form of autobiog‑ a summer’s day.” raphy. We have lost the abstract   “Days in summer, Basil, are sense of beauty. Some day I will apt to linger,” murmured Lord show the world what it is; and for Henry. “Perhaps you will tire that reason the world shall never sooner than he will. It is a sad see my portrait of Dorian Gray.” thing to think of, but there is “I think you are wrong, Basil, but 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 wellinformed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of next time he calls, you will be the thoroughly well-informed perfectly cold and indifferent. It man is a dreadful thing. It is like will be a great pity, for it will alter a bric-a-brac shop, all monsters you. What you have told me is and dust, with everything priced quite a romance, a romance of art above its proper value. I think one might call it,and the worst of you will tire first, all the same. having a romance of any kind is Some day you will look at your that it leaves one so unromantic.” friend, and he will seem to you to   “Harry, don’t talk like that. be a little out of drawing, or you As long as I live, the personality won’t like his tone of colour, or of Dorian Gray will dominate me. something. You will bitterly You can’t feel what I feel. You reproach him in your own heart, change too often.” and seriously think that he has   “Ah, my dear Basil, that is behaved very badly to you. The exactly why I can feel it. Those 10

The Picture of Dorian Gray

the garden! And how delightful who are faithful know only the other people’s emotions were!-- trivial side of love: it is the faith‑ much more delightful than their less who know love’s tragedies.” ideas, it seemed to him. One’s And Lord Henry struck a light on own soul, and the passions of a dainty silver case and began to one’s friends--those were the smoke a cigarette with a self-con‑ fascinating things in life. He scious and satisfied air, as if he pictured to himself with silent had summed up the world in amusement the tedious a phrase. There was a rustle of luncheon that he had missed by chirruping sparrows in the green staying so long with Basil lacquer leaves of the ivy, and Hallward. Had he gone to his the blue cloud-shadows chased aunt’s, he would have been sure themselves across the grass like to have met Lord Goodbody swallows. How pleasant it was in there, and the whole conversa‑ tion 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 charm‑ ing 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.”   “And where was it?” asked once pictured to myself a crea‑ Hallward, with a slight frown.   “Don’t look so angry, Basil. ture with spectacles and lank hair, It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. horribly freckled, and tramping She told me she had discovered about on huge feet. I wish I had a wonderful young man who was known it was your friend.” going to help her in the East End,   “I am very glad you didn’t, Harry.” and that his name was Dorian  “Why?” Gray. I am bound to state that   “I don’t want you to meet him.” she never told me he was  “You don’t want me to good-looking. Women have no meet him?” appreciation of good looks; at  “No.” least, good women have not.   “Mr. Dorian Gray is in the She said that he was very earnest studio, sir,” said the butler, and had a beautiful nature. I at coming into the garden. 11

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“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 He spoke very slowly, and the went up the walk.   Then he looked at Lord Henry. words seemed wrung out of him “Dorian Gray is my dearest almost against his will. friend,” he said. “He has a simple  “What nonsense you talk!” and a beautiful nature. Your aunt said Lord Henry, smiling, and was quite right in what she said taking Hallward by the arm, he of him. Don’t spoil him. Don’t try almost led him into the house. 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.”

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CHAPTER 2

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 musicstool 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 plea‑ sure 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 favour‑ ites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.”   “I am in Lady Agatha’s black books at present,” answered Dorian 13

Chapter Two

with a funny look of “I promised to go to Whitechapel with Tuesday, and I really

penitence. a club in her last forgot all

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 hand‑ some, 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. about it. We were to have played a duet together-- He was looking three duets, I believe. I don’t know what she will worried, and say to me. I am far too frightened to call.” when he heard   “Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is Lord Henry’s quite devoted to you. And I don’t think it really last remark, he matters about your not being there. The audience glanced at him, probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you a subject that one would have think it awfully rude of me if to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, I asked you to go away?” Lord Henry smiled and looked now that you have asked me to at Dorian Gray. “Am I to go, stop. You don’t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me Mr. Gray?” he asked.   “Oh, please don’t, Lord Henry. that you liked your sitters to I see that Basil is in one of his have some one to chat to.” sulky moods, and I can’t bear   Hallward bit his lip. “If Dorian him when he sulks. Besides, I wishes it, of course you must stay. want you to tell me why I should Dorian’s whims are laws to every‑ body, except himself.” not go in for philanthropy.”   “I don’t know that I shall tell   Lord Henry took up his hat you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious and gloves. “You are very 14

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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 plat‑ form 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

a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of m y s e l f . ”   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 never listen either, and it must be whom he had rather taken dreadfully tedious for my unfor‑ a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. tunate sitters. I beg you to stay.” They made a delightful contrast.   “But what about my man at And he had such a beautiful voice. the Orleans?” After a few moments he said The painter laughed. “I don’t to him, “Have you really a very think there will be any difficulty bad influence, Lord Henry? about that. Sit down again, Harry. As bad as Basil says?” And now, Dorian, get up on the   “There is no such thing as platform, and don’t move about a good influence, Mr. Gray. All too much, or pay any attention to influence is immoral--immoral what Lord Henry says. He has from the scientific point of view.”   “ W h y ? ”   “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 15

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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, expres‑ sion to every thought, reali‑ ty to every society, which is the basis of d r e a m -- I believe that morals, the terror of God, which the world would gain is the secret of religion--these are such a fresh impulse of joy the two things that govern us. that we would yet--” maladies forget all the And of mediaevalism,   “Just turn your head a little and return to the Hellenic more to the right, Dorian, like a ideal--to some‑ thing finer, good boy,” said the painter, deep richer than the Hellenic ideal, in his work and conscious only it may be. But the bravest that a look had come into the man amongst us is afraid of lad’s face that he had never seen himself. The mutilation of there before. the savage has its tragic  “And yet,” continued Lord survival in the self-denial that Henry, in his low, musical voice, mars our lives. We are and with that graceful wave of 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 puri‑ fication. 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 boyhood, you have had passions that have made forbidden to you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with itself, with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose desire for what mere memory might stain your cheek with shame-- its monstrous ”   “Stop!” faltered Dorian Gray, laws have made monstrous and “stop! you bewilder me. I don’t unlawful. It has been said that know what to say. There is some the great events of the world take answer to you, but I cannot find place in the brain. It is in the it. Don’t speak. Let me think. Or, brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take rather, let me try not to think.”   For nearly ten minutes he place also. You, Mr. Gray, you stood there, motionless, with yourself, with your rose-red parted lips and eyes strangely youth and your rose-white 16

The Picture of Dorian Gray

bright. He was dimly conscious them now. Life suddenly became that entirely fresh influences fiery-coloured to him. It seemed were at work within him. Yet to him that he had been walking they seemed to him to have come in fire. Why had he not known it? really from chance, no doubt, and with  With his himself. The wilful paradox in them--had subtle smile, few words that touched some secret chord that Lord Henry Basil’s friend had never been touched before, watched him. had said to but that he felt was now He knew the h i m -- w o r d s vibrating and throbbing to precise psycho‑ spoken by curious pulses. l o g i c a l   Music had stirred him like that. moment when to say nothing. Music had troubled him many He felt intense‑ ly interested. times. But music was not articu‑ He was amazed at the sudden late. It was not a new world, but i m p r e s s i o n that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book rather another chaos, that it which had revealed to him much created in us. Words! Mere that he had not known before, he words! How terrible they were! wondered whether Dorian Gray How clear, and vivid, and cruel! was passing through a similar One could not escape from them. experience. He had merely shot And yet what a subtle magic an arrow into the air. Had it hit there was in them! They seemed the mark? How fascinating the to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a lad was!   H a l l w a r d and sit in the music of their own as sweet as painted away garden. The air that of viol or of lute. Mere with that is stifling here.” words! Was there anything so dear real as words? m a r v e l l o u s  “My bold touch of fellow, I am so   Yes; there had been things in his, that had sorry. When I his boyhood that he had not the true refine‑ am painting, I understood. He understood ment and can’t think of perfect delica‑ anything else. But you never sat cy that in art, at any rate better. You were perfectly still. comes only from strength. And I have caught the effect He was uncon‑ scious of the I wanted--the half-parted lips silence.   “Basil, I am and the bright look in the eyes. tired of stand‑ ing,” cried I don’t know what Harry has Dorian Gray suddenly. “I been saying to you, but he has must go out 17

Chapter Two

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 strawber‑ ries in it.” certainly made you have the most   “Certainly, Harry. Just touch wonderful expression. I suppose the bell, and when Parker comes he has been paying you compli‑ I will tell him what you want. ments. You mustn’t believe a I have got to work up this back‑ word that he says.” ground, so I will join you later on.   “He has certainly not been Don’t keep Dorian too long. paying me compliments. Perhaps I have never been in better form that is the reason that I don’t for painting than I am to-day. believe anything he has told me.” This is going to be my master‑   “You know you believe it all,” piece. 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.   “Yes,” continued Lord Henry, He came close to him and put his “that is one of the great secrets of hand upon his shoulder. “You life--to cure the soul by means of are quite right to do that,” he the senses, and the senses by murmured. “Nothing can cure means of the soul. You are a the soul but the senses, just as wonderful creation. You know nothing can cure the senses but more than you think you know, just as you know less than you the soul.” His want to know.”   The lad start‑ him. ed and drew romantic,olive-  Dorian Gray frowned and back. He was coloured face turned his head away. He could worn not help liking the tall, graceful b a r e h e a d e d , and and the leaves e x p r e s s i o n young man who was standing by had tossed his interested him. There was some‑ rebellious curls and tangled thing in his low languid voice all their gilded threads. There that was absolutely fascinating. was a look of fear in his eyes, His cool, white, flowerlike hands, such as people have when even, had a curious charm. They they are s u d d e n l y moved, as he spoke, like music, awakened. His finely chiselled and seemed to have a language of nostrils quiv‑ ered, and some their own. But he felt afraid of hidden nerve shook the scar‑ him, and ashamed of being let of his lips and left them afraid. Why had it been left for a trembling. 18

The Picture of Dorian Gray

stranger to reveal him to   “No, you don’t feel it now. himself? He had known Basil Some day, when you are old and Hallward for months, but the wrinkled and ugly, when friendship between them Basil will never paint you again. You really must had never not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be altered him. unbecoming.” Suddenly there   “What can it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laugh‑ had come some ing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the one across his garden. life who   “It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.” seemed to have  “Why?” disclosed to   “Because you have the most marvellous youth, him life’s and youth is the one thing worth having.” mystery. And, “I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.” yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not thought has seared your fore‑ a schoolboy or a girl. It was head with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its absurd to be frightened.   “Let us go and sit in the shade,” hideous fires, you will feel it, you said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought out the drinks, and if wonderfully beautiful face, you stay any longer in this glare, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have. you will be quite spoiled, and And beauty is a form of genius--is higher, indeed, those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have than genius, as lost it you won’t smile... People say sometimes that it needs no beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at explanation. It least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, is of the great beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow facts of the people who do not judge by appearances. The true world, like mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisi‑ sunlight, or ble.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. spring-time, or But what the gods give they quickly take away. You the reflection have only a few years in which to live really, perfect‑ in dark waters ly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty of that silver shell we call will feel it terribly. Now, wherev‑ the moon. It cannot be ques‑ er you go, you charm the world. tioned. It has its divine right of Will it always be so? ... You have a sovereignty. It makes princes of 19

Chapter Two

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 will go with it, and then you will wasted. For there is such a suddenly discover that there are little time that your youth no triumphs left for you, or have will last--such a little time. to content yourself with those The common h i l l - f l o w e r s mean triumphs that the memory wither, but they blossom of your past will make more again. The laburnum will bitter than defeats. Every month be as yellow next June as it wanes brings you nearer to as it is now. In a month something dreadful. Time is jeal‑ there will be purple stars on ous of you, and wars against your the clematis, and year after lilies and your roses. You will year the green night of its become sallow, and hollow- leaves will hold its purple stars. cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will But we never get back our suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth. The pulse of joy youth while you have it. Don’t that beats in us at twenty squander the gold of your days, becomes slug‑ gish. Our listening to the tedious, trying to limbs fail, our senses rot. We improve the hopeless failure, or d e g e n e r a t e into hideous giving away your life to the igno‑ p u p p e t s , haunted by the rant, the common, and the vulgar. memory of the passions of These are the sickly aims, the which we were too much false ideals, of our age. Live! Live afraid, and the e x q u i s i t e the wonderful life that is in you! t e m p t a t i o n s that we had Let nothing be lost upon you. Be not the cour‑ age to yield to. always searching for new sensa‑ Youth! Youth! There is abso‑ tions. Be afraid of nothing.... lutely nothing in the world A new Hedonism--that is what but youth!”   Dorian Gray our century wants. You might be listened, openeyed and its visible symbol. With your w o n d e r i n g . The spray of personality there is nothing you lilac fell from his hand upon could not do. The world belongs the gravel. you for a season.... came A furry bee to and b u z z e d 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 trivi‑ al things that we try to develop when things of high import make us 20

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The only difference between afraid, or when we are stirred by a caprice and a lifelong passion some new emotion for which we is that the caprice lasts a cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us little longer.”   As they entered the studio, lays sudden siege to the brain Dorian Gray put his hand upon and calls on us to yield. After a Lord Henry’s arm. “In that case, time the bee flew away. He saw it let our friendship be a caprice,” creeping into the stained trum‑ he murmured, flushing at his pet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The own boldness, in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush then stepped began to sing. up on the plat‑   “You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,” said form and Lord Henry, looking at him. resumed his   “Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?” pose.  Lord Henry   “Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me flung himself shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of into a large using it. They spoil every romance by trying to w i c k e r make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. arm-chair and watched him. The flower seemed to quiver, and sweep and dash of the brush on then swayed gently to and fro. the canvas made the only sound   Suddenly the painter appeared that broke the stillness, except at the door of the studio and when, now and then, Hallward made staccato signs for them to stepped back come in. They turned to each perfect, and to look at his other and smiled. you can bring work from a   “I am waiting,” he cried. “Do your drinks.” distance. In the come in. The light is quite   They rose up slanting beams and sauntered that streamed through the open doorway the dust down the walk danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the together. Two roses seemed to brood over everything. g r e e n - a n d -   After about a quarter of an hour Hallward white butter‑ stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian flies fluttered Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting past them, and 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 21

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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

Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revela‑ tion. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him to be merely

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 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 through him like a knife and of the descrip‑ tion flashed made each delicate fibre of his across him. Yes, there would be nature quiver. His eyes deepened a day when his face would be into amethyst, and across them wrinkled and wizen, his came a mist of tears. He felt as if a eyes dim and colourless, the hand of ice had been laid upon grace of his figure broken his heart. and deformed. The scarlet  “Don’t you like it?” cried would pass away from his Hallward at last, stung a little by lips and the gold steal from the lad’s silence, not understand‑ his hair. The life that was to ing what it meant. make his soul would mar   “Of course he likes it,” said his body. He would become Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t like d r e a d f u l , hideous, and it? It is one of the greatest things uncouth.  As he in modern art. I will give you thought of it, a sharp pang of anything you like to ask for it. pain struck 22

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art better than your friends. I am I must have it.” no more to you than a green   “It is not my property, Harry.” bronze figure. Hardly as much,   “Whose property is it?”   “Dorian’s, of course,” answered I dare say.”   The painter stared in amaze‑ the painter. ment. It was so unlike Dorian to   “He is a very lucky fellow.”   “How sad it is!” murmured speak like that. What had Dorian Gray with his eyes still happened? He seemed quite fixed upon his own portrait. angry. His face was flushed and “How sad it is! I shall grow old, his cheeks burning. and horrible, and dreadful. But   “Yes,” he continued, “I am less this picture will remain always to you than your ivory Hermes or young. It will never be older than your silver Faun. You will like this particular day of June.... If it them always. How long will you were only the other way! If it like me? Till I have my first wrin‑ were I who was to be always kle, I suppose. I know, now, that young, and the picture that was when one loses one’s good looks, to grow old! For that--for that-- whatever they may be, one loses I would give everything! Yes, everything. Your picture has there is nothing in the whole taught me that. Lord Henry world I would not give! I would Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. give my soul for that!”   “You would hardly care for When I find that I am growing such an arrangement, Basil,” old, I shall kill myself.” cried Lord Henry, laughing. Hallward turned pale and caught “It would be his hand. “Dorian! Dorian!” he cried, “don’t talk rather hard like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and lines on your I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?--you who are finer than work.”  “I should any of them!” object very   “I am jealous of everything whose beauty does s t r o n g l y , not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have paint‑ Harry,” said ed of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from Hallward. Dorian Gray me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only turned and the other way! If the picture could change, and looked at him. I could be always what I am now! Why did you “I believe you paint it? It will mock me some day--mock me horri‑ would, Basil. bly!” The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his You like your hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he 23

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buried his face in the cushions, as   “You should have gone away when I asked you,” he muttered. though he was praying.   “This is your doing, Harry,”   “I stayed when you asked me,” was Lord Henry’s answer. said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged his shoul‑   “Harry, I can’t quarrel with my ders. “It is the real Dorian Gray-- two best friends at once, but between you both you have made that is all.” me hate the finest piece of work   “It is not.”   “If it is not, what have I to do I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas with it?” 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, work at last, Dorian,” said the seeking for something. Yes, it painter coldly when he had was for the long palette-knife, recovered from his surprise. “I with its thin blade of lithe steel. never thought you would.” He had found it at last. He was   “Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. going to rip up the canvas.   With a stifled sob the lad I feel that.” leaped from the couch, and, rush‑ “Well, as soon as you are dry, you ing over to Hallward, tore the shall be varnished, and framed, knife out of his hand, and flung and sent home. Then you can do it to the end of the studio. “Don’t, what you like with yourself.” And Basil, don’t!” he cried. “It would he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. “You will be murder!”   “I am glad you appreciate my 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 defini‑ tion 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!” 24

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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.” strongly this morning, Lord  “And you know you have Henry.” been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and   “Ah! this morning! You have that you don’t really object to lived since then.” being reminded that you are   There came a knock at the door, extremely young.” and the butler entered with   “I should have objected very 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 exam‑ ined 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 subse‑ quent 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 nine‑ teenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in said the lad.   “Then you shall come; and you modern life.” “You really must not say things will come, too, Basil, won’t you?”   “I can’t, really. I would sooner like that before Dorian, Harry.”   “Before which Dorian? The one not. I have a lot of work to do.” who is pouring out tea for us, or   “Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.” the one in the picture?”   “I should like that awfully.”   “Before either.”   “I should like to come to the   The painter bit his lip and theatre with you, Lord Henry,” 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, stroll‑ 25

Chapter Two

ing across to him. “Am about fidelity!” exclaimed Lord I really like that?” Henry. “Why, even in love it is   “Yes; you are just like that.” purely a question for physiology.   “How wonderful, Basil!” It has nothing to do with our own “At least you are like it in will. Young men want to be faith‑ appearance. But it will never ful, and are not; old men want to alter,” sighed Hallward. “That be faithless, and cannot: that is all is something.” one can say.”   “What a fuss people make  “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 watch‑ ing 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. this morning.” Come and see me soon. Come   “I have forgotten it.”   “I trust you.” to-morrow.”   “I wish I could trust myself,”  “Certainly.” said Lord Henry, laughing.   “You won’t forget?”  “No, of course not,” cried “Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop Dorian. you at your own place. Good-bye,   “And ... Harry!” Basil. It has been a most   “Yes, Basil?”   “Remember what I asked you, interesting afternoon.” when we were in the garden   As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.

26

The Picture of Dorian Gray

CHAPTER 3

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 secretary, had benefit from him, but who was considered gener‑ resigned along ous by Society as he fed the people who amused with his chief, him. His father had been our ambassador at somewhat fool‑ Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim ishly as was unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic thought at the service in a capricious moment of annoyance on time, and on succeeding not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he some months later to the title, considered that he was fully enti‑ had set hi myself to the serious tled by reason of his birth, his study of the great aristocratic art indolence, the good English of of doing absolutely nothing. He his dispatches, and his inordi‑ had two large town houses, but nate passion for pleasure. The preferred to live in chambers as it son, who had been his father’s was less trouble, and took most 27

Chapter Three

of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the manage‑ ment 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

suppose,” said office, during Lord Fermor, which period making a wry he roundly face. “Well, sit abused them down and tell for being me all about it. a pack of Young people, Radicals. He nowadays, was a hero to imagine that his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most money is everything.” of his relations, whom he bullied   “Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, in turn. Only England could have settling his button-hole in his produced him, and he always coat; “and when they grow older said that the country was going they know it. But I don’t want to the dogs. His principles were money. It is only people who pay out of date, but there was a good their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. deal to be said for his prejudices.   When Lord Henry entered the Credit is the capital of a younger room, he found his uncle sitting son, and one lives charmingly in a rough shooting-coat, smok‑ upon it. Besides, I always deal ing a cheroot and grumbling over with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and The Times. “Well, Harry,” said consequently they never bother the old gentleman, “what brings me. What I want is information: you out so early? I thought you not useful information, of course; useless dandies never got up till two, When I was in the Diplomatic, information.” and were not things were much better. But   “Well, I can you visible till five.” I hear they let them in now by tell   “Pure family examination. What can you anything that affection, I expect? Examinations, sir, are is in an English Book, assure you, pure humbug from beginning to Blue Uncle George. end. If a man is a gentleman, he H a r r y , I want to get knows quite enough, and if he is although those something out not a gentleman, whatever he fellows nowa‑ knows is bad for him.” days write a lot of you.” nonsense.  “Money, I   “Mr. Dorian Gray does not of 28

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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. The thing was hushed up, but, I have only just met him.”   “Kelso’s grandson!” echoed the egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at old gentleman. “Kelso’s grand‑ the club for some time after‑ son! ... Of course.... I knew his wards. He brought his daughter mother intimately. I believe I was back with him, I was told, and at her christening. She was an she never spoke to him again. extraordinarily beautiful girl, Oh, yes; it was a bad business. Margaret Devereux, and made all The girl died, too, died within the men frantic by running away a year. So she left a son, did she? with a penniless young fellow--a I had forgotten that. What sort of mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a boy is he? If he is like his mother, foot regiment, or something of he must be a good-looking chap.” that kind. Certainly. I remember  “He is very good-looking,” the whole thing as if it happened assented Lord Henry. yesterday. The poor chap was   “I hope he will fall into proper killed in a duel at Spa a few hands,” continued the old man. months after the marriage. There “He should have a pot of money was an ugly story about it. They waiting for him if Kelso did the said Kelso got some rascally right thing by him. His mother adventurer, some Belgian brute, had money, too. All the Selby to insult his son-in-law in public- property came to her, through -paid him, sir, to do it, paid him-- her grandfather. Her grandfather and that the fellow spitted his hated Kelso, thought him a mean man as if he had been a pigeon. 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 29

Chapter Three

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 30

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lucrtive 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 coun‑ the information I wanted. try? They are always telling us I always like to know everything that it is the paradise for women.” about my new friends, and noth‑   “It is. That is the reason why, ing about my old ones.” like Eve, they are so excessively  “Where are you lunching, anxious to get out of it,” said Harry?” Lord Henry. “Good-bye, Uncle   “At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked George. I shall be late for lunch, myself and Mr. Gray. He is her if I stop any latest protege.” longer. Thanks Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it   “ H u m p h ! for giving me had been told to him, it had yet tell your Aunt stirred him by its suggestion of Agatha, Harry, not to bother a strange, almost modern me any more with her chari‑ romance. A beautiful woman ty appeals. I am sick of them. risking everything for a mad Why, the good woman thinks passion. A few wild weeks of 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 distin‑ guishing characteristic.”  The old gentleman growled happiness cut short by a hideous, approvingly and rang the bell for treacherous crime. Months of his servant. Lord Henry passed up voiceless agony, and then a child the low arcade into Burlington born in pain. The mother Street and turned his steps in the snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of direction of Berkeley Square.   So that was the story of Dorian 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, 31

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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 some‑ thing terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activ‑ ity 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--per‑ haps 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 psychologi‑ cal 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 remem‑ bered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? 32

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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 domi‑ nate 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, smil‑ ing 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 33

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 every‑ thing 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

Chapter Three

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 suggest‑ ed 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 discov‑ ered,” said the Radical member-and he began to give some weari‑ some 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 34

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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 castoff 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 trav‑ elled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an educa‑ tion 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

35

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 unbear‑ able. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below

Chapter Three

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 veri‑

ties 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 every‑ thing except suffering,” said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoul‑ ders. “I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is some‑ thing 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

36

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important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas with a grave shake of the head.  “Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditur of slavery, and put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us as we try to solve it   “But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleu by amusing the   “Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha. slaves.”   Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself to   The politician how to laugh, history would have been different.” looked at him   “You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have alw keenly. “What no interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look change do you   “A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry. propose, then?”   “Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman l he asked. would tell me how to become young again.”  Lord Henry   He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error tha laughed. “I her across the table. don’t desire to   “A great many, I fear,” she cried. c h a n g e   “Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one anything in   “A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.” England except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic contemplation. But, as the

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Chapter Three

“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 re of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal to science to continued, stray, and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional.” “that is one of ur timidly. the great secrets life. oo seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known of Nowadays most ways felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take people die of a sort of creeping k her in the face without a blush.” common sense, discover like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you and when it is too at you committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at late that the only things one never regrets are one’s e’s youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.” mistakes.” ”   A laugh ran round the table.   He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air

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The Picture of Dorian Gray

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 intoa 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 improvisa‑ tion. 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

39

wished to fascinate seemed to gi colour to his imagination. irresponsible. He charmed his l they followed his pipe, laughin gaze off him, but sat like one un other over his lips and wo darkening eyes.   At last, liveried in the costum room in the shape of a servan carriage was waiting. She wrun “How annoying!” she cried. “I husband at the club, to take h Willis’s Rooms, where he is goin he is sure to be furious, and I bonnet. It is far too fragile. A h must go, dear Agatha. Good-b delightful and dreadfully demo

Chapter Three

ive his wit keenness and to lend He was brilliant, fantastic, listeners out of themselves, and ng. Dorian Gray never took his nder a spell, smiles chasing each onder growing grave in his

what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night. Tuesday? Are you disen‑ gaged 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 me of the age, reality entered the the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other nt to tell the duchess that her ladies. ng her hands in mock despair.  When Lord Henry had sat down again, must go. I have to call for my Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking a chair close him to some absurd meeting at to him, placed his hand upon his arm. ng to be in the chair. If I am late   “You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you I couldn’t have a scene in this write one?” harsh word would ruin it. No, I   “I am too fond of reading books to care to write bye, Lord Henry, you are quite them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel oralizing. I am sure I don’t know certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as

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a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedi‑ as. 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

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has a perfect host, and a perfect library.”   “You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courte‑ ous 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, smil‑ ing. “All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me, if you care to.”

