Le portrait de Dorian Gray ✨🖼️😈 | Chef-d’œuvre immortel

Plongez dans l’univers envoûtant d’Oscar Wilde : l’histoire de Dorian, jeune homme d’une beauté parfaite, qui scelle un pacte implicite pour conserver son visage intact tandis qu’un portrait porte le poids de ses vices. Entre salons mondains, aphorismes cinglants et descentes morales, ce classique interroge la beauté, l’âme et le prix de l’éternelle jeunesse. 🎧📖

Ce que vous allez entendre :
– Une narration française claire et immersive 🗣️
– Le Londres fin-de-siècle, ses lumières et ses ombres 🌃
– Les figures mythiques : Dorian, Lord Henry, Basil 🎭
– Les thèmes clés : hédonisme, vanité, corruption morale, art et conscience 💠

Pourquoi écouter cette version :
– Fidèle au texte de Wilde, avec un rythme idéal pour l’écoute
– Parfaite pour réviser, découvrir ou redécouvrir ce monument de la littérature
– Idéale en podcast nomade : route, sport, détente

Idéal pour :
– Amateurs de romans gothiques et psychologiques
– Étudiants, clubs de lecture et passionnés de classiques
– Auditeurs en quête d’histoires profondes et élégantes

À propos de l’œuvre :
– Un incontournable de la décadence victorienne
– Un miroir brillant sur nos obsessions modernes : image, influence, désir

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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:35 Chapter 1.
00:26:38 Chapter 2.
00:55:30 Chapter 3.
01:19:19 Chapter 4.
01:47:45 Chapter 5.
02:10:03 Chapter 6.
02:24:38 Chapter 7.
02:48:48 Chapter 8.
03:15:54 Chapter 9.
03:35:25 Chapter 10.
03:51:47 Chapter 11.
04:31:00 Chapter 12.
04:44:49 Chapter 13.
04:57:47 Chapter 14.
05:20:38 Chapter 15.
05:37:04 Chapter 16.
05:53:15 Chapter 17.
06:03:04 Chapter 18.
06:20:09 Chapter 19.
06:38:15 Chapter 20.

Welcome to “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Oscar Wilde’s captivating novel that transports us to turn-of-the-century London, between gilded salons and backstreets where consciences wander. A young man of striking beauty, immortalized by Basil Hallward’s brush, discovers under Lord Henry’s influence that youth and pleasure can become a dangerous cult. What if a painting, rather than a face, bore the marks of guilt and time? Between aesthetics, temptation, and secrecy, this is a brilliant meditation on morality and desire, where every reflection threatens to betray the truth. Chapter 1. The studio was full of the powerful scent of roses, and when a light summer breeze blew among the trees in the garden, it came through the open door with the heavy fragrance of lilacs and the more subtle scent of wild roses. From a corner of the Persian-bag divan on which he lay, smoking, as was his custom, countless cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just make out the radiance of the sweet, honey-colored blossoms of a tree, whose trembling branches seemed scarcely able to bear the weight of such flamboyant splendor; and from time to time, the fantastic shadows of fleeing birds passed over the long tussor curtains hung before the wide window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, making him think of those pale-jade-faced Tokyo painters who, by means of an art necessarily immobile, attempt to express the sense of speed and movement. The monotonous murmur of bees searching for their way through the long, uncut grasses or flitting around the dusty golden berries of a solitary honeysuckle made this great stillness all the more oppressive. The dull rumble of London seemed like the drone of a distant organ. In the middle of the room, on a straight easel, stood the life-size portrait of a young man of extraordinary beauty, and opposite it , seated a little further away, was the painter himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance a few years earlier had caused great public commotion and given rise to so much speculation. As the painter gazed at the graceful and charming figure that his art had so subtly reproduced, a smile of pleasure crossed his face and seemed to linger there. But he suddenly started, and closing his eyes, put his fingers to his eyelids as if he wished to imprison in his brain some strange dream from which he feared to awaken. “This is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly. “It must be sent next year to the Grosvenor Exhibition. The Academy is too large and too vulgar.” Every time I’ve been there, there were so many people that I couldn’t see the paintings, which was dreadful, or so many paintings that I couldn’t see the world, which was even worse. Grosvenor is still the only suitable place…. ‘I don’t think I’ll send this anywhere,’ replied the painter, throwing back his head in that peculiar way that made his friends at Oxford laugh at him. ‘No, I won’t send this anywhere.’ Lord Henry looked up at him in astonishment through the thin spirals of blue smoke that fancifully intertwined at the end of his opiate cigarette. ‘You won’t send this anywhere? And why not, my dear friend? What reason do you give? What peculiar fellows you painters are! You stir up the world to acquire a reputation; as soon as you have it, you seem to want to get rid of it.’ That’s ridiculous of you, for if there’s one thing in the world worse than fame, it’s not having it. A portrait like this would put you above all the young men in England, and make the old men jealous, if the old men could still feel any emotion. “I know you’ll laugh at me,” he replied, “but I can’t…” to really expose it. I’ve put too much of myself into it. Lord Henry stretched out on the sofa, laughing. “I knew you’d laugh, but it’s all the same. ” “Too much of yourself!… Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you were so vain; I really don’t see any resemblance between you, with your rough, strong countenance and your coal-black hair, and that young Adonis who looks as though he were made of ivory and rose petals. For, my dear fellow, he is Narcissus himself, whereas you!… It’s obvious that your face breathes intelligence and the rest…. But beauty, real beauty, ends where intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a form of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrible.” Look at men who have succeeded in a learned profession, how utterly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But in the Church, they don’t think. A bishop says at the age of eighty what he was taught to say at eighteen, and the natural consequence is that he always looks charming. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you’ve never told me, but whose portrait truly fascinates me, has never thought. I’m sure of it. He’s an admirable, brainless creature who could always replace our absent flowers here in winter and refresh our intellect in summer. Don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you don’t resemble him in the least. “You don’t understand me, Harry,” replied the artist. “I know very well that I don’t resemble him; I know it perfectly well. I’d even be sorry to resemble him. You shrug?… I’m telling you the truth.” A certain inevitability hangs over physical and intellectual distinctions , the kind of inevitability that tracks the missteps of kings throughout history. It is better not to be different from one’s contemporaries. The ugly and the foolish are the most fortunate in this respect. They can sit comfortably and yawn at the spectacle. If they know nothing of victory, they are spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we would like to live, untroubled , indifferent, and tranquil. They neither bother anyone nor are bothered. But you, with your rank and fortune, Harry, I, with my brain as it is, my art as imperfect as it may be, Dorian Gray with his beauty, we will all suffer for what the gods have given us, we will suffer terribly…. –Dorian Gray? Is that his name, asked Lord Henry, walking towards Basil Hallward. –Yes, that is his name. I didn’t mean to tell you. —And why not? —Oh! I can’t explain it. When I love someone intensely, I don’t tell anyone their name. It’s almost a betrayal. I’ve learned to love secrecy. It seems to me that it’s the only thing that can make modern life mysterious or wonderful. The most ordinary thing seems exquisite if someone keeps it from us. When I leave this town, I don’t tell anyone where I’m going: by doing so, I would lose all my pleasure. It’s a bad habit, I admit, but somehow it brings a touch of romance to life…. I ‘m sure you must think me mad, hearing me talk like this?… —Not at all, replied Lord Henry, not at all, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I’m married, and the only 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’m doing. When we meet—and we do meet from time to time , when we dine out together, or when we go to the duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious air in the world. In this respect, my wife is superior to me. She’s never embarrassed about dates, and I always am; when she realizes it, she doesn’t make a scene; sometimes I wish she would, but she just laughs in my face. ‘I don’t like the way you talk about your married life, Harry,’ said Basil Hallward, going towards the door leading to the garden. ‘I believe you to be a very good husband, ashamed of his own virtues. You are a truly extraordinary person. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a bad thing. Your cynicism is simply an act. ‘ ‘Being natural is also an act, and the most irritating one I know,’ exclaimed Lord Henry, laughing. The two young people went together into the garden and sat down on a long bamboo chair in the shade of a laurel bush. The sun glided over the polished leaves; white daisies trembled on the grass. After a silence, Lord Henry took out his watch. “I must go, Basil,” he murmured, “but before I leave, I’d like an answer to the question I asked you earlier . ”
“What question?” said the painter, his eyes still fixed on the floor. “You know it… ” “No, Harry.” “Good, I’ll tell you again. I need you to explain why you don’t want to exhibit the portrait of Dorian Gray. I want to know the real reason. ” “I told you. ” “No. You told me it was because there was far too much of yourself in the portrait. That’s childish…” “Harry,” said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the eye, “every portrait painted with understanding is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is purely accidental, an opportunity. It is not the sitter who is revealed by the painter; rather, it is the painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals himself.” The reason I won’t display this portrait is because I’m terrified that it will reveal the secret of my soul! Lord Henry laughed. “And what is it? ” “I’ll tell you,” replied Hallward, his face darkening. “I’m all ears, Basil,” continued his companion. “Oh! It’s really nothing much, Harry,” replied the painter, “and I don’t think you’ll understand it at all. Perhaps you’ll hardly believe it…” Lord Henry smiled; bending down, he picked a pink-petaled daisy from the grass and, examining it, said, “I’m quite sure I’ll understand that,” he said, looking intently at the small golden disc with its white petals, “and as for believing in things, I believe in them all, provided they’re incredible. ” The wind detached some blossoms from the bushes, and the heavy clusters of lilacs swayed in the languid air. A cicada chirped near the wall, and, like a blue thread, a long, slender dragonfly flitted by, its brown, gauzy wings a whisper of sound. Lord Henry remained silent, as if trying to hear Basil Hallward’s heartbeat , wondering what would happen next. “Here’s the story,” the painter said after a moment. “Two months ago, I was attending Lady Brandon’s soirée. You know, we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just enough to prove we’re not savages. With a coat and a white tie, anyone, even a stockbroker , can acquire the reputation of a civilized being. So I’d been in the drawing-room for about ten minutes, chatting with heavily adorned dowagers or tedious academics, when suddenly I dimly perceived that someone was watching me. I turned halfway around, and for the first time, I saw Dorian Gray.” Our eyes met and I felt myself pale. A strange terror gripped me… I understood that I was facing someone whose very personality was so fascinating that, if I let myself be swayed, she would absorb me entirely, my very nature, my soul, and even my talent. I want no outside interference in my existence. You know, Harry, how independent my life is. I have always been my own master—I had been, at least, until the day I met Dorian Gray. Then…but I don’t know how to explain this to you…. Something seemed to tell me that my life was about to go through a terrible crisis. I had the strange feeling that fate had exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows in store for me. I was frightened and prepared to leave the drawing-room. It wasn’t my conscience that made me do this; there was a kind of cowardice in my action. I saw no other way out. —Conscience and cowardice are really the same thing, Basil. Conscience is the surname for firmness. That’s all. —I don’t believe that, Harry, and I don’t think you do either. However, whatever the motive—perhaps it was pride, for I am very proud—I rushed to the door. There, naturally, I bumped into Lady Brandon. ‘You don’t intend to leave so quickly, Mr. Hallward,’ she cried. ‘ You know the high-pitched sound of her voice?’ ‘Yes, she strikes me as a peacock in all things except beauty,’ said Lord Henry, plucking the petals off the daisy with his long, sinewy fingers. ‘I couldn’t shake her off. She introduced me to Highnesses, and to people wearing Stars and Garters, to mature ladies decked out in gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. She spoke of me as her best friend. I had only met her once before, but she had taken it into her head to launch me.’ I believe one of my paintings was then quite successful and was being discussed in the two-penny papers, which, as you know, are the banners of immortality in the nineteenth century. Suddenly, I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so singularly intrigued me; we were almost touching; our eyes met again. It was beyond my control, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce us. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t so rash, but simply inevitable. We certainly would have spoken without prior introduction; I’m sure of it, and Dorian later told me the same thing; he , too, had felt that we were destined to meet. “And how did Lady Brandon tell you about this marvelous young man?” asked the friend. “I know she has a habit of giving a quick summary of each of her guests.” I remember her once introducing me to a flamboyant, apoplectic gentleman, bedecked with orders and ribbons, and whispering in my ear, in a tragic manner, the most astounding details, which must have been overheard by everyone else in the drawing room. It put me to flight; I like to know people for myself. Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly like an auctioneer treats his wares. She explains everyone’s quirks and habits, but naturally omits anything that might interest you about the person. “Poor Lady Brandon! You’re being harsh on her,” Hallward observed casually. “My dear friend, she tried to establish a salon and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. How could I possibly admire her?… But tell me, what did she tell you about Mr. Dorian Gray? ” “Oh! Something very vague along these lines: Charming fellow! His poor dear mother and I were inseparable.” I’ve completely forgotten what he’s doing, or rather, I fear…that he’s doing nothing! Ah! Yes, he is playing the piano…. Wouldn’t it be the violin, my dear Mr. Gray? We both couldn’t help laughing, and just like that we became friends. “Laughter is not at all a bad beginning to friendship, and it’s far from being a bad end to it,” said the young lord, picking Another daisy. Hallward shook his head. “You cannot understand, Harry,” he murmured, “what sort of friendship or what sort of hatred it can become in this particular case. You love no one, or, if you prefer, no one interests you. ” “How unfair you are!” cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds, which, like wisps of skein of shining white silk, were fleeing into the deep turquoise blue of the summer sky. “Yes, horribly unfair! I make a great distinction between people.