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frieze and ceiling of raised plaster‑ work, and its brick‑ dust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statu‑ ette by Clodion, and beside it lay

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 charm‑ ing room, with its high panelled wain‑ scoting of olive -stained oak, its cream-coloured

a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had select‑ ed 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 apri‑ cot-coloured light of a summer day in London.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

CHAPTER 4

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

Chapter Four

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 nervous‑ ly as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curi‑ ous woman, whose dresses always looked

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.

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 with‑ out other people hearing what one says. That is a great advan‑ tage, 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, 44

The Picture of Dorian Gray

rooms look so pictur‑ esque. 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 differ‑ ent. But he has been most pleasant.

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

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 prom‑ ised 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

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

you at Lady Thornbury’s.”   “I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of para‑ dise 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. 45

Chapter Four

“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 prac‑ tice, as I do everything that you say.”   “Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause. an actress,”   “With

said Dorian Gray, blushing.   Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather commonplace debut.”   “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, howev‑ er. She is a genius.”   “My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decora‑ tive sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charm‑ ingly. Women repre‑ sent 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 respect‑ 46

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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 fascinat‑ ed 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 deter‑ mined to go out in search of some

worth talking to, and two of these can’t be admit‑ ted 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.”

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

“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,

ability, 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 grand‑ mothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge and espritused 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

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 east‑ ward, 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, 47

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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

“How do you mean?”   “My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow

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.” people. What they call their loyal‑ ty, 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.” 48

“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 grandperes ont toujo‑ urs 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 scen‑ ery, 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

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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

49

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

“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an

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 reed‑ like 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 fash‑ ionable 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.”

Chapter Four

compliment, all the same. And now tell me--reach me the match‑ es, 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?” 50

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“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 strong‑

“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.

He

would

insist on call‑ ing me ‘My Lord,’ so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything

of

the kind. She

ly 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 bank‑ ruptcies were entirely due to ‘The Bard,’ as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to think it a distinction.” 51

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“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.

quite

simply to me, ‘You

look

more like a prince. I must call

you

P r i n c e Charming.’”

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.

said

“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, exam‑ 52

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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.”

ining 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

horrid you are! She is all the great hero‑ ines 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

53

“How

Chapter Four

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 personal‑ ities, 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

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

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

54

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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 discov‑ ered that.”   “Basil, my dear boy, puts every‑ thing 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 crea‑ tures. 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 55

Chapter Four

crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes from trou‑ bling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshap‑ en 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 immedi‑ ately 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 56

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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 spiritu‑ ality. 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 under‑ stood 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 57

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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 danger‑ ous. 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.

58

The Picture of Dorian Gray

CHAPTER 5 “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 intru‑ sive 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.

59

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.”

Chapter Five

“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

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 world‑ ly 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 60

petals of her lips. They trembled. Some south‑ ern 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 parrotphrase 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

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61

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

Chapter Five

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,

62

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

63

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

when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consider‑ ation. However, as I said before, if he is rich ...”   “Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!”

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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.

had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatri‑ cal 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.

again. I am sure I don’t want to.”   “My son, don’t say such dreadful things,” m u r m u r e d Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disap‑ pointed that he

“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?

Chapter Five

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 your‑ self in London.   “Society!” muttered the lad.

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 smok‑ ing it. It is very sweet of you to let me have

64

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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. “V don’t be too long dressing.” Sh could hear her singing as she pattered overhead.   He walked up and down the he turned to the still figure in th

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 dine with the best families.”   “I hate offices, and I hate cle quite right. I have chosen my o Sibyl. Don’t let her come to watch over her.”   “James, you really talk very st 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 attach‑ ment 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 65

Chapter Five

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

Very well,” he said at last, “but he danced out of the door. One e ran upstairs. Her little feet

room two or three times. Then he chair. “Mother, are my things

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 under‑ stand, James. In the profession we are accustomed

e class, and in the country often

erks,” he replied. “But you are own life. All I say is, watch over any harm. Mother, you must

trangely. Of course I watch over 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 expres‑ sion in her face. “He has not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He is 66

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probably a member of the aristoc‑ racy.”   James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch over her.”   “My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why she

brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple.

His good looks are really quite remarkable; everyb   The lad muttered something to himself and

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 have my dinner at five o’clock. Everything is packe stateliness.   She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her,

and there was something in his look that had mad

“Kiss me, Mother,” said the girl. Her flowerlik

its frost. gallery.   “Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He hated his moth‑

er’s affectations.   They went out into the flickering, wind-blown Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at the sul 67

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he is one of the aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a most

always under my special care. Of course, if this should not contract an alliance with him. I trust

fingers. He had just turned round to say something when

body notices them.” drummed on the window-pane with his coarse

“Good-bye, my son,” she answered with a bow of strained

be serious sometimes. Good-bye, Mother; I will ed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble.”   “My child! my child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceil‑ ing in search of an imaginary

de her feel afraid. ke lips touched the withered cheek and warmed

see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue

n sunlight and strolled down the dreary Euston llen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, 68

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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 leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quit was producing. Her love was trembling in laughte of Prince Charming, and, that she might think o talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in whi the gold he was certain to find, about the wonder

remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be.

Oh, no! A sailor’s existence was dreadful. Fancy be with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to ge the masts down and tearing the sails into long

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 discov‑ ered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The

69

bushrangers were to attack the slaughter. Or, no. He was not t places, where men got intoxica

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bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to

geniuses late in life and never te unconscious of the effect she er on her lips. She was thinking of him all the more, she did not ich Jim was going to sail, about rful heiress whose life he was to

save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not to

eing cooped up in a horrid ship, et in, and a black wind blowing 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

em three times, and be defeated with immense to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid ated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used

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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   The lad listened sulkily to he ing home.   Yet it was not this alone tha though he was, he had still a str young dandy who was making gentleman, and he hated him fo stinct for which he could not acc dominant within him. He was c mother’s nature, and in that sa Children begin by loving their 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

“Oh! that you will be a goo answered, smiling at him.   He shrugged his shoulders. “ me than I am to forget you, Siby   She flushed. “What do you me   “You have a new friend, I hea told me about him? He means yo 71

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sometimes they forgive them.   His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, some‑ thing 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.

e rich and happy. er and made no answer. He was heart-sick at leav‑

at made him gloomy and morose. Inexperienced rong sense of the danger of Sibyl’s position. This g love to her could mean her no good. He was a or that, hated him through some curious race-in‑ count, and which for that reason was all the more conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his aw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness. r parents; as they grow older they judge them; 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?”

od boy and not forget us,” she

“You are more likely to forget yl.” ean, Jim?” she asked. ar. Who is he? Why have you not ou no good.” 72

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“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

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“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

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 prov‑ erbs 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.”

“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.”   “He is a gentleman,” said the lad sullenly.   “A prince!” she cried musically. 74

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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. 75

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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 76

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“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.”

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

“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

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“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. standing close to her tittered.   At the Marble Arch they hailed   “Come away, Jim; come away,” she whispered.which He followed her an omnibus, left them doggedly as she passed through theclose crowd. He felt gladhome at what he to their shabby in the 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.”

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. 78

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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

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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 street-cabs, he could hear the looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a droning voice devouring each wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. minute that was left to him.   “Mother, I have something to ask you,” he   After some time, he thrust said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the away his plate and put his head room. She made no answer. “Tell me the truth. in his hands. He felt that he had a I have a right to know. Were you married to right to know. It should have my father?” been told to him before, if it was   She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. as he suspected. Leaden with fear, The terrible moment, the moment that night his mother watched him. Words and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, dropped mechanically from her had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was a disappoint‑ ment to her. The vulgar directness of the ques‑ tion 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 gentle‑ man. Indeed, he was highly connected.”   An oath broke from his lips. “I don’t care for myself,” he exclaimed, 80

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“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

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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 down and mufflers looked for. expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it The lodging-house drudge some day. bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed

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 passion‑ ate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodra‑ matic 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

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CHAPTER 6 “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

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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.” 84   “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.”

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“But do you approve of it, Harry?” asked the painter, walk‑ ing 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 disap‑ prove, 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 fasci‑ nates 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 tempera‑ ments that marriage 85

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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 great‑ est 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 fash‑ ionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can.”   “My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” 86

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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 extraor‑

dinarily 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 87

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yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. Sibyl! went But down at eight o’clock to the You should have seen her! When shetheatre. came on inSibyl her was playing boy’s clothes, she was perfectly wonderful. Rosalind. OfShe course, the scenery 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, 88

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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

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 The Picture of Dorian Gray

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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 cham‑ pagne 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, “mu more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often for to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”   Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You h annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never br

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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 incorrigi‑ ble, 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

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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, delight‑ ful 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 B back in Hallward. his chair and looking at Lord Henry over the heavy of purple-lipped irisesback thatinstood   clusters “Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning his chair back in his and looking at Lord Henry in chair the centre of the table, “what you Henry mean by looking Lorddo over the heavygood, clusters of purple-lipped that stood irises that st Harry?” the heavy clusters irises of purple-lipped in the centre the table, you mean byone’s   “Toofbein good is to“what beofin do harmony with self,”mean the centre the table, “what do you good, Harry?” he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with   “To be his good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” pale, fine-pointed fingers. “Discord is to be he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. “Discord is to be 92

good, Harry?” The Picture of Dorian Gray   “To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touch‑ ing 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, individual‑ ism 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, 93

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mediaeval art is charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civi‑

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 what‑ ever 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 lized man ever very small change. us That with is thethe desire to do ma regrets a pleasure, and no uncivi‑ worry. Women, as some pieces andwitty always prevent us f lized man ever knows what Frenchman once carrying put it, inspire them out.” 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 94

“Harry, you are The Picture of Dorian Gray I don’t know why I like you so much.”   “You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have so fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some cigar mind the cigarettes--I have some. Basil, I can’t allow you to smoke c have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure

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 95

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ome coffee, you rettes. No, don’t cigars. You must e. It is exquisite, new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonder‑ ful 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 stand‑ ing. 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 flash‑ ing 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 dark‑ ened, 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.

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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 trem‑ ulous 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 97

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“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 every‑ thing. 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,

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.

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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 describe must be fine and noble. To spiritualize one’s age--that is something worth doing. If this one’s age--that is something worth doing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think world. This marriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl so at first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been Vane for you. Without her you would have been

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incomplete.”  “Thanks, Basil,” answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. “I knew that you would under‑ stand 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 some‑ thing 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 100

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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,

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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. 102

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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 far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. 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.” 103

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“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 experi ence. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heav ens, 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 104

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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 longdrawn 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 105

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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 exqui‑ w ihissing, th site to me. I heard them and I smiled. you,know where What could they of love such as ours? we can quite Dorian--take alone. Take mebeaway, me away 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

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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 seri‑ ous, Dorian?” she murmured. “You are acting.”   “Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.

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   She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of will try--indeed, I pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand will try. It came upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. “Don’t 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 107

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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! for You to-night? I will work so are nothing to me now. I will neverhard see 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.” 108

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h of t seemed t pain. He fol watched the me white-smocked ries. He thank refused to acce began to eat th plucked at midn moon had ente boys carrying c yellow and red threading their green piles of v

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,   She wept silently, and flushed with faint fires, the sky made no answer, but crept hollowed itself into a perfect nearer. Her little hands pearl. Huge carts filled with stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty He turned on his heel and left street. The air was the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre.   Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wander‑ ing 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

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heavy with the perfume the flowers, and their beauty to bring him anwith anodyne for sun-bleached his its grey, pillars, loitered a troop of llowed into the market and draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to en unloading their waggons. be over. OthersAcrowded round the swinging doors carter offered of him some cher‑ the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough ked him, wondered why he shaking ept any moneystones, for them, and their bells and trappings. Some of drivers hem listlessly. the They had were been lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Irisand the pigeons ran about pick‑ night, and thenecked coldness ofpink-footed, the seeds. ered into them.ing A up long line of   After while, he hailed a hansom and drove crates of striped tulips,a little and of roses, defiled in front of him, r way through the huge, jadevegetables. Under the portico, home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shut‑ tered 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 burn‑ ing from three flickering jets: thin blue petals 110

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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 deco‑ rated 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 some‑ what 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 clear‑ ly 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 111

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lips. What did it mean?   He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were thing was horri‑ no signs of any change when he bly apparent. looked into the actual He painting, threw himself into a and yet there was no chair doubt that and began to think. the whole expression Suddenlyhad there flashed across his mind altered. It was not a mere what he had said in Basil Hallward’s fancy of his own. studioThe 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 112

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remem‑ bered 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 centu‑ ries 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 113

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that makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.   Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful a stain marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hairwould fleck and wreck gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyes met his its fair‑ ness. not Butforhehimself, wouldbut not sin. The own. A sense of infinite pity, picture, changed or unchanged, would be to for the painted image of himself, came over him. It himwould the alter visible emblem of conscience. He had altered already, and more. Its gold resist would not see Lord would wither into would grey. Its redtemptation. and white He roses Henry any not, at any rate, listen to would die. For every sinmore--would that he committed, 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 i n 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.

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CHAPT 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 115

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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, invi‑ tations to dinner, tickets for private views, his programmes of charity concerts, and the likeon that to guardians, who were are showered on fashionable young men every people and morning during the season. extremely There wasold-fashioned a not realize rather heavy bill for did a chased silver that we live in an age when unnecessary Louis-Quinze toilet-set that things he are our only necessities; and there several had not yetwere had the cour‑very courteously worded communications age to send from Jermyn Street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment’s notice and at the most reasonabl rates of interest.   After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elabor dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into onyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long s He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone thro A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to 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 t light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a sma 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

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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 b e e n a look of joy? Surely a paint‑ ed canvas could not alter? The thing w a s 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 screen that he stood facing the screen. The screen was an old had placed in front one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid of the portrait, and Louis-Quatorze 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

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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 examined, and at once behind and saw the horrible change? What Anything would be better should he do if Basil Hallward came and this dreadful state of doubt. asked to look at his own picture? Basil   He got up and locked both doors would be sure to do that. No; the would be alone when he looked upon t thing had to be shame. Then he drew the screen aside and to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had   As he often remembered afterwards, and a wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the p of almost scientific interest. That such a chan place was incredible to him. And yet it was a fact. affinity between the chemical atoms that shape and colour on the canvas and the soul that was w that what that soul thought, they realized?--t they made true? Or was there some other, mor shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to gazing at the picture in sickened horror.   One thing, however, he felt that it had had made him conscious how unjust, had been to Sibyl Vane. It was not too reparation for that. She could sti wife. His unreal and selfish l would yield to

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some h i g h e r influence, would be trans‑ formed

remors the moral s visible symbol was an ever-present their souls.   Three o’clock struck, a chime, but Dorian Gray d scarlet threads of life and to through the sanguine labyrin ing. He did not know what to d table and wrote a passionate forgiveness and accusing himse wild words of sorrow and wild proach. When we blame ourselv us. It is the confession, not the p finished the letter, he felt that h   Suddenly there came a knoc outside. “My dear boy, I mus shutting yourself up like th   He made no answer at ing still continued and Henry in, and to exp to lead, to quarrel quarrel, to p He ju

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 119

se, drugs that could lull sense to sleep. But here was a of the degradation of sin. Here t sign of the ruin men brought upon

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and four, and the half-hour rang its double did not stir. He was trying to gather up the o weave them into a pattern; to find his way nth of passion through which he was wander‑ do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her elf of madness. He covered page after page with der words of pain. There is a luxury in self-re‑ ves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had he had been forgiven. ck to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice st see you. Let me in at once. I can’t bear your his.” first, but remained quite still. The knock‑ grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord plain to him the new life he was going l with him if it became necessary to part if parting was inevitable. umped 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 poin view, but it was not your fault. Tell me, d go behind and see her, after the play was over  “Yes.”   “I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene wit   “I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it now. I am not sorry for anything that has happ taught me to know myself better.”   “Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in I was afraid I would find you plunged in rem tearing that nice curly hair of yours.”   “I have got through all that,” said Dorian ing his head and smiling. “I am perfectly h now. I know what conscience is, to beg 120 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

The Picture of Dorian Gray

c

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, stand‑ ing up and looking at him in perplexed amaze‑ ment. “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 121

word to her. She is to be my wife.” Chapter Eight   “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 se any one till I came. There w have to be an inquest, of cou and you must not be mixed u it. Things like that make a m fashionable in Paris. But London people are so prej udiced. Here, one should

never make one’s debut with a scandal. One should reserve that to give an inter‑ est 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, 122

The Picture of Dorian Gray

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.

T h e y ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed some‑ thing 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 prus‑ sic 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 123

a

e

Chapter Eight

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-let‑ ter 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 124 a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly some‑

The Picture of Dorian Gray

thing 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

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were abso‑ lutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about her husband, sh either becomes dreadfully dowdy, wears very smart bonnets that some woman’s husband has to pay for. I say n about the social mistake, which woul been abject--which, of course, I wou have allowed-- but I assure you that case the whole thing would have be absolute failure.” “I suppose it would,” muttered the l 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

m

y

interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result

is

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The Picture of Dorian Gray 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 enti‑ tled to give yourself that name, Dorian,” answered Lord Henry with his sweet melan‑ choly 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

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has happened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to simply like a wonderful endin a wonderful play. It has all the terribl of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in whic great part, but by which I have not been w   “It is an interesting question,” said Lord found an exquisite pleasure in playing unconscious egotism, “an extremely inte tion. I fancy that the true explanation is happens that the real tragedies of life o an inartistic manner that they hurt u impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt crude violence, against that. Sometimes, however, a their absolute inco tragedy that possesses artistic elements of their absurd want beauty crosses our lives. If these elements of of meaning, their beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals lackeffect. ofSuddenly style. They affect us jus to our sense of dramatic we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators affects us. They of the play. Or rather we vulgarity are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it that give us an has really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. I wish that I had ever had such an experi‑ ence. It would

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The Picture of Dorian Gray

h a v e 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 reminis‑ cences. That awful memory of

woman! What a fearful what an utter thing it is! And 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

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mourning for that

a

romance

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 eter-

Well--would you believe it?--a week ago, tion, andatshe Lady insisted on going over Hampshire’s, I found the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking myself seated up the future. I had atburied my

nity.

dinner next lady in romance in the a bed of asphodel. She dragged itques‑ 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 130

The Picture of Dorian Gray

i‑ re ‑ y g e ulm ey a the re c o h t m ou, u T d y ul ce. l, b are I o w far cia u sure en o i y m f Y s d a i or o a t . w ef ar art I in e n . y e h f u. o l t o am of t e d yo na ing se r I v n e o m se an ha id f ays ar on ch no th ot uld d alw o te ve ne . tn ha una tha n w l Va en lves m se rt n, ow iby o o f w em ria kn t S a ry th Do ve h e a a w in l h o e m Ord ons c a tr

Some of them do it qualities of their husbands. They by going in for senti‑ mental colours. Never trust a flaunt their conjugal felicity woman in one’s face, as if it were the mostwho wears mauve, what‑ her age may be, or a woman fascinating of sins. Religionever consoles over thirty-five some. Its mysteries have all the charm of who is fond of pink It always means that they a flirtation, a woman once toldribbons. me, and I havenothing a history. Others find a great can quite understand it. Besides, consola makes one so vain as being told that onetion is a in suddenly the sinner. Conscience makes egotists ofdiscovering us all. good 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

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such

as

c o n s o l a ‑ romance, passion, and love.” tion. Taking some   “I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.” one else’s admirer “Iwhen one am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than loses one’s own. In good society anything else. They have wonder‑ fully primitive instincts. We that always whitewashes woman. have aemancipated them, but they remain 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,

slaves looking for their masters, all the same. They love being dominat‑ ed. I am sure you were splendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how 132

The Picture of Dorian Gray

delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something to me the

e e . ne. ast abl ed d i ’t w yl Va .” b e n do er Si ey ar ng i h t v   “B Bu rs o han t even a a e t e h l ly, r t rea e. T eless i s you s less ilenc old, an i o pt s a cre . N sa ew Sh re wa room dows aded f he he sh a “Ah,   T in t the lours G d t, co ene r fee he dear orDo ian Desdemona one e t T D e e silv en. night, and Ophelia the tim ned m m d gs. r e a i la th so other; that if she died as Juliet, she g f thin r somries. xp wiAs e h e o ft ve ll t came to life as Imogen.” ed   A ou ha mur felt a yo   “She will never come to life again now,” “Y murkeep ow . “I ief meh I e l h e o r muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands. d s of ut t, an bmuch i   “No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death beaut in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful bett scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. To ar you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flit‑ 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 repre‑ sented to you all the heroines of romance--that

she

was

ted 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 stran‑ gled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter of Brabantio

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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

said to me. You are certainly my best friend.

I am awfully obliged to you for all that you have

you have.”

No one has ever understood me as

store for you, Dorian. There is express it to with nothing that you, your myself. How well you know me! looks, But we will will extraordinary good not talk not be again of what has happ ened. It has been a marvello le to do.” us experi‑ ‑ ence. That is all. I wond ark th d er if life g wisuppose, has sti e ll But Harry, I became haggard, and in sto h d re for t me an m t an u yth o ing as marvellous.” o fr in rwrinkled? ly “Life has everything in nd What then?” ai e . w up ed ,” k then,” rrysaid Lord Henry, rising to go, “then, my loo ay lf, Ha gh r G si se f a d, my orian, would have to fight for your victo‑ i to ing o sayou e h v t me ou ha of it aid they are brought to you. No, you must t y is, ha s afr a ot I w ld n u our good looks. We live in an age that reads too o I c to be wise, and that thinks too much to be tiful. We cannot spare you. And now you had ter dress and drive down to the club. We re rather late, as it is.”  “I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eat

134

de his ow Eternal y subtle an was to h d s bear the b ave a A feeling urden desecrati of pain canvads. Oon that nec’s e, in b It ha . e r k u t i n s c a s i edSi,byo l V the p r fesielgf. nIted f o s s w em im it h s the n iled fo o red. d c r n e r u v u w i c e e o c l c l o y at re dtknbef hsaa s they a e o h e r f e i e t h of l esoorf e efor n s b p i t l n h e e t e t v amo n en dea u heedfi o r t h f the t o t d s e n u f ite, as o mrarr a mom tte onsci l c a y r h s e t a v n w owe withas it ind ty at th cruel d e s r u w ever a o e p bec po vici at as. Or , t w o b t m i The u e do passe a ver o e t m t a n a , h o h ns d w , widde of h ha onh e t s c i u n n o o a p z away ay he m e in a cogni nk th e ed u k r m a d t t o h s d y e a l t su thlaight hudde re girl h it me ped n o d i h sthat D d lts? , an gold very eyes, u d s e e r r e t d is he wav to ore h e won ing f e H b ? l e u c o a l i s t p ! e t g h he pitlyl boeefn! t n e taki g a n i a irt haad F the ch e o c n n m he eD o . Tm oma t r . i e a d g e t a a st hop thteh l! Wh y n b o i nh a S h t t r kteh a o a e t o d P e d d   icke er an h m i d e m te touch often d a ad shhat h h f w sel o The Picture of Dorian Gray

“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 theinblinds e hangto go. The down. He waited impatiently for chim 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

him

135

ful im. H h t dread h t d tha e y wi a l p

s, life ha ecided th d at for him wn infin ite curios --life, and it youth, in finite pa y about life. ss secret, wi ld joys an ion, pleasures all these things. T d wilder sins--he h n of his s hame: th e portrait was to a n crept o ver him a t was all. s was in s tore for he thought of th the fair boyish m face on t e ockery o he f Narciss . to kiss, th tthehim. M ose painted lip us, he had o thartathiet won rning after morns that now sdififetresnet em dering at its bea ing he had ed to him uty, almo in redywm st a itho t times. W od to wh as it to ich he yie swtoruoldusese an lded? Wa d l o a t s it h e s h o l se m o ak c e g t n d h i r i r n e o t had so o om, to be shut o g, to be ut from ften touc gShwe hoan h e dd d to brigh er of its h ter air? The p ite!ath ity of D enr t, he th e o eh horrib ught of praying le existed b sympathy etween Chapter Eight

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

136

cha gla lk line mour wd o ss wo u u uce r ow ot ldr it d e n r y p a e ce ru fo ev o pr d e n n e h e t o s ha flu errciw alsd ht e n g i i r W t M tsbe hst ex , w fic i tha h i n? t o i ut ay ise houg tr ien a ct c N stit r o s ? b d e si n su t tidings ex s o ou m the i g n a r h n ld ght cu ou g e anic t it tthim e i c an om ght ev , m org ont no s s m u be nis enrdyin migh tmh ood ffi ho a t g tirh a a e e, i our If or H d e a g g ? s n e h g tran caa g all de t vin on d es d i i l . s r w u a e p r o on nce u sfci nisornewve o d nev t p n u co rnou as ul ue t lo toh r l e w f o i r n t in re te setc o He w cte u a gh r an s n u irnt .f b i i c i o e y p v l c h m s op an tt hte heclose ae t t t r s ou rselve to at a o se . If w o p o p inic erd ire t im ou lling e w o r i o o n ap t u n asu ca itst of e lr y inq pt e l o l m s o b h intis st al ato n wa terri . Whead e r ll y so ind e a y mw mo b b e rea er an was a lh d thi is a y t u hi h a a e o m r i h t w m p w h i s T llo w toa to hi nig er. there o t e f l h b a s o d d t or e l m l F a i   e ble t wou H vea to h t m a e r t i a e e l h c a b a r er rtr t had reven o s p nt i iy d w s d l w A u ul a wo when wo his c The Picture of Dorian Gray

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 conse‑ quences it might be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been

137

on ace .W spr , an hen t ing h e d le wit t h ver e h f t b ge lead loo r of beh en boy ind d cr ept eye hoo uld a pal s d , e . e v l h s N i e d e r o ‑ w h t m w t f a o wi eak o l d n a uld e e rn e,n . e t b s No nexg,ssion e. Li l o k s t s a k h a o p mo mnad y? Bunt tdbyfal e the one f p tt mrpt toeet g u ini te o l , e s d s t a a w s n n w i of t e of d jo agantver, it hat he you al as? ld hap to u Gr o s p wH . ? e e t e i n .H his w to t e i T g . o s n uld d to etcehin place rors. t et b mir h b r c e a e f t s safe e col turgical o y,csko i i nto d .T ma e,bos d n m n hat its biseodw oul. A ili f n so e r o g n r o h w m a o , m t s i gs pfoon er p , h w e her l d ace e u er h i d b e i h m. h l in so, i s stile o A as pera, n hou valet w and lean as r la and ing cha t e L o ir. rd r ove r Chapter Eight

138

ha w ev or th . M d co e. he h ch fe h m o h he n G u , o e It y. D ha en lod and ve et ca it? Th y d her ers lad ra me at, ore the me But an r s w is .“ on t it n th gin w I o e e ear sel elf-- , g y I an Do th wi ov yo ged s Y t o i in e q g? th w ou m ma im ’t “N ld B f ! ve is o ” oin use , Ba rian an nd er y u w yo et n pl tal as. me ui Yo a s m ow o o,” er asi Go n I g d n ’ s h u -y s e W t k e o t i u t ac u us ov to l,” o in o o m l to a p ly s ca rai r s we , lo . Y re s com t l sai an ! Su d h tn g. nl exp ab e w er p f h n h o i n l y e o d o t r a a g t ed ea al An c re to in e e ha o -m ad D bu el ea ot u er p k u m su lo ra alk to hi t,” xc ll b you ed tal ple let te d hil ssio t h e id th or ri y y ven w r e l k l v n d m o o , e i u d e e a l e s in l . a s e t to ow . T n , orr . I pe ch m an aid im som Yo ut f as i nat y. Y e. le-c mo n G d hi u d ! is m o e d o , t he as id u e o u o f o T o d t s th d, on pl sle e ab fp el re H e d on r a yo ra u sh he las st c ray fa n’t he p e o e o ’ l m i ar t l s e ut tw w u e k la v om , “ ce th re , a loo ut ar ur ay ly p f o ain f e h t i t h n n i i . t e a s a s ry th in is ni ” ta w k a t n a th ne st n rtu m he n h ink o o d i h n d n u ? n g e e t m bo on i r d t w in e a on e gh o no aff xa W rw h ng hi sa g r to req o i is it ut , a i ig g hy o is ec ct tm m s h dl ou s u h b . Bu of ts u ht s nd pla s n han wa ubt l t , m m vo yo e a ire W nd an y. e t ent eart ion y th t, th nr he all ce l oth ds s a ab i e h ur t t ye an n ce. d .“ at vu ou as e o s o , n at e . i e t i p ‑ v h “ n b h a o a be n m li la m Id , “ e t sa es g H lg t i e e I r n o a s t om w ar ty ye t k . T fe ow ar th he in Yo m st th pi he m do hi o v , a a n g u t o d er re i h a ss s s y in e g ty a a ne n e ’t cy ge Ev ent say r a he --th nd ey rfu fea cci t?” kn ho .” ar cha wen re in . Yo wo is of t r e h rm t n en --a in bo die e n of t are l ab rfu de cri y e u o d u n d o i w l u b n e m o d g de h d , f u. w er or in i g o l d ne w y o e l f go Har out , yo t he , as ght ing oo ut ,” h t? O H r, ro g , I ick t re ul ha em f a .W “y rs i in ry ha u m r. H Ju yo . H d h it. e m f c all s t n t b e o h o h a w I y r g , w lf o o in u tio em in ll e m y at ou us er liet u s ow usb t is utt ur ar t h p H h h g w i aw d a em r n d s t o a e d s a o w o , o m e a s. ve t pa su rr st ho an ot oug wa st f not eat ig he iffe nds ne red sh , loo I w ion co n- y’s un , d st h o , e t. i h io , .A m a la a is W n. h. I s he ve, thin ha t h r--s ren or f th and kil kin i s nt sh nf po y a et ha m le g u un N s re pe k s a av he t S fai e l a t f e o i u d o g a u t e l i t t r d s o ju o ffe , w ha I h ll t d act by hf re hu he p a us n w do ga enc ed c er d la st et te yo , B one red ho ps, ave he p ied. ed l wa ul w at r dd rse t h rd e. r a e y . he ho o i b e l u n en I se at , u Ye b m is u w ch asil can im ro or a ot ath She adl s! S ives ma r ra f.” m w .“ e st s an ,t n e s y h m u er ar . Y , n , ith I o th re in ed o t? da m ou ex en ght qua uffe tic pas be e li or tic th a t w o t ” a v c s u s t t in r s y, n he co e a .” g co cep ely me rter red sel ed a aus ed h om rag oug w e xp w me . es . of m t e e he gr g e h t ho re ea n yo e d sen The he to s If y sne ain she er f thin dies hi le s o I i t i m u. ow ti n ne x n s s g h u o h i d i s on m it w --y h ea yo Y ea of nto ad est ted f th . n a o e r s o u lt t k of d p d o ar u fi her nta ass , in u w co ma the no rag iou e ag th ho rt nd e lis e e s w e m a e s f o . d r y a t p d . n Y fu u t t r e r c A y S s o h or aw t, ld in do e th . S ou s ib rio me c . . yl us co ons And ay had ha ye m, re o e re he kn a ru Va v s w . o ns o f . a l a t e e I w l n e a ne ol le yo ca o fo rd l i art lity s a w , p t ed m u . u a s n i l h e , a e. ar no dea nd y at wa The of l way at opl e t nd Th e r o s I w m a s at aw rep ha e i pa ted e is ve. W a h me wh an o e is fu ea t I n rti be so lly t a w te cu au m hen ro‑ n as ars lar ty. e‑ .

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pa n d ha n d -th t go ere , e is much to b ife l e t n y ow he ow s n ’ s e pectator of on e I ha wh w v y e o ay Bu lb d ev o s o . e h loped. I as a sc ry be w ar m H i l y f of pa w r d i e n i th nd. o e Of cou ry f Th rse, I am ve m .” e. aid I a s e m ha th b t wh a o at m re t t I a wo hi m. There is nothing mo ul in d h c pa ss mu o aw s , ay. ood The g s a re w as so much in him that w

words .” “I wil l try a thing n , d D do so orian, But y meif it w can’t g ou must co o uld p me an lease “I can et on witho d sit t you. o me y ut you never exclai o .” urself s i t med, t o again you a startin The p .I gain, g back ainter B a . stared you m sil. It ean to at him is im say yo possib pulled . “My u don le!” h d the sc e a r boy, w ’t like e reen i done. what hat no n fron Do ta I n t d k s of it? i e the hidin e d n o s f e you? W !” he c Let m g my screen e look ri here i work away, servan at it. I s it? W ed. “Do like t D t has o r i t an. It hat. I h i s y nothi t have y h room e best is felt th ng to ou for m thing e room simply dis do wi e? He I The li have e g th it, racefu settles looke ght w ver B l d a o m s f your differ il. You as too y flow is an a ent as servan strong ers for don’t dmira I t i m o magin came n the ble e som of the in.” “ e I let portra etime room. place for it. M i s h t y .”“Too im ar -t Let m Ac the pa range strong hat is all. N e see i inter a ry of terror m o ! t y ; .” And Surely I nd th at it. I Hallw not, m did it myse e scree broke from don’t ard w lf. y dear n D . o “ w r B i a i a asil,” sh you lked t n Gra fellow shoul h o y dn’t I e ? w t ’s s o I a a t .”“No lips, a rds th id, loo look a t look nd he e corn Basil, king v t it?” e a r e u on my t e r r shed b my ow xclaim y pale word etwee , n wor ed Ha live. I of hon n k! You “you must llward am qu o not lo u a , l r i r a t e e u I n g will n seriou o o to ask h k t i n s e g rious. .“If yo ever s s. I do for an Why p u try t n’t off y. Bu is ove o look er any eak to you r betw t, remembe a a e g t x a it, p i n l r, if yo anatio een u at Do n, and as long as I rian G s.”Hallward u touch th y ou are is scre ray in was th not en, ev absolu seen h under erythi im lik te am s t r u ng ck. He azeme e this looke before nt. He pallid d . The l had n with ad wa e rage. v er s actu His h ally clench ands were ed, a nd

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riou e s f l a h nce, it yo o b i h m i x h e t won’ said to e d h a y h h y nr you w l l secr e s t i o h t d l i a s too, h , l , get Ba i r s u a o B h n erhaps p strai , s e m i Y h ” . g e okin to m o l n o d i t n a a l eve close e t for i u n o q s r a e e v r ing o your s m a o c w , t d a sai e. Wh n i d yo l m o t u I o y f ian, i r all tell o h s D I “ . d , an imself h hos f t o f e o t i r e p eith d in s g e n r i e o d d d shu r your a e the b h t s i o n w If you I could . . t e a k m o t gh a to lo u o y or re s y e a m w a l f a y an an I have . h t t n e e t m on rer to a e ink I d h s t i I p “ i . h Gray iends n r f a i r r u o o .Y sted D i s find n i o ” t , e d e m n ermi st tell t e u d m s a u yo . He w e c just a l d p n s A t i . down taken t d i a s h s y u osit “Let . d e l b t first u a o r y l t b g a prob ookin l t a , r h e t t g n i is c ethin h m f o o s s ? rious he arm t u c g g n i n i h eth clutc , d till a l t i e a h t W . speak ” cried ! t l ’ i n s o a B D y?”“ did. u o y e t extr e s s o I “ m . s e e ey ad th h y t i l startled a erson p 145 me t r a u c o e y b , u u ou. Yo met yo y y b , r s powe s artist n, and

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d s cannot tbhe shoowrt o e r u ink In. Y ic t s o p woo o n a i r e G o e r D r a gyodtro Th ed“.”You w p ewy ip“Impas overi.lH l s i e h t wo t a rs“Yoeu ril s shsaidbjlue!” waso m st m s hooil two p wp m u l i o dyevl a “I ca deer aellftw Henr iefr e as h d i s n n r some ’t exLpolButyntghsa.tyFew a with thing fas.ooaldcionthwiiectra to co “Plea you. Th tahhl aasbtou you bye. santer f at will be t a ponrd help I am sor or you, I just aas e As h d. I quit ry you w am afraid e e the t left the underst on’t let m r r a his o ue reaso oom, Do nd what n r w frien n secre ! And ho ian Gray t, d w fits o ! How m he had strange s succ f jeal uch eede that ousy es--h d, , stran e un h i s w de g some i thin rstood t ld devot e con ion, g tra hem He s h g ighe all n ic in d ow a costs . He and touc friendsh , a coul ip h him to ha d not r ed the b so un su ell. ve al to w l o c hich any o wed the h a ris thin f his gt frien ds ha d th t go

ly

om c re

te e l p

t conceals t he that ar a r tis t f ar u rre d t o m m er occ et o h nev a ty o ld you. As u I ve to w s aid yI ha t heeks, o a n h is c d a to p l f e e elin sm ck ot h g in d n o him, ul ion t e pers and o ss th byof betionog vena s c wallysofomndl a e lel hi

it ev n a h t

co ec st e af this domina onfe d e so e c t e be d thall.hHarmd hawatso vbeerree l e ld b e oruangfi

er reveals him . An

ds ow

e now that you he e s I . w e n s ere u I f e r r r e a i m u a o g de t ld ht e, y c ob u n . o o ew , y u t o h b i a r s lips o ar y ed a . l T H o f r y t p he h p it ile nite ered if he pain e fi ond of a frie him t w lity dangerond. n d tu ryeveorf.naW eitowu o w a t h y t o u were em extre ore than me ly g oo d-lhe thing no w?” at t ook g i d yo u kin rtraiti.nD g o r ea o p lo lly e t h e i h n g ft h

The Picture of Dorian Gray

149

ne ddotion ble and i n c r e d i g his e of lifma what is im vening eIw o ould s in prob ouumld able. lik e h i n t t g you, go to H e o i m n BaIssialw so arr“yItifi leita,”dh. eB Just the a me a ”“ .”store? sIexwtrea au nst stil g r ? o n e lI a w t r i i i din e i hadn?” natroeub don’t le. I w r an afre n n e o v w I ca n ou int. E a t i n p s o t dy t he ome oulb r e a lp c fusin Icross f ee t u, B g, Do aa o n h e li n t sil, .” r i a n d b g . No ut I rtra Chapter Nine

principal thin it the g i nm rtra po y ex ur gry with me, D n o h yo r ia n be a i ke ot , e f or tn ath. Th colou r e r c am us gb time. Y e e h t he e b or t tran ef

hing that seem m et e d “so rian,” said to w e fa n c y , Do d, H . m Fo han a re me l l tt w o ac yt

gs t y ha se tl i

n lo

a

ti

ne o t

a th

it. It man mus h t com as a l pleas n e v e e ife o r a n s t i . t f its ” d,” m to yo o w u n. I w u aga me l rmured in ill co ook H me a ore ab sm you f at the waallyw a n r s d regtra lic eel a p a re b s tu smil ed to outi it.” re once tfully. “A again hims it wa nd n . s e But , alm that, in lf. Pmooanr d co tha stead fteBasil ost b ! Ho nfess y cha of ht a w his e ion expl nce, in ving bee little he wres ained xtrav n for t a i and c he fe gant pan to him! Tng a secr ed t o col l e e oure t sorry. T gyrics, h he paint t fr er’s a d by is cu here The r r o i sk of portrait mance. seemed ous retic to hi m d m to to re iscovery ust be h main agai idde d w

els fe

n

n o ne

in

wo e h t

l tel

u s of f o r ll. Ist o

rk one crea tes .A rt

n

and colour rm s at i ma em “Well, you d o n ous.” ’t m It u ri y c t you should have se oind. er e i n i d t o l a i tr th tha ev y “ b ? W a is a s th whi

, rd

ur--th lo noese

150

sh

o

don’t want it put straig Why, it h cobwebs if you go into it. inced at his lordship died.”  He w es not mat memories of him. “That do   “And he that is all. Give me the key.” h tremulousl contents of her bunch wit t you don’t th the bunch in a moment. Bu h no,” he cried petulantly. “T here?”  “Nouo, ght it best to be on h some d t he th is grrulous over e. Ye , and was ga r e uar h ts en t mom , d.  of een. The man was Sp id he scr quit ea st. She left fra nd t e i gh a ou i th h ki t be mp e sh e as e gs b in ng th b e a ag g mtoan s siv in er ea pe ndcket and looked f po s hi in o y ke e th Dorian put red with gold, a sp de oi br em ily av he et rl ve co had found in a conv r he at df an gr s hi at th k or w aps served often a rh pe d ha It . in g in th ul df drea own, worse than th s it of on ti up rr co a d ha that ld never die. What t ou w t ye d an s or rr ho d ee br as. They would ma nv ca e th on e ag im d te in pa nd yet the thing w it and make it shameful. A moment he reg   He shuddered, and for a picture away. he had wished to hide the ore poisonou influence, and the still m --for it was The love that he bore him mere phy intellectual. It was not that tire that dies when the senses d an 151 ann, an Montaigne, and Winckelm w. Th him. But it was too late no Th

Gray of Dorian e Picture

rt

e

n d ee d.”

o

nd ,a

“I

e th

e th

as gl

g nd sa

ot og nt

s erv ant en t

t. He could see the r into i e fl e ced ctio lan When his

o th

me-m e fra

aker and ask him to se

n

the man left the room hat as his im t eye s a s k m o d f i s c e a l r vility p a e . Th It s lik ere e. wa wa nc . It y w d o n o a n sn y d l l ered st t t a f c d if h ot a e e f t s eh hi r e m ad i ng p th th a ce ou d e gh k t oo

e house-keepe r tha o tell th im t t he ld h w a n te e to dt rian lit a cigarette y, h o rs. Do a wl e n d s ee wa ord slo lke his he ry or r

do ve

ere d ,h el

no fV ict o

oh dt me e se

ve

df te ai w

CH

E T AP

0 1 R

ut straig p d h n a ? i n ” sh t b a Dor f d r. h e r o r t h e e d d han

f e

r’s

d tw o o fh is m e

fa

nr ou n

d

a

s--not since ar ye ve fi ly ar ne r fo ed en hasn’t been op had hatefu e H r. he at df an gr s hi of the mention e the place-se to t an w y pl m si “I . ed er tter,” he answ ing over the go , dy la d ol e th id sa r,” si ere is the key, have it of ll I’ y. ke e th is e er “H s. nd ly uncertain ha comfortabl so u yo d an r, si e, er th up hink of living red for a few ge lin e Sh .” do ill w t ha T . hank you, Leaf told her t d an ed gh si e H d. ol eh us detail of the ho door closed e th s A s.  ile sm in d he at t the room, wre purple sati e, rg la a on ll fe e ey is H . m round theroo ury Venetia nt ce hnt ee nt ve se te la of plendid piece e to wrap th rv se ld ou w at th s, Ye . na vent near Bolog de somethin hi to as w it ow N . ad de e as a pall for th lf--something that wou se it h at de of on ti up rr co he ould be to th w ns si s hi , se rp co e th to the worm was y would def he T e. ac gr s it ay aw t ea d ar its beauty an be always alive. ld ou w It . on e liv ill st ld wou ue reason w tr e th il as B ld to t no d ha gretted that he Lord Henr st si re to m hi ed lp he ve . Basil would ha mperame te n ow s hi om fr e m ca at us influences th not noble a as w at th it in g in th no d really love--ha of the sen rn bo is at th ty au be of n io ysical admirat d known, a ha o el ng la he ic M as ve lo e. It was such s, Basil could152have sa Ye lf. se m hi e ar pe es ak Sh nd ret, denial eg R d. te la hi ni an be s ay w he past could al . There were passions in h

go in u o y to e . d r it “W e m o ai hy . h t l e f , s o c c x ey s. Leaf b ho i k Mr ioned u he n t s , i t h s a m e lioynho i s n ft rect Ten

y no o u ll of du is u s t f t It is om .  “ Th . I o t ro d into t e ol le d m itt he o st ea r b l ac en r h e n f a nk o wscr e e n c he

he e n d e kl th old s k n i f e w m- , wa h a t m of tin the dire

Chapter

. It is no t sir , e, et it ar r a t g n se us choolroom s . y H r , m e a a ld br h e r li on d r ewr s s i l k  A f t s s i s y ?O r w a e r , . wandereds

a e tr o ub b u bl r. H e o f c oming round, M

rd.