I choose my friends for their good looks, my mere companions for their character, and my enemies for their intelligence; a man cannot be too careful in choosing his enemies; I have not one who is a fool; they are all men of a certain intellectual power, and consequently, they think highly of me. Is it very vain of me to act thus!” I think it’s rather… pointless. –I think so too, Harry. But judging by your sorting , I must be a mere comrade to you. –My good, dear Basil, you are more than a comrade to me… –And less than a friend: A sort of… brother, I suppose! –A brother! I don’t much care for brothers! My eldest brother doesn’t want to die, and my younger ones seem intent on following suit. –Harry! protested Hallward ruefully. –My good man, I’m not entirely serious. But I can’t help hating my parents; I suppose it stems from the fact that none of us can bear to see other people with the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathize with English democracy in its rage against what it calls the vices of high society. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality are their own, and if any of us assumes any of these faults, it seems as if he is poaching on their own game…. When poor Southwark came before the Divorce Court, the indignation of this same mass was absolutely magnificent—and I am quite convinced that a tenth of the people do not live as they ought. —I do not approve of a single word you have just spoken, and, I sense, Harry, that you do not approve of them any more than I do. Lord Henry stroked his long, pointed brown beard, and tapping his fine leather boot with his tasseled ebony cane: —How very English you are, Basil! This is the second time you have made that observation to me. If one shares an idea with a true Englishman—which is always a rash thing—he never seeks to know whether the idea is good or bad; The only thing he cares about is discovering what one thinks of it oneself. Besides, the value of an idea has nothing to do with the sincerity of the person who expresses it. In truth, there’s a good chance that an idea will be interesting in direct proportion to the insincerity of the person, because in that case, it won’t be colored by any of the person’s needs, desires, or prejudices. However, I don’t intend to discuss political, sociological, or metaphysical questions with you. I prefer people to their principles, and I prefer people without principles to anything in the world. Let’s talk about Mr. Dorian Gray again. Have you seen him often? —Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. He’s absolutely necessary to me. —Really curious! I thought you cared about nothing but your art…. –It is all my art now, replied the painter gravely; I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any significance in the history of the world. The first is the appearance of a new means of art, and the second the advent of a new artistic personality. What the discovery of painting was for The Venetians, the face of Antinous for ancient Greek art, Dorian Gray will one day be so to me. It is not merely because I paint him, draw him, or make sketches of him; I did all that first. He is much more to me than a model. This does not mean that I am dissatisfied with what I have done after him, or that his beauty is such that Art cannot render it. There is nothing that Art cannot render, and I know very well that the work I have done since my encounter with Dorian Gray is a fine work, the best of my life. But, in a hesitant and curious way—I would be surprised if you could understand me—his person has suggested to me an entirely new manner of art , an entirely new mode of expression. I see things differently; I think about them differently. I can now live an existence that was previously hidden from me. A dreamlike form in days of thought—who said that? I don’t remember; but that’s exactly what Dorian Gray has been to me. The mere visible presence of that adolescent—for he hardly seems to me anything but an adolescent, though he is over twenty—the mere visible presence of that adolescent!… Ah! I doubt you could realize what that means! Unconsciously, he outlines for me the lines of a new school, a school that would unite the passion of the Romantic spirit with the perfection of the Greek mind. The harmony of body and soul—what a dream!… We, in our blindness, have separated these two things and invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is empty! Harry! Ah! If you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me!… You remember that landscape, for which Agnew offered me such a considerable sum, but which I refused to part with. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done. And do you know why? Because , while I was painting it, Dorian Gray was sitting beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him into me, and for the first time in my life, I glimpsed in the landscape that indefinable something I had always sought…and always missed. “Basil, this is astounding! I must see this Dorian Gray!” Hallward rose from his seat and paced back and forth in the garden. He returned a moment later. “Harry,” he said, “Dorian Gray is simply a subject for my art; you would see nothing in him; I see everything. He is never more present in my thoughts than when I see nothing of him to remind me of him. He is a suggestion, as I told you, in a new way. I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the lovely, subtle quality of certain shades. That is all.” “Then why don’t you want to display his portrait?” Lord Henry asked again. “I don’t believe that, Harry, and I think you don’t believe it, nor do you want to. I put into it some expression of all that strange artistic idolatry I never told him about. He doesn’t know it; he always will. But the world can guess at it, and I don’t want to expose my soul to base, inquiring eyes; my heart will never be put under a microscope… There’s too much of myself in that thing, Harry—too much of myself!” “Poets aren’t as scrupulous as you are; they know how much passion usefully disclosed helps sales. Nowadays, a broken heart goes through several editions. ” “I hate them for that,” Hallward exclaimed. “An artist must create beautiful things, but must put nothing of himself into them. We live in an age when men see art only in an autobiographical aspect. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.” Someday I will show the world what it is, and for that reason the world will never see my portrait of Dorian Gray. –I think you’re wrong, Basil, but I don’t want to argue with You. I’m only concerned with the intellectual loss… Tell me, does Dorian Gray love you? The painter seemed to think for a few moments. “He loves me,” he replied after a pause, “I know he loves me… I flatter him a great deal, which is understandable. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I would certainly be sorry to have said. Ordinarily, he is quite charming to me, and we spend days in the studio talking about a thousand things. From time to time, he is horribly giddy and seems to take real pleasure in causing me pain . I feel, Harry, that I have given my whole soul to a being who treats it like a flower to be placed on his coat, like a ribbon for his vanity, like the finery of a summer’s day… ” “Summer’s days are very long,” Lord Henry sighed. “Perhaps you will tire of him sooner than he wants you to.” It’s a sad thing to think, but there’s no doubt that the mind outlasts beauty. This explains why we take such pains to educate ourselves. For the terrifying struggle of life, we need something that endures, and we fill our minds with ruins and facts, in the naive hope of keeping our position. The well- informed man: that’s the modern ideal… The brain of this well-informed man is an astonishing thing. It’s like a junk shop, where you’d find monsters and…dust, and everything priced above its actual value. I think you’ll be the first to tire of it, all the same… One day, you’ll look at your friend and it will seem to you that he’s not the same anymore; you won’t like his complexion, or something else… You’ll reproach him inwardly and end up thinking he’s treated you badly. The next day, you’ll be perfectly calm and indifferent. It’s a pity, because it will change you… What you told me is quite a novel, an art novel, I shall call it, and the distressing thing about this kind of novel is that it leaves you with a rather unromantic memory… –Harry, don’t talk like that. As long as Dorian Gray exists, I shall be dominated by his personality. You cannot feel the way I do. You change too often. –Ah, my dear Basil, that’s precisely why I feel. Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is betrayal that knows its tragedies. And Lord Henry, striking a match on a pretty silver box, began to smoke with the placidity of a clear conscience and a satisfied air, as if he had defined the world in a single sentence. A chirping flock of sparrows descended into the deep green of the ivy…. Like a flock of swallows, the blue shadows of the clouds passed over the lawn…. What charm emanated from this garden! How delightful, thought Lord Henry, were the emotions of others! Much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. The care of his own soul and the passions of his friends—these appeared to him to be the notable things in life. He imagined, amused by this thought, the tedious luncheon that his visit to Hallward’s had spared him; had he gone to his aunt’s, he would have been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the entire conversation would have revolved around the care of the poor and the necessity of establishing model almshouses. He would have heard each class preach the importance of the different virtues, the practice of which, of course, was not imposed upon them. The rich man would have spoken on the necessity of saving, and the lazy man eloquently prophesied on the dignity of work… What inestimable happiness to have escaped all that! Suddenly, as he thought of his aunt, an idea came to him. He turned to Hallward… “My dear friend, I remember. ” “Remember what, Harry? ” “Where I heard the name Dorian Gray.” “Where was it?” asked Hallward, with a slight frown . “Don’t look at me so furiously, Basil. It was at my aunt Lady Agatha’s. She told me she’d met a wonderful young man who was kind enough to accompany her in the East End, and his name was Dorian Gray. I can assure you she never referred to him as a handsome young man. Women don’t quite know what a handsome young man is; good women, at least. She told me he was very serious and had a good character. I’d pictured him as a fellow with spectacles and flat hair, freckles , and wobbly feet. I wish I’d known he was your friend. ” “I’m glad you didn’t. ” “Why not? ” “I don’t want you to know him.” “You don’t want me to meet him?” “No.” “Mr.
Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir,” said the butler, entering the garden. “You’ll be forced to introduce him to me now,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to the servant, who remained in the sun, his eyes blinking. “Tell Mr. Gray to wait, Parker; I’ll be with him in a moment.” The man bowed and retraced his steps. Hallward looked at Lord Henry. “Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” he said. “He is a simple and beautiful soul. Your aunt was quite right to say of him what you told me. Don’t spoil him for me; don’t try to influence him; your influence would be harmful to him. The world is large and full of interesting people. Don’t take from me the only person who gives my art the charm it can possess; my life as an artist depends on him.” “Be careful, Harry, I beg you…” He spoke in a low voice, and the words seemed to spill from his lips against his will… “What nonsense you say,” said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallward by the arm, he led him almost against his will into the house. Chapter 2. As they entered, they saw Dorian Gray. He was sitting at the piano, his back to them, leafing through the pages of a volume of Schumann’s Forest Scenes. “You’ll lend them to me, Basil,” he cried… “I must learn them. They’re quite charming. ” “That depends on how you pose today, Dorian… ” “Oh!” “I’m tired of posing, and I don’t need a life-size portrait,” retorted the teenager, shifting playfully and purposefully on the piano stool. A slight blush touched his cheeks when he caught sight of Lord Henry, and he stopped short. “I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn’t know you were with someone.” “It’s Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, one of my old friends from Oxford. I was just telling him what an admirable model you are, and you’ve just ruined it.” “But my pleasure at meeting you is not spoiled, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. “My aunt has often spoken of you. You are one of her favorites, and, I fear, perhaps also… one of her victims.” “Alas! I am now in her bad graces,” replied Dorian with a strange pout of remorse. Last Tuesday, I promised to accompany her to a club in Whitechapel, and I’ve completely forgotten my promise. We were supposed to play a duet together… a duet, three duets, rather! I don’t know what she’ll say; I’m terrified at the mere thought of going to see her. “Oh! I’ll make things right with my aunt. She’s entirely devoted to you, and I don’t think there’s really any cause for quarrel. The audience was expecting one duet; when my Aunt Agathe sits down at the piano, she makes enough noise for two… ” “That’s mean to her… and not very nice to me,” said Dorian. Bursting with laughter… Lord Henry watched him… Indeed, he was wonderfully handsome with his finely drawn scarlet lips, his clear blue eyes, his hair with golden curls. Everything about his face inspired confidence; it possessed the candor of youth joined with the ardent purity of adolescence. One sensed that the world had not yet sullied him. How could anyone be surprised that Basil Hallward esteemed him in the same way? –You are really too charming to concern yourself with philanthropy, Mr. Gray, too charming… And Lord Henry, stretching out on the sofa, opened his cigarette case. The painter was feverishly preparing his palette and brushes… He looked bored; when he heard Lord Henry’s last remark, he fixed him with his gaze… He hesitated a moment, then making up his mind: –Harry,’ he said, ‘I need to finish this portrait today.’ Would you mind if I asked you to leave…? Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Must I go, Mr. Gray?” he asked. “Oh, no, please, Lord Henry. I see Basil is in a bad mood, and I can’t stand him when he’s sulking … First, I need to ask why I shouldn’t be involved in philanthropy. ” “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Gray. It’s such a dull subject that it can only be discussed seriously… But I certainly won’t go, since you ask me to stay. You don’t insist that I leave, Basil, do you? Haven’t you often told me that you like having someone to chat with your models? ” Hallward bit his lip… “Since Dorian wishes, you may stay. His whims are laws for everyone except him.” Lord Henry took off his hat and gloves. “You’re too kind, Basil, but I must go. I have an appointment with someone at the Orleans… goodbye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me one of these afternoons in Curzon Street. I’m almost always home around five o’clock. Write to me when you come; I would be sorry not to see you. ” “Basil,” cried Dorian Gray, “if Lord Henry Wotton is leaving, I’m leaving too. You never open your mouth when you paint, and it’s terribly boring standing on a platform and looking pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist he stay.” ” Then stay, Harry, to please Dorian and me,” said Hallward, looking intently at the painting. “It’s true, too, I never speak when I’m working, and I don’t listen either, and I understand that it’s annoying to my unfortunate models.” Please stay. –But what will the person waiting for me at the Orleans think? The painter laughed. –I think it will sort itself out…. Sit down, Harry…. And now, Dorian, step onto the platform; don’t move too much and try not to pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. His influence is bad for everyone but himself…. Dorian Gray climbed onto the platform with the air of a young Greek martyr, making a small pout of displeasure at Lord Henry, whom he had already grown fond of; he was so different from Basil, the two of them a delightful contrast…and Lord Henry had such a beautiful voice …. After a few moments, he said to him: –Is it true that your influence is as bad as Basil says? –I don’t know what people mean by a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral…immoral, from a scientific point of view …. –And why is that? Because I believe that influencing a person means giving them a little of your own soul. They no longer think with their natural thoughts, they no longer burn with their natural passions. Their virtues are no longer their own. Their sins, if there is anything resembling sins, are borrowed. She becomes the echo of foreign music, the actor in a play that was not written for her. The goal of life is the development of the personality. To realize one’s own nature: this is what we all strive to do. Men are afraid of themselves today. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty one owes to oneself. Naturally, they are charitable. They
feed the poor and clothe the ragged; but they let their souls starve and go naked. Courage has left us; perhaps we never had it! The terror of Society, which is the basis of all morality, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion: these are the two things that govern us. And yet… “Turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good little boy,” said the painter, engrossed in his work, having just caught in the adolescent’s face an expression he had never seen before. “And yet,” continued Lord Henry’s musical voice in a low register, with that graceful bend of the hand so characteristic of him, which he had already displayed at Eton College, “I believe that if a man would live his life fully and completely, would give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I believe that the world would experience such a new surge of joy that we would forget all medieval ills and return to the Greek ideal, perhaps even to something more beautiful, richer than that ideal! But the bravest among us is terrified of himself. The denial of our lives is tragically like the mutilation of fanatics. We are punished for our refusals.” Every impulse we try to annihilate germinates within us and poisons us. The body sins first and finds satisfaction in its sin, for action is a form of purification. Nothing remains but the memory of pleasure or the voluptuousness of regret. The only way to rid oneself of temptation is to yield to it. Try to resist it, and your soul craves morbidly for the very things it has forbidden itself; along with, moreover, the desire for what monstrous laws have made illegal and monstrous. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the mind. It is in the mind, and there alone, that the great sins of the world also take place. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself with your rosy-red youth and your rosy-white childhood, you have had passions that frightened you, thoughts that filled you with terror, dream days and dream nights the mere recollection of which would color your cheeks with shame…. ‘Stop,’ said Dorian Gray hesitantly, ‘stop! You embarrass me. I don’t know what to tell you. I have an answer to give you that I cannot find. Don’t speak! Let me think! For goodness’ sake! Let me try to think!’ For almost ten minutes he lay without moving, his lips slightly parted and his eyes strangely bright. He seemed to be dimly aware that entirely new influences were at work within him , but they appeared to come entirely from himself. The few words that Basil’s friend had spoken to him—words spoken no doubt by chance and laden with deliberate paradoxes—had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before but which he now felt throbbing and vibrating within him. Music had already stirred him like this; it had troubled him many times. It’s not a new world, but rather a new chaos that it creates within us… Words! Simple words! How terrible they are! How limpid, brilliant, or cruel! We long to escape them. What subtle magic lies within them?… It seems they give plastic form to formless things, and that they possess a music of their own, as sweet as that of the lute or the violin! Simple words! Is there anything What could be more real than words? Yes, there had been things in his childhood he hadn’t understood ; now he did. Life suddenly appeared vividly colored. He thought he had been walking through flames until then! Why had he never suspected this? Lord Henry was watching him, his mysterious smile playing on his lips. He knew the psychological moment of silence… He felt keenly interested. He was astonished at the sudden impression his words had made; remembering a book he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him what he had always ignored, he marveled at seeing Dorian Gray go through a similar experience. He had simply shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit its mark?… This boy was truly interesting. Hallward painted with that remarkable sureness of hand which was his hallmark; he possessed that elegance, that perfect delicacy which, in art, always springs from true strength. He paid no attention to the long silence hanging over the studio. “Basil, I’m tired of posing!” Dorian Gray suddenly called out. “I need to go out into the garden. The air in here is stifling… ” “My dear friend, I’m sorry. But when I paint, I think of nothing else. You’ve never posed better. You were perfectly still, and I captured the effect I was looking for: the half-open lips and the sparkle in your eyes…” “I don’t know what Harry might have said to you, but you certainly owe that wonderful expression to him. I suppose he complimented you. You mustn’t believe a word he says. ” “He certainly didn’t compliment me. Perhaps that’s why I don’t want to believe anything he told me.” “Bah!… You know perfectly well that you believe everything I’ve told you,” retorted Lord Henry, looking at him with his languid, dreamy eyes. “I ‘ll accompany you to the garden. It’s unbearably hot in this studio… Basil, please have something iced served to us, some kind of strawberry drink. ” “As you wish, Harry… Ring Parker; when he comes, I’ll tell him what you want… I still have the background of the portrait to work on; I’ll join you soon. Don’t keep Dorian with me too long. I’ve never been so inclined to paint. It will surely be my masterpiece;… and it already is.” Lord Henry, entering the garden, found Dorian Gray with his face buried in a fresh bouquet of lilacs, ardently inhaling the fragrance as if it were a precious wine… He approached him and placed his hand on his shoulder…