153

lf

ur

Gray of Dorian e Picture

se l f th

Th

, h e ne r g a b t eve g o h u ed e t st D h o rian that charm ju o n ve o a r u n h r ce o yo f n. I c ll o m in perso g n i r ha o d u n Is

le outlet, dr t would find their terrib e great purpl th ch u co e th om fr p u ok l.  He to e screen. Wa th d in h be d se as p s, d an h it in his d, and yet ge an ch n u as w it at th im med to h were there. l al ey th s-p li ed -r se ro d ueeyes, an ared to wh p om C . ty el u cr s it in e bl ri at was hor e had been an V l by Si t ou ab es h ac ro p w Basil’s re the canva om fr im h at t ou g in ok lo wn soul was ch pall over ri e th g n u fl e h d an , im h me across tered.  “T en t an rv se is h as t ou d se oor. He pas . He must n ce on at of d ri t go be st u he man m sly about g in h et m so as w e er h T . to eing taken e scribbleod h e bl ta gn ti ri w e th at n itting dow t inding him m re d an ad re to g in h et ound som t,ahand id sa e h in ,” er sw an vening.  “Wait for an ly dro kn er h ot an as w e er th s wo or three minute , came in w et re St y le d u A th u So of er rame-mak red

m th o s wi t of n e alt t e h f d e a o a h om r t w v i s s t o ss u ro wa e f D o rian Gray. Ther ys m

it, and, hold‑ d re ve co at th re u xt te d ol -g le-and an before? It th r le vi s va n ca e th on ce fa Was the fied. Gold hair si n te in as w it of g in h at his lo at had altered th on si re p ex e th ly p m si It was buke, how shal re or re su n ce of it in w sa hat he le account! Hi tt li at h w of d an , w lo al sh n!--how t. A look of pain en m ge d ju to im h g in ll ca as and k came to th oc kn a , so id d e h s A . re tu ic r the p   He felt tha r.” eu si on M e, er h e ar s n so The per the tpicture wa e er h w ow kn to ed w lo al y not be co b n si op h s eye edeacher ou r d tr e l, u tf o . gh e ou p th t e had rably tem , andHh t him e ew dy omto sendat hi aite enry, askingtohcim .I h a nottewto Lord Hd for people W “ as   . a ft t-fi een th gh ei at t p ee m m a to e i er w l ey th e asure ev to see h m bth dF eaat n e l ut e. en in her . O”  m e th ow sh e y d n “a , l im h to ding it of a sa a t fram a e celebrat p th u , lf e se t im , h i d s ar d i bb Hu r. Picke roc opk, and Mr. in ung assista yo g n ki oo -l gh u a ro at h ew n m with a sod lo ok at h for art w g u t n io o h at ir h e m t ad f r e a e m os d little man, wh h i m.

A s a rul

sh his eft bo e v er l ry

he

t h i

hi

f o in ty vet i i im s o e i n rate impecun .B ti o u p t he ca ce x e n a

Ten

sf a tf

Chapter

154

don’tgo in much at present for religious sart-ha Th

Gray of Dorian e Picture

ut to-day I only want a picture carried toth the

op of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so me

hought I would ask you to lend me a coupleao fr

our men.”  “No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am go

elighted to be of any service to you. Which hise

e work of art, sir?”  “This,” replied Dorian o

oving the screen back. “Can you move it, e

vering and all, just as it is? I don’t want it top

t scratched going upstairs.”  “There will bes

difficulty, sir,” said the genial frame-maker,

ginning, with the aid of his assistant, to

hook the picture from the long brass chains 155

a--ll we carry it

follow ly d in k l il w u o y d, if e way, Mr. Hubbar he t. I am n o fr in o g r e tt e b had eI. Or perhaps you e will W . e s u o h e th f o p e to raid it is right at th of r.”  He e id w is it s a , e s a c tair o up by the front s m passed y e th d n a , m e th open for seld the door nt. The e c s a e th n a g e b and out into the hall n, ade the m d a h e m a fr e th r of e,laborate characte then, in d n a w o n d n a , y ely bulk opicture extrem of M ts s te o r p s u io obsequ espite of the n’s spiri a m s e d a tr e u tr e o had th ,Hubbard, wh n doin a m e tl n e g a g f seein o ed dislike o it so to d n a h is h t u p n l, Doria s anything usefu ad to car Chapter

Ten

156

er heavy,� murmured Dorian as he unlock

ed the door that opened into the room tha Th

Gray of Dorian e Picture

of men.  He had not entered the plac

r more th an four years--not, indeed, since h

e fo

he grew somewhat older. It was a large, w

l-prop

ortioned room, which had been specia

el

eness to his mother, and also for other reas

ons, he had always hated and desired to kee huge Italian cassone, with its fantastic

painted panels and

its tarnished gilt mouldi

ally

ok-case filled with his dog-eared schoolboo

k

s. On the w all behind it was hanging the sam

ng hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists

hile a company of hawkers rode by, carryi

ll e d ck to him as he looked round. He reca

the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it . How little he had thought, in those dead

d

ays, of all t hat was in store for him!   No; th

ing old. It might escape the hideousness o

f sin, but the hideousness of age was in store

em creep round the fading eyes and make th

horrible. The hair would lose its brightness, 157

old men are. There would be the wrinkled t

ro

h

ld be fool

ish or gross, as the mouths of

, the mouth would gape or droop, wou

158

ow or flaccid.

Yellow crow’s feet would

e for it. The cheeks would become h

oll

by week, the thing upon the canvas was

gro

hat was impossible. Hour by hour, and week the fatal portrait was to be hidden awa

e

t seemed horrible to him that it was her

moment of his lonely childhood came b

s. How well he remembered it all! Ev

ery

and queen were playing chess in a garden,

me ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded kin

imself as a boy. There the satinwood b

ings, in which he had so often hidden h

o have but little changed. There was th

ep at a distance. It appeared to Doria

nt

the little grandson whom, for his strange li

ally built by the last Lord Kelso for the use o

f

h e wa

s a child, and then as a study whe

he had used it first as a play-room when

of his life and hide his soul from the eye Chapter

at was to keep for him the curious sec Ten

ret

ad.  “I am afraid it is rat

re--had no doubt missed

in the hall as they were leaving the hou Th

Gray of Dorian e Picture

d. He wondered if he had met the men

es soiled. A copy of the third edition of T per, the cover slightly torn and the e d

g

o

nal invalid who had spent the preceding win

Radley, his guardian’s wife, a pretty professi

that the tea had been already brought up

nd that it was just after five o’clock and

afe now. No one would ever look upon th

r and put the key in his pocket. He fel ts

gh uncomely face. He had never seen any one

at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his ro

Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for

,

coming round.”  “Not at all, not at all

gorgeous hanging that concealed the se him to the ground if he dared to lift

th e

Dorian started. “It would not interest you, M   “Might one look at the work of art, sir?”

.

“Where shall we put it, sir?”“Oh, anywh

maker, who was still gasping for breath

I kept you so long. I was und. “I am sorry ard, please,” he said, wearily, turning ro

father who had been so stern to him in his boy 159

wisted body, that he remembered in the gran

cold, blue-veined hands, the

d. The yhood. The picture had to be conceale160

r

e was no help for it.  “Bring it in, Mr. Hub

la d thinking of something else.”  “Always g

to have a rest, Mr. Gray,” answered the frame

here. Here: this will do. I don’t want to have it

ung up. Just lean it against

the wall. Thanks.

Mr. Hubbard,” he said, keeping his eye on the

an. He felt ready to leap upon him and fling

re o m y n a u ecret of his life. “I shan’t trouble yo

now. I am much obliged for your kindness in

r you, sir.” And Mr. Hubbard tramped downst

, followed by the assist ant, who glanced back otsteps had died away, Dorian locked the do

so marvellous.  When the sound of their fo

er he horrible thing. No eye but his would ev

e e his sham e.  On reaching the library, he fo s

i p. On a little table of dark perfumed wood th

ly incrusted with na cre, a present from Lady

nter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henr

y, and beside it was a book bound in yellow p

t The St. James’s Gazette had been placed on

tea-tray. It was evident that Victor had return Chapter

he

use and had wormed out of them what they ha Ten

een doing. He would b e sure to miss the pict

it already, w

e he had b

ear.

Vane’s death? Ther een laying the tea-th ings. The screen Th

Gray of Dorian e Picture

Dorian

Gray had not k

t find him creeping upstairs and trying to for

eye fell on the yellow book that Lord H the door of the room. It was a  hHis orrible thing to have a spy in one’s house. H

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

conversation, or picked up a card with an

a

ss, or found beneath a pillow a withered flowe

strangest book that he had ever read. It see

dreamed of were suddenl

pened Lord Henry’s note. It was simply to sa

It wasa novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a

logical study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nine‑ teenth century all the passions and modes of thought that

he sent him round the evening paper, and a bo

belonge world

mes’s languidly, and looked through it. A r

e

as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The dmuch style was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of peinnwhich cil-itm ark on the fifth page caught his e

“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 th

, a young rn, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane time was going.”

“Yes, I thought you would like it,” replied his host, rising from his chair.

actress

rec e

life of ct ofphilosophy. deaThe d th b isasen yOne mthe ribed in the terms of mystical hardly

y eng metaphors as monstrous as it, orchids as it subtle in colour. didn’t say I liked Harry.and I said fascinated me. There is a great difference.” aged at the“I Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdi “Ah, you have discovered that?” murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into th dining-room.

reatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had ma

ost de the p

examina

the morbid was d.  Hconfessions e frowned, and tearinof g tha e pmodern aper in tw , wesinner. nt across theIt oom and f heavy odour of incense seemed to cling oabout its rpages brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of co tion of the decea se

Victor might have read

orately repeated, produced in the mind

d it with red pencil.

i t.

The man knew more than e

ad begun to suspect somethi

Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He re

And, yet, what did it matter? W 161

ness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the boo 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, look

re was nothing to n had not been set back, and a blan Ten

Chapter

k space was

killed her.

ible on the wall. Perhaps some night he mig

some ser

Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him eir lives by He had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all th

v

ad read a letter, or overheard a n t w ho h

er or a shred of crumpled lace.  He sighed

emed 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 h

,

a nd

ly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.

having poured himself out some tea,

ook that might interest him, and that he woul

ed to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through d-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwis

the club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. J

ntion to the following pa atoftearcha‑ ewand efye. It drargot ra

graph:INQUEST ON

he

isms, 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

AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tav

tuatre was returned. Considerabl enwas vknew dynses

he

e sympathy wa

times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval sai a poisonous book. flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made thing s! He felt a and to trouble the little s expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was

Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have mark

enough English for that.

ed with Lord

omplex refrains and movements elab‑ of the lad, as he passed from chapter to

P

chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, t scious of the falling day and creeping shadows.

erhaps he had read it and

ead on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then,

What had Dorian Gray to do

after his valet had reminded him several times of t

with Sibyl

ok on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and

king very much bored.

162

his

talked grossly became silent whe TThe h e PPicture i c t u r e of o f Dorian D o r i a n Gray Gray

d gracef so charming an

h ul as

e

was co uld h

guests with the wonders of their ar

he innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one

For years, Doriancharm Gray

could not free

which always himself fromLord the Henry influence of assisted

ave es

aped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual.  tion and cplacing of those

Often, on re

invited, as for the exquisite

p upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key tha

, a nd st a t never left him now

, with a mi with rror, in front oits portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now f thesubtle n

d

symphonic arrangements of ore and more int

i erested

n the c

p orru

t

i on o

1

exot antique plate of gold amon s an etimes with a monstrou

grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, m

CHA

1 R E PT

d somParis no less than nine large anfrom f his own sosought te care,in inusaw, mHe hit. witthey inefrom ulor xamthat . Hefancied uld ehimself w toofree procured

Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of

various moods and hanging fancies of a

ns of age. He

dreamed in E thing of the

control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and th whole book seemed to him to contain theof story his own life, written before distinction and perfect manner a of citizen ca of the world. To them he seemed to be of the surfaces, and still water which who

came upon the “make themselves perfect by the worship ofyoung Parisian would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the p beauty.” Like Gautier, he was one for whom

ber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an

assume

remarkable. It was d nam e and in disguise, it w as his habit to freq

uent, he would think of the ruin he had brought u

to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, an with cruel perhaps in nearly every joy, certainly pleasure, cruelt for it all joy--and the other arts seemed toasbe butina every preparation.

. Th e m, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification

more he knew, the more h e desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as sized, unt of the sorrow and

s relations to society. Once or twice

every month during the winternd on each W

despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him--and fro

most celebrated musicians of the day to

became chatter of in the its clubs--could not is an attempt to asser ism,thewhich, own way, believe his dishonour when they saw him. He had always the look modernity of anything beauty,to had, of course, their fascina

tion fo

the world. 163

particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influ Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies.For, while he

who

en Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the

p

nn CChhaapptt ee rr EElleev ve e

u r ity

t rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to of his face tha

rt. His little dinners, in the settling of d him, were noted as much for the careful selec‑ them the memory of

es that gave rise to such bsenc str a n eturning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged a ge

am jecture

d cre iends, or thought that they were so, he himself woul ong those who were his fr

this‑

ace that laughed back at h he fair young f im f

r

om

h the polis

ry ed glass. The ve

w at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at t

c on

taste shown in the decoration of the table,

tic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and d and silver. Indeed, there were many,klespecially ing forehead or crawled around lines that seared the wrin sbook. u o e d i h henever e h t t, h g li e d e ng the very young men, who Orsaw, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the h nd terribl asure. H sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of ple

ea

e-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit hi

vy

sensu

al mouth,

which they had often Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine some‑ naturewith over which seemed, at times, e real culture of the scholar all he the grace andto have almost entirely los the more horrible, the signs of sin or the si wondering sometimes which were

he scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of hi he had lived it.  In one point he was more fortunate than the novel’s fantastic hero. He never knew-ause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal

company of those om Dante describes as having sought to

n so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.  There wer

nts, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented cha e mome

“the visible world existed.”  And, certainly,

ents such as these

t he was not Yewhat he fedFashion, themby. which is really

m

upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish . But mo an almost nd ty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over s were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in h

really reckless, at any rate in h

fantastic becomes for a moment Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would th

r ow o

pen to the world his beautiful house and have th

d.  For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, see om time to time strange rumours about his mode life crept through London and universal, andofdandy‑

rt the absolute or him. His

of one who had kept himself unspotted from

Men mode and the

uence on the young exquisites of the o reproduce the accidental charm of his e was but too ready to accept the position that

of dressing, 164

rt he desired to be something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be cons

ulted on

the w

e

a ri ng the It was such worlds TThe h e PPicture i as c t u r e of o f Dorian D o r i a n Gray Gray of a jcreation ewel, or tof he knotting of a necktie, or the con duct of a cane. He sought to elaborate som or amongst the

search for sensations th true objects, of life; and in his often adopt certain modes of thought that he roand ences, as it were, caught their colour r abothen, ut pahaving, ssions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are consci and satisfied his intellectual curi‑

inct of t the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural inst

e

r

and that, inde

e and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into sub

or mission

about to join the Roman Catholic communion, more really than all the sacrifices of the antique bfice, y pain, nsteawful ituality, of which a fine instin pirthe aasd much of aimby of a new sof nts evidence methe ingits at superb them eleof makingrejection world, stirred ihim senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal to kneel down on

re had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial,

to kill

the

m

w rigin whose o

as f would fain think, is indeed the “panis caelestis,� the bread of angels, or, robed ear and whinto ose rthe esulchalice cied degradation fr that fancensers t was a and eaking the Host breast for thanfuming ribleThe tersins. orehis degrsmiting itely m nfin adation ihis that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt

if e at e l there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that was to recre

d

an

into the error of arresting his intellectual d toof a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no sojourn save it f rom that harsh uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curio to us, and the subtle antinomianism that alw

common things strange

seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to th ey might e experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as th

be. Of

the a

e t ic i sm that deadens the s enses, as o

t ne of

h os

ave not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after o

s

c

f the vulgar profligabrain, cy thator dusome lls thewhite m, it wnerve ot as to kinnothe w nbo ing in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical con healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no th

to be of any e drespeculation lectual from action and experiment. He knew amless isnwhen ightseparated s that m ake us almodistilling st enaheavily mouscented red ofoils deand at would now study perfumes and the secrets of their manufacture, had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relati

in all grotesques, and t h

f, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks

at lends to Gothic a

woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagina

gh the lady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep throu

tains , and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl in

cu r

and scented, pollen-laden flowers; of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant wood and of aloes, that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. 165

n eepers a

d ye t

st need

m the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sl

mu

s call forth slee p from her purple cave. Veil a

fter veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by d

d ay

ial Neronian Rome the author of the Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost he what to imper

n nthese that seemed to Dorian Gray to be th CChhaapptt ee rr EElleev ve e

me new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordere

d prin

hat would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their sub

in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.The worship o y

it appeared to Dor ious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But an Gr osity, ileave a them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardour of temp eed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it.  It was rumoured of him o and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The nant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving throu nct for beauty was to be the domi gh h i pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symb n the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with white veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid w Chr her wondeofrfuthe e, ingarments turthe l iroPassion ny, driviof d sought to escape; Nain ng out rom which, in their ignorance, they ha tha

t the true

nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained sava

st

ry,

he wa

s haunted by

a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! Th

flowers had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true s development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which t ainly, yet it was never to stars and the moon is in travail. lect, certm, he intelMysticis accept any ous revival. It was to have its service of t theory o ways r he mate‑ rialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious sure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the ody, delight‑ . But it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the m thing omen nditions, morbid or heory of life seemed to him importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual myster th , or oodor‑ ne of those nights of hoous shaHe pesaw isEast. rrogums r anfrom dm n jothat y, w burning the there hewas n tno hrmo o ions, wondering what there was in frankincense that

esert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions.  Yes: e wild animals of the d

dim shadow of one

with its marvellous pow

s

ystem

that would involve the sacr

s of a life

ifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to

t

that is itself but a moment.  There are few of us who

bers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itse

art its enduring vitality, this a

one that stirred o rtmade bein g,mystical, one mand ighint ambergris fancy, espe cial ation; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychol‑

ly the art o

f those whose minds have been troubled with the m

e

ogy of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smel nto the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the le av ds; of spikenard, that sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad;

the s, or

sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down fr

degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and

166

At another time he

n di ar he eruvia n s t h lle a t h a v e va the shril l cries eO o f b i r d od s, and flutes o d together from f human bones such as Alfons all parts o f th e w o r l d t h e strang est inst o the t TThe h e PPicture i c t u r e of o f Dorian D o r i a n Gray Gray

the fe w

ions, vilizat i c n r e West savage tribes that have survived contact with terrible sense of the

and touch o t d ve and lo

try

necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild long‑

e tapers stand wher life. The flameless ic im m ow eir ad th sh ck al the unre irrors get ba changed. Out of ttern. The wan m hing seems to us ot N ld in its antique pa n. te of o to that we had read n afraid to read, or ds painted gour ness. He had et e w s jasper r a l u g n s that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of si hat is sound ed by

th

e sent inels wh

o

sit all day

long in high

trees, and

can be heard, it is said,

smeared with an elastic gum obtain

left us so

viv id

exican t emple , an d o f who se do le f u l sou nd

he h

as

of his own s o u l. O n one oc casion he took up the study of je

d hape an bestial s f o s g n i rs, th r monste t in the thought that art, like Nature, has he rt

a pre senta tio n o f the tr agedy

felt a curious deligh

k of a

n

ad e s crip tion. T ter he fantastic charac

ing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refash‑ ioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in

t wor

a dist at a

re ks that a ith stic w n e t is bea as two v ibrating tongues of wood and

lamp li g h t , the cymo p h a n e wi t h i t s w i r our e like lin -col e of silver, t he pistachio

ne de Joyeus e, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enth

ed b y

sobe ry

l t h a t tur ns r

e la v ieille roche that was t

ept the wearer from any danger by fire. ocritus, k m e pD azes, ca rbuncles of fie ry scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange

ss o f c o lou r, a n d ha da

tur q

uoi se d

the b rain of th e d rago n , Ph il o s t r a t u ee s t d er, e anerdaeld rabeim upslague. In the nests of Ar o s owas a charm that could cureotlh , a f a b e n i x a tr d t n bir raord “by th rle ds in ee a x w r h sc a y i a b i size s tion of g olden lettertshaenads a a p i l a tes , th nd r ichn e

aned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affecte d only by t waxed and w

cover ed won 167 as mentio derful stori na a serpent w es, also, about jewels. In Alphonso’s Clericalis Discipli

not all

owe

Beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. He collect

loo

ka t

hs m ay y o ut

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

d to

monies of

n are

Ne he Rio ris of t a p u r s ju teriou e mys h t d a nn . He h CChhaapptt ee rr EElleev ve e them

not see till they

have been subjected to fasting a n

then jar s of the

d scourgin g, and th e ea r

s, that are hung in clu lls of the Aztec sters li

t blow, b sit i n

e s no

ut through which he inhales the air; the harsh

wearied of them, and w ould

r do

of t h e A m azon tribes ,

ture

time, he after some t, e Y s. e c i o ideous v d with h

his box a

e rm fo

he yotl-be e of plants; t ic u j y k l i m e h t m o r ned f

the per ch

w g, or the wired flo had been studyin we at th f, ok of t bo t lef e we had lies the half-cu to resume it wher , and beside them d known. We have ha we had left them we at th e lif mes back the real ws of the night co g clarin of the Mex were shaken; the lon i ca n led when they tt a r s, in t a th s e l b b e p h it to w d s fille wh i

ke gr

apes ; and

rpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went wit h Cortes int kins of great se o the ith the s t th eo

pe ra,

he

ei t

stening in rapt pleasure to “Tannh auser” d Henry, li and th Lor s e e r wi i n g in th eo e prel u d e to th at gre

hralled him for years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would

often

wh o

ay sett

ate layers of ruby and sapphire. He lo ved th e re d g lin

ling resett and

he ol i v e gree n ch r

had co ll e c t e d , such as t

n heir alter

nd a

d le

or regret, the in their cases the various stones that he

s with t amethyst d n a , s l e n i and violet sp

spe

the blood the romantic history of Alexander, t of kids. lojnaacinth, and in L a he C e r e f o s e y e h rdus C onq oned wit amil uer 168 lus h or o ad se fE en a w mly kille ew hite stone taken from the brain of a n athia wa s

go

iteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He procured from Ams pearly wh terdam th toned’stoad, th at was a certain antidote against poison. The bezoar, that was found in the heart of the

sa

ible portrait wh ose changing fea t

The King of Ce ilan rode through his

he d and t r it etai wenty-one d . ls T o f he wh ich K ing w of M a lab ar h a d fl sh tulips and dolphins and eurs-de-lis; th a i l t a coratedoww r fro damask, de nt e n a l s t tw satin and pink silk o o f te hi o c rp r a c ims a cer rbun on ou tain velv cles et df V , a ” n n e d s n a o th blu etia e li ed nar at t ne os ndr n a h r ; y o e an f t hree hu g dm o ld a na m i g ne h t ee s hi db ne ha b er t y s n d ay -mo a ge e s a A n an d th str e e’s car odg bunc les by night. In L

corpo

ny

a

TThe h e PPicture i c t u r e of o f Dorian D o r i a n Gray Gray . In the mystic offices to which such things were put, t here was and sudaria , s l i e v someth ing alice

co l ou r e d pe

ths of the dead.

ga

rl s i n the mo u

ro ma m n ‘A Mo c e u red o

ch ls, ra

ar

city with a large ruby in his hand, as t he ceremony of his coronatio

that qu ickene d

his im

aginati on. Fo

remembrance    having its     and the memories their pain.

rite

r

cha l the l a “ ol d d b eh

l bore a seraph’s head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were woven in aodi e c uaper of red and gold silk, and w Amer en on e u ica’, it wa q e s stated that in the chamber of th over oons m n e ev f or s rned u lt o m ha f, and t th ed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thrtea e hdiedamask, figur h e div d pain. He possess t n i ed with d sla a repea iectre brough ting pa t to King Perozes, and ha nfl ttern o f-i u r ed c r y

orse sotal f s. The m

a

r f the pea

olo and c read r th

rls ,o n

ef or

e

f golde n pom

by s

a every god th

l

ou

ed nd

nd ith d f fi m ima ce ges roo iam ; o l v o f n fre ha ds chil eils o s d e c f a o h t e s n r i lac n i d d o is o d t e w h n e orck r in ric h s ne ked in s t t o i n r e is r s , ups and a gre th a t b a u d h e r ike abou un allid macerated body that is worn by the su e may hidegthe p ff e r w i n e linen that sh g th jewels and fin it h at s h ar purple and e se ek f s o fo r u an r d .R h w ves, from which spread lon nthus-leau g-ste ds aped groups of aca m n m e d white d on bloss red s, t ioamm

ew

es and stiff Spa

orsShicilian brocad t; ipp ed . W oin

g ar y un

rd II h

p

er VI, visited Louis XII of F xand e l A of was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-sh

ich a

th

nish velvets; Georgian work,swoitn h its gilt coin s, and Jap is, a

no lenti hen the Duke de Va

nese Fou kousas,

with th

eir gree n

-toned g

ru balas h t i w coa ered hole ys eac r, o hev sought to accumulate t td,ovf Maolhammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. And so, forha ww a he most exqu r a d n u a c ed at thirty t he st whi , s k r nd t a h o a m u s a d n , a nn H

f o fC l r ar th ge er harles the n b a n las ses.” e faation Th s

to e m the arm bro s of thied qeureen, t i he w h e s an ole worked in gold.” Catherine d dt e Medicis had a mourning-b ed made for o h e r o f t b lack ve h lvet p ran. Its supports were of silver gilt,ebteautifully chased, and pro owd fusely set with enamelled and jewell ap ered ed medal es lions. I , an t h ad t d b r e e h n tak i a es da en fr om haw th the k a T u g t rki l o ve to pe sh se ca ha w n w r fair blue rsfilk o s and w cal r r o ny satinsitoh u g t m h w du t bound in taw w n e i e t l ngs; books h fle v e ru ed inese hangi ur Th s b . he i e s t hae nd fifty- de-lis, bir orients ft two greadts a so o w

v iers Ga ve to P a vo th crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, fig g I I d ar u dE u ri i n a gold e. updow nre and silv tes o ld filigra er grou o g n i f James nd, and t e s fring I wore ear-rings of emeralds r ls a a d studde n e p d e p a h s Ra r a e p sh, with the l hung s a as t D uk w , e of Burgundy of his race

i he in g “ nn gi

of squa re shap ly abs ee bsolutin those d

ga

d

painter can copy from nature”; and the coat that Charles o f Orleans once wore, on th e slee ve s o f whi ch w er e

e mb

r oi d er

ed t

he ve

rs

is flo h d e n i 169 e, ce or sta bu a f s i h t he d arre was un changed. No winter m s, that had been worked by brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that

Nero had stretch ed

ur

, and eac h note,

e

on t dg te be

es o fa s

acros s the

Col

oss eum

at Ro m e, t

it a

wrought in gold thre ad

s um m er, a nd t h

ea re p

f their sham

of p

ate d th

yo

T at

l accompaniment of the words being

yell ow j o n q uils bloo m

he

nw

es tig

sica joyeux,” the mu

ariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He lonbecomin nd Apollo driving a ch tarry sky, a eessu lty of ged to see the curious table-nap d th e t b n e j kins ary facu s e n c i re t d p r a e o n a r r d t h e always had an ex as hw h ic

sto r

eo pl

uis tout e, je s

r rro times, and nights of ho

of Eur pe. As o M

navm ad

e d an d died m an y

e

ad a

h

ere “made of sardius, w riest w it h

hn the P palace of Jo on. The gates of the

t he

st too great to be borne. Upon the wall s of t h e l o n e l y l o c k e d room where he h ad spent so muc h of his boyhoo d, he had h

hor no f th

ung with his ow n hand

s the ter

even of joy bitterness s of pleasure

rought, so nw ei

r Eleven eh CChhaapptt eein or n ok r gEtlhervoeung h fa silver, lo f o ed t u i o r d e mi sn chas r n i ak r , o urs orld w e h o t r these f f o tr ies ch res, an r ys at pit, he flun laedasu d every to the gre aste thing n g oli i g n i that h i ta e colle the k t es wa ured cted in his lovel ,c l s y n y house u a H , were t Pr aso the o be to n e a se o h im h were starredW means of for c w . i t h s medallion forgetfuln pe, s a c o s l s es o e s, modes by which he could f many s aints an r its

d with lio old, figured w d embroidere ith representations of the Pa ssion and Crucifixion of Christ, an

u rb

es, n cl s

op

la c e r os e

-

gu p

lm s of blems; da d iother em ocks anZ pan ns and peac

o od ene emeraults.” Marco Pos upon the h fe of th and gre red silk lo ha e Virgin, n colou andh red ires, iguw in.” Over the gdabselenwere “two gol itih p the coronation obf trhienVgirgpinowisasofn den a th p p e l e s ap , might i i n nh whic h man a w er b it a n no at t atics of th

ad cha

subles, a k an lso, of amber-coloured silk, and blue sil

. This

o

da

n, th gai

what specimens of

e of th

e fifte

nt h

c en

ieer cope ot h c e s . An f tury

hun dre d w ei of Christ, who must w the Brigde ht raiment of o f g old p

is really the

e Emperor Anasta ough th sius o f f e red five

ec t indeed he had for e verything conn

r s co o hi

for eccle siastical ve stments, as

me , an

d vide

i

d

s ca hi p

we rp rev i ou st un

the pineapple devic e

anto

di were hreys wrought in seed-pearls. The orp

ay to the I, on his w To

ial pass ion, also,

it h ed w

th

g water,” an their transparency are known in the East as “woven air,” and “runnin

uisite specim ens that he

to Br

e and beautiful y of his house, he had stored away many rar

side wa s

fo

VII Henry d golds a e b i nd thei r r marlv desc al ellously plumaged H . s e i birds. H ub e had a spec

on eith er

d do ha

rk lian wo was Ita

d which

or was it ev ry--n er

ed

l blosso France, his horfsoremaw as mlo ded with gold leaves, according s, ba eyon

ed the west gall er

He h

sto

nates s et in si x-peta ll

Seba stian .

he ls t te l

megra

hom was S t.

s iu

d mart yrs, am on g w

aring “a jacket of raised go l d , t h , as w e e plac ard tion e m b na r boiradteeyellow C elao red om Java; d cloths fr ta e g r r e a t gu l i i f g h ge t . C h a r ws of rubies that threw odu l ew”; stran es of Eng “evening d uble ro lan could fin d

of texti le

and em broid

ered w ork, g ett

uo rq

a collar of gold g tthhs, th jacinin rose e da udded wi t inty s r u s se o Delh ld arm i mu o tw g d e s r lins, f o t it h i f i u n ely wro as nd stitc ught with g veston otld o r g g e o w u s o u-thread palmates a i n H i ! t s n p e e o m b e p c n a nd d do ecor life ha atio uisite q x e n! E w o H . s e r i h ve n p p a s lointgh egedd aw the edg to es with bro ise-stones

elbo

re a c high in his a partment. Th h e s i ta te be n d of So bieski, King of Poland, g t was made of Smyrna gold broc ade embroidered in turquoises with versoestfh roem the K of pear ls, and it

stood i na

II wo re jew elled

room h

a nd ,a

ideries

glov es

u-n-ghw wraosw almost sad eith s of the q d n e took up ueen’s dee viceesd atever h h inb cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis X w n i t n yt e m o m he e h t r o f ref d e b r so l ec tio days, fo rmed w n ith fou r pearl of s. H

f the ury o lux

and six Then he t ty-one butter u r fl n ie e s, d whose h is a t wing s t w e e n r e simil tion arly orn amente d with

rseme with pearls. Henry l-cap pa sk u l

dead was wonderful.

parrots, made in broi dery, and blazoned with th

e king’s a rms, a

nd five h undred

he Su

n, on

er

ip l

palace at R

heims for

use

Q

Joan

B r

n y an was

wi c r ted

that time

hic

was prep ared at t he

he

s! terial thing a m h t i w w t it was the of ueen of u gu d d de o a hw n e r e ed f f ws da i om. Ho yed e read o f the ro om that

in ru

ht for the Pr iest o ft

e th

s wroug

l and wonderful things. He, at an eautifu y r a t on b e , had ght robes t e sc a hat exc ou p i e d t bterd the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus and were figured with “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests hath.unters--all, in fact, that , rocks, Sum m er fo llow

ke blo owerli

all

th

ed ain

ti e sa nd

vi a

nd st

170

ha tc ou ld

be wa n

gods fought against the gian

passion laughed

f o r t h e o st a t h i m i n intim leave him, w

howe rked, rema S h e

eve r to

ere in themselves a sufficient answer to th

em ed 171 n

th wi

se

ith col d searching eyes, as though the

em

im w

h tt

ared, after a t pp e a eiambad dineaner, or p en on e oor s g iv him th

an

loolkyoa uth

e at

e s s. T h e r e w e r e v i n e l e a v e s i n h e r h a i r. T h e p u r p l e rnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were b r i l l i a n c y o f c o l o u r . T h e y s e e m e d t o f onlsloolaw tion tho ibm e to w h e r ‑ r co ld e anh a d a n c e s t o r s i n l i t e r a t u r e vaesry poo w e l l a s t ha a n wn e r ra,che , n e a r e r p e r h a p s ialnl, it is t y p e is er m p e r a m e ncth, arm m a n y odf, aft them, An inly w iitn hgef. a n d ch boy i s h goo ce of which smil u of a e erf m o r sseion s st,raanndgethand dan on d e s se w i yes of many hi n f initger sociep , f that t o d in the e y e e e , s o m g a r e e c a n o re w o u u er ncth sc c old n sw ch i oisupse. rT h e r e w e r e t i m e s w h e n ne

at

th

ined m r e t e de y we r

oh wh

a

s se d hi wen st

or

re w on the d ithi o be placed up n ga ed t in ad caus itself st a c ce that he h ra n s r a b e ss to the t a ge l room, in spite of the elabor eg a cies of en if he told them, would they beli v E ? ked loo t i me ha te s f di ll o t. W udchfuplays delightful to us. Is insincerity such a h at w ty that make asn u a e b d terrible thin n a e wi as it to him hohwisvpilreivate life. Even t g? he c a ith th n i w e e wa l r r y d b u t i a n a c i l al vi p ach rtue at the rof security. Socie o s ca ith and th t p n t e e y n --civ dw lem irr sg iliz t been tampere not aton uesitn e s a e o a n nd rush e fo t back to town to see that the door had d soc rh alfiety col , at de lea ntr ee st-is n at a We ev st End club einrthwahndo shoci ad oifm w.hW ichohm is b al w poislid tiol n fully entitled him to beceormve a membiner,tha h ery den y ador hu n s e low rea d a o hi m in dy s r o l i ,t to , n sa g a i o re n d f for ith hi gw n ss li w ak ra b eh n e ad se ty n -fi ee b b fth year. ovre had c e s i It was ru h moured that to d

to e h s a p p e a r e d t o D oarciha n othG r a y t h a t arm ha t h e w h o l e er oinfcornheris,sotr poasrs yhim.wHiits was merely the record g o w n l i f e , n o t a s h e re it in act and

pa

a ha t w u p he i n a mark er e d m a aft n n e r a nd w e n him t it. Fo o u t. Curiou r, wh out s stories beca ile me current ab h e f ci e dignity of a ceraesm onn aty, as well as its unreality, and should combine the i n e s i d n c e k m r e char any, acter blac t h e re yo w l f e r a e no t ro m ear a f e w ry n a who di strusted him. He was ve nd of one essenc e . eliable, a T oh anent, r nd astoun im d , perm , m simplieng the cou an nty b thing wa y th s e w a an b t o e n i su l u xur t without cause, gng w uld lmos iv y e i u a t wo t n nd a hteran ly, a d gor m ceife, he ess den g f l, i d t e n o o o u e us spl him B a si so s endour of his mod self lH him e ; b d a u llw t wh ad ma ah a hat t co y b d e b F i r c s e d r , t r e b a r e H p n i il h P s c ceist veins. Huelrdetw i s O rah heay od flowed gin sbo h l ear rne sep uined n nt r , a f i r om nh hat rated au th ot i a f s t ? T rom He w dMt ou t trie l h d luenced his life himself known this curiou l e a ugh at an ne who phad ic t yo u he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he r e t hat sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shame‑ w a s s uc h a se par nd the flute-player t of mocked the swinger of the ab is h e i s s , la, caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their l wihad ife, gh th an th in d r a w tp in an ivory manger with h o r se; u as als a jewel-frontleted rid o afraid t at d e h o f in had wandered through a c orri‑ d i v idu i n g ali sm days, and sick through a clear emer‑ ob dt the Street of ha at withadow th d

wa h t l

d ce, i o n in his

wi ne , is

He felt that known them t h o s e

nt

l

e

y

dl ria

s ive

t

i

a nd m

a

n

r

h

p

b

that had passed across

t

em

n t he R es o ei oir

plex multiform crea ture t hat b o

m

myste‑ h i s own. ? Ha y been d y

a com ations, sens d ria

been

im

.

legac an’s is m d th t ha

e

n c es om

th

d ma

had

s a cer

ll e d

ba

ad not pain

He h

on e t mi g h

he

urt fo nged his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surrhciosaht, an a h c o s d a h and t a h t er pray

e

by t he C o

ars he cou

d sm

real

ize?

through his face

ili

en s s ha p

h

Her

e,

er o

o red t not da painted man had

e a rt he burden t

f

nna of Naples be que ath ed him s izabeth and King James, a th his at is h a lf t d had peered he f as cin od mules, been carried a t ion of s nd, as Elagabalus, had in , an

v lo

orption sionate abs ess, his pas ul joyousn rf e d n o w s hi ght heart, back his li g, and get inted thin a p s u o e d i rget the h , would fo t go there would no weeks he ha s one n El ts w ho ho Quee ulfd was h o a “car ve b e s e n h i s ow es n.After a fe gn dng out of England, and w ye ld not endure to beselo

ova i G

ith sh

b e a u t y, a n d h i s beauty o ifn the ooptinhioen rofsm. o h e r l o o sned B a c c h a n t set p

se termed etyco h t o s r , fo s nv e i n m u en he cal t io as . It w

re a

nd

ho

a re

bot h ri ch a n

d fa s c

inat172 ing. I

f

o

o fm ncti o e vely t hat manners ar hi sv

lc en su

th o se w

took no

so cia

of c

tf ee ls

ll

rim ent of

, se ur

da

i ror r o ame or ihnst i

eople d ce , a t him u h o i o ti b s s p in l l e d f r o m t h e c u p s h e w a s h o l d ‑ lated a frank ing. The c d cu still wonderful i ne cir t h e i r d eepbtohn a n ai t w er ever h ,etha w e n t . Y e t orn them i n o n e ’s and t and cert D influ‑ o e ri o n e an was G rayl aruy atbseences became notorious, anld, wheyn he used to reappear again i a b s o ‑ dinen t e traor r e ndals onleythi d the room is ex .Yet these whispered sca lu ve

ru l es Herb m i t ert’s lif f th e that he some ieveoiut?gYhet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his grea t hous t an e in N dp a ss i otti ngh on, and am wh s osbee stolen? T he m hould very s t i f i t fles . W ha h w ere th l there o as ta aIs tshtiilnk not. It inte ught e is me d wi m rely .H th thade a me d a e mho tho sD de in mstrou db s maladies of the e, wa yw c o d w e i t t h r t o h hic ons ieves a l rat nd cod w hehc we c a ny ietr t i t n a a a , h nm s aSuch ultipl dt y our personalities. nd kn , an l e ew hap es, th itec as L em h W ord arts of p t n a H t s i d e hand it was seanid that on one occasion, when he was brought by a frie nd int ry o th rem es ark ed on ob ce, in r eli ad fo eve isc d i uss and attem an sa pte yth olence sion on be s n i o d t in ch the sli al sub gh de Of sguto . t d j e e o r ct , a ts th e a go nd t s sec det here ih e,ossibly rear hi sp i

t

de ra

.H

of thei rt ies ter ys

chill, the Duke of Berwic -room of the Chur k

y is

va less uch of m

g anldit okin er fgent h i s know his secret then. Perheactabi anotho r leman d would sp ps th e w orl w o rld al l i v goet a d e impor st re the ready ighe ly ta s he h u c i r c u m ‑ s t n s p c e e on, t cate t a s than morals, and, in its opini h i s imagina‑ t d created it for him, as it had been in his in and ssions. had m

. Su ror re

sential to it. It should have t ely es solut is ab orm rt. F s of a anon ciet the c men of his own rank who were his chief compan y a re , sheiaosnable young l the fou ions, or shou bne,gtthheesfaam lne er al l i d s s n a i n d ed, und uglin erta serv e s nt s o pre n as f th e fa e ego in ma ill y’s c eive the, its m opi o conc h n a w i e r o n. He u ked e they had mgoyr of thos sed to wonder lagtitehrs wherlo l ik e shal w psycholo e than A

r ho

l o r ove ian rdat G o

a l l , s t r a n g e t e r r i ‑ f i g u r e s

str

portrait st

re, e hi

h

ed ?

g Ha d some stran

It wa st

t

e once spet h e h e s t a g e ouse at of o r l d a n din h m a d e s i n s o m a r v net tlhelwo u s n d e v i l s o f u l l o f s iuntebr. Ht l e ‑ he tg y . It seemed t oe hatedh i a u n t cold oarioum ets of those whosteoblbe s portrai picture-gallery of his country house and look as t the v lives he tt ha et

Was it yo ung

ng .

way

their

pan y.”

rious

com

walled ite wh

lon g

e of ens m s so in n his return he would sit in f r o n t o f t h away. O hero of the wonder‑ ful novel e pic e di ture, so that had iven metim s dr som e wa s l oaethn t hs it fancy. In the s e v chapter he ing ia til t an ?W d hi had n wn m s e e lf, is o po ed h ful books ofbut fille iso d, each r n a t o d oth u s Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him t ha er germ ti till i crept fro m body to body censer; and, as Calig

thi

tle

not

door.

-a

, day after d ay ,u

lit

e in h gave up the villa thateherhiadtshared at Trouville wit hL anc or d ere e of W He ? e s i n ann ry, d s h a m n r as dsdogilt-edged ruff an e me d wrist we face bands v ll , stoo , wh as il doSuilrdA s ich ts w s i h t t t a e h h n t l s t k u l h o i i tohneymSherard, with h e t sc e quite copn him no He was

nd

supped Wh b la feet. c k a r m o u r p i l e d a t h i s mirrors, look‑ re the

bles and Domitian, ed with marble d with haggard eyes for the ta y

s nd ,a ds el

som

eG at eF i

reflection of the dagger that was to en

that ennui, that terrible taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; a cithtald i at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-s nn CChhaapptt ee rr EElleev ve e

es ne ar Bl u

o n Pomegranates s m e to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; rcolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought ethea d

stence. in mere exi

nly, some nig Then, sudde

ep ht he would cre

out of the house, go dow n to d read f ul

pla c

a

i ece r o

ri g ht h a

nd ,

ago n i n si a p G avilion on of w cinrims h i d t e n a e vr a

d ne s a cu b p of ra em r ho e t r n a i l d d , e dic ast. wan an e n e w ow ep, he n a D his i a g d o a n en n d o ge d c mblinignwith him for f e eAtalanta, whootrhiaad curse a m t e p n e n l e h l s e Goras e ! W to r t ned t i his ae tol h o

h

Over and over again Dorian Barbi, TThe h e PPicture ithe cused t u r e of oto f Dorian Dread o r i a nthis G r a yfantas‑ Gray

d

h

ted ea

li f e ,a

nd

ch

w a h edr his

giCaaortnhag Bfororm vanity Mto oon

only

is fathtehe

n

in

b y h is d e b a uc h e ry, a

str

sought

he r

w

Eliz y d a L miled s , following, which, known asinPaul s a v ng can i d a f e a rom th ystiitchmF ,w heisanwdhgiivteenhhoerrisnem

c u r iou s it a l l see d e r m e d g e l ove i d ! a n w A ao d sf a t h n e , j er w d i t G aewretllee r his oth d m h f ang hi , bl i t t is s c h yag e r e d u p o n h e s t n ilded u t cpoma u n r d l esr a ello a n n w n p d d i n s o l ien. n h iazza of P by er an amber cha a u m g i a, th , t os e h w e c ho h a o d h mp at e d a h nio im de co onnl y n b e u s w ld of iotothhed by Saracen n c t a r d h s r pain in e Pot ch t g t e g o r d s i nosce ebu R e w . He h ad twch b ee h e ro o n sst?raH n gesao m a c a g l o ed P w o e l v se n iylsh a tthe so e t lowoith a l en opf the F o i niend, as w k enadpk t !i a n e s rep T d h o s rn h o e rted, ad ge f o tu s . Hndaovneepaoicsoen t w a s s a e kn who e h

o

wasf

tiara,

n

ar

whose

,a

ll

equal l ed

and

adscekntaruors,sanedsg.ildO edn a boay w hbought i t e ata n d d a m s an h p ym en n m l a h k r t i of the price , filled w mpe e t r d of he g n ab nocen i h f Inweari t o e e out m m e na her lovers. Had he so ok th o t y er florins,

an d

il

fl ov e

i go

nour of

ham as

eful p

hteenth ce

de

, in s; and

w

k m oc

Visconti,

who

used

e twi b o t d e wo d t h e s e n s u a l l i p s aspeageam hurch for Christian c n t l i u assion b and ma

t

an

n ho i ul; Giambattista Cibo, w d ea t h

y,

so

a he i m t ith

d’ E s te i n

n

ness

h

k

th d n a , y ntur

j nd a n i

ew

d elle

cap and acanthuslike curls,

Filippo,

s t d ais trimmed jer n in them all. He saw th y s , a n d orrniblee faoscfinattiho e w i t n e s s e s ho li sa w a w he re T e hi Th d? m. e m, i h h d w i f e blessemen and p and at r e h u e th d q at o am be p e y as l a h p s might whosethat body m covered with s i murdered had oher siwas n slover evil n his o f o ed B173 t k i o ra o es he l h e p o r t n s ubyaca k by e i h t d e h i menhts u wng b oo k. mom There were

w

ith

; Pie otto Per

ho he od n i , x u eedt i a nimmediately v e rticechapter,C hand e n D the two chapters V e n , i a p t e r E l e v e n h a zabet e st l t n

,

a sm i h nd

a y h f ol lotver of Isotta and the ea , thh l o imst.aW o o m a c hn f r G d e l st yoeaMrt a,hlate o d rg muosnld ar a Lor igiso e p e Rdoiacrtoior,; ctShueriyoung Ca of rdin tro k a l A rch b

Chapter Eleven

Jewis

ed as in some hcurious cunningly w r o u g hh t theorSecond, who im a tapestries em to side

l se s e y eFormosus, assume titleand of enamels, were pictured the the awful d e m dd i ose elanc l h h y av ful i, wn a n e valued thousand a n d io b e a at u t itwo f uh l hundred n d al, m s was v a a o y e d a s l a e e l d ; ee bhy h e r s i l e? T forms of those y tthaat b as thr l h f e m y m o i i g ht serve at th H d h r o o e o n e d f l e e asht eab s Ganym nt i t eins lin se db ya

oo

. g be theerSiudnin o t d i e c g i a r i t r r a Fa r

,c h

il d an d

terrible Gian whom vicesin; and blood and

e

she d

nc

d

lo p i n k s l rae

mi nio

s

le e

n of

v

Sixt f l u s o I V, w hwose

es .