“Very well,” he said; Nothing can heal the soul better than the senses, just as nothing can heal the senses better than the soul. The youth started and turned around. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had ruffled his unruly curls, tangled their golden strands. In his eyes swam something like fear, the kind of fear one finds in the eyes of those who wake with a start. His finely drawn nostrils quivered, and some hidden turmoil sharpened the carmine of his trembling lips. “Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “it is one of the great secrets of life, to heal the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a remarkable creature. You know more than you think you know, just as you think you know less than you actually do.” Dorian Gray looked sorrowful and turned his head away. Indeed, he could not help but love the handsome and graceful young man before him. His olive-skinned, romantic face, with its weary expression, intrigued him. There was something utterly captivating about his languid, low voice. Even his hands, fresh and white, like flowers, possessed a curious charm. Like his voice , they seemed musical, they seemed to have a language of their own. He was frightened, and he was ashamed of being afraid. It had taken this stranger to reveal it to himself. For months he had known Basil Hallward, and their friendship hadn’t changed him; someone had come into his life who had revealed to him the mystery of life. What was it that frightened him so? He was neither a little girl nor a schoolboy; it was ridiculous, really. “Let’s sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has served us drinks, and if you stay in the sun any longer, you might ruin your complexion, and Basil wouldn’t want to paint you anymore. Don’t risk getting sunburned; this wouldn’t be the time. ” “What does it matter?” cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down at the far end of the garden. “It’s of utmost importance to you, Mr. Gray.” “Well, why is that?” “Because you possess admirable youth, and youth is the only thing worth having. ” “I don’t care.” “You don’t care…now. A day will come, when you are old, wrinkled, and ugly, when thought has branded your brow with its claw, and passion has withered your lips with hideous stigmata, a day will come, I say, when you will bitterly care. Wherever you go now, you charm. Will it always be so? You have an adorably handsome face, Mr. Gray…. Don’t be angry, you do…. And Beauty is one of the forms of Genius, the highest indeed, for it needs no explanation; it is one of the absolute facts of the world, like the sun, spring, or the reflection in the dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon; it cannot be discussed; It is a sovereignty by divine right; it makes princes of those who possess it…you smile?… Ah! You will no longer smile when you have lost it…. It is sometimes said that beauty is merely superficial; that may be so, but at least it is less superficial than Thought. For me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. Only narrow-minded people do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible…. Yes, Mr. Gray, the Gods were good to you. But what the Gods give, they quickly take back. You have only a few years to truly, perfectly, fully live; your beauty will vanish with your youth, and you will suddenly discover that there are no more triumphs for you and that you will henceforth have to live on those small triumphs that the memory of the past will render more bitter than defeats. Each month lived brings you closer to something terrible. Time is jealous of you, and wages war against your lilies and roses. You will grow pale, your cheeks will hollow, and your eyes will wither. You will suffer horribly… Ah! Seize your youth while you have it! Do not squander the gold of your days listening to fools trying to halt the inevitable defeat, and beware of the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar… This is the morbid aim, the false ideal of our age. Live! Live the marvelous life within you! Let nothing of it be lost! Always seek new sensations! Let nothing frighten you… A new Hedonism, that is what the century demands. You can be its tangible symbol. There is nothing with your personality that you cannot accomplish. The world is yours for a time! When I met you, I saw that you were unaware of who you were, of what you could be… There was something so particularly attractive about you that I felt compelled to reveal you to yourself, for fear of seeing you squander your potential… for your youth is so short… so short!… Flowers wither, but they bloom again… This shrub will be as flourishing next June as it is now. In a month, this clematis will bear flowers purple, and year after year, its purple blossoms will brighten the green of its leaves…. But we, we shall never relive our youth. The pulse of joy that beats within us at twenty grows weaker, our limbs grow tired and our senses heavy!… We shall all become hideous clowns, haunted by the memory of what frightened us, by the exquisite temptations we lacked the courage to satisfy…. Youth! Youth! Nothing in the world is but youth!… With wide eyes, Dorian Gray listened, marveling…. The lilac branch fell from his hand to the ground. A bee darted down, circled around it for a moment, buzzing, and there was a general shudder of the starry globes of the pretty flowers. He watched it with that strange interest we take in small things when we are preoccupied with frightening problems, when we are troubled by a new sensation for which we cannot find an expression, or terrified by an obsessive thought to which we feel compelled to yield. Soon the bee took flight. He saw it land on the speckled calyx of a Tyrian bindweed. The flower bowed and swayed gently in the air. Suddenly, the painter appeared at the door of the studio and beckoned to them repeatedly . They turned to each other, smiling. “I’ll be waiting for you. Come in. The light is very good now , and you can bring your drinks.” They got up and strolled lazily along the wall. Two green and white butterflies fluttered before them, and in a pear tree at the corner of the wall, a thrush began to sing. “Are you pleased, Mr. Gray, to have met me?” asked Lord Henry, looking at him. “Yes, I am pleased now; I imagine I always will be!” “Always! That’s a terrible word that makes me shudder when I hear it: women use it so much. They ruin all novels by trying to drag them out. It’s a meaningless word now.” The only difference between a whim and an eternal passion is that the whim…lasts longer… As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray placed his hand on Lord Henry’s arm: “In that case, let our friendship be nothing but a whim,” he murmured, blushing at his own audacity… He stepped onto the platform and resumed his pose… Lord Harry had stretched out in a large wicker chair and was watching him… The only things breaking the silence were the back-and-forth of the brush on the canvas and Hallward’s pacing back to assess the effect … In the slanting rays of light from the half-open door, golden dust danced. The heavy scent of roses seemed to hang over everything. After a quarter of an hour, Hallward stopped working, looking alternately at Dorian Gray and at the portrait for a long time, biting the end of one of his large brushes, his brows furrowed…. “Finished!” he cried, and stooping down, he wrote his name in large vermilion letters in the upper left corner of the canvas. Lord Henry came to look at the painting. It was an admirable work of art with a marvelous likeness. “My dear friend, allow me to congratulate you warmly,” he said. ” It is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come and look at yourself. ” The young man started as if awakened from some dream. “Is it really finished?” he murmured, stepping down from the platform. “Quite finished,” said the painter. “And today you posed like an angel. I am most obliged to you.” “That is entirely due to me,” Lord Henry continued. “Is it not so, Mr. Gray?” Dorian did not reply; He strolled casually towards his portrait and turned towards it… When he caught sight of it, he jumped and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A flash of joy passed through his eyes, For he recognized himself for the first time. He remained motionless for some time, admiring, suspecting that Hallward was speaking to him, without understanding the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty arose within him like a revelation. He had never before perceived it. Basil Hallward’s compliments had seemed to him merely charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to them, laughing, and quickly forgotten them… his character had not been influenced by them. Lord Henry Wotton had come with his strange panegyric of youth, the terrible warning of its brevity. He had been struck by it at the opportune moment, and now, facing the shadow of his own beauty, he felt its full reality spreading within him. Yes, a day would come when his face would be wrinkled and creased, his eyes sunken and colorless, the grace of his countenance broken and distorted. The scarlet of his lips would fade, as the gold of his hair would tarnish. The life that was meant to shape his soul would ruin his body; he would become horrible, hideous, baroque…. As he thought of all this, a sharp pain pierced him like a dagger, and made every delicate fiber of his being shudder…. The amethyst of his eyes darkened; a mist of tears obscured them…. He felt an icy hand rest upon his heart…. “Do you love it?” cried Hallward at last, somewhat astonished by the adolescent’s silence, which he did not understand…. “Of course he does,” said Lord Henry. “Why shouldn’t he ? It is one of the noblest things in contemporary art. I will give you whatever you wish for it. I must have it!”… “It is not mine, Harry. ” “Then whose is it? ” “Dorian’s, by Jove!” replied the painter. “He is very happy indeed…” “What a profoundly sad thing,” murmured Dorian, his eyes still fixed on his portrait. “Oh, yes, profoundly sad!… I shall grow old, horrible, dreadful!… But this painting will always remain young. It will never be older than this very day in June…. Ah, if only that could change; if only I were always to remain young, and if only this painting could grow old!… For that, for that I would give everything!… There is nothing in the world I would not give…. My soul, even!… “You would scarcely find such an arrangement,” cried Lord Henry, bursting into laughter…. “Ha! Ha! I would oppose it anyway,” said the painter. Dorian Gray turned to him. “I believe it, Basil…. You love your art better than your friends. I am no more or less to you than one of your green-bronze figures. Hardly as much, rather….” The painter looked at him in astonishment. He was so unaccustomed to hearing Dorian speak like that. What had happened? It was true that he seemed distressed; his face was all red and his cheeks flushed. “Yes,” he continued. “I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will always love them. How long will you love me? Until my first wrinkle, no doubt… I know now that when one loses one’s charms, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your work has taught me that! Yes, Lord Henry Wotton is quite right. Youth is the only thing worth anything. When I realize I am getting old, I will kill myself! ” Hallward paled and took his hand. “Dorian! Dorian,” he cried, “don’t speak like that! I never had a friend like you and I never will! You cannot be jealous of material things, can you?” Aren’t you more beautiful than any of them? –I’m jealous of anything whose beauty doesn’t die. I’m jealous of my portrait!… Why should it keep what I will lose? Every passing moment takes something from me, and embellishes this. Oh! If only it could change! If only this portrait could age! If only I could remain as I am!… Why did you paint this? What Irony, one day! What terrible irony! Burning tears filled his eyes… He wrung his hands. Suddenly he rushed onto the sofa and buried his face in the cushions, kneeling as if in prayer… “There is your work, Harry,” said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged. “There is the real Dorian Gray, you mean!” “It is not…” “If it isn’t, what’s it to me then?” “You should have left when I asked you to,” he hissed. “I stayed because you asked me to,” Lord Henry retorted. “Harry, I don’t want to quarrel now with my two best friends, but because of both of you, you are making me hate what I have ever done best, and I am going to destroy it. What is a canvas and some paints, after all? I don’t want this to ruin our three lives.” Dorian Gray lifted his gilded head from the pile of cushions and, his pale face wet with tears, watched the painter walking toward a table beneath the heavy curtains of the window. What was he going to do? His fingers, amidst the jumble of tin tubes and dry brushes, were searching for something…. That thin, flexible steel blade, the palette knife…. He had found it! He was going to destroy the canvas…. Choking with sobs, the young man leaped from the sofa, and rushing toward Hallward, snatched the knife from his hand and hurled it to the other end of the studio. “Basil, please!… It would be murder! ” “I am delighted to see you finally appreciate my work,” said the painter coldly, regaining his composure. “I never expected that of you…” “Appreciate it?… I adore it, Basil. I feel it is a little bit of myself. ” “Well then!” As soon as you’re dry, you’ll be varnished, framed, and sent home. Then you can do whatever you like with yourself. He crossed the room and rang for tea. “Would you like some tea, Dorian? And you too, Harry? Or do you have any objection to these simple pleasures? ” “I love simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge of complex beings. But I don’t like…scenes, except on the stage. What strange bodies you two are! I’m astonished that man was ever defined as a rational animal; premature as that definition is. Man is many things, but he is not rational…. I’m delighted that he isn’t after all…. I especially wish that you wouldn’t quarrel over this portrait; here, Basil, you would have done better to leave it to me.” That wicked boy doesn’t need it nearly as much as I do…. “If you gave it to anyone but me, Basil, I’d never forgive you,” cried Dorian Gray; “and I don’t allow anyone to call me a wicked boy… ” “You know that picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it was finished. ” “And you also know that you’ve been a little wicked, Mr. Gray, and that you can’t rebel when reminded that you’re extremely young. ” “I would have rebelled quite frankly this morning, Lord Henry. ” “Ah, this morning!… You’ve lived since then…” There was a knock at the door, and the butler entered carrying a tea service , which he placed on a small Japanese table. There was the clinking of cups and saucers and the song of a fluted Georgian hot-water bottle…. Two globe-shaped Chinese dishes were brought in by a footman. Dorian Gray rose and poured the tea. The two men strolled lazily to the table and examined what was under the lids of the dishes. “Let’s go to the theater tonight,” said Lord Henry. “There must be something new on somewhere. ” “I promised to dine at White’s, but since he’s an old friend, I can send him a telegram to say I’m indisposed, or that I’m prevented from coming because of a later commitment.” I think that would be a rather pretty excuse; it would have all the charm of candor. ‘It’s tiresome to put on a suit,’ added Hallward; ‘and when you’re in it, you look perfectly hideous. ‘ ‘Yes,’ replied Lord Henry dreamily, ‘nineteenth-century dress is dreadful. It’s somber, depressing… Sin is really the only element of any color in modern life. ‘ ‘You shouldn’t say such things in front of Dorian, Henry. ‘ ‘Which Dorian?… The one who pours us tea or the one in the portrait?… ‘ ‘Both of them. ‘ ‘I’d like to go to the theater with you, Lord Henry,’ said the young man. ‘Well, come along, and you too, won’t you, Basil. ‘ ‘I can’t, really… I’d rather stay; I have a lot to do. ‘ ‘Very well then; you and I, Mr. Gray, shall go out together.’ “I desire it very much…” The painter bit his lip and, cup in hand, walked over to the portrait. “I shall stay with the real Dorian Gray,” he said sadly. “Is this the real Dorian Gray?” cried the original in the portrait, coming toward him. “Am I really like this? ” “Yes, you are. ” “That is truly marvelous, Basil.” “At least you appear to be… But that will never change,” added Hallward. “That is something. ” “There is much business about fidelity!” cried Lord Henry. “Even in love, it is purely a matter of temperament; it has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful and are not; old men want to be unfaithful and cannot; that is all that is known about it. ” “Do not go to the theater tonight, Dorian,” said Hallward. “Stay and dine with me. ” “I cannot, Basil.” ” Why not?” “Because I promised Lord Henry Wotton I would go with him. ” “He won’t mind you much if you break your word; he breaks his own often enough. I beg you not to go. ” Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. “I implore you…” The young man hesitated, then glanced at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea table, with an amused smile. “I want to go out, Basil,” he decided. “Very well,” replied Hallward, and went to put his cup back on the tray. “It’s late, and as you have to get dressed, you’d better not waste any time. Goodbye, Harry. Goodbye, Dorian. Come and see me soon, tomorrow if possible. ” “Certainly…” “You won’t forget…” ” Of course not… ” “And…Harry? ” “Neither will I, Basil.” “Remember what I asked you when we were in the garden this morning… ” “I’ve forgotten… ” “I’m counting on you. ” “I wish I could count on myself,” Lord Henry said, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my cabriolet is downstairs and I’ll give you a lift home. Goodbye, Basil! Thank you for your lovely afternoon.” As the door closed behind them, the painter slumped onto a sofa, and a look of pain crossed his face. Chapter 3. The next day, at half past twelve, Lord Henry Wotton was walking from Curzon Street to Albany to visit his uncle, Lord Fermor, a jovial old bachelor, though of rough manners, called selfish by strangers who could get nothing out of him, but considered generous by society, for he fed those who knew how to amuse him. His father had been our ambassador to Madrid when Queen Isabella was young and Prim unknown. But he had left the diplomatic service on a whim, in a moment of frustration stemming from not being offered the ambassadorship to Paris, a post for which he considered himself particularly suited because of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his unusual passion for pleasure. His son, who had been his father’s secretary, had He resigned at the same time as his predecessor, rather rashly it was thought at the time, and a few months after becoming head of his household, he devoted himself seriously to the study of the very aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He owned two large houses in the city, but preferred to live in hotels to avoid any inconvenience, and took most of his meals at the club. He managed his coal mines in the central counties, but excused this touch of industrialism by saying that owning coal had the advantage of allowing a gentleman to burn wood decently in his own fireplace. Politically, he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in power; at those times, he never failed to accuse them of being a bunch of radicals. He was a hero to his servant, who tyrannized him, and the terror of his friends, whom he in turn tyrannized. Only England could have produced such a man, and he always said that the country was going to hell in a handbasket. His principles were old-fashioned, but there was much to be said in favor of his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting there, dressed in a heavy hunting jacket, smoking a cigar and grumbling over a copy of The Times. ‘Well, Harry,’ said the old gentleman, ‘who brings you so early ? I thought you dandies were never up before two , and visible before five. ‘ ‘Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George, I need to ask you something. ‘ ‘Money, I suppose,’ said Lord Fermor, grimacing. ‘Well, sit down and tell me what it is. Young men these days imagine money is everything. ‘ ‘Yes,’ murmured Lord Henry, buttoning his overcoat; ‘and when they get old they know it, but I don’t need money.’ Only those who pay their debts need it, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is a young man’s capital, and one lives charmingly on it. Besides, I always deal with the Dartmoor suppliers, and they never trouble me. I need some information—not useful information, of course, but useless information. —Well! I can tell you everything in an English Blue Book, Harry, although these days all those people write nothing but nonsense. When I was a diplomat, things were much better. But I’ve heard they’re chosen now after examinations. What do you expect? Examinations, sir, are a complete farce . If a man is a gentleman, he knows enough, and if he isn’t, anything he learns will be bad for him! —Mr. “Dorian Gray doesn’t belong in the Blue Book, Uncle George,” said Lord Henry languidly. “Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor, frowning his bushy white eyebrows. “That’s what I’ve just learned, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He’s Lord Kelso’s youngest grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux; I’d like you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Who was she married to? You knew almost everyone in your day, so you might have known her. I’m very interested in Mr. Gray at the moment. I’ve only just made his acquaintance. ” “Kelso’s grandson!” repeated the old gentleman. “Kelso’s grandson …of course…I knew his mother well. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, this Margaret Devereux.” She caused quite a stir among the men by running off with a penniless young boy, a nobody, sir, a minor in an infantry regiment or something like that. I certainly remember it as if it happened yesterday. The poor fellow was Killed in a duel at Spa a few months after their marriage. There was a nasty story about it. They say Kelso bribed some low-life adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his stepson in public. He paid him, sir, yes, he paid him to do that, and the wretch skewered his man like a common pigeon. The affair was hushed up, but, by golly, Kelso was eating his cutlet alone at the club some time later. He took his daughter back with him, I’m told, but she never spoke to him . Oh yes! It was a nasty business. The girl died within a year. So, she left a son? I’d forgotten about that. What sort of boy is he? If he resembles his mother, he must be a fine fellow. “He is very handsome,” Lord Henry affirmed. “I hope he falls into good hands,” the old gentleman continued. He must have a tidy sum waiting for him, if Kelso has treated him well. His mother was also wealthy. All the Selby estates came to her through his grandfather. The latter hated Kelso, considering him a horrible miser. And he was! He came to Madrid once when I was there… My goodness! I was so ashamed. The Queen kept asking me who this English gentleman was who was constantly quarreling with the coachmen over payment. It caused quite a stir. For a month I didn’t dare show my face at court. I hope he treated his grandson better than those fellows. “I don’t know,” replied Lord Henry. “I suppose the young man will be very well. He’s not of age. I know he owns Selby. He told me so . And… his mother was truly beautiful! ” “Margaret Devereux was one of the most lovely creatures I’ve ever seen, Harry.” I never understood how she could have acted the way she did. She could have married anyone; Carlington was mad about her. She was romantic, no doubt. All the women in that family were. The men were nothing much, but the women, marvelous! Carlington groveled at her feet; he told me so himself. She laughed in his face, and yet, there wasn’t a girl in London who didn’t run after him. And by the way, Harry, while we’re on the subject of ridiculous marriages, what’s this nonsense your father told me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Aren’t there any English girls good enough for him anymore? —It’s quite fashionable these days to marry Americans, Uncle George. —I’ll take Englishwomen against the world! Harry, said Lord Fermor, banging his fist on the table. —The bets are on the Americans. “They have no stamina, I’m told,” grumbled the uncle. “A long run exhausts them, but they’re superior in steeplechasing. They seize opportunities; I think Dartmoor doesn’t stand much of a chance. ” “What’s her background?” replied the old gentleman. “Does she have much money?” Lord Henry shook his head. “American women are as adept at hiding their parents as English women are at concealing their past,” he said, rising to leave. “They’re pig dealers, I suppose?” “I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I’ve heard that selling pigs is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics. ” “Is she pretty? ” “She acts as if she were. Many American women do . It’s the secret of their charms. ” “Why don’t these American women stay in their own country? They’re always telling us it’s a paradise for women.” “And that’s true, but that’s why, like Eve, they ‘re so eager to get out,” said Lord Henry. “Goodbye, Uncle George, I’d be late for lunch if I were any longer; thank you for the good information. I always enjoy knowing all this.” which concerns my new friends, but I ask nothing about the old ones. –Where are you having lunch, Harry? –At Aunt Agatha’s. I invited myself along with Mr. Gray; he’s her latest protégé. –Bah! Tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, to stop boring me with her charity work. I’m fed up with it. Does the old woman think I have nothing better to do than sign checks for her nasty fellows? –Very well, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t make any difference. Philanthropists have lost all sense of humanity. It’s their distinguishing characteristic. The old gentleman murmured a vague assent and rang for his servant. Lord Henry took the low archway of Burlington Street and headed in the direction of Berkeley Square. Such, indeed, was the story of Dorian Gray’s parents. Told so bluntly, it had quite shaken Lord Henry like a strange, though modern, novel. A very beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few weeks of solitary happiness, suddenly shattered by a hideous and treacherous crime. Months of silent agony, and finally a child born amidst tears. The mother taken by death and the child abandoned all alone to the tyranny of a heartless old man. Yes, it was a most curious backdrop . It framed the young man, making him more interesting, better than he truly was. Behind everything exquisite, one thus finds something tragic. The earth is at work to give birth to the humblest flower…. How charming he had been at dinner the night before, when, with his beautiful eyes and lips trembling with pleasure and fear, he had sat opposite him in the club, the purple candles casting a rosy glow on his beautiful, enraptured face. Speaking to him was like playing an exquisite violin. He responded to everything, vibrated with every stroke… There was something terribly seductive in the action of this influence; no exercise could compare to it. To project one’s soul into a graceful form, to let it rest there for a moment, and then to hear one’s ideas repeated as if by an echo, with all the added music of passion and youth , to transport one’s temperament into another, like a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: this was a true delight, perhaps the most perfect of our delights in a time as limited and vulgar as ours, in a time crudely carnal in its pleasures, common and base in its aspirations… For he was a marvelous specimen of humanity, this adolescent whom, by such strange chance, he had met in Basil’s workshop; he could be considered an absolute type of beauty. He embodied grace, and the white purity of adolescence, and all the splendor preserved for us by Greek marbles. There was nothing one couldn’t have drawn from him. He could have been a Titan as easily as a toy. What a misfortune that such beauty was destined to fade!… And Basil, how interesting he was, from a psychologist’s point of view! A new art, an unprecedented way of looking at existence suggested by the mere presence of a being unaware of it all; he was the silent spirit that lives deep in the woods and runs across the plains, suddenly appearing, an unafraid Dryad , because in the soul that sought him had been evoked the marvelous vision by which alone marvelous things are revealed ; the simple appearances of things magnified to the point of symbolism, as if they were but the shadow of other, more perfect forms that they would render palpable and visible…. How strange it all was! He remembered something similar in history. Wasn’t it Plato, that artist of thoughts, who had first analyzed it? Wasn’t it Buonarroti who had sculpted it in the polychrome marble of a series of sonnets? But in our century, that was Extraordinary… Yes, he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, unknowingly , the adolescent was to the painter who had created his splendid portrait. He would try to dominate him; he had even done so already. He would make this marvelous being his own. There was something fascinating about this son of Love and Death. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the facades. He realized he had passed his aunt’s house, and smiling to himself, he retraced his steps. As he entered the darkened vestibule, the butler told him that dinner was served. He gave his hat and walking stick to the footman and entered the dining room. “Late, as usual, Harry!” his aunt called after him, shaking her head. He invented some excuse, sat down in the empty chair beside her, and looked at the other guests. Dorian, at the head of the table, bowed timidly towards him, a flush of pleasure on his cheeks. Opposite him sat the Duchess of Harley, a woman of admirable naturalness and excellent character, beloved by all who knew her, possessing those ample, architectural proportions that our contemporary historians call obesity, when it is not a duchess in question. To her right was Sir Thomas Burdon, a radical Member of Parliament, who was finding his way in public life, and in private concerned himself with the finest cuisine, dining with the Tories and conversing with the Liberals, according to a very wise and well-known rule. The seat to the left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, a charming and highly cultured old gentleman who had, however, acquired an unfortunate habit of silence, having, as he once told Lady Agatha, said all he had to say before the age of thirty. Lord Henry’s neighbor was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s old friends, a saint among women, but so terribly dressed she resembled a poorly bound prayer book. Fortunately for him, across the hall was Lord Faudel, an intelligent, middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial address to the House of Commons, with whom she conversed in that intensely serious manner which, he had often observed, was the unforgivable error into which excellent people fall and from which none of them can escape. “We were speaking of that young Dartmoor, Lord Henry,” cried the Duchess, gesturing gaily across the table. “Do you think he ‘ll actually marry that attractive young lady? ” “I think she fully intends to propose to him, Duchess. ” “How awful!” exclaimed Lady Agatha, “but someone will intervene.” “I know from a reliable source that his father keeps a novelty shop in America,” said Sir Thomas Burdon disdainfully. “My uncle thought they were pig merchants, Sir Thomas. ” “Novelty! What are American novelties?” asked the Duchess, with a gesture of astonishment with her large raised hand. “American novels!” replied Lord Henry, taking a bite of quail. The Duchess looked embarrassed. “Don’t mind him, my dear,” murmured Lady Agathe, “he never knows what he’s saying. ” “When America was discovered…” said the radical, and he began a tedious dissertation. Like all who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The Duchess sighed and took advantage of her right to interrupt. “Would to God it had never been discovered!” she exclaimed; “Our daughters really have no luck today, it’s quite unfair! ” “Perhaps America was never discovered after all,” said Mr. Erskine. “For my part, I would readily say it is scarcely known. ” “Oh! We have, however, seen specimens of its inhabitants,” replied the Duchess vaguely. “I must confess that most are very Pretty. And their clothes too. They all dress in Paris. I wish I could do the same. “They say that when good Americans die, they go to Paris,” whispered Sir Thomas, who had a large store of archaic words. “Really! And where do bad Americans go when they die?” asked the Duchess. “They go to America,” said Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. “I’m afraid your nephew may be prejudiced against that great country,” he said to Lady Agathe. “I have traveled through it on trains provided by the government, which, in such cases, is extremely civil. I assure you, it is an educational visit. ” “But must we visit Chicago for our education?” asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. “I have little hope for the trip. ” Sir Thomas threw up his hands. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley cares little for the world.” We practical men like to see things for ourselves, instead of reading what is reported about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are quite reasonable. I believe that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people; I assure you there is no foolishness among Americans. “How awful!” cried Lord Henry. “I can accept brute force, but brute reason is unbearable. There is something unjust about its rule. It confounds the intelligence. ” “I don’t understand you,” said Sir Thomas, his face flushed. “I do understand,” murmured Mr. Erskine with a smile. “Paradoxes look good…” remarked the Baronet. “Was it a paradox?” asked Mr. Erskine. “I don’t think so. It’s possible, but the path of paradox is the path of truth.” To experience reality, one must see it on the tightrope. When truths become acrobats, we can judge them. ‘My goodness!’ said Lady Agatha, ‘how you men talk!… I’m sure I’ll never understand you. Oh, Harry, I ‘m quite angry with you. Why are you trying to persuade our charming Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be well received there. His talent would be much admired. ‘ ‘I want him to play for me alone,’ cried Lord Henry, smiling, and looking down at the foot of the table, he caught a bright glance in reply. ‘But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,’ continued Lady Agatha. ‘I can sympathize with anything except suffering,’ said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing.’ There is something terribly morbid about modern pity. One can be moved by colors, by beauty, by the joy of living. The less one talks about social ills, the better. “However, the East End raises an important problem,” said Sir Thomas gravely, with a nod of his head. “Quite right,” replied the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and we are trying to solve it by amusing the slaves.” The politician looked at him anxiously. “What changes do you propose, then?” he asked. Lord Henry laughed. “I wish to change nothing in England except the temperature,” he replied. “I am perfectly content with philosophical contemplation . But as the nineteenth century is heading for bankruptcy with its excessive expenditure of sympathy, I would propose that we appeal to science to set us back on the right path. The merit of emotions is that they lead us astray, and the merit of science is that they are not emotional.” “But we have such responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur timidly. “Terribly serious!” repeated Lady Agathe. Lord Henry looked at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself far too seriously; it is the original sin of the world. If cavemen had known how to laugh, history would be different.” “Quite different. ” “You are truly comforting,” murmured the Duchess. “I always felt a little guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I find nothing of interest in the East End. Now I shall be able to look her in the face without blushing. ” “Blushing is very well worn, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry. “Only when one is young,” she replied, “but when an old woman like me blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah, Lord Henry, I wish you would teach me how to become young again! ” He thought for a moment. “Can you recall a great sin you committed in your early years?” he asked, looking at her across the table. “Many, I’m afraid!” she cried. “Well then, commit them again,” he said gravely. “To become young again, one has little more than to repeat one’s follies. ” “That is a delightful theory. I shall have to put it into practice.” “A dangerous theory,” Sir Thomas said, his lips pursed. Lady Agathe shook her head, but could not manage to look amused. Mr. Erskine was listening. “Yes!” Lord Henry continued, “it is one of life’s great secrets. Nowadays, many people die of down-to-earth common sense and realize too late that the only things they regret are their own mistakes.” Laughter ran around the table… He played with the idea, tossed it about, transformed it, let it slip only to catch it again; he iridescent it with his imagination, winged it with paradoxes. The praise of folly rose to philosophy, a rejuvenated philosophy, borrowing the wild music of pleasure, clothed in fantasy, its robe stained with wine and garlanded with ivy, dancing like a bacchante over the hills of life and mocking ponderous Silenus for his sobriety. Facts fled from her like frightened nymphs. Her white feet trod the enormous winepress where the wise Omar sat; a boiling, purple torrent flooded her bare limbs, spreading like foaming lava over the black sides of the vat. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt Dorian Gray’s eyes fixed upon him, and the awareness that among his audience was someone he wished to fascinate seemed to sharpen his mind and lend even more color to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, inspired. He captivated his listeners ; they listened to the end of that joyous flute melody. Dorian Gray had not taken his eyes off him, as if under a spell; smiles followed one another on his lips, and astonishment grew more serious in his dark eyes. Finally, reality in modern livery entered the dining room in the form of a servant who came to inform the Duchess that her carriage was waiting for her. She wrung her arms in comic despair. “How tiresome!” she cried. ” I must go; I have to meet my husband at the club for some absurd meeting he is to preside over in the Willis’s Rooms. If I am late, he will surely be furious, and I cannot have a scene with this hat. It is much too fragile. The slightest word would tear it to pieces. No, I must go , dear Agatha. Goodbye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and terribly demoralizing. I know not what to say of your ideas. You must come and dine with us. Tuesday, for example— are you free on Tuesday?” “For you, I would abandon everyone, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a curtsy. “Ah! That is charming, but very wrong of you. So, do consider coming!” And she left majestically, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies. When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine walked around the table and, taking a chair beside him, placed his hand on his arm. “You speak like a book,” he said, “why don’t you write one? ” “I enjoy reading other people’s books too much to even think of writing one myself,” Mr. Erskine. I would like to write a novel, indeed, but one as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. Unfortunately, there is no literary public in England except for newspapers, Bibles, and encyclopedias; less than any other people in the world, the English have a sense of literary beauty. —I’m afraid you’re right, replied Mr. Erskine; I myself had a literary ambition, but I gave it up long ago . And now, my dear young friend, if you’ll allow me to call you that, may I ask if you really meant everything you said to us at lunch? —I’ve completely forgotten what I said, replied Lord Henry, smiling. Was it entirely wrong? —Very wrong, certainly; I consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything were to happen to our good Duchess, we would all regard you as primarily responsible. Yes, I would like to talk with you about life. The generation to which I belong is tedious. Whenever you grow weary of London life, come to Treadley, and you can expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy, which I am fortunate enough to possess. —I shall be delighted; a visit to Treadley is a great favor. The host is perfect, and the library equally so. —You will complete the ensemble, replied the old gentleman with a courteous bow. And now I must take my leave of your excellent aunt. I am expected at the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there. —All of you, Mr. Erskine? —Forty of us in forty armchairs. We are working at an English literary academy. Lord Henry smiled and rose. —I am going to the Park, he said. As he was leaving, Dorian Gray touched his arm. —Let me go with you, he murmured. “But I thought you promised Basil Hallward you would go and see him. ” “I would like to go with you first; yes, I feel I must go with you. Will you?