A

nfor re h d w e r inle

nt a

o n d i nt

pid v

Ez ze

e beauty wa r s w

e t or whos

n

i

as

a

isoning by onin How a helm e r s of pois e t n er a n d a lig an h t e d torch How proud and , by h a n a t? emb n h ose c o m dso ro w er e m e il n he w o r g i e s a t C a r l t o nwasH o u s e . T h e s t a su the c d ht ha t t of the s , as h . Wha e c o n d e l ay d ars ing ornrhim, a L o r dying in t nd com e h w h B e c ke ,w a n y e l l oow h en h h e le a in s d b rasin t h h a a t d s i ckenw e r of Rimin e ed a ,i w n d gros o o v ho wn e s s t r e a nger, cl a e fy fig, ywith his p ou u gh b o w w illo a d s ered b urn W e h d of death, and w a a t Ro ir a ho me h n a a d d s the e f an ne e r e l a ragpaessig r m o n y f of G tast oereren e w ic od d r b o a l o n s o d mp er d , aes ottt an, heers m e u nh paove ish

op of F

i‑

Maria

l a cfee thrat a e t a c i li u

w in. De a r’s d s i e d ith broth hisy d isted w e r o s d a i y l wild o had made

h n i , rre with his monstrouseorn d o he fri w

ut

ho had so orship; Charles VI, w

br

, ide

As t

leper ha

ff

le

d

s

h , hounds

la b erb

s es

kn

zh

th

in

rose

l.

d

c

s

lid, l a p a wife,

in-l

wo d e ipp

naislew his ssa nc man e

it

h her lips with a scarlet poison painted roug

who

F

Milan,

tto with his page, an

aliz

e

e imon

c

S and

e ch h whi

re ould

F

h i m a s i n f a m c hma s ea d n ou po u u s. f d e tiof u Duke k H a e oo eb l h t heamt attnh ehat, dsanedcthreey ttro m a r r i patigoneof w i t h M ig h ubled hinsciema ld gination in the dayr. sT. r s co he R i ov i n g h e e

le os h ,w , Grifonetto Baglioni

174

o td e ha tahr g had e h t ha

a had .s B e e p. H u d rne u t er ulst

i

P

o h im t o g

e

ar ry fa e and t king ve ist, wianlg Sout in the m h A u f d l ey Street, a man passed him or yo

d tol

Sq

u

ay

Gr

r of Grosvenor

of Doria n

orne

Do

bag

nd .

ria ul te n d b r e p e a r c s o c s gni . “I an k sto s s z e d b n e o w d e op o lie er cas h ,a n i e e v m e n l ?”“ irit. It w h aid ed ehm -kit, and t a n sialvreriresdpLady Radley’s m h N o p c t e a n u D h e s d o: B as oo r w s latc i i I t h i h l H a r h a sm l l w o fo ard. A s m goin ck an d trange gsetnosbe of fenatrw, to -an en gland eo t him u b t n a o E f t d y d e e m k o i o n d l s u n t a e i r s . o ” e D , as ltze er r? h I a l ways t . Th ake hock-and-seltzer myself

“And now, my e ur I want to speakc t Don’t frown like much more difficult is it all about?” cried not about myself. I am yourself,” answered

TE

R 12

ey

nd

I remember

ta

r ve ye r ra

nin ce n i s

r olla c e h th t i w

in

a ep

k. F loc c ’ eo

ib

lIh ave w i t hm e is

into an amateur h e fo g , a n

s

our l

preach to you.

y in

in t

hi s bag ,

and

I ca n eas il

Or

yg

et

t o Vic toria i

li woum ldpyou

h

he

as

af

or

s ya n a nd i r Do br e?” her y b t he no yt ea v a .H ay aw They say

mate, you some

shrug your

sh

e arqu tle m t i l a that you corrupt every with , on sone bler and that t itu ism s s t-gla to e cu g r a dl You have

o me and seemed quite s iatn o i n r r t y o the li whe brary nh .T h e e r we e wa s a nt brig h t wenchman, b e Frood fi f th

h

w ay f

re b la z i n g in t

ke

T th. ar

e la r g eo pe n hr ug o a ged his sh n dso

ta ile d. “Wha

people you

with. Don’t

eo om bec has

h

da ?

e la

curate d Hallw ard lthen rou saying that, and ookproceeded h ed at hto t s watch. “I out d you. an u lster!iC A Gladstone bag anto preach I want ey ! l d e ome in, o v a e r l t . Th gg inter to e lamplight stru make the a p ble record. I want you na io

gh t

h ea vy t h ing s. A l

turned himself

u

p the s

em

d. B ut w o n ai ’t you missnywou r train?” e s a i d D o r i a n G r a y l a n g uidly be as ve h ha k! I am soorfrluc iece y you are g o i ng a way ,a

th

r is g h f o

yI a ll

ot

u

sIh ave n

k too

u

r ou ny o y pit

yo

g

by

ssed

s ee n

fo ra

I am off to Paris

CHAP

ut e I ll b su ppose you wi

e out.

don’t want to

sIh t ave ave. Wha sh used toent on my

e le tm

van ser d tire

d t an

T

h

for me.” “What Dorian in his petulant wa hope it is tired of myself to-night. I sh “It is about Hallward in his grave deep vo hour.” irth orian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour!” h bhe t h ig is not much to ask of you, Dorian, y-eand hirt t n m speak‑ ing. I think it right sthat ow hi w that the most e of v e he er, t g said against you in emb v o don’t wish to know know, and English soci of N inth n e h dals about other people, but the reason why I want youy to t n o s her o , or rofaat man by t It wa otoujudge n’t interest me. They have not got the has aaright y s w t it on hough of honour, tpurit hey must interest you, Dorian. is interested in his sense Every gentleman of goodness, eofngood eft. I t l I n and w e o r i t o i f n e g o people to talk as some‑ thing vile and degrad‑ ed. Of gone down recinto the depths. You led them th ub id of you e yo sign of ni de no course, you have your position, worse behind.dI know you andand Harry are inseparable. Sure to se a gh m e e t t tra an im. H yw in, and I particulYou arlgo tion and wealth are and you must listen. You shall l too far.”“I must speak, ver h o e m t, ca rumours Mind you, I don’t believe these womanu who would drive with her in the park? Why, even o innLondon now c r c ed a g finishhouses avofedreadful ill I h them when I yself see that at m dawn out an t t ayou have been seen creeping p u o t u h s d n n a s i r a P n ld wh a stuI dio i they be true? first heard them, I laughed. I he ake When ich he cou intCan end to t I . about your coun‑ try-house and the life that s h t for six mon don’t know what is said about you. I won’t

kind n er a atnot. w a

od fs o sof my great‑ on

How

b

told things that it seems nab ia is very fashio lomaatnOxford. ngfriends He showed me a lette A . r e k sma od alone in her villa at Mentone. Your name ph him when she was res dying , wit some si d h confession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--tha h s t ’ h n a o v w e a I n , y s t h k i n n g a more,” said the painter, ta h t room.”“doTI know you? ngli e neI x wonder Before I could answer that, I should h t E n ei n from the sofa andas a turning almost white from om s 175 e ri s d and with deep- Pa toned sorrow h o n t as e is re ri estabbitter su d heof mockery broke lishelaugh to-night!” he cried,

est

wa lk

e r

his

t

?” “ I n

C

dearTfellow, w e l to you seriously. that. You make it so

lock o’c venv e

as

bo

ele

t a p

home a

ut

rd wa r e ft da

ew h s. H

g in

th on

ement and the e pav n

me

ni ze

m .

hi

n

n n di ing

, an d w as

w

r a pp ed

in

he av y f ur s, a

ut m

ing

can’t even recognize Grosvenor Square .I

f I wan

n’t a bo

p op st

asil? Why, I

s, where he had b Henry’ ee

y dear B

Lord

s el

an d

fog gy. A

t th e

on hi s arm

s

th e n ig ht

wa s

co ld

.“Doria n! What

an extraordinary

here. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can

fog , m

from

ay, fling‑ ing himself down on the sofa. “I er e mb hould like to reme be somebody else.” en oice, “and must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an ofIt e heard him fi h rs t g rian , as y o a hd ec Do r murmured. u yo it is entirely for your sake that n’t own d i D e re. you should u e s s e ad quit dread‑ ful things are dh asn’t r w a I llw London.” . But a e m H d . But passe aboutwrong. them. I islove iety is all That o us e as you hanything , t n a o w c r have fuYou his o scandals about myself not been fine. One urfine. f obe o n y io direct charm the effect he his friends.novelty.” Yours seem to lose all theof inover yhas l k c i u nty.qYou have filled them with a name. You don’t want madness for pleasure. They have smile, as you are smiling now. And there is

et h in g t o sa yt o yo belie u.” “ Is ha h ll b o e ch us e arm is som e er him. In a wh few g a ft ere m ab yin o o m u t rr ents here, but I d , his on h ’ t f a e e l nd w a t all certai as n about it .I

he t

ra

a twe e deover, it w lve had ever touched her. Is there a single listen. When you met Lady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal n w -f ad. Hio e h y m n i all.Then Atthere least,are I other stories--stories n her children areenot live withather. ave to hallowed reat pictur I into the foulest dens in London. Are

“T

nd slinking inyou. disguise

now, and they make

he an sw e

red .

ear them

not everything. decent can’t believe they true?

me

is led

e everythI e m tell you that in av that every man who g gonce v

y em

hu

as on my way to the c l u ct, I w b In fa to ven. l t e le jus nly so it i nd ,a en te ted to taiflk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in

o tsmade ’t ghave ill his sister’s yourother, wealth, and all that But posi‑ ely for that reason, if for none you should notkind of name a by-word.”“Take care, Basil. snthing.

shudder. What there? Dorian,

, in

clud

cient for

?- -

suffi‑

h

a b ou t. O n eo ft e n im a g in es t r you, wh hin e g n k fo s th Im et yat oo othing should be.”Hallward shooouka.rYhe iqsuhead east n ou ite ab, as he enter At l ed s u s r ys. e d . He w , and followe e ,I da as really very d Do arettes. He is a sh devote cig a m n o d ’t h st h av os p e ita an ble yd e c l r a e ya atfuor bou re. t I l l u i k gga e h i ge , mm uch be t t e r than th e Frenchman yo quite

to follow after. I

yo --do t? But

don’t

uk

oesn’t i f the French, d ly oimpossible l i s s m e e s t I . r a e h I , w o n e r e h t r e to doubt. ble ov should I know?

er

w

for shameno

enter a house

of

his wife had written to

and that you were incapable of

in his voice, “to see your soul. But only God

from the lips of the

younger man. “You shall see it yourself,

seizing a lamp

from the table. “Come: it is your own

associate

Lord Gloucester was one

in the most terrible

fear.“Yes,” answered Hallward gravely,

rid of the dre

But it is said of you. I am

er. e corn inthethkind. anything of d e c a l p aking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had d have to see your soul.”“To see my soul!” muttered Dorian Gray, starting up

at I knew you thoroughly

cated

name and a fa

know whether it is so or

that

e was impli‑

lead such a li

ever liked him, but I nt. I n erva ad s ab allus now a ing your best gtsoaeltrdio-ti pp is e g

ve ha I t. en m o am

te d

m so

an

.

Iw

Harry saying e H e,” for the moment always began by m n i a t ori of break his word. I do want to s D , p e ea I have h you to ho m t a e or the fog w it e qtouhave a world ill get into th respect you. I want clean e house. A ade myou nt mnd mind you don’t to get a v r e t alk about anyth s ing s your er i o u see o Y “ . us. e l b houl‑ ta ders like that. Don’t be so indifferent. No e eteri hi for evil. a wonderful influence. Let it be for good,tnot ans n w whom you become inti‑ e o

176

can do

Know y

that.”A

d sh , an

ame

i an

Gr

sm ay

pt

ou

.T iled

u e cr s,” h ied. “Y corr thi d mu

s

ssed my train. T h a e mi tm a

h

he

st mu

suffered! Then he stra have ighten ed him self up , and

e no s r a e p o o u f o h r r i s d e e e yel h h t i km e to

tr swer to these horrible charges that are made against you. If you tell me un that they are a e some an y m l e e t b solu v t gi

h as a curl of contempt in his lips. T e ou “Come up here w tn staieernssyh,aB is” fingers that I hated. I f ihl, peaos di g in th n i n h k t h n e e o w a m s aid quietl now tha so was ay, y. “I keep tIw re aasdiary of my life from day to d

hav

sn

I ee Is

he

eaves thee.rIoom o c ck l fa t pri wi c lu ertravagan eBx bw fered aonf h

n go t o - m orro w. B ut d on’ t as

ince. He of

ter. I ca

a good deal s

ke

t.

h, ou t sm hi of s eosf secret vices etimlein e . h t T

rd ough I have hea

ng go i

eaDm uk e

an

ed h im

r ef u s

i

m ng ou

e with

ll.cT om “I sha me.”

with

at om

e that you are bad, a n

lm n’t tel d! do y Go

rian you, Do

, if you w is h

i

te r en

W it?

rea da

ey th

an lik

et h

at I wh

come

is hy

h it t

to- men in London will neither go to your h ou le tn se gen ig ht. any om A at s

Duke

of Pe

hat s rth? W

ll I

wan t

le! ich you know nhorrib Why o as thin ,” I h t w a bill, agm s is keep s er? I ro s

g youn

s of wh

e ut th

h in g ut t ab o

ny thi ng

g in lk ta

top, Basil. ?”“S Yo ua him t re th n, wi ria te Do cia it, sso y is ld a . Wh wou o sa y man know what t ntle with. I remin at ge ded him tha ? Wh t I was a fri no w end of you e got r h s , a s n d a a s k h e d him what f life he meant. He to ort o ld me. He told me right o u t be for ee v

ng iti wa

am

I e.“ am

f fl es o cor

an

hi t abo

,B

l,” as i

ha

d sai

ta m

see ou

n nc fa Ca tI m! ha he w in yt ht en rig , d

’t y

if you

u to yo

ri Do m, the ny . De e l i e ve y o u

ow i t hall sh

ten. I s room in which it is writ

e r y bo d e ac y. I

m

en d’s n

a

h t ch , th e s d moulding of is a p l

ri sf hi tes wri on glet n Sin Adria me? If that to what is e streets, e from th es his wif I y son tak ough ent’s sill ery? If K bad en bauch gland is his de estion. En ,hyeoru forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.”“Dorian,” cried Hallward, “that is not the qu

o ain answer t

my

pe op l

o sti e qu

I d,

e

P

Th

i

b

”“ n.

ith their f

wh ow

fro m

beginning to en

ver

t li k

s ro

k no

g of pity came over

ue

ea

ud ic e

ay

lea ves the

pr ej

s g h e s and bin their throb

sh a ll b

If a wretched m . s g in mo ral

land. The middle class Eng es a ir th ei r

ur ni n gl ogs w

a

ts ha ll

be g

yo

uu ps

tairs. I could not give it here. You will not have to read long.”

rit es

h? M oug thr

177

thing a s i th n i S at w

so ve rt ou to theirs? Y ou u he ite y v n s ir i ed t r gr ob og men? There was tha os e n t wretched boay o you t l sd a t a f i f n t o h rie e Guards w s p i in h s n h o com neitte nd do m e i r r-t d suicide f f r L . You we ab or ou re his g les y dS a r y reat fri G , , an b n i t is a i i ng h tav end. T or d is li D wh el e d p i , an isp y a . e Im dw r ab o ith ut w et him hat th an ey call ote at d of i n in f ner ini las te c uit tw qonte e ek . Yo em ur n pt in h am e ha is v ppe oic e. “ ne You as k me wh ie y Be d rwi ab ck le ou aves th a roo im m wh en I en .H ter it. It i is lif ei sd re ad fu l. B ut yo u, Do ria n, w ith y ou r pu re, b h ec

in ter at

e of Doria ur n Gr ct

iven to

yG nl

an c y o uf yo

rd started back. “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” h n see.”Hallwa od ca e

that the ma and nw

wa al

stan about him, i h ys a urec d o w say o m m u

ho

rd anything about and had never hea

him at the time, t

cried. “

ab ou tm

ine .

Wi th s u

ted fla sh

A twis

walked over to t he

was the orig in o f al l hi u s sh ve am ry sel on e w an do t’s as Stin m, Ken d and gleto o r o bdioe nband his dr you out L n e ve urd eadful end? What ab st u r come me to the dotw n t e o ned ha n fobut t th an e is ds tes, r the s a co aid t u rest sm th a t y istic ou might have the monsttray,rt u o f his it is eo eno life wit id ry u gh eve h ther h fo

een him before, I had never s

yt hi ng

ait done.

s ow

to say. ”

t ca n n ot be c o

inted the portrait that

.I

d pa ha

talk so i eople elf d. P i ts what y ou hav e

tr is por

h

et , e cr

ve h ha

u.”“Don’t touch me d to yo . Finish

s is

as

r a ma ins fo

ag

a ga

h inst

live what sort of

d im. An

ab t ou

H

en

ry A

C

e

ed

ach I te

froth. Did ra m

shton and young Pe

y d on ’t mean any

eo th

sv hi ne

n s, a ice

h

at he had don

t at

s au p r’s face. He

w to ue ng

ss the pain te

stinction and bra

. Wh rrow nd so me a o h sha wh y n wi t o u an roke w ed b e re a m seem . He reet ’s St m es t . Ja in S ay rd ste ye er ath is f ly et h so Im n a nd h s career? i s do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear felloo e d th

on t o

fw h

and stood there, looking

n to have di

shot ac ro

fire-place,

me You m he has in his ve ask ins, how ust n ? You n a e l c c o u e l b d d h r is reco ot sa th y thi ngs nd a like , le that. They are horrib

of pain

g ed

ch b lood

n

ow , an d wh

en fri

h re

om that s

m

or yo

v e

as t

os

I

co mm

no

m

continued, coming clo

a ey th

at

hi ser to

i re

e . “ Yes ,” he

ld fee li

ght thou the

nceale to ar t ye

deous things that p e o p ese h i l e are wh l th isperin r al g about hea you dI and whom no chaste woman should sit in the sam,eI rdooon’ , an to know, you lowed y from b e al en I am awa uld sho irl

u bo at a

Wh

e.

pu r

m and

s me la

r. de the p t Adri ey slan h eo p l e t

ha

178

t elt a He f

eD

ith

bl ra

erm

in se pa

T w e l

t joy a

o

stern

y t I see

is into h

at t h

sw

ea ng st

at et

looki

in tim

ew e re

e -m in d

o

n

ua nd h

ner. man

to t he exh ibi

d an ty ie oc ts

ure s yo

ar m

, wh r all . Afte r him

he m inia t

onn ecti

in c

ns

n

on w ith t

nve rsat ion ,

hed nam e. Y o

nt sole ish in is boy gr o u n d i n h

, it ice sh

ll show “I sha eyes,

nd u. A yo

st

oo our g d. You kn for y ow

t aid i t, I s

h -nig

d to I sai hat th or w i ng . As f . w so ” “ Y I k no ou thi nk so?” He laughed again.“

oe hew etv had o ght at ri

,n

a -- c m hi ud w ley kno . Su yo tav ele ut b , e yc m a u rl is n ed his lip on h

tio n

uh ave len t

ly dfast

ot

to you

of if e s l life hi ut the aboto ngin thriy ryp

face, an

you my soul. You shal l s e e th et

Ih av e be en

what was the of ru

a ti one ad d

G ian Dor

r lea

c rd

ha

na ni

is because I k

up i n co

arn is

e r

ble erri

ha t hin gt

e c ss a man’s fa

he h

I

ed r o u n d . “ turn Wh at He

ce . vo i

acro If ray?

o

ha ve t

its elf

brig ht, in nocen t

ye

n sa bec ow n k d your ma ause he rvellous untroubled youth-I can’t believe an yth enti Somebody--I won’t ming ag ain

is h an ds ev en.

ed t o co me

of l the profligacies

There was Si r

v

der to try an Henr y Ash etters in or dp tb ret their on, who h en ad to d leave th Eng land with at

man h as a

h

t a p

o m ent ,a

i nd a w

nd you,” e hav rhbaehi he t e u o w o o Y

paint‑

light

canvas

something

disgust an

was Doria

horror

y e t

b e a u t y.

o n

ed round him w

ith a puzzled express

io

o

nd shrill a d e d n u o oice s t. His own v s a l t a , d r a w l l a H cried n?” n the floor, a a e own o nd ta d m p s i am kin l e h h t t go et s n a ut i or D , k th g a n i t d ek n d a l a p h o e et ew h H t d . es ache ind s ey i hey re ows r t h n e h in attle.W mph u i r t f f the spectator, with perhaps a flicker o everythi on o ng know o t abo e g r e a t a r t d e l t i s oum t when t m s en y i a l o p h e. in a rld wh o a r e a b s o r b e d o w s o fhteh o s e w dd t h e f aacne in t ut n o ed, s m ed. “Sh the d ee e r s e n e d o som n ud alyt, “oYou are the ewhat hartsh e sh h H n . o e g ssi oran pre y x k e ur of m e m a f la n cassone, an n i t da alia n t e I n a ith clam m d o l o m wlm a k for dan os , an s p e a u r w rp t d. It ctu t sho

his

rn , tu e ey

ent of ai

my sweat.The y u ng man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that stran do with my life th an you ore to t h i n dm k ” ; and, tak i n g u p t he lam n p , h e ti o p ened the door and wen s sim ply There wa t h real joy. ep n it nor as n knowing,aB l asso r r o w i e i l r ? ” r e h h t i e e e lock. “You inswisatson a s k e d i n a low i st tini stha c t i n g . T h e r e vo i c e di . “ Ye s . “ il I a m d sm e l i g h d, ted,” h e answere etending to do so.“W o instinctively d was smelling it, or pr hat do en d o w e r o u t o f hati sncigohatt , a n e ns mt h .T e fl h e la m p c a st f an t a stic sh a d ow so n t h e w gw a l l a in nd st ars. aircase. A ris “Years a g o , w h e n I w a s a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crus hing the flower in

had kept

heir blue, the

noble

.T

hen he a

co ld cu rr

ad e

some of th

in g

m

f e l t

he

.A

e

h

T

He seemed

oo the r f o t ou He passed

design.

f r a m e

e

h

t

s

a

B as

s in curiou

CHAPTER 13

eyes

h an t g e db m an

marvellous

done it?

But who had

had

sodden

curves

scarlet

some‑

hair and some

w

s

e

Y

, cent e as

he was look‑

light‑

at!

following clos eb ward l l a e il H

Good heav‑

in d

ing

t

i

,

with h i m

that filled

es

away

d

a

h

179

w a s

T h e r e

si

at him.

yet

It

The

ens!

elled nostrils

chis‑

from

t

o

n

the

n

o

f a c e

a n d

brushwork,

dim

t h e

e

. nd i h e t h

ge

d walke softly, y e a Th

and f l

he saw in

expression

loathing.

that

thinning

passed

own

monstrous,

seized the

so

ro d

d Hallward, fr ttere own mu i n g .“ ,” long lette Y r raced in h e l d ti t t o t h e p i c t u r e . I n t h e l e f t - h aonudwcoo r n e r w a s h i s o w n n a m e , t n ’t? Th e n Im u s t d h o dy, soit m et y or s e l f et ,” s a dh i d th e y an ou an, . H e k n e w i t , a n d h e f e l t a s i f h i s bnlgom od had ch wainsco. ting. There w n picture a n g esou S a m p t i l l , w a s hasi saodw o dour i t o f m i l d e w. the “ S o y o u t e es hink that it is only God who s

pa r

ian, or playing a

candle,

180

i f br

grinning

t e tha

the hideous

his

its

in

face

.T on

ssed

recognize

was his own

was

idea

them, and the lig

to

t

nd

Gray’s own

r,

whatever it was,

entirely spoiled that

gold in the

There was still some

the sensual mouth.

T

h

e

thing of the love‑

liness

of

not yet complete‑

ly

and from plas‑

tic throat.

D o r i a n

himself.

it s

afraid. H e f-b e d urn ed candle that he a n d ro l, f om looked as i

pa

an

e placed the lam p o n , as h the ta ble red . H a l l ward g lan

broke

e isp

g

? He turne

eyes of a sick man . H i s m th the o uth twitche ray wi d a r , che d p a n s i d h da rian G nd looked at Do l that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was ligh g a ha ti n as all tw

from

em

ha --t

er’s lips as

or ,D ad

es. l o k o o b cas h An exclama‑e r e in pty t m p e a h wh tion of horror

f

ec ur tai n

e foreh dp s e i h n i oss rhtaa n d a c r u s c hi y, a e p a s s etd H . e t r a l u es rtic ap to a t e l the carpet wa sh nab nd that s a mi du t e s e l u d m F h e t i se ed ed w ad r ue f e g v o .A it o n as c ars e w y ha e r dn la c n fo p o t be i e d en live ol wh e t th a h t C aw s h W y ? h a n d a i t e a ltered m t i d i e d t a h W ! e r u t c i p n w o s i H . e c i h ruel. “You c , hg i s s l ulfg d o n t a d e f i r lshe s co l ar from ke wa e t o n t p e s t n m a o a h et nw a m e voic he m h t d i as s t T ” n . anding o ine see m l l i w Ba ou sil? Dr , a nd y aw that curtain back n oble satire. He had never do n g i s u o m a f n i e oul paro f m e m o s s t wa ilion.I m r e tv gh T

the ind beh ngh i r t e e n

ran scuf ouse fli m A

to me the h, a wonder of yout

impossible. The r the thing is ! o N ! t i Tohoe r e ye emb m e r I l l e w r....”“I r o winto temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.’ , hnot i t ! O hus m e m b e r ‘Lead one’seboyhood?

rus h e d a t n h a i m

a en now, I don’t know wheth l it e r I r e g r e t o r cal n ot, I made a wish, pe rhaps you would

d

d du

pr

t o n i the knife t he

, goi

Y ss.“ e window and leaning his forehead against the co ng over to th ld, mist-stained gla

ture.”“

t li Can’t you see your ideal in it?” said Dori an bitterly.“My ideal, as you cal

nd

.

re to me su eful. You we ch m a h s g n i worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.”Dorian Gray turned slowly around an oth n , t i As n i l i g ev n i h t you calle o n s a d it.”“There w

at v

pic

ei n t h i a t i h s e b

..”

“

! hall never meet again. Th i s i s t h e f a c e as I s o ist f a satyr.“It is the face of my soul.”“Chr

o

y

has h

u

r

e

r g e id e

al

n

believe it i oyed me.”“I don’t sm e s t rtoo h a s dyou t I . g will be answered also. I worshipped much. I am punished for it. You n o r w s o l d m erepentance a w I “ ” . t i d you had destroye

m

ut

an

murmured the you ssible?” o n p m i t h e mLet us say that together. The s i prayer of w h a t has been answered. The prayer of your g A h , pride . ” “your . I t e l l y o u t h e t h i n g i s i m possible

g

da

Gray ildew has got into the iso c a n v a s . T h e po mp. M p a ints I used had so me wretched mineral

a

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is

in

Pict

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finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad momen tt h the window. “Pray, Dorian, pray,” he murmured. “What is it that one was taught to say in

He

, ev

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you

What an awful lesson!” There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at

u introduced me t o a f r i e n d o f y o u day yo r s , who explai ned

n of my good taught me to be vai d n a , e loo m d e r e t t a l met me, f his hand, “you

of

ne

ks. O

t

w

at

g n , crushi

ou have do is is what y ne w h t d n a “ , d e m i xcla d gazed at i t . “ M y G o d ! I f i t i s t r u e ,” h e e

it

table

gh

ain

and sta b

nd ag a i n .

or

an

of

ac

chai

as standing by the table and b u r i e d h i s f a h at w c e i n his h a n d s . “ rt G o o d God, Dorian n! , what a lesso

fl o

self into the r e flung him h ick n e h T . t u ety t it o u p d n a d lay t t i n here sputtering. He placed his foot o

so

e watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on th se in a

ng ag

away. The rott i ng

t

orp

g the thin

p

ng e str wly eati o l s e r e ange quic w kening of inner life the leprosies of sin

a

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C

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hirteen

on the

u s he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Thro

e

an d a

H

b r

b i

ur ed

!”

e d t o b e q u i t e un d urface seem s ist e h T . t i d ine m a he x e d n a s nva ld the lig ht up again to the ca

d down

be u r l i f e , w h y, y o u m u s t b e w o r s e e v e n t h a n t h o s e w h o t a l k a g a i n s t y o u f a n c y y o u t o

tr

h yo

t an

in

hea

ai

him

or , B a s i l ,” c r i e d D o r i a n w i t h a w i l d g e s t u r e o f d e s p a i r. H allward turned again to the p

a n m ’ s e th

e a vfaltered. u en an and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. “It is too alate, he f Basil,” E ch o dh “ ” . l i v de a th e a f o s e ing I mu st have worshipped! It has the ey

the a r e

wh ll e

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p s l eeing e h t He could no

uldYou have done enough evil in hear noth your life ing ,

somewhere,

“It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse

e co The Pict

Gray

was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around.

those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who

an ri Do

came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by

u   Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward r e

t ad thing. How still i de

. My God! Don’t you see that accursed thing leering at us?”

“Hush! Don’t say that.

“Those words mean nothing to me now.”

‘Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow’?”

of

H

183

th e

l o e h t e t i h w ow horribly

with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he

It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away

Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was.

but the

n r i d p , d r i p t o n e t h

h read e c bar

re

outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him

  There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the

l warpet. e. ax ag

T

hirteen

table.

t

r

the

p

from

a

it

h

e

took

be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back andC

li ed! It was ke a d

of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might

k loo

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.

ds

e

ha

pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened.

twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still

184

u

stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock’s

which all his m isery

How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and

the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep.

Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on

humped back, and long fantastic arms.

he   The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, Tand

ness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so.

he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of dark‑

went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds

He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and

Gray

185

the library, he must be hidd press that wa kept his own He could eas out his watch

and began to almost--men what he had murder in the a close to the evidence w

flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling

tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and

r

an ri Do

Pict

e

he friend who h ad pai e fatal por

of

locked behind him, quietly down‑ work creaked and He stopped several thing was still. own footsteps.   When he reached the corner. They unlocked a secret press in which he put them into it. Then he pulled to two.   He sat down ery month, England for a madness of come too

Having the door he crept stairs. T seemed to cry times and w It was mere

t The y out waited. ly the

saw the den away as in the n curious sily burn h. It was

o think. were d done. air. Some earth.... was there

left

C

p

t

r

the

He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation.

a

Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man.

their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him.

h

e

T

w o o d ‑ as if in pain. No: every‑ sound of his

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made

hirteen

had

bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook

a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A

the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in

hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by

due been had gone out of his That life. s a w enough. bag and coat in somewhere. He wainscoting, a disguises, and them afterwards. twenty minutes

Every year--ev strangled in There had been red star had And yet, wha against him Basil 186Hallwar

a ga i n . M o st t hestayed s e r vanthere s weretill at eleven, S elby R oyal   “Mr.inHallward, sir.ofHe and. His then he

“Did any one call this evening?”

Gray

“That will do, Francis. Don’t forget to call me at nine to-

an ri Do

“No, sir, except that he wo write to you from Paris, if he not find you at the club.”

of

va le t h ad g one t o be d . . . . Par i s ! Yes. I t was t o Par i s t h at s il h ad n e , a nd by t h e mi d nig ht t rain, as he h ad away toB acatch hisgotrain.” in t e nde d . Wi th hi s cu r i o us r e s e r ved habit s, it wo ul d be nth sorry s be fo rIe didn’t a n y s ussee p i c ihim. ons would be ro us ed any . M o nmessage? t hT hs!e P i c t u r   “Oh!mIoam Did he leave e Ev er yt h in g c ou ld be de s t r o y e d l o ng befo re t hen.   A su dde n t ho u g ht s t r u ck hi m. H e p ut on his fur c oat a n d h at a nd w e nt o ut i nt o t h e hall. There he p au sed, h ea r in g t he s l ow he avy t r e ad o f t he p o lic eman o n t h e pav e me n t ou ts id e and s e e i ng t h e flas h of t he bul l’s - ey e r e f le c t e d in th e wi nd o w. H e wai t e d and held his br eat h .

187

C

a

p t

into the library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and d Wh at t i m e i s i t? ”

s a i d, s t e ppi ng i n; “ bu t I h ad fo rg ot t en my lat ch-k ey.

Dorian“IGray threw his hat and coat upon the table and p am s or r y t o have h ad t o wake y o u up, Franc i s,” h e

a ppe ar e d , ha lf - dr e s s e d and l o ok i ng very d ro ws y.

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. b e g an ri ng i n g th e be l l . I n abo ut five minut es hi s valet

o ut , sh u tti ng t he d o or ve r y g e nt l y behind him. Then h e

“No,Asir.” ft e r a fe w m om e nts he d r e w back t he lat ch and s l i pped

row.”

h

e

r

Blue Book from one of the shelves and began to turn ove wa k e me a t ni ne t o - m or r ow. I have s o me wo rk t o d o.”

“ Te n mi nu t e s p ast t wo? H o w ho rribly lat e! You m u st

the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took dow i ng at t h e cl ock a n d bl i nki n g .

“ Te n m in ut e s p ast t wo, s i r,” an s wered t he man, l ook‑

hirteen

T

leaves. “Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair.” Yes;

188

as i l Ha l l war d t h at h ad made h im kill hi m A t ni ne o’ c lo ck th e n e x t mo r ni ng his s ervant c am e in s h e swat i re ocname t o ht he imsh,u t‑a nd it h ai n cu pt he o f chcha oc ol at a t r ay back and o p ened e r s. co Do lr id an w was p i n g squi efully, ing on e gret w i tslhe epas i ot enp.eac Th e delyad mhaisn r ig h t s i de , wi th one han d un d erneat h his cheek . He as s tiloll e , tbeoeo, ando utinwitthhe o k esdiltti i ke ng a bo yth wheorhad n t ired p l ay, or s t u dy. u n li gh t n o w. Ho w ho r r i ble t h at was ! S uch   Th e m an h ad to t ouch hi m t wic e o n t he s hou lder i de ou s ,w erase hfo darkne s s,s mile no t f o b es fo rtehi he ng wo ke and e or p etn he e d his ey es a faint h e d apay.sse d a cr o s s hi s l i p s, as t h oug h he had been l ost in s o m e d e l i gh tful d r e a m. Ye t h e had no t d reamed at all. He fBut el ty ou tha t if e t ho bruto o d oon d th sm il e shwi ande y r eas n. I twh is oat ne h o f eit ha s o n e t h r o ug h h e w o ul d s i cke n or grow ma d . h ere w e r e s in s w ho s e fas c in at ion was mo re

189

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CHAPTER 14

T

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D

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G

r

a

y

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F

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s t r u ct e d th e ms e lv e s th e r e wi t h t e rrible d is t inc t nes s. He w in c e d at th e me mo r y of al l t hat he had s uffered , an d f o r a mo me n t t he s a me c ur i ous fe eling of lo at hing fo r

Hi s night h ad bee un troubled by an im ages of pl eas ur or of p ain.

th e m e m or y th an i n t he doin g of t hem, t ra n ge t r i um p hs t hat g r at ifie d t he pr i d e chi e fe s t cha r ms. or e th a n the p ass i o ns, and gave t o t he   He t ur n e d r ou nd , and l e an i n g up on his elbo w, beg an t o si s ch at e . The l l ow No vember s unecater am e te ll ec t pa hiqu i oc ckolene d sme e ns e of joy, gr s t r e a mi n g i nto t he r o o m. Th e s ky was brig ht , and t h er e h an awa nsya j goeyni althe y br o ug h t , or c ou ld e ver war m th i n t h e ai r. I t was almos t l i k e a g in M a y. ri n g ,mto ron inthe s ens es. B ut t h is was not one o f   Gr a dua ll y t he e v e n t s of t he p r e c ed ing nig ht c rep t h em .w it h s i l e nt , blo o d- st ai n e d fe e t i n t o his brain and r ec on ‑ C

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f

D

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as Lord Henry had once said.

e

G

r

a

After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his

himself with even more

h

y

Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding

191

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.

When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed

Sur une gamme chromatique, volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about Le sein de peries ruisselant, La Venus de l’Adriatique what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he Sort de l’eau son corps rose et should do so. blanc. Les domes, sur l’azur des   When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title“That awful ondes thing, a woman’s page ofmemory!” the Suivant book. It was Gautier’s Emaux et Camees, la phrase auCharpentier’s pur

frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a

T

contour, S’enflent comme des gorges dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. rondes Que souleve As he turned over the pages, his eye fellun on thesoupir poem about the hand d’amour.and bits of archi‑ of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand “du supplice encore mal lavee,” L’esquif aborde me depose, tecture, and then human faces.et Suddenly he every face that de he faune.” drew to at his Jetant son amarre auseemed pilier, with itsremarked downy redthat hairs and its “doigts He glanced have a fantastic likeness Basil Hallward. He Devant unetofacade rose, own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and Sur le marbre d’un escalier. h

a

p

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e

r

upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers

“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

other he handed to the valet.

servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the

was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and

C

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f

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Th ey ha d be en gr e a t fr i en d s once , fi ve ye a rs be f ore --a lm ost inse p a ra b le , ind e e d . T he n t he int ima ‑

o

What c o u ld he d o th en ? Eve ry m o m e n t wa s o f vita l im p orta nce .

e

ou t of E ng la nd ? Da ys wou l d el ap se be f ore he could co m e b a ck . Pe rha p s he m ig ht re f use t o co me.

r

hand. H e g re w ne r vous, an d a h orri ble fit of te rror ca m e ove r him . W ha t if A la n C a m p b e ll sh o uld be

u

charma nt ” th at c ouch es i n th e p o r phy ry-room o f the Louvre . B ut a f t e r a t im e t he b o o k f e ll fro m his

t

stain ed m ar bl e , te ll o f tha t c u riou s statue tha t Ga utie r com p a re s t o a co nt ra lt o v o ice , t he “m o nst re

c

th e gre e n ste am i ng mud ; he be gan to brood o ve r those v e rse s w hich, d raw ing m usic f ro m k iss-

i

ib ises, a nd w hite vu ltur e s w ith g ild e d claw s, a nd crocod ile s w it h sm a ll b e ryl e ye s t ha t crawl o ver

P

e xile and l ong s to be ba ck b y the hot, lotus- cove re d Nile , w he re t he re a re Sp hinx e s, a nd r o se - red

he r ead of the Obe l isk i n the Pla ce d e la C o nco rd e tha t w e e p s t e a rs o f g ra nit e in it s lo ne ly sunless

e

a

h ad co e sud d enlf l y :to an e nd. W he n the y m e t in so cie ty no w, it wa s o nly D o ria n Gra y w ho smiled: d ove rcyto hmim se

193

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b eads and the tur ba ne d m e rcha nts sm o k e the ir lo ng ta sse lle d p ip e s a nd t a lk g rav e ly t o e a ch o t her;

o u een t of th e lwa ittle ca a t Sm yrna t he i r a mber o a tin g swallow dows tha n t ftl yhi nea ndgr t ef e r-wa y sw heore ft he tHahdejis sitpiconuntkingand p e a rl ci

“Alan, in a locked room at the top of a ted i n a b la ck g o n d o l a wi t h si l v e r pr o w a n d t r ai l i ng curt a i this house, a room to which nobody e m e re lin e s l o o ke d t o h im l i ke t h o se st r a i gh t l i n e s o f t urquo i but myself has access, a dead man ue tha t f o l lo w o n e a s o n e p u sh e s o u t t o t h e L i do. T he sud d ise s seated at a sh of co lo u r r em in dea d h table. i m o f t h e glHe e a m o fhas t h e o pbeen a l-a nd - ir ten stir, r dead o ate d bi rd s t h a thours f lu t t er ro unow. n d t h e t aDon’t ll honeycom be d C aand m p a ni stalk , w it h su ch s tat at e ly g r a clike e, throu gh t h e di m , dust-st a in don’t look me that. Who the c ad e s. Le an i ng b a ck w it h h a l f - c l o se d e y e s, h e ke pt sa ying o v man is, why he died, how he died,

How e xqu is it e t h ey wer e! A s o n e r e a d t h e m , o n e see m e d t o T

y

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“Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d’un escalier.”

he wi sh ed -- an d, i nde ed , e xe rc i sed of te n w ithout be ing co nscio us o f it . T he y ha d m e t a t L a dy

e

toge ther--m u sic an d tha t i n de f in ab le attra ctio n tha t Doria n se e m e d t o b e a b le t o e x e rcise w h enever

T he w ho le o f Ve n i c e wa s i n t h o se t wo l in es. H e r em em be re d th

p iano be tter th an m ost a ma teu r s. In f act, it wa s m usic tha t ha d f irst b ro ug ht him a nd Do ria n G ra y

p res cripti o ns. He was a n e xce l le n t mus icia n, ho w e ve r, a s w e ll, a nd p la ye d b o t h t he vio lin a nd t he

ut um n t ha t he h a d pa sse d t h e r e , a n d a wo n de r fu l lo ve th at h ad

on hi s s tan d ing for Pa rli am e nt a nd ha d a va g ue id e a tha t a che m ist wa s a p e rso n w ho ma de up

t irre d him t o m a d de l i gh t f u l f o l l i e s. T he r e wa s r o m an ce in e ve r

used to sh u t h im se lf u p al l d ay l ong , g re a tly to the a nno ya nce o f his m o t he r, w ho ha d se t he r hea rt

I ndee d, h e was sti ll d evote d to th e stu dy of che m istry, a nd ha d a la b o ra t o ry o f his o w n in which he

la ce . B ut Ve n i c e , l i ke O x f o r d , h a d k ep t t h e b a ckg rou nd f o

w orkin g in th e la bor ator y, a nd ha d ta k e n a g o o d cla ss in t he Na t ura l Scie nce Trip o s o f his yea r.

o m a nce , a nd, t o t h e t r u e r o m a n t i c , b a ck g r o u n d wa s e ve ry th in g

d omina nt inte lle ctua l pa ssion wa s for scie nce . A t C a m brid g e he ha d sp e nt a g re a t d e a l o f h is t ime

w hatev e r little se nse o f th e be a uty of p o e try he p osse sse d he ha d g a ine d e nt ire ly f ro m Do ria n. His

are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--”

He was an e xtr em e ly cle ver youn g m a n, thoug h he ha d no re a l a p p re cia t io n o f t he v isib le a rt s, a nd

Alan C am p be ll ne ver d i d.

r a lm o st everything. Basil had been with him part of the time, and had one 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 th C

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195

f D o r i a n G r a

This was th e m an Dori an Gra y wa s wa iting f o r. E ve ry se co nd he k e p t g la ncing a t t he clo ck. A s t he

o

appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments.

e

this wa s ce rta in l y tr ue . Eve ry da y he se e m e d to be co m e m o re int e re st e d in b io lo g y, a nd his na me

r

called upon , th at h e wa s so a bsor be d in scie nce tha t he ha d no t im e le f t in w hich t o p ra ct i se. A nd

u

almost to di slik e h ea ri n g m usi c , an d w o uld ne ve r him se lf p la y, g iv ing a s his e x cuse , w he n he wa s

t

which Dor ia n G ra y was p r ese nt. H e ha d cha ng e d , too --wa s st ra ng e ly m e la ncho ly a t t im e s, a ppea red

c

sc ar cely sp ok e w h en th ey m e t an d tha t C a m p be ll se e m e d a lwa ys t o g o awa y e a rly f ro m a ny p a rt y a t

i

quarrel h ad ta k en p l ac e be twe en th e m no o ne e ve r k ne w. B ut sud d e nly p e o p le re m a rk e d t ha t t hey

P

Dorian Gr ay wa s th e type of e ve ry th ing tha t is w ond e rf ul a nd f a scina t ing in lif e . W he t he r or no t a

e

C am pbe ll wa s a lwa ys e i the r at S el by R oya l or in Gro sve no r Squa re . To him , a s t o m a ny o t hers,

h

the op e ra an d w he r eve r go o d m usi c wa s g o ing o n. For e ig ht e e n m o nt hs t he ir int im a cy la st ed.

B erksh i re ’s th e n ig ht th at Rub inste in pla ye d the re , a nd a f te r t ha t use d t o b e a lwa ys se e n t o get her a t

“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 T y

At las t the doo r ope ned and his ser van t ent ere d. He tur ned gla zed eye s upo n him .   “M r. Cam pbe ll, sir, ” sai d the ma n.