… And promise me you will talk to me the whole time. No one speaks so wonderfully as you do.” “Ah! I have talked quite enough today,” said Lord Henry, smiling. “ All I want to do now is watch. You may come with me; we shall watch together, if you wish.” Chapter 4. One afternoon a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious armchair in the small library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It was, in its own way, a charming little room, with its high, olive-oak wainscoting, its frieze and cream-colored ceiling with molding, and its brick-colored Persian carpet with long silk fringes . On a charming satinwood table, a statuette of Clodion stood beside a copy of the Cent Nouvelles, bound for Marguerite de Valois by Clovis Eve and adorned with the golden daisies that queen had chosen as her emblem. Variegated tulips were arranged on the mantelpiece in large blue Chinese vases . The bright apricot light of a London summer’s day streamed in through the small leaded panes of the windows. Lord Henry had not yet returned. He was always late on principle, his opinion being that punctuality was theft from time . So the young man seemed sullen, casually leafing through an illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut he had found on one of the library shelves. The monotonous ticking of the Louis XIV clock irritated him. Once or twice he had wanted to leave… Finally, he heard footsteps outside and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry,” he murmured. “I’m afraid it isn’t Harry, Mr. Gray,” replied a clear voice. He looked up sharply and stood up… “I beg your pardon. I thought…” “You thought that was my husband. That’s only his wife. I must introduce myself. I know you very well from your photographs. I think my husband has at least seventeen of them. ” “No, not seventeen, Lady Henry? ” “Good, eighteen then. And I saw you with him at the Opera last night. She was laughing nervously as she spoke to him and looking at him with her forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman whose dresses always seemed conceived in a fit of rage and put on in a tempest. She was always intrigued with someone, and, as her love was never reciprocated, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to be picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had an inveterate habit of going to church. ” “That was for Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I believe?” “Yes, it was for dear Lohengrin. I love Wagner better than anyone.” It’s so noisy that one can talk all the time without being overheard. That’s a great advantage. Don’t you think, Mr. Gray?… The same nervous, jerky laugh fell from her thin lips, and she began to play with a long tortoiseshell paper knife. Dorian smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t share that opinion, Lady Henry. I never speak during music, at least not during good music. If bad music is heard , it’s a duty to drown it out with the noise of conversation. ” “Ah! That’s Harry’s idea, isn’t it, Mr. Gray. I always learn his opinions from his friends; it’s the only way I know them. But don’t think I don’t like good music. I adore it; but it frightens me. It makes me far too romantic. I simply have a cult of pianists. I used to adore two at once, as Harry told me.” I don’t know what they were. Perhaps foreigners. They all are, and even those born in England soon become so, don’t they? It’s very clever of them , and a tribute to the art of making it cosmopolitan. But you ‘ve never come to my meetings, Mr. Gray. You must come. I can’t offer orchids, but I spare no expense to have foreigners. They make such a picturesque chamber for you…. Here’s Harry! Harry, I came to ask you something, I can’t remember what, and I found Mr. Gray here. We had an amusing conversation about music. We have quite the same ideas. No! I think our ideas are quite different, but he was very amiable. I’m very glad to have seen him. —I’m delighted, my dear, quite delighted, said Lord Henry, raising his dark, arched eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. I’m so sorry I’m so late, Dorian; I went to Wardour Street to look for a piece of old brocade and had to haggle for hours; these days everyone knows the price of everything , and no one knows the value of anything. ‘I’m going to have to go,’ exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking the silence with an untimely burst of laughter. ‘I promised the Duchess I’d drive her. Goodbye, Mr. Gray, goodbye, Harry. You ‘re dining out, I presume? So am I. Perhaps I’ll meet you at Lady Thornbury’s. ‘ ‘I should think so, my dear,’ said Lord Henry, closing the door behind her. Like a bird of paradise that had spent the night outside in the rain, she flew off, leaving a subtle scent of frangipane. Then he lit a cigarette and threw himself onto the sofa. ‘Never marry a straw-haired woman, Dorian,’ he said after a few puffs. “Why, Harry? ” “Because they’re too sentimental. ” “But I like sentimental people.” “Never get married, Dorian. Men marry out of weariness, women out of curiosity: both are disappointed.” “I don’t think I’m getting married, Harry. I’m too much in love. That’s one of your aphorisms; I’m putting it into practice, like everything you say. ” “Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry after a pause. “An actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged. “That’s a rather common opening. ” “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen her, Harry. ” “Who is she? ” “Her name is Sibyl Vane. ” “I’ve never heard of her. ” “Neither has anyone. But she’ll be talked about someday. She’s brilliant.” “My dear child, no woman is brilliant. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly . Women represent the triumph of matter over intelligence, just as men represent the triumph of intelligence over manners. ” “Harry, can you say?” “My dear Dorian, that is absolutely true.” I’m analyzing women at the moment, so I must know them. The subject is less abstract than I thought. I find, in short, that there are only two kinds of women: the natural ones, and the made-up ones. The natural ones are very useful; if you want to acquire a reputation for respectability, you hardly have to do more than take them to supper. The other women are quite agreeable. They make one mistake, however. They make up makeup to try to look younger. Our grandmothers made up makeup to appear more radiant. Red and wit went together. All that is over. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly content. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of them cannot be received in any respectable society . By the way, tell me about your genius. Dopais, when did you first encounter it? —Ah! Harry, your ideas terrify me. “Don’t mind me. How long have you known her?” “Three weeks. ” “And how did you meet her? ” “I’ll tell you, Harry; but don’t laugh at me… After all, it would never have happened if I hadn’t met you. You filled me with a burning desire to know everything about life. For days after we met, something new seemed to pulse through my veins. When I strolled through Hyde Park or down Piccadilly, I watched everyone passing by, imagining with mad curiosity what sort of life they might be leading. Some fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was something exquisitely poisonous in the air. I had a passion for these sensations… Well , one evening, around seven o’clock, I resolved to go out in search of some adventure.” I felt that our gray and monstrous London, with its millions of inhabitants, its sordid sinners and its splendid sins, as you put it, must have something in store for me. I imagined a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a kind of joy. I remembered everything you had told me during that wonderful evening when we dined together for the first time, about the search for Beauty, which is the true secret of existence. I don’t quite know what I was waiting for, but I headed east and soon lost myself in a labyrinth of dark, wild alleyways and squares with bare lawns. Around 8:30, I passed an absurd little theater, all ablaze with its gaslights and multicolored posters. A hideous Jew, wearing the most astonishing waistcoat I have ever seen, stood at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy curls and an enormous diamond glittered on the stained front of his shirt. ” Would you like a box, my lord?” he said as soon as he saw me, removing his hat with considerable servility. There was something about him, Harry, that It amused me. He was a real monster. You’ll laugh at me, I know, but in truth I went in and paid a guinea for that box. Now I couldn’t say how it happened, and yet if it hadn’t been, my dear Harry, if it hadn’t been, I would have missed the most magnificent novel of my entire life…. I see you’re laughing. That’s wrong of you. –I’m not laughing, Dorian; at least I’m not laughing at you, but you mustn’t say: the most magnificent novel of your entire life. You must say the first novel of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love. Great passion is the lot of those who have nothing to do. It’s the only use of the idle classes in a country. Have no fear. Exquisite joys await you. This is only the beginning. –Do you think me of such a frivolous nature? cried Dorian Gray glumly. “No, I believe it’s profound. ” “What do you mean? ” “My dear child, those who love only once in their lives are the truly frivolous ones. What they call loyalty and fidelity, I call either the sleep of habit or their lack of imagination. Fidelity is to the emotional life what stability is to the intellectual life, simply an admission of impotence. Fidelity! I will analyze it one day. The passion for possession is in it. There are many things we would abandon if we weren’t afraid that others might pick them up. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Continue your story. ” “Good. So there I was, sitting in a dreadful little box, facing a very vulgar intermission curtain. I began to contemplate the hall. It was a gaudy decoration of cornucopias and cupids; it looked like a wedding cake for a third- class wedding.” The galleries and the pit were absolutely packed with spectators, but the two rows of dirty seats were completely empty, and there was just one person in what I supposed they must call the balcony. Women were circulating with oranges and ginger beer; there was a terrible consumption of nuts. –It must have been like the glory days of English drama. –Quite, I imagine, and very discouraging. I was beginning to wonder what I could possibly do, when I glanced at the program. What do you think they’re playing, Harry? –I suppose The Idiot, or The Innocent Mute. Our fathers were rather fond of those sorts of plays. The more I see, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that what was good for our fathers is not good for us. In art, as in politics, grandfathers are always wrong. In French in the original. –That show was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet; I must confess I was a little annoyed at the idea of ​​seeing Shakespeare performed in such a dive. However, I was somewhat intrigued. On a whim, I decided to wait for the first act. There was a damned orchestra, conducted by a young Hebrew sitting at a rickety piano, which made me want to leave, but the curtain rose, and the play began. Romeo was a rather elderly, stout gentleman with cork-blackened eyebrows, a gravelly, tragic voice, and a face like a beer barrel. Mercutio was about as ugly. He acted like those low-rent actors who add their own obscenities to their roles and seemed to be on the best of terms with the audience. They were both as grotesque as the sets; you could have thought you were in a baroque fairground. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl of barely seventeen, with a face like a flower, a small Greek head with dark brown braids, passionate eyes with violet depths, and lips like rose petals. She was the most adorable creature I’ve ever seen . You once told me that the pathetic left you Unmoved. But that beauty, that simple beauty, would have filled your eyes with tears. I assure you, Harry, I could scarcely see that young girl except through the mist of tears that rose to my eyelids. And her voice! I have never heard such a voice. She spoke very softly at first, with deep, melodious notes: as if her words were meant to fall into only one ear, then it rose a little higher , and the sound was like that of a distant flute or oboe . In the garden scene, it had the trembling ecstasy one feels before dawn when nightingales sing. There were moments, a little later, when that voice borrowed the wild passion of violins. You know how much a voice can move you. Your voice and Sibyl Vane’s are two pieces of music I will never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each one says something different. I don’t know which to follow. Why shouldn’t I love her, Harry? I do. She’s everything to me in life. Every night I go to see her perform. One day she’s Rosalind, and the next, Imogene. I saw her die in the dark horror of an Italian tomb, sucking poison from her lover’s lips. I followed her, wandering through the Ardennes forest, disguised as a handsome young man, wearing a doublet and breeches , a dainty little hood. She was mad, standing before a guilty king, giving him street food and bitter herbs. She was innocent, and the black hands of jealousy gripped her throat, frail as a reed. I ‘ve seen her in every season and in every costume. Ordinary women don’t capture our imaginations. They are confined to their time. No magic can ever transfigure them. We know their hearts as we know their hats. We can always see right through them. There’s no mystery in any of them. They drive in the park in the morning and chatter at afternoon teas. They have their stock smiles and fashionable manners. They’re perfectly clear. But an actress! How different an actress is! Harry! Why didn’t you tell me that the only being worthy of love is an actress? —Because I’ve loved so many, Dorian. —Oh yes, dreadful creatures with dyed hair and painted faces. —Don’t despise dyed hair and painted faces; they sometimes have an extraordinary charm, said Lord Henry. —Now I wish I hadn’t mentioned Sibyl Vane to you. —You couldn’t have done otherwise, Dorian. For the rest of your life, you’ll tell me what you do. —Yes, Harry, I think that’s true. I can’t help telling you everything. You have a singular influence on me. If I ever committed a crime, I would run to confess it to you. You would understand. —People like you, fateful rays of sunshine in life, do not commit crimes, Dorian. But I am nonetheless very obliged with the compliment. And now, tell me—pass me the matches like a good boy…thank you—what is the status of your relationship with Sibyl Vane? Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes blazing: —Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred. —Only sacred things are worth seeking, Dorian, said Lord Harry in a strangely penetrating voice. But why worry? I suppose she will be yours someday. When one is in love, one deludes oneself first and always ends up deluding others. It is what the world calls a novel. You know her, at least, I imagine? —Certainly, I know her. On my very first evening at that theater, the nasty Jew came circling my box at the end of the performance and offered to lead me behind the curtain to present myself to her. I flew into a rage at him and told him that Juliet had been dead for some time. centuries and that his body lay in a marble tomb in Verona. I understood from his look of dull stupor that he had the impression I had drunk too much Champagne or something else. “I’m not surprised. ” Then he asked me if I wrote for any paper. I replied that I never read any. He seemed terribly disappointed, then confided that all the drama critics were in league against him and that they were all for sale. “I can’t say anything about the first point, but as for the second, judging by appearances, they can’t be very expensive. ” “Yes, but he seemed to think they were beyond his means,” said Dorian, laughing. At that moment, the theater lights were turned off and I had to leave. He wanted me to try some cigars he highly recommended; I declined. The next evening, naturally, I returned. As soon as he saw me, he bowed deeply and assured me that I was a magnificent patron of the arts. He was a formidable brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He once told me, with pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to the Bard, as he insistently called him. He seemed to consider it a badge of honor. —It was, my dear Dorian, a true one. Many people go bankrupt for having dared too much in this age of prose. To ruin oneself for poetry is an honor. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane? —The third evening. She had played Rosalind. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I threw flowers at her, and she looked at me, or so I imagined. The old Jew insisted. He seemed determined to lead me onto the stage, so I consented. It’s curious, isn’t it, this desire not to make her acquaintance? “No, I don’t think so.” “My dear Harry, why is that? ” “I’ll tell you another time. For now, I’d like to know what became of the little one? ” “Sibyl? Oh! She was so shy, so charming. She’s like a child; her eyes would open wide in wonder when I spoke to her of her talent; she seems quite unaware of her power. I think we were a bit flustered. The old Jew was grimacing in the dusty hall of the home, holding forth about us , while we stood there looking at each other like children. He insisted on calling me ‘my lord,’ and I had to assure Sibyl that I was nothing of the sort. She simply said, ‘You look more like a prince; I want to call you Prince Charming. ‘ ‘My word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to turn a compliment! ‘ ‘You don’t understand her, Harry. She thought of me as a theatrical hero .’ She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a withered old woman who, on opening night, played Lady Capulot in a sort of magenta dressing gown, and looked as though she’d seen better days. ‘I know that tune. It discourages me,’ murmured Lord Harry, examining his rings. ‘The Jew wanted to tell me his story, but I told him I wasn’t interested. ‘ ‘You were right. There’s something infinitely petty about other people’s tragedies. ‘ ‘Sibyl is the only person I care about. What do I care where she comes from? From her little head to her dainty foot, she’s divine, absolutely. Every night of my life, I go to see her perform, and every night she’s more wonderful. ‘ ‘That’s probably why you never dine with me anymore. I thought you had some novel in the works; I wasn’t wrong , but it’s not quite what I expected.’ “My dear Harry, we have lunch or supper together every day , and I’ve been to the Opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes wide with astonishment. “You always arrive so horribly late. ” “But I can’t resist going to see Sibyl perform,” he cried. even for a single act. I hunger for her presence; and when I think of the marvelous soul hidden in that little ivory body, I am filled with anguish! –You can dine with me tonight, Dorian, can’t you? He shook his head. –Tonight she is Imogene,’ he replied, ‘and tomorrow she will be Juliet. –When is she Sibyl Vane? –Never. –I congratulate you. –How wicked you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one person. She is more than an individual. You laugh; I told you she has genius. I love her; I must make her love me. You who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to make Sibyl Vane love me! I want to make Romeo jealous! I want all the lovers of old to hear us laugh and be saddened! I want a breath of our passion to rekindle their ashes, awaken them in their sorrow! My God! Harry, how I adore him! He paced back and forth in the room; feverish red spots flushed his cheeks. He was terribly overexcited. Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the timid, frightened young boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s workshop. His naturalness had blossomed like a flower, opening in scarlet umbels. His soul had emerged from its hidden retreat, and desire had found it. “And what do you propose to do,” said Lord Henry, “at last.” “I would like you and Basil to come with me to see her perform one of these evenings . I have not the slightest doubt about the result. You will certainly recognize her talent. Then we will take her away from the Jew. She is engaged to him for three years, at least for two years and eight months now. I will have something to pay, no doubt. When that is done, I will take a West End theatre and produce her properly.” She’ll drive the world as mad as I have. –That would be impossible, my dear child. –Yes, she will. She has not only talent, but a consummate instinct for art; she also has a true personality, and you have often told me that it is personalities, not talents, that stir their era.
–Well, when shall we go? –Now, it’s Tuesday today. Tomorrow! She’s playing Juliet tomorrow.
–Very well, at the Bristol at eight o’clock. I’ll bring Basil. –No, not eight, Harry, please. Six-thirty. We must be there before the curtain rises. We must see her in the first act, when she meets Romeo. –Six-thirty! That’s an hour! It will be like tea or reading an English novel. Let’s say seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Will you see Basil, or must I write to him? –Dear Basil! I haven’t seen him for a week. It’s really wrong of me, because he sent me my portrait in a wonderful frame, specially designed by him, and although I’m a little jealous of the painting, which is a month younger than I am, I must admit I’m enjoying it immensely. Perhaps it would be better if you wrote to him; I wouldn’t want to see him alone. He tells me things that bore me, but he gives me good advice. Lord Henry smiled: “People are very fond of getting rid of what they need most. It’s what I call the abyss of generosity. ” “Oh! Basil is the best of my companions, but he seems a bit of a philistine to me. Since I’ve known you, Harry, I’ve noticed that.” “Basil, my dear boy, puts all the charming things in him into his works. The consequence is that he keeps for his life only his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense.” The only artists I’ve known who were personally delightful were bad artists. True artists exist only in what they do and do not They therefore have no interest in themselves. A great poet, a truly great poet, is the most prosaic of beings. But inferior poets are the most charming of men. The worse their rhymes, the more picturesque they are. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man perfectly irresistible. He sees the poem he cannot write; others write the poem they dare not perform. ‘I believe that is so, Harry?’ said Dorian Gray, scenting his handkerchief with a large bottle with a gold stopper that was on the table. ‘It must be so, since you say so. And now I am going. Imogene is waiting for me; don’t forget for tomorrow… Goodbye.’ As soon as he had left, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids closed, and he began to think. Admittedly, few beings had ever interested him to the same degree as Dorian Gray, and even the adolescent’s passion for anyone else caused him only a slight pang of boredom or jealousy. He was pleased with this. In doing so, he made himself a more interesting subject of study. He had always been dominated by a taste for science, but the ordinary subjects of the natural sciences had seemed vulgar and uninteresting to him. So he had begun to analyze himself and ended up analyzing others. Human life—that seemed to him the only thing worthy of investigation. Nothing else, by comparison, had the slightest value. It was true that anyone who looked at life and its strange crucible of pains and joys could not bear the chemist’s glass mask on their face, nor prevent the sulfurous fumes from clouding their brain and fogging their imagination with monstrous fantasies and deformed dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties, one had to experience them oneself. There were illnesses so strange that one had to endure them to come to understand their nature. And then, what a reward! How wonderful the whole world became! To note the harsh and strange logic of the passions, the life of emotions and colors of the intellect, to observe where they meet and where they separate, how they vibrate in unison and how they clash— there was true delight in that! What did the price matter? One could never pay too high a price for such sensations. He was aware—and this thought made his brown agate eyes gleam with pleasure—that it was because of certain words of his, musical words, spoken in a musical tone, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned toward this white maiden and fallen in adoration of her. The adolescent was, in a way, his own creation. He had caused her to open herself prematurely to life. That was something, indeed . Ordinary people wait for life to reveal its secrets to them, but for the select few, the elite, its mysteries were unveiled before the veil was even torn away. Sometimes this was an effect of art, and particularly of literature, which speaks directly to the passions and the intellect. But from time to time, a complex personality would grasp the grasp of art, truly becoming, in its own way, a genuine work of art, life having its masterpieces, just like poetry, sculpture, or painting. Yes, the adolescent was precocious. He was reaping the harvest in spring. The surge of passion and youth was within him, but he was gradually becoming self-aware. It was a joy to watch him. With his handsome face and beautiful soul, he must have inspired dreams. Why worry about how it would end, or if it would even have an end!… He was like one of those graceful figures in a spectacle, whose joys are foreign to us, but whose sorrows awaken us to the feeling of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses . The soul and the body, the body and the soul—what mysteries! There is animality in the soul, and the body has its moments of spirituality. The senses can become more refined, and the intellect can deteriorate. Who could say where the impulses of the flesh end and where psychic suggestions begin ?
How limited are the arbitrary definitions of psychologists! And how difficult it is to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow secluded in the house of sin? Or was the body truly one with the soul, as Giordano Bruno believed? The separation of mind and matter was a mystery, and so too was the union of matter and mind. He wondered how we could attempt to make psychology such an absolute science that it could reveal to us the smallest workings of life… In truth, we constantly deceive ourselves and rarely understand others. Experience has no ethical value. It is merely the name men give to their errors. Moralists have usually regarded it as a kind of warning, have claimed for it an ethical efficacy in the formation of character, have praised it as something that teaches us what to follow and shows us what to avoid. But there is no active power in experience. It is as insignificant as a motive as conscience itself. All that is truly demonstrated is that our future may be what our past was, and that the sin into which we have once fallen with disgust, we will commit again many times, and with pleasure. It remained evident to him that the experimental method was the only one by which any scientific analysis of the passions could be achieved ; and Dorian Gray was certainly a subject suited to him and which seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden passion for Sibyl Vane was not a psychological phenomenon of minor interest. No doubt curiosity played a large part in it, curiosity and the desire to acquire new experiences; however, it was not a simple passion but rather a complex one. What it contained of pure, sensual, pubescent instinct had been transformed by the work of the imagination and changed into something that seemed to the adolescent alien to the senses and was therefore all the more dangerous. Passions whose origins we misunderstand tyrannize us more strongly than all others. Our weakest motives are those of whose nature we are conscious. It often happens that when we think we are experimenting on others, we are actually experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming about these things, there was a knock at the door, and his servant entered and reminded him that it was time to dress for dinner. He rose and glanced out into the street. The setting sun set the high windows of the houses opposite ablaze with purple and gold . The panes glittered like sheets of burning metal. Above, the sky looked like a faded rose. He thought of his young friend’s impetuous vitality and wondered how it would all end. When he got home around half past midnight, he found a telegram on his table. He opened it and saw that it was from Dorian Gray. It informed him that he had promised Sibyl Vane marriage. Chapter 5. “Mother, mother, how glad I am!” sighed the girl, burying her face in the apron of the old woman with tired, withered features who, with her back to the clear light from the windows, sat in the only armchair in the small, poor drawing-room. “I’m so glad!” she repeated. “You must be glad too!” Mrs. Vane flinched and laid her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter’s head. “Happy!” she repeated. “I’m only happy, Sibyl, when I see you playing. You mustn’t think of anything else. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money. ” The girl threw up a pouty head. “Money! Mother!” she cried. “What does that mean? Love is better than money.” “Mr. Isaacs gave us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to buy James a suitable suit. You mustn’t forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been very kind. ” “He’s no gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me,” said the girl, getting up and going to the window. “I don’t know how we would have managed without him,” the old woman moaned. Sibyl Vane shook her head and laughed. “We won’t need him anymore, Mother. Prince Charming is taking care of us.” She stopped; a flush shook her blood and inflamed her cheeks. A panting breath parted the petals of her trembling lips. A warm wind of passion seemed to envelop her and stir the graceful folds of her dress. “I love him!” she said simply. “Foolish child! Foolish child!” came the accentuated reply, punctuated by a grotesque gesture of the old woman’s curled fingers, laden with fake jewels. The child laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it with their brilliance; then they closed for a moment as if to keep their secret. When they opened again, the mist of a dream had passed over them. Thin-lipped Wisdom was speaking to her in the old armchair, whispering to her that prudence inscribed in the book of cowardice under the name of common sense. She wasn’t listening. She was free in the prison of her passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had used Memory to recall him. She had sent her donkey to find him, and he had come. His kisses burned her lips. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then Wisdom changed tactics and spoke of investigation and espionage. The young man might be rich, and in that case, marriage could be considered . Against the shell of her ear, the waves of human cunning died away . Cunning darts riddled her. She noticed the thin lips moving, and she smiled… Suddenly, she felt the need to speak. The old woman’s monologue embarrassed her. “Mother, mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. It’s because he is what Love itself might be. But what does he see in me?” I am not worthy of him. And yet I cannot say why, though I find myself so very inferior to him, I do not feel humble. I am proud, extremely proud…. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming? The old woman paled beneath the layer of powder that covered her cheeks, and her parched lips twisted in a painful effort. Sibyl ran to her, put her arms around her neck, and kissed her. “Forgive me, Mother, I know it pains you to speak of our father. But it is only because you loved him too much. Do not be so sad. I am as happy today as you were twenty years ago. Ah! May I always be happy!” “My child, you are much too young to be thinking of love. And besides, what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name.” This is all very unfortunate, and really, just as James is about to leave for Australia and I have so many worries, I think you should be less inconsiderate. However, as I’ve already said, if he’s rich… –Ah! Mother, Mother! Let me be happy! Mrs. Vane looked at her and with one of those affected stage gestures that so often become second nature to actors, she She hugged her daughter tightly. At that moment, the door opened and a young boy with spiky brown hair entered the room. He had a full face, large feet and hands, and something rough about his movements. He lacked his sister’s refinement. It would have been hard to believe in the close kinship between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and deepened her smile. She was mentally elevating her son to the dignity of an audience. She was certain this scene must be touching. “You should save some of your kisses for me, Sibyl,” the young man said with a friendly grunt. “Oh! But you don’t like being kissed, Jim!” she cried . “You’re a nasty old bear!” And she began running around the room and pinching him. James Vane looked at his sister tenderly. “I wish you would come for a walk with me, Sibyl.” I don’t think I’ll ever see that wretched London again, and I certainly don’t want to. ‘My son, don’t say such sad things,’ murmured Mrs. Vane, sighingly picking up a shabby theatrical costume and beginning to mend it. She was a little disappointed that he had arrived too late to join the group earlier. It would have only added to the pathos of the situation. ‘Why not, Mother, I think. ‘ ‘You pain me, my son. I hope you come back from Australia with a good position. I believe there is no society in the colonies, or anything that can be called society, so when you have made your fortune, you will come back and take your place in London. ‘ ‘Society,’ murmured the young man. ‘I don’t want to know anything about it. I want to earn enough money to get you and Sibyl out of the theater. I hate it. ‘ ‘Oh, Jim!’ “said Sibyl, laughing, ‘How unkind you are! But do come for a walk with me. That would be lovely! I was afraid you might be saying goodbye to some of your friends, to Tom Hardy, who gave you that awful pipe, or to Ned Langton, who makes fun of you when you smoke it. It’s very kind of you to have saved your last afternoon for me. Where shall we go? How about the Park! ‘ ‘I’m too worn out,’ he replied, scowling. ‘Only fashionable people go to the Park. ‘ ‘What nonsense, Jim,’ she sighed, running her hand up the sleeve of his jacket. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ll do,’ he said at last, ‘but don’t be too long at your toilette. ‘ She went out dancing… She could be heard singing as she went up the stairs, and her little feet trotdled above… He paced the room two or three times.” Then, turning to the old woman, motionless in her armchair, he asked, “Mother, are my things ready?” “Everything is ready, James,” she replied, her eyes on her work. For months she had felt uneasy when alone with this harsh and severe son. Her natural lightness was disturbed when their eyes met. She always wondered if he suspected anything. As he made no comment, the silence became unbearable. She began to moan. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack with strange and sudden defeats. “I hope you will be satisfied with your life overseas, James,” she said. “You must remember that you chose it yourself. You could have gone into a solicitor’s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and often, in the country, they dine with the best families.” “I hate offices and I hate employees,” he replied. “But you ’re quite right. I chose my own way of life. All I can tell you is to look after Sibyl. Don’t let anything bad happen to her. Mother, you must look after her.” “James, you speak strangely. No doubt I’m keeping an eye on Sibyl. ” “I heard that a gentleman comes to the theater every night and goes backstage to speak to her. Is that right? What does it mean? ” “You speak of things you don’t understand, James. In our profession, we are used to receiving many compliments. I myself, in my day, received many flowers. That was when our art was truly understood. As for Sibyl, I cannot yet know whether his affection is serious or not. But there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always extremely polite to me. Moreover, he seems to be wealthy, and the flowers he sends are delightful. ” “You don’t know his name, though?” he said sharply. “No,” replied his mother placidly. “He hasn’t revealed his name yet. I think it’s very romantic of him. He’s probably a member of the aristocracy.” James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl, Mother,” he cried, “watch over her! ” “My son, you’re making me despair. Sibyl is always under my close supervision. Surely, if that gentleman is wealthy, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t marry him. I think he’s an aristocrat. He certainly looks the part, I must say. It could be a very brilliant match for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple. Her looks are quite to her advantage. Everyone has noticed them.” The young man mumbled a few words and began drumming on the windows with his thick fingers. He was turning to say something when Sibyl came running in. “How serious you two are!” she said. “What is it? ” “Nothing,” he replied, “I think one must be serious sometimes. Goodbye , Mother, I’ll have dinner at five.” Everything is packed except my shirts; so don’t worry. —Goodbye, my son,’ she said with a theatrical bow. She was very annoyed by the tone he had adopted with her, and something in his gaze had frightened her. —Kiss me, Mother,’ said the girl. Her blossoming lips touched the old woman’s withered cheeks and revived them. —My child! My child! cried Mrs. Vane, her eyes on the ceiling, searching for an imaginary gallery. —Come on, Sibyl, said the impatient brother. He hated maternal affectations. They went out and walked down the dreary Euston Road. A light breeze was rising; the sun was shining cheerfully. The passersby looked astonished to see this lout in his threadbare clothes in the company of such a graceful and distinguished young lady. He was like a rustic gardener walking with a rose in his hand. Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive gaze of some passerby. He felt that aversion to being looked at which only comes late in life to famous men and which never leaves the common folk. Sibyl, however, was perfectly unaware of the effect she was having. Her love blossomed her lips into smiles. She thought of Prince Charming, and so that she could dream about him all the more, she didn’t speak of him, but babbled, talking of the ship Jim was about to embark on, of the gold he would surely discover, and of the wonderful heiress whose life he would save by snatching her from the wicked red-shirted bushrangers. For he would not always be a sailor, or a ship’s clerk, or anything he would soon be. Oh no! A sailor’s life is too sad. To be cooped up in a dreadful ship, with the ragged, ragged waves trying to engulf you, and a nasty black wind knocking the masts over and tearing the sails into long, whistling strips! He would leave the ship in Melbourne, politely bid farewell to the captain, and head straight for the placer mines. Within a week, he would find a huge gold nugget, the biggest that he would be discovered and brought to the coast in a carriage guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers would attack them three times and be soundly beaten… Or, no, he wouldn’t go to the placers at all. They were nasty places where men got drunk and killed each other in the bars, and spoke so badly! He would be a superb cattle breeder, and one evening, as he was returning home in his carriage, he would meet the beautiful heiress being abducted by a thief on a black horse; he would chase after her and save her. She would surely fall in love with him; they would marry and return to London where they would live in a magnificent house. Yes, he would have charming adventures. But he would have to behave himself, not ruin his health, and not spend his money foolishly. She was only a year older than him, but she knew so much about life! He would also have to write to her with every letter and say his prayers every night before going to bed. God was very good and would watch over him. She would also pray for him, and in a few years he would return perfectly rich and happy. The young man listened sullenly and said nothing. He was filled with sadness at leaving home. Yet all this wasn’t what made him anxious and morose. Inexperienced as he was, he had a keen sense of the dangers of Sibyl’s position. The young dandy who was courting her didn’t bode well. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for it, by a strange instinct of race that he himself couldn’t understand, and which, for that reason, dominated him all the more. He also knew his mother’s frivolity and vanity, and he saw in them a danger to Sibyl and to her happiness. Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older, they judge them; Sometimes they forget them. His mother! He had a question about her that he needed to resolve, a question he had been silently brooding over for months. A careless remark he had overheard at the theater, a stifled snicker he had caught one evening while waiting at the backstage door, had suggested horrible thoughts. All of it came rushing back to him like a slap in the face. His eyebrows involuntarily met , and in a painful spasm, he bit his lower lip. “You don’t listen to a word I say, Jim,” Sibyl cried, “and I make the most magnificent plans for your future. Say something … ” “What do you want me to say? ” “Oh! That you’ll be a good boy and that you won’t forget us,” she smiled at him. He shrugged. “You’re far more capable of forgetting me than I am of forgetting you, Sibyl.” She blushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” “I’ve been told you have a new friend. Who is he? Why haven’t you told me yet? He doesn’t wish you well.” “Stop it, Jim!” she cried; “you mustn’t say anything against him. I love him! ” “What, you don’t even know his name?” replied the young man. “Who is he? I have a right to know. ” “His name is Prince Charming. Don’t you like that name? You wicked boy, never forget it. If you had only seen him, you would have judged him the most wonderful being in the world. One day you will meet him when you return from Australia. You will love him very much. Everyone loves him, and I… adore him! I wish you could come to the theater tonight. He will be there, and I will play Juliet. Oh, how I will play! Just think, Jim! To be in love and to play Juliet!” And to see him sitting opposite me! Playing for his own pleasure! I’m afraid of frightening the audience, of scaring them or captivating them. To be in love is to surpass oneself. Poor Mr. Isaacs will be shouting “genius!” to all his lazybones. Bar.
He preached to me like dogma; tonight, he will announce it to me like a revelation, I feel it. And it is his work alone, that of Prince Charming, my marvelous lover, my God of graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor? What does it matter? When poverty sneaks in through the door, love comes in through the window. We should rewrite our proverbs. They were invented in winter, and now here is summer, it’s spring for me, I think, a veritable ring of flowers in the blue sky. “He’s a gentleman,” said the gruff brother. ” A prince!” she cried musically, “what more could you want? ” “He wants to make you a slave! ” “I shudder at the thought of being free! ” “You must be wary of him.” “When you see him, you esteem him; when you know him, you believe him.” “Sibyl, you’re mad!” She began to laugh and took his arm. “Dear old Jim, you talk as if you were a hundred years old. One day you’ll be in love yourself, then you’ll know what it’s like. Don’t look so gloomy. Surely you should be glad to think that, although you’re leaving, you’re leaving me happier than I’ve ever been. Life has been hard for us, terribly hard and difficult. Now it will be different. You’re going to a new world, and I ’ve discovered one!… Here are two chairs, let’s sit down and watch all these fine people go by. ” They sat down amidst a group of onlookers. The tulip plants looked like vibrant rings of fire. A white dust like a trembling cloud of irises swayed in the blazing air. The brightly colored parasols fluttered to and fro like gigantic butterflies. She got her brother talking about himself, his hopes, and his plans. He spoke softly, with effort. They exchanged words like gamblers passing chips. Sibyl was oppressed, unable to communicate her joy. A faint smile on sullen lips was all the echo she managed to elicit. After some time, she fell silent. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of golden hair and a smiling mouth, and in an open carriage, Dorian Gray passed by, accompanied by two ladies. She jumped to her feet. “There he is!” she cried. “Who?” said Jim Vane. “Prince Charming!” she replied, looking at the Victoria. He rose quickly and, seizing her roughly by the arm, said, “Show him to me with your finger! Which one is it? I want to see him!” he cried; but at that very moment, the Duke of Berwick’s mail coach passed in front of them, and when the space was clear again, the Victoria had vanished from the park. “He’s gone,” murmured Sibyl sadly, “I wish I could have shown him to you.” “I would have liked that too, for, as surely as there is a God in heaven, if he does you any harm, I will kill him!” She looked at him in horror! He repeated these words, which cut through the air like a dagger. Passersby were beginning to gather. A lady near them was sneering. “Come on, Jim, come on,” she whispered. And he followed her like a dog through the crowd. He seemed pleased with what he had said. When they reached the statue of Achilles, they circled the monument. The sadness that filled her eyes turned into a smile. She shook her head. “You’re mad, Jim, completely mad! You have a bad temper, that’s all. How can you say such vile things? You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re simply jealous and malicious. Ah! I wish you were in love. Love makes you a better person, and everything you say is very wrong.” “I’m sixteen,” he replied, “and I know what I am. Mother is useless to you. She doesn’t know how to look after you; I don’t want to go to Australia anymore. I have a great urge to throw it all away. I would if my commitment weren’t Signed. –Oh! Don’t be so serious, Jim! You look like one of the heroes in those absurd melodramas Mother loves so much to act in. I don’t want to quarrel with you. I’ve seen him, and seeing him is perfect happiness. Let’s not quarrel; I know you would never harm those I love, would you? –No, as long as you love him, was his threatening reply. –I will always love him, she cried. –And him? –Him too, always! –He’ll do well! She stepped back, then with a hearty laugh, she took his arm. He was only a child, after all…. At the Marble Arch, they hailed an omnibus, which dropped them off near their miserable lodgings on Euston Road. It was past five o’clock, and Sibyl needed an hour or two of sleep before playing. Jim insisted that she not miss it. He wanted to say goodbye to her immediately while their mother was out, for she would make a scene, and he hated scenes of any kind. They parted in Sibyl’s room. The young man’s heart was filled with jealousy and a burning, murderous hatred for this stranger who, it seemed to him, had come between them. However, when she put her arms around his neck and her fingers stroked his hair, he softened and kissed her with genuine affection. His eyes were filled with tears when he went downstairs. His mother was waiting for him. She grumbled about his lateness when he came in. He didn’t reply and sat down to his meager meal. Flies buzzed around the table and wandered across the stained tablecloth. Through the noise of the buses and cars coming up the street, he could hear the drone that was devouring every minute he had left to live there. After a moment, he pushed his plate away and buried his face in his hands. It seemed to him that he had a right to know. He would have been told already if that was what he thought. His mother watched him, filled with fear. The words fell from her lips mechanically. A torn lace handkerchief was wrapped around her fingers. When six o’clock struck, he got up and went to the door. He turned and looked at her. Their eyes met. She seemed to be asking for forgiveness. This enraged him. “Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. She didn’t answer , and her eyes wandered around the room. “Tell me the truth, I need to know it. Were you married to my father?” She sighed deeply. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment she had been dreading day and night, for weeks and months, had finally arrived, and she felt no fear. It was truly a disappointment. The question, posed so crudely, demanded a direct answer. The situation had not been brought about gradually. It was crude. It seemed like a bad rehearsal. “No,” she replied, astonished by life’s brutal simplicity. “My father was a scoundrel, then!” cried the young man, clenching his fists. She shook her head. “I knew he wasn’t free. We loved each other very much . Had he lived, he would have amassed a fortune for us. Don’t speak ill of him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman; he had high connections.” A curse escaped his lips: “For me, it’s all the same,” he cried, “but don’t leave Sibyl… He’s a gentleman, isn’t he, her lover, or so he says. He probably has some good connections too!” A hideous expression of humiliation crossed the old woman’s face. Her head bowed, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. “Sibyl has a mother,” she murmured. “I didn’t.” The young man softened. He went to her, bent down, and kissed her. “I’m sorry I upset you by telling you about my “Father,” he said, “but I couldn’t take it anymore. I have to go now. Goodbye! Don’t forget that you only have one child to look after now, and believe me, if that man harms my sister, I’ll know who he is, I’ll hunt him down and kill him like a dog. I swear it!…” The wild exaggeration of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it , and his melodramatic expression made life more interesting in the mother’s eyes. She was familiar with this tone. She breathed more freely, and for the first time in months, she truly admired her son. She would have liked to continue this scene on this moving note, but he cut it short. The trunks had been brought down and the blankets laid out. The landlady’s maid was coming and going; they had to haggle with the coachman. The moments were absorbed by vulgar details. It was with renewed disappointment that she waved the lace handkerchief out the window as her son left by car. She felt a magnificent opportunity was lost. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl of the desolation that would now fill her life, now that she would have only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase that had pleased her; she said nothing of the threat; it had been delivered sharply and dramatically. She knew well that one day they would all laugh about it together. Chapter 6. “You know the news, Basil,” said Lord Henry, one evening when Hallward had just arrived in a small private room at the Bristol Hotel, where dinner for three had been ordered. “No,” replied the artist, handing his hat and overcoat to the bowing servant. “What’s new? It’s not about politics, I hope; it doesn’t interest me anyway.” Surely there isn’t a single person in the House of Commons worthy of being painted, though many of our honorable members are in dire need of whitewashing. ‘Dorian Gray is getting married,’ said Lord Henry, watching for the effect of his reply. Hallward jumped, frowning. ‘Dorian Gray is getting married,’ he cried. ‘Impossible! ‘ ‘That’s the truth.’ ‘To whom? ‘ ‘To some little actress or the like. ‘ ‘I can’t believe it… Him, so sensible!’ ‘Dorian is too sensible, indeed, not to do foolish things from time to time, my dear Basil. ‘ ‘Marriage is something one doesn’t do from time to time, Harry.’ ‘Except in America,’ Lord Henry retorted dreamily. ‘But I didn’t say he was married. I said he was going to be married. There’s a big difference.’ I remember perfectly well being married, but I don’t recall ever being betrothed. I think I was never betrothed at all. —But please, think of Dorian’s birth, his position, his fortune… It would be absurd of him to marry someone so beneath him. —If you wish him to marry this girl, Basil, you need only tell him that. Then he’ll surely do it. Whenever a man does something obviously stupid, he is surely driven to do it for the noblest of reasons. —I hope for his sake, Harry, that she is a good girl. I would not like to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who would degrade his nature and ruin his intelligence. —Oh! She is better than good, she is beautiful, murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of bitter orange vermouth. Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not mistaken about such things. Her portrait by you has singularly hastened her appreciation of people’s physical appearance; yes, it has had, among other things, this excellent effect. We are to see her this evening, if our friend doesn’t fail to keep the appointment. –Are you serious? –Absolutely, Basil. I have never been more serious than I am now. “But do you approve of that, Harry?” asked the painter, pacing back and forth in the room, biting his lip. “You can’t approve of it! There’s a paradox in you. ” “I never approve of anything, and I disapprove even less. That’s an absurd attitude to take in life. We weren’t put on this earth to fight our moral prejudices. I pay no attention to what vulgar people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality appeals to me, whatever form of expression that personality may choose, I find it quite charming. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl playing Juliet and proposes to marry her. Why not?… Do you think that if he married Messalina, he would be any less interesting? You know I’m no champion of marriage. The only downside of marriage is that it makes the one who consummates it a good-hearted person; and good-hearted people are colorless.” They lack individuality. However, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their selfishness and add to it. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized, and to be more highly organized, I imagine, is the purpose of human existence. Besides, no experience is to be despised, and whatever may be said against marriage, this is by no means a disparaging one. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this young girl his wife, adore her passionately for six months, and then allow himself to be seduced by someone else. It will be a marvelous study for us. –You know very well that you don’t mean a word of what you say, Harry; you know that better than I do. If Dorian Gray’s life were ruined, no one would be more sorry about it than you. You are better than you pretend to be. Lord Henry laughed. The reason we think well of others is that we are afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is terror, quite simply. We think we are generous because we bestow upon our neighbor the possession of virtues that benefit us. We value our banker in the hope that he will know how to make the funds entrusted to him grow, and we find serious qualities in the highway robber who spares our pockets. I mean everything I say. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. No life is spoiled except one whose growth is arrested. If you want to spoil a character, you only have to try to reform it; as for marriage, that would be foolish, for there are other and more interesting connections between men and women; they have the charm of being elegant…. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I. “My dear Harry, my dear Basil, I await your congratulations,” said the teenager, removing his silk-lined macfarlane and shaking hands with his friends. “I have never been so happy! Like all that is truly delightful, my happiness is sudden, and yet it appears to me as the only thing I have ever sought in my life. He was all pink with excitement and pleasure and looked extraordinarily beautiful. ” “I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward, “ but I begrudge you keeping your engagement a secret from me. Harry knew about it. ” “And I begrudge you being late,” interrupted Lord Henry, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder and smiling at what he was saying. “Come now, let us sit down and see what the new leader is like; you can tell us how it all happened. ” “I really have nothing to tell you,” cried Dorian, as they sat down around the table. “This is simply what happened.” When I left you last night, Harry, I got dressed and went to dinner at that little Italian restaurant on Rupert Street where you took me, then I made my way to the theater around eight o’clock. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Naturally, the sets were dreadful and Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!… Ah! If you could have seen her! When she came dressed in her boy’s clothes, she was utterly adorable. She wore a moss velvet doublet with cinnamon-hued sleeves, light brown breeches with criss-cross laces, a pretty little green hat topped with a falcon feather held by a diamond, and a hood lined in dark red. She never seemed more exquisite to me. She had all the grace of that Tanagra figurine you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair around her face made her look like a pale rose surrounded by dark furrows. As for her acting!… You ‘ll see it tonight!… She was born an artist. I remained in the darkened box, utterly captivated… I forgot I was in London, in the 19th century. I was far away with my love in a forest no man has ever seen. The curtain having fallen, I went backstage and spoke to her. As we sat side by side, a look suddenly shone in her eyes that I had never seen before. I offered her my lips. We kissed. I cannot describe what I felt then. It seemed to me that my whole life was concentrated in a point of rose-colored joy. She trembled and flickered like a white narcissus; she fell at my knees and kissed my hands… I feel I shouldn’t tell you this, but I can’t help it. Naturally, our engagement is a secret; she hasn’t even told her mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say; Lord Radley will certainly be furious. I don’t care! I’ll be of age in less than a year and I’ll do as I please. I was right, wasn’t I, Basil, to take my love from poetry and find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays. The lips Shakespeare taught to speak whispered their secret in my ear. I had Rosalind’s arms around my neck, and Juliet kissed me on the mouth. “Yes, Dorian, I believe you were right,” said Hallward slowly. “Have you seen her today?” asked Lord Henry. Dorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the Ardennes Forest; I will meet her again in an orchard in Verona. ” Lord Henry sipped his champagne thoughtfully. “At what precise moment did you utter the word ‘marriage,’ Dorian? And what did she reply?… Perhaps you have forgotten!” “My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a matter of fact, and I made her no formal proposal.” I told her I loved her, and she replied that she was unworthy to be my wife. Unworthy!… The whole world is nothing compared to her. “Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, ” much more practical than we are. We often forget to mention marriage in such situations, and they always remind us . ” Hallward put his hand on his arm. “Finish, Harry… You are offending Dorian. He is not like other women and would not cause anyone pain; his nature is too delicate for that.” Lord Henry looked across the table. “I never bore Dorian,” he replied. “I asked him the question for the best possible reason, for the only reason that excuses any question: curiosity. My theory is that it is always women who offer themselves to us, and not we who offer ourselves to women…except in the lower classes, but the lower classes are not modern.” Dorian Gray smiled and shook his head. “You’re completely incorrigible, Harry, but I don’t pay any attention to it. It’s impossible to get angry with you… When you see Sibyl Vane, you’ll understand that the man who would hurt her would be a brute, a heartless brute. I can’t understand how anyone could humiliate the one they love.” I love Sibyl Vane. I need to raise her on a golden pedestal, and see the world esteem the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You’re joking?… Ah! Don’t joking! It is an irrevocable vow I need to make. Her trust will make me faithful, her faith will make me good. When I am with her, I regret everything you taught me. I become different from what you knew me to be. I am transformed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s hands makes me forget you and all your false, fascinating, poisonous , and yet delightful theories. “And what are they?” asked Lord Henry, serving himself the salad. “Ah! Your theories about life, your theories about love, those about pleasure.” All your theories, in a word, Harry…. –Pleasure is the only thing worthy of having a theory,’ he replied in his slow, melodious voice. ‘I believe I cannot claim it as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s distinguishing characteristic, her sign of approval…. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy.’ –Ali! What do you mean by being good?’ cried Basil Hallward. –Yes,’ continued Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord Henry over the enormous bunch of purple-petaled irises that lay in the middle of the table, ‘what do you mean by being good, Harry? ‘ –To be good is to be at peace with oneself,’ he replied, stroking the slender stem of his glass with his pale, delicate fingers, ‘just as to be bad is to be at peace with others. ‘ His own life—that’s the only thing that matters. As for the lives of our fellow men, if one wishes to be a scoundrel or a puritan, one can extend one’s moral views to them, but they don’t concern us. In truth, individualism is really the highest goal. Modern morality consists of aligning oneself with the spirit of the times. I consider it the act of a cultured man aligning himself with the spirit of his times to be the most scandalous immorality. —But sometimes, Harry, one pays a very high price for living only for oneself, remarked the painter. —Bah! We’re taxed for everything these days…. I imagine the truly tragic aspect of the lives of the poor is that they can offer nothing but the renunciation of themselves. Beautiful sins, like all beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich. —One often pays in ways other than money…. —In what ways, Basil? “But in remorse, I believe, in suffering, in…being aware of one’s own infamy…” Lord Henry shrugged. ” My dear friend, medieval art is charming, but medieval emotions are outdated. They may serve fiction, I grant you. The only things fiction can use are, in fact, the things that can no longer serve us. Believe me, a civilized man never regrets a pleasure, and a brute will never know what pleasure is. ” “I know what pleasure is!” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to worship someone. ” “That is certainly better than being worshipped,” he replied, playing with the fruit. “Being worshipped is a bore. Women treat us exactly as Mankind treats its gods. They worship us, but are always asking something of us.” “I will answer that whatever they ask of us, they gave it to us in the first place,” the teenager murmured gravely; “they created love in us; they have the right to ask for it again. ” “Quite true, Dorian!” cried Hallward. “Nothing is ever quite true,” retorted Lord Henry. “Yes,” interrupted Dorian; “you admit, Harry, that women give men the very gold of their lives.” “Possibly,” he added, “but they invariably demand a little something in return. That’s the trouble. Women, as some witty Frenchman said, inspire us to create masterpieces, but always prevent us from finishing them. ” “What a terrible man you are, Harry! I don’t know why I love you so much. ” “You will always love me, Dorian,” he replied. “A little coffee, eh, friends! Waiter, bring some coffee, some fine champagne, and some cigarettes.” “No, no cigarettes, I have some.” “Basil, I won’t allow you to smoke cigars.” “You’ll have to be content with cigarettes. The cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It’s exquisite, and it leaves you unsatisfied. What more could you want?” “Yes, Dorian, you will always love me. I represent to you all the sins you haven’t had the courage to commit. ” “What nonsense, Harry?” said the young man, lighting his cigarette from the fire-breathing silver dragon the servant had placed on the table. “Let’s go to the theater. When Sibyl appears, you will conceive a new ideal of life. She will show you what you have never known. ” “I have known everything,” said Lord Henry with a weary look, “but every new emotion finds me ready. Alas! I fear there are none left for me. However, your wonderful young lady can move me. I adore the theater. It is so much more real than life. Let’s go… Dorian, you will ride with me… I’m sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in my brougham. You will follow us in a hansom.” They rose and put on their overcoats, drinking their coffees standing up. The painter remained silent and preoccupied; a heavy boredom seemed to weigh upon him. He could not approve of this marriage, and yet it seemed preferable to other things that might have happened…. A few minutes later, they were downstairs. He drove himself, as agreed, watching for the bright lanterns of the little brougham walking ahead of him. A strange feeling of doom came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never be his as he once had been. Life had come between them…. His eyes grew misty, and they no longer saw the bustling streets sparkling with light…. When the carriage stopped in front of the theater, he felt as if he were years older…. Chapter 7. As it happened, the theater was full that evening, and the fat Jewish manager, who greeted them at the door, beamed from ear to ear with a smooth, trembling smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat, jewel-laden hands and speaking in his highest- pitched voice. Dorian Gray felt a stronger aversion to him than ever before; he had come to see Miranda, he thought, and instead he was meeting Caliban. He seemed, on the other hand, to please Lord Henry; the latter even decided to express his sympathy formally by shaking his hand and declaring that he was pleased to have met a man who had discovered real talent and was going bankrupt for a poet. Hallward amused himself by observing the people in the stalls. The heat was stifling, and the enormous chandelier, blazing brightly, looked like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The young men in the galleries had taken off their jackets and waistcoats and were leaning over the railings. They exchanged words from one end of the theater to the other and shared oranges with brightly dressed girls sitting beside them. A few women laughed in the stalls. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of popping corks came from the bar. “What a place to meet one’s divinity,” said Lord Henry. “Yes,” replied Dorian Gray. “It was here that I met her, and she is Divine beyond all comprehension. You will forget everything when she plays. You no longer notice the rough , common rabble, their coarse faces and brutal gestures, as soon as she enters the stage; these people remain silent and watch her; they weep and laugh as she wishes; she plays on them as on a violin; she spiritualizes them, in a way, and you feel that they have the same flesh and blood as yourself. —The same flesh and blood as yourself! Oh! I don’t think so, exclaimed Lord Henry, who was scanning the gallery spectators with his spyglass. —Pay no attention to him, Dorian, said the painter. I know what you mean, and I believe in this young woman. Whoever you love must deserve it, and the person who has produced on you the effect you have described to us must be noble and intelligent. To spiritualize one’s contemporaries is something worthwhile… If this young woman can give a soul to those who have hitherto lived without one, if she can reveal the meaning of Beauty to people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness, lend them tears of sorrow that are not their own, she is worthy of all your admiration, worthy of the world’s adoration. This marriage is normal; I didn’t think so at first, but now I admit it. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you; without her you would have been incomplete. “Thank you, Basil,” replied Dorian Gray, squeezing her hand. “I knew you would understand. Harry is so cynical he terrifies me sometimes… Ah! Here comes the orchestra; it’s dreadful, but it only lasts five minutes.” Then the curtain will rise, and you will see the young girl to whom I am going to give my life, to whom I have given all that is good in me…. A quarter of an hour later, amid an extraordinary storm of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped onto the stage…. Indeed, she was lovely to behold—one of the most lovely creatures, thought Lord Henry, he had ever seen. There was something animal about her fierce grace and her quivering eyes. A dejected smile, like the shadow of a rose in a silver mirror, came to her lips as she looked at the enthusiastic crowd filling the theater. She stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward rose and began to applaud her. Motionless, as if in a dream, Dorian Gray watched her; Lord Henry peering at her through his binoculars murmured: Charming! Charming! The scene depicted the hall of Capulet’s palace, and Romeo, in his pilgrim’s garb, entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The orchestra struck up a few bars of music, and the dancing began…. In the midst of the crowd of awkward extras in threadbare costumes, Sibyl Vane moved like a being of superior essence. Her body swayed as she danced, like a reed in water . The curves of her breast seemed like the curves of a white lily. Her hands were made of pure ivory. Yet she was curiously carefree; she showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to say: ” Good pilgrim, you do wrong, your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this…” For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch , and palm to palm is a holy palmer’s kiss… Good pilgrim, you are too harsh on your hand, which has shown only respectful devotion. Even saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands can touch , and this embrace is a pious kiss… and the brief dialogue that followed was spoken in a rather artificial manner… His voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of intonation, it was completely off. The color was all wrong. The life of the verse was lost; the reality of passion was absent . Dorian paled as he watched her, astonished, anxious… None of her friends dared speak to her; she seemed to them utterly talentless; they were completely disappointed. They knew that the balcony scene in the second act was the decisive test for actresses taking on the role of Juliet; they were both waiting for it; if she failed, she was good for nothing. She was truly charming when she appeared in the moonlight; that was true; but the hesitancy of her acting was unbearable and it grew worse and worse as she progressed in her role.
Her gestures were absurdly artificial. She emphasized what she had to say beyond all bounds. The beautiful passage. You know the mask of night is on my face, Otherwise you would see a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which you have heard me speak to night…. You know the mask of night is on my face, Otherwise you would see a virginal blush color my cheek When I think of the words you heard me speak tonight. was recited with the pitiful precision of a schoolgirl instructed in recitation by a second-rate teacher. When she bowed on the balcony and had to say the admirable verses: 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 Eve one can say: It lightens! Sweet, good night! This bud of love, ripened by summer’s breath, may prove a beautiful flower when we next meet…. Though you bring me joy, I cannot taste tonight all the joys of our coming together. It is too abrupt, too unforeseen, too sudden, too like lightning that ceased to be before one could speak. It shines! Sweet, friend, good night. This bud of love, ripened by summer’s breath, may become a beautiful flower at our next meeting…. She said them as if they held no meaning for her whatsoever ; it wasn’t nervousness, quite the contrary; she seemed perfectly aware of what she was doing. It was simply bad art; the failure was complete. Even the vulgar and uneducated listeners, from the pit and the galleries, lost all interest in the play. They began to fidget, to speak loudly, to whistle…. The Jewish manager, standing at the back of the stalls, stamped his feet and swore furiously . It seemed that the only calm person was the young girl. A thunder of whistles followed the fall of the curtain…. Lord Henry rose and put on his overcoat…. “She is very beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she can’t act. Let’s go… ” “I want to see the whole play,” replied the young man in a hoarse, bitter voice. “I am devastated to have wasted your evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.” “My dear Dorian, Miss Vane must have been indisposed. We shall come to see her another evening. ” “I wish she had been,” he continued; “but she seems to me unfeeling and cold. She is entirely changed. Yesterday, she was a great artist; Tonight, she’s a mediocre, common actress. –Don’t speak like that of what you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art. –They are both mere forms of imitation, remarked Lord Henry… But let’s go!… Dorian, you can’t stay here any longer. It’s not good for the mind to see bad acting. Besides, I suppose you don’t want your wife to act; therefore, what does it matter to you if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll… She’s really lovely, and if she knows as little of life as she does of art, she’ll make a delightful experiment. There are only two kinds of people, really Interesting: those who know absolutely everything and those who know absolutely nothing…. By heaven! My dear friend, don’t look so tragic! The secret of staying young is never to have an unseemly emotion. Come to the club with Basil and me; we’ll smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane; she is certainly beautiful: what more could you want? –Go away, Harry! cried the boy. I need to be alone. Harry, you too, go away! Ah! Can’t you see my heart is bursting! Burning tears filled his eyes; his lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned against the partition and hid his face in his hands…. –Let’s go, Basil, said Lord Henry in a strangely tender voice. And the two young men left together. A few moments later, the footlights came on, and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray took his seat; He was pale, but disdainful and indifferent. The action dragged on, interminably. Half the audience had left, making a coarse clatter of heavy shoes, and laughing. The fiasco was complete. The last act was performed in front of the benches. The curtain fell on murmurs or grunts . As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed offstage to the foyer…. There he found the girl alone; a look of triumph lit her face. In her eyes shone an exquisite flame; a kind of radiance seemed to surround her. Her half-open lips smiled at some mysterious secret known only to her. When he entered, she looked at him, and suddenly seemed possessed by boundless joy. “Did I act badly enough tonight, Dorian?” she cried. “Horribly!” he replied, regarding her in astonishment. ” Horribly! It was dreadful! You were ill, weren’t you?” You have no idea what it was like!… You have no idea what I suffered! The girl smiled…. “Dorian,” she replied, emphasizing his name in a languid, musical voice, as if it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips , “Dorian, you should have understood, but you understand now, don’t you? ” “Understand what?” he demanded furiously…. “Why I was so bad tonight! Why will I always be bad!… Why will I never play well again!” He shrugged. “You’re ill, I think; when you’re ill, you can’t play: you look absolutely ridiculous. You’ve grieved us, my friends and me. ” She no longer seemed to be listening to him; transfigured with joy, she appeared to be in the grip of an ecstasy of happiness!… “Dorian!” “Dorian,” she cried, “before I knew you, I believed that the only reality of life was the theater: it was only for the theater that I lived; I thought it was all true; one night I was Rosalind, and the next, Portia: Beatrice’s joy was my joy, and Cordelia’s sorrows were mine!… I believed in everything!… The coarse people who acted with me seemed like gods! I wandered among the scenery as if in a world of my own: I knew only shadows, and I believed them to be real! You came, oh my beautiful love! and you delivered my imprisoned soul…. You taught me what reality truly was! Tonight, for the first time in my life, I perceived the emptiness, the shame, the vileness of what I had acted out until then.” Tonight, for the first time, I was aware that Romeo was hideous, and old, and made up, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the sets were odious, that the words I was supposed to say were lies, that they weren’t my words, that it wasn’t what I was supposed to say!… You have lifted me up into something higher, into something of which all art is but a reflection. You have made me understand what truly Love! My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of my life! I am sick of shadows! You are more to me than anything art could ever be! What can I possibly have in common with the puppets of a drama? When I arrived this evening, I could not understand how it had left me. I thought I was going to be wonderful, and I realized I could do nothing. Suddenly, the light dawned within me, and the knowledge was exquisite…. I heard them hissing, and I began to smile…. Could they understand a love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian, take me away, somewhere we can be alone. I hate the stage! I can mime a passion I do not feel , but I cannot mime this something that burns me like fire! Oh! Dorian! Dorian, now you understand what it means. Even if I managed to do it, it would be a profanation, because for me, from now on, to play is to be in love! That’s what you’ve done to me!… He fell onto the sofa and turned his head away. “You’ve killed my love!” he murmured. She looked at him with admiration and began to laugh…. He said nothing. She came close to him and with her small fingers caressed his hair. She knelt down, kissing his hands…. He withdrew them, seized by a shudder. He suddenly stood up and walked towards the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you’ve killed my love! You’ve bewildered my mind! Now you can’t even excite my curiosity! You have no effect on me anymore! I loved you because you were admirable, because you were intelligent and brilliant, because you fulfilled the dreams of great poets and gave form, a body, to the shadows of Art! You’ve thrown all that away!” You are stupid and narrow-minded!… My God! How foolish I was to love you! What a madman I was!… You mean nothing to me anymore! I don’t want to see you again! I don’t want to think about you anymore! I don’t want to remember your name! You cannot imagine what you were to me, once…. Once!… Ah! I don’t want to think about it anymore! I wish I had never seen you…. You have ruined the novel of my life! How little you know of love, to think it could have spoiled your art!… You are nothing without your art…. I would have made you splendid, famous, magnificent! The world would have admired you and you would have borne my name!… What are you now?… A pretty, third- rate actress! The young girl paled and trembled. She clasped her hands, and in a voice that caught in her throat: –You are not serious, Dorian, she murmured; “You’re playing!… –I’m playing!… That’s good for you; you’re so good at it,” he replied bitterly. She got up, and with a pitiful expression of pain on her face, she crossed the fireplace and came to him. She put her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. He pushed her away…. “Don’t touch me!” he cried. She gave a sad wail, and collapsing at his feet, she lay motionless, like a trampled flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me,” she whispered. ” I’m sorry I played so badly; I was thinking of you all the time; but I’ll try…yes, I’ll try…. It came to me so quickly, this love for you…. I think I would have always ignored it if you hadn’t kissed me…. If we hadn’t kissed each other…. Kiss me again, my love…. Don’t go!” I couldn’t bear it! Oh! Don’t go!… My brother…. No, it doesn’t matter! He didn’t mean that…. he was joking!… But can you forget me because of tonight? I so want to work and try to improve. Don’t be cruel to me because I love you more than anything in the world! After all, it’s the only time I’ve ever displeased you…. You’re right, Dorian…. I should have shown myself to be better than an artist…. It was foolish of me… and yet, I couldn’t do it Otherwise… Oh! Don’t leave me! Don’t abandon me!… A burst of passionate sobs bent her over… She collapsed to the floor like a wounded thing. Dorian Gray watched her on the ground, his thin lips curled in supreme disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people one has ceased to love; Sibyl Vane seemed absurdly melodramatic to him. Her tears and sobs bored him… “I am going,” he said, in a calm, clear voice. “I don’t want to be crueler, but I cannot see you again. You have stripped me of all my illusions…” She wept silently and made no reply; creeping, she drew nearer; her small hands stretched out like a blind person’s and seemed to seek him out… He turned on his heel and left the hearth. A few moments later, he was outside…. Where did he go?… he couldn’t remember. He vaguely recalled wandering through dimly lit streets, passing under dark archways and in front of houses with forbidding facades…. Women, with hoarse voices and raspy laughter, had called to him. He had met staggering drunkards swearing and muttering things to themselves like monstrous monkeys. Grotesque children crowded around doorways; cries and curses rose from dark courtyards. At dawn, he found himself before Covent Garden…. The darkness was lifting, and colored by fading lights, the sky took on pearly hues …. Heavy carts filled with flickering lilies rolled gently over the cobblestones of the deserted streets…. The air was full of the fragrance of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring comfort to his sorrow. He entered a market and watched the men unloading the carts. A carter in a white smock offered him cherries; he thanked him, surprised that he refused any money, and ate them absentmindedly. They had been picked during the night, and the moonlight had permeated them. A group of boys carrying baskets of striped tulips, yellow and red roses, filed past him through mounds of jade-green vegetables. Under the portico with its grayish pillars, a group of bareheaded girls waited for the auction to end. Others frolicked around the ever-open doors of the bars in the Piazza. The enormous horses of the trucks slid or clattered on the rough cobblestones, their bells and harnesses clanging. A few drivers lay asleep on piles of sacks. Pigeons , with iridescent necks and pink legs, fluttered about, pecking at seeds….
After a few moments, he hailed a hansom and was driven home…. For a moment, he lingered on the threshold, gazing at the silent square before him, the closed windows, the light shutters…. The sky was now opalescent, and the rooftops of the houses shone like silver…. From a chimney opposite, a thin wisp of smoke rose; it undulated like a violet ribbon through the pearly atmosphere …. In the large Venetian gilt lantern, the remains of some dogal gondola, which hung from the ceiling of the large oak-paneled entrance hall , three flickering jets of light still shone; they seemed like thin petals of flame, blue and white. He extinguished them, and after throwing his hat and coat on a table, he crossed the library and pushed open the door to his bedroom, a large octagonal room on the ground floor which, in his burgeoning taste for luxury, he had decorated and hung with curious Renaissance tapestries he had discovered in a dilapidated attic at Selby Royal, where they had been kept. As he turned the doorknob, his eyes fell upon his portrait painted by Basil Hallward; he started with astonishment