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that linke d ,wit s low-br ea thi n g th i ng c raw le d no m o re , a nd ho rrib le t ho ug ht s, t im e b e ing d e a d, ra ced hard and cold . Hebspo h slow deliberation. There was His voice was a look of contempt in the stea hands in the pockets of his Ast dy searching gaze that he turn rakhan coat, and seemed not to ed on Dor ian. havf euture noticed onlife in f ront, a nd dr ag g ed a hid e ous f ro mges itsture g rav , awhi ndchsho e d it t o him . He st a red a t He kept his the   “Yes: it is anim witeh matbly ter of he w had and death, Alan, and to more been greeted. tha n one person. Sit down.”   Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposit e to him. The two men’s eyes Its vedo rywas ho r ror m ad e him ston e . what he wasit. goin met. In Dorian’s there was infi g to dreadful. nite pity. He knew that   After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said , very quietly, but watching the f effect of each word upon the face o of him he had sent r ,

pup pet o n a sta nd an d g rin n ed throu gh m o ving m a sk s. T he n, sud d e nly, t im e st o p p e d f o r hi m. Yes:

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“I had intended never to e n t er your house again, Gray. But y o u s a id it was a matter of life and dea th.”

wakin s wa g f or hi m the re ; saw i t, ind e e d , a nd , shud d e ring , crushe d w it h d a nk ha nd s h is b urn‑   “Al an! what Th is is d itin of you . I tha nk you for com ing .”

uteief s wbro e nt by he be ca m e h orri bly a gita te d . A t la st he g ot up a nd b e g a n t o p a ce up a nd d own t he   A sig hmin of rel ke fro m his par che d lip s, and the col our cam e bac k to his che eks . room, looking a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously cold.   “As k him to com e in like at onc e, Fra nci s.” He fel t tha t he wa s him sel f aga in. His mo od of cow ard ice had Tn hebow sus ed p enand se be ca me u n be ar able . T i me se e m e d to him to be craw ling w it h f e e t o f le a d , w hile pas he sed b y aw ay.   Th e ma ret ire d. In a few mo me nts , Ala n Cam pbe ll wa lke d in, loo kin g ver y ste rn her pal e, his mon strous wi n ds was be in g swe pt to wa rd s the ja g g e d e d g e o f so m e b la ck cle f t o f p re cip ice .and H e krat new pal lor bei ng int ens ifie d by his coa l-b lac k hai r and dar k eye bro ws.

decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don’t interest m any more.” h

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197

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tried to spare yo ou will do me th ustice to admit tha ou were ster arsh, offensive. Yo reated me as no ma T

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b o a d e s t r o y t o I n d e e d , u a r e w h a t y o b e f o r e . n a h t e d o n e h o r r i b l e r , i t f a r l e s s r e m e m b m u s t b e . A n d , m e . w o r k a t a g a i n s t m e d t o e a c c u s t o e v i d e n c o f i s i t p i e c e a n d o n l y l o s t ; t h e m a i s I . ” r e d , h e l p m e d i s c o v e i s i t e s s y o u l I f n u o v e r e d t to the whole b e d i s c ply indifferen s u r e t o that. I am sim ou. You forget esire to help y   “I have no d I a m ith me.” o s i t i o n othing to do w thing. It has n f t h e p T h i n k o a i n t e d eat y o u . l m o s t f   “Alan, I entr a m e I a e y o u c u r s e l f t b e f o r r r o r y o i n . J u s k n o w t e o u m a y o o k a t r r o r . Y t h a t . L w i t h t e h i n k o f o i n t d o n ’ t t n t i f i c p y. N o ! s o m e d a t h e s c i e e l y f r o m e d e a d t e r p u r h e r e t h t h e m a t q u i r e w o n ’ t i n f r o m . . Y o u d n t c o m e o f v i e w x p e r i m e h y o u e o n w h i c t h i n g s n

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bac hom the my e, s eve thi o I n i   He heaved the door half-closed gs T ahdeep e breath, P is h c opened o aflittle D wider, o rn and ig a with G r a y eyes andnaverted at l ul r e t no not   “ you Tha rse wan nk lf. t y you I a o u m n . , ” stooping down and taking upsthe hanging, he flung it right over the picture. i r gold-and-purple   “ , ” Now sai d t , A he lan ma , t n h t  hThere e rtoe turn round, and his eyes ,fixed l e themselves on the intricacie avi i s he stopped, feeling afraid is ng che n the ot st a m is! roo om m. I’l thi e l n n gthings t t if he and Basil Hall t adreadful other work. He began to wonder s . ” that he had required for his ke o b He e l it ost spo for . H k Cam e r you pbe api . Y d y l l now,” ou   “Leave me f e l said a stern voice behindlhim. bri and t d ng om i n i t Wh nat an en e a d b u the t hor y rhurried out, just consciousy that h ithe i t a into the c   He turned and m dead eac . T man had been thrust back tiv h ed nd hey e the tur lef ned t th top e r lan it oom in din t hinethe lock. g, o k heard the key being turned to D cam loc ori k. a e i n t The nto ook n h his out e e y eCampbell came back into theslibrary. n ,   It was long after seven when t t o p He was pale, but absolutely s. Ala p ed, He n,” shu and he dde mu a t rmu red rou i s each other again.” . r e “ d. not I d on’ hin t t g t hin o m k I y. e. I d o   “You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I n cannot ’ t forget that,” said Dorian simply. req uir e y hal ou, f o ” s p e n As soon as Campbell i d acid in the roo e d had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible smell of anitric Cam the pbe doo tra it l r. A eer s he ing did in so, t he rn he sun cur saw l igh tai the n w t. O fac as n t e o lyi h e f ng. f had loo He for r in rem got fro em ten nt ber , f of ata e o d r l c tha the anv t fir the as, st nig and tim ht e i was k w n ith abo h is a s ut lif hud to e, der rus to . h f orw 209 ard , w hen hav e

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v “How cried Dorian. i o l ecan t syou, , Harry!” Dorian Gray w a s u s h e r e d i n t o L a d y N a r b o r o a p o l o g y , h e c e a s e d t o f e e l b o r e d . e r g u e s t   s “Ittisha most i s romantic e v e n explanation,” i n g w e rlaughed e r athe t hostess. h e r “But t e dher i third o u s husband, . T h Lord e f Henry! a c t Y  f o“Certainly, r e h e aLady d Narborough.” w a s t h r o b b i n g w i t h m a d d e n e d n e r v e s ,  B u t a t d i n n e r h e c o u l d n o t e a t , o n e o f   “I h don’t e r believe m a r arword i e dof it.” d a u g h t e r s h a d c o m e u p q u i t e s u d “Well, h e ask b e Mr. n tGray. o He v e isr one h of i her s most h o sintimate t e s s friends.” ’ s h a n d w a s a s e a s y a n a n y t h i n g . P l a t e a f t e r p l a t e w e n t a w a y u a l l y b r“Is o itutrue, g h Mr. t Gray?” h e r h u s b a n d w i t h h e r . “ I t h i n k i t i s m o  m “She u c h assures a t meoso, n Lady e ’ sNarborough,” e a s e asaid s Dorian. w h e “I n asked o n her e whether, h a s like t o Marguerite p l a y deaN u n t a s t e d . L a d y N a r b o r o u g h k e p t s c o l d ‑ a n d s t a ynone w of i them t h had t h had e manyehearts v e ratyall.”s u m m e r a f t e r I c o m e f r o m H  n “Four my i g h husbands! t c o u Upon l d h a word v e that b eis ltrop i e de v zele.” e d t h a t h e h a d p a s s e d i n g h i m f o r w h a t s h e c a l l e d “ a n i n s u l t   e“Trop I tell s o m e t i m s , d’audace, a n d b e sher,” i d said e s Dorian. , I r e a l l y w a k e t h e m u p . Y o u d “Oh! o f she o is u audacious r a g e enough . T h for o sanything, e f i nmy e dear. l y And s h what a p eisdFerrol f i like? n g Iedon’t r s know c o him.” u l d t o p o o r A d o l p h e , w h o i n v e n t e d t h e e u n a d u  l “The t e r husbands a t e d of c very o u beautiful n t r y women l i f e belong . T htoe the y criminal g e t classes,” u p e said a r Lord l y , Henry, b e csippin a u  s m Lady not i l Narborough i n g l i hit p shimhwith a v her e fan. c r“Lord i e dHenry, o u I am t o nat all G surprised o d a that n d theg world o o dsay n m e n u s p e c i a l l y f o r y o u , ” a n d n o w a n d “But Henry, y h a v e s o what l i world t t l esayst that?” o t asked h i nLord k a b o elevating u t . T his h eyebrows. e r e h “It a scan only n o tbe the b enext e nwor  t h“Everybody e c a l Imknow o fsayshyou i sare very d e wicked,” m e a n cried o u rthe , old a lady, n d shaking f o r her a head. m o m e n t t h e n L o r d H e n r y l o o k e d a c r o s s a t h i m , z a b e t h ,   a Lord n d Henry c o n looked s e qserious u e n for t l some y tmoments. h e y a“It l is l perfectly f a l l monstrous,” a s l e e he p said, a f at t last, e r “the d and l i fentirely e . true.” w o n d e r i n g a t h i s s i l e n c e a n d a b s t r a c t ‑ “Isn’t cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. m e a n d a  m u s he e incorrigible?” m e . ”    “I I hope t wso,” a ssaidahis hostess, s m a l laughing. l p a r “But t y really, , g oif you t all u pworship r a tMadame h e r de i nFerrol a inhthis u rri e d m a n n e r . F r o m t i m e t o t i m e t h e Henry. o r i a n m u  r“You m u will r e never d amarry g r again, a c e Lady f u Narborough,” l c o m p l broke i m einnLord t a n d “You l o were o k far e dtoorhappy o u again, w o mitaisnbecause w i he t hadored w hhis a first t Lwife. o r Women d H etry n their r y luck; u s men e d risk t theirs.” o d e s c r i b e b u t l e r f i l l e d h i s g l a s s w i t h c h a m ‑ t h e p e o p  l“Narborough e h e h awasn’t d nperfect,” e v e rcried s the e e old n lady. b e f o r e , a n d t h e o t h e r s c  S “If h ehe had h a been, d pyou r owould v e d nota have n loved e x c him, e l lmy e dear n t lady,” w i was f e the t o rejoinder. o n e “Women o f o love u r p a g n e . H e d r a n k e a g e r l y , a n d h i s to ndinner it d i o c r i t i eYou s will s onever c oask m me m o i n again L oafter n d saying o n this, c l I u am b safraid, w hLady o Narborough, h a v e n but o e is n qui e m  h “Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your defects, where would e r h u s b a n d p r o p e r l y i n a m a r b l e m a u s o l e u m , t h i r s t s e e m e d t o i n c r e a s e . x t o n , a n Not, o vhowever, e r d r that e s that s e would d w alter o m you a n much. o f Nowadays f o r t yall - the s e married v e n , men w live i t like h bachelors, a h o o  o “Fin f f de h siecle,” e r murmured d a u g h tLord e r Henry. s t o s o m e r i c h , r a t h e r e l d e r   “ D o r i a n , ” s a i d L o r d H e n r y a t l a s t , e d , b u t   w“Fin a sdu globe,” s o p answered e c u l ihis a hostess. r l y p l a i n t h a t t o h e r g r e a t d i s  s u“I rwish e s it were o f fin F du r eglobe,” n c h said f Dorian i c t i with o n a , sigh. F r“Life e n is c ahgreat c odisappointment.” o k e r y , a n d F a s t h e c h a u d - f r o i d w a s b e i n g h a n d e d ; M r s . E   r “Ah, l y my n n dear,” e , cried a p Lady u s h Narborough, i n g n oputting b o d on y , her w gloves, i t h “don’t a d tell e lme i gthat h tyou f uhave l lexi you Ia mn  wicked, D o rand i aI sometimes n w a s wish o nthat e Iohad f been; h e but r e s are p e made c i ato l be fgood--you a v o u look r i t so e good. s , r o u n d , “ w h a t i s t h e m a t t e r w i t h y o u ’ s d a u g h   t“Ieam r ,always a telling d o whim d yso, Lady d u Narborough,” l l g i r l said , Lord w i tHenry h owith n e a bow. o f t h o s e c  g “Well, l a d we s must h e look h a out d for n oa suitable t m e match t h for i mhim. i Inshall e go a rthrough l y l Debrett i f e . carefully “ I k to-nig n o t o - n i g h t ? Y o u a r e q u i t e o u t o f s o r t s . ” m e m b e r e d  ; “With a n their d hages, e r Lady h uNarborough?” s b a n d , asked a rDorian. e d - c h e e k e d , w h i t e - w h i s k  w “Of i t course, h y owith u , their ” sages, h e slightly u s e edited. d t But o nothing s a y , must “ a n beddone t in h a r hurry. o w nI want m yit tobbeo w   “ I b e l i e v e h e i s i n l o v e , ” c r i e d L a d y nonsense i m p r e s s  i“What o n t h a t people i n o talk r d about i n a happy t e jmarriages!” o v i a l iexclaimed t y c a Lord n aHenry. t o n“A e man f ocan r bea ha n  m “Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady o s t f o r t u n a t e t h a t y o u w e r e n o t t h o u g h t o fRu N a r b o r o u g h , “ a n d t h a t h e i s a f r a i d t o must me to ,m e w a s r a better t h e than r swhat o r Sir r y Andrew h e prescribes h a d c for o me. m e You , t i l tell l L a what d y people N a ryou b owould r o ulike g h

CHA 15

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r e m a i n s o f r e a l l y r e m a r k a b l e u g l i n e s s . y o u w h e n y o u w e r e a l i t t l e g i r l , L a d y o n s i s t e d o f E r n e s t H a r r o w d e n , o n e o f t h o s e m i d d l e - a g

er us for m oour s defects. t t e If d we i o have u s enough a m bofa them, s s a they d o will r s forgive , a n us d everything, h a v i neven g our b uintellects. r i e d N a r b o r o u g h , ” s a i d L o r d H e n r y . “ S h e i s ite true.” m i e s , b u t a r e t h o r o u g h l y d i s l i k e d b y t h e i r f r i e d you a set w halli be? c hNotsone h eof you h awould d hever e r be s married. e l f dYou e s would i g n be e d , ofa unfortunate n d m a bachelors. r r i e d t h e o n e l i n k b e t w e e n u s a n d y o u r ,oand all the bachelors like married men.” k e d n o s e , w h o w a s a l w a y s t r y i n g t o g e t h e r s e l l y

n d s ;

f

L a

c o m p r

m e n ,

s h e d e v o t e d h e r s e l f n o w t o t h e p l e a ‑ s h o r t f r o c k s . ” a p p o i n t m e n t n o o n e w o u l d e v e r b e l i e v e a n y t h i n g

e s p r i t w h e n s h e c o u l d g e t i t .   “ S h e d o e s n o t r e m e m b e r m y s h o r t xhausted that is very i s p a life. n dWhen V e anman e t says i a n - rone e dknows h a that i r life ; Lhas a exhausted d y A l ihim. c e Lord C hHenry a p m a n ,

a g a i n

r e n c h

h i s

h o

must wife. Henry, n d find s hyou e a nice a l w a yLord s t o l ddon’t h you i m think t h that a t Mr. s Gray h e should w a s getemarried?” x t r e m

e l y B u t I s e e n ,

a r e

n e v

f a l l e n m a d l y i n l o v e v e r y w e l l a t V i e n n a s o m a n y o f h i s c l a s s ,

w a s

u n d

f r o c k s a t a l l , L o r d H e n r y . c h a r a c t e r i s t i c B r i t i s h f a c e s t h a t , o n c e

ght w , and m draw y dout e a a list r , of all I the s heligible o u l young d h ladies.” a v e

k e r e d

r e m e m b e r c r e a t u r e w h o ,

h e r l i k e

what calls n n The e t Morning r i g h Post t o v a e suitable r t h alliance, e m i and l l Is want f oyou r both y o to u be r happy.” s a k e . I t i s t h i r t y y e a r s a g o , a n d h o w d e c o l l e t e e appy with any woman, as long as he does not love her.” n e n t i r e l a c k o f i d e a s . uxton. a t “You t h must e t come i m eand . dine A s with i tme soon w a sagain. , o You u r are breally o n an n admirable e t s w tonic, e r e much s o s h e w a s t h e n . ” meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.” l o o k i n g a t t h e g r e a t o r m o l u g i l t c l o c k t h a t s p   “She is still decolletee,” he answered, taking an olive in his long e d :

“ H o w

t h f u l l y

n d

w h e n

h o r r i d

n o t

t h e

t o

o f

H e n r y

d i s a p p o i n t

d o o r

o p e n e d

W o t t o n

t o

b e

s o

r a w l e d

l a t e !

212

I

s e

m e . ”

a n d

h e

h e a r d

h i s

s l o w

m u s i c

“Oh,

l i k e

m e nT

t t i c o a t

hw eh

o P h i a cv te

w r

ha oy

h a v e

a

p a

a s

l i k e

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p e e r a g e ,

S h e

b e e n

s a i d ,

n o t

s h e

s h e

s t o o d

u p .

“ A

y o u r

b e e n

f i n i s h e d h a v e

h a d n ’ t

h a r d e n s .

a r e

g o l d

y o u

c i g a r e t t e . ”

Lord Rugby and t h e y

N a r b o r o u g h .

I

s m o k e

t h e

t h e

h e r .

L a d y

a

g r e a t

d e a l

t o o

R u x t o n , ”

s a i d

L o r d

h a v e

t h e l a c k s

L a d y

b o r e s

d o n ’ t ,

T h e y

“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly t H e n r y .

“ M o d e r a t i o

g o o d

a s

a

t o

i t

f e a s t . ”

c o m i n g ? ”

a s

b u t

i s

m u s t

m a k e

his wife, our host‑   “Did you go to the club?” h i m

c u r i o u s l y .

a c c o r d i n g

a t

D o r i a n .

ess,

l i k e .

g l a n c e d

p r e t t y ,

R u x t o n

d e s t r o y ,

“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean t h a t

o u g h

“ Y o u

m u s t

Geoffrey

c o m e

t h e o r y , ”

s h e

m u r m u r e d ,

a s

s h e

s w e p t

y o u

d o n ’ t

s t a y

t o o

l o n g

n o t

m i n d

a s k e d

Clouston,

o v e r

i s

have been doing. I came in at half-past two, if you wish to kn c l a y

N o w ,

f a s c i n a t i n g

M o n m o u t h

a

y o u

a s

did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to kn

u n d s

y o u r

p o l i t i c s

the

u p s t a i r s . ”

e l s e

i f

s q u a b b l e

b e l i e v e ,

t o

W h o

g o t

w i t h

C h a p m a n

m a r r i e d ? ”

M r .

d o e s

a n d

f e e t ,

l a u g h e d ,

f e e t

m e n

v e r y

s u r e

o f

a r e

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if a s

w e

w o m a n .

servant had to let me in. If you want any corroborative eviden u p

s o l e m n l y

usual set. I have a r e

f r o

a n d

w e n t

a n d

s a t

L o r d

y e a r s

s e a t

I

h i s

m e .

c h a n g e d

a l m o s t

you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. f i r e

d o ,

a y

w o m i a n e nG

Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.

m i n d ,

P r a y

h e

o f

i n d e f i n a b l e

i s S h e

s e e

a d y

the

no d r

You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you g

N e v e r

b y

H e n r y .

M

o f

C o m m o n s .

asked

H e

i n .

p o r c e l a i n

f e e t

t h e

H o u s e

g u f f a w e d

a t

Lord

h i s

a d v e r

t i m e

t h r o w n

t o

t e l l s

t i m e

b e e n

f r o m

H e r

m i n d -- r e a p p e a r e d

w h a t

my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall g i s

i t i s h

t h e

f o r

i n

d r e a d f u l l y ,

b e t w e e n

h i s

h o i s t e d

t h e

U n i o n

Grotrian.”

J a c k

t e n

H e

a n d

o r a t o r y .

e x p e r i e n c e s . ”

“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at te c l e v e r

o n

a

“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I

I t

u

a D

“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him

s o , ”

h e

d n ’ t

f e u t ou rf e

Willoughbys,

f e a r

m u c h

I

ua r

p a r t y ? ”

S h e

I

o n

t h e

p i n n a c l e s

t i m e

b u t

s h e

s h e

W h i t e

i t -- w a s

like

a n d

h e

y e a r s ,

l i p s ,

s h o w n

t u r n e d

him,” e t e r n i t y ,

h a s

f i r e ,

t o o

m e

i m a g e

o f

w e l l ,

H a r r y .

I

a m

t i r e d .

T h a t

w i t h

a s k e d .

“ Y o u

i s

e t e r n i t y ,

h e

t e n

f e l l o w ? ”

l o n g

d e a r

t h e

m y

c l a y .

c l e v e r ,

b o r e s

q u i t e

t

r o u n d

a

s e e m e d

a l l . ”

said Lord Henry. l i t t l e

i s

T h e

“ A n

n i g h t .

“ H o w

l a s t

h a d

c h a r m i n g

t h r o u g h

w e r e

o f

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had lo d u c h e s s

i s

q

h a s

p r o m i s e d

213

M o n m o u t h

t o

b e

c o m e

t h e r e ,

o n

t h e

t o o ? ”

i t

many

great

t o

h a s

f e e t

t h e

“A

v e r y

which he had thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge f

I s

t e r m e d

hated the idea of even touching them.

l b y . ”

S h e

H e n r y ’ s

c h a r m

Y o u

L o r d

“I

b e t t e r ,

“ H e

a m

j o v i a l l y

nerve for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still. Thing

y e s ,

y o u

c u r v e d

“ O h ,

I

h e

sense of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to

s m i l e

e

s e n s e

p r e c i o u s .

c o m m o n

w e a k n e s s .

g l i s h

H a r r y . ”

“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. A

t w e n t i e t h . ”

people don’t, but

s t , ”

I find him charm‑

h e

a n s w e r e d .C

“h Oa r p dt o e

ry

o uF

it h f

it n e k e tn h a t

w o u l d

ing. He atones for

m a k e

i

s h e

a d d e d ,

y o u

m a k e

R u x t o n , ” n i g h t .

L a d y

g o

Y o u

h i m

t o

a

d e a r

E n o u g h

i s

a s

f o r

l a s t

m y s e l f , a n d

l i m i t

D i d

m a y

H e

t h i n g .

o v e r - e d u c a t e d .

f a t a l

t o

o c c a s i o n a l l y

b a d

a s

t h e

a

f u t u r e . ”

m e a l .

a f t e r w a r d s ?

T r y

H e

ly somewhat over‑ H a r r y .

a

g o i n g

p e o p l e

i s

a m

L o r d

n

m y

being occasional‑ d o n ’ t ,

I

G r o t r i a n . ”

m u c h .

three.”

i s

p a r d o n s ,

go straight home?”

h a v e

b u t

t h o u s a n d

s o m e w h a t

I

m come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night.

M o r e

t h

a n d

e x p l a i n

t h a t

t o

m e

s o m e

e a r l y

n that. I didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I a f t e r n o o n ,

L o r d

dressed by being r o o m .

f r o w n e d .

t h e

v e r y

o f

a r e !

o u t

m a n y

t

a s k e d

now what one has been doing. I always want to forget what I

H e n r y .

c o m e ,

s c a n d a l , ”

c r i e d a b s o l u t e l y

a n d

b e i n g

now the exact time. I had left my latch-key at home, and my L a d y

N a r b o r o u g h

f r o m

t h e

d o o r .

a n d

d o

h a v e

o f f

p e o p l e

g r e a t

always absolutely

nce on the subject, you can ask him.” t h e

t o

t a b l e

a n d

c a m e

u p

t o

t h e

t o p .

t o

t a l k

i n

a

l o u d

v o i c e

a b o u t

d i d

a t o n e s

b e g a n

p e o p l e ’ s

H e n r y .

s e t .

C h a p m a n

h u r r i e d l y

over-educated.

Tell me what it is. You are not yourself to-night.” r .

y o u

o f

r a n

f o o t

f a t h e r . ”

t h e

a b l e

o m

“ A

I

f o r

I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank

i n h e r i t e d

y o u

W h a t

modern type.”

a s

o f

t h e

t e r r o r

very

s e r v e d

s t u p i d i t y

h e

o f

t h e

a n

h i m

T h e

b e i n g

t h o u g h t .

H e

t h e

o f

a

p r e f i x

f u l l

D o r i a n ,

is

a l l i t e r a t i v e

w i t h

A n

L o r d

e x p l o s i o n s .

ea-time. The duchess is coming.”

n u i s a n c e

He

d o c t r i n a i r e -- w o r d h i s

w o r d

b e

T h e

go home. I must go home.”

w i l l

r s a r i e s .

a l w a y s

u s u a l

I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make

D o r

s i

t o

o r n a m

r a c e -- s o u

a t

e l e v e n .

s o c i e t y . w a y ,

f o r

C a r l o

b u l w a r k

i f

t y p e . ”

p r o p e r

c h a r m i n g .

t h e

s a i d

b e

C l o u s t o n ,

As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the o

g l a n c e d

D o r i a n .

h o m e ? ”

a t

b y

l o o k e d

k n o w

o him. Lord Henry’s casual questioning had made him lose his

“I don’t know if h i m , ”

a n d

B y

b e f o r e

t h e

a w h a t

d i n n e r . ” M o n t e

a t

d o n ’ t

s o r t s

o v e r d r e s s e d

o f

h i m

G e o f f r e y

o u t

m o d e r n

gs that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He winced. He

D o r i a n

s t r a i g h t

he will be able to l i k e

r a t h e r

y o u .

S h e

t e l l s

m e

c o m e .

t o

t o

d e v o t e d

“ A h !

ocked the door of his library, he opened the secret press into

q u i t e

s h e

i s

g o i n g

t o

f a t h e r . ”

g o

t o

M o n t e

C a r l o

H e

w i t h

h a v e

l e f t

g o

“ I

v e r y

f i n d

“ I

ire was blazing. He piled another log on it. The smell of the

come, Harry.

t

m a y

214

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215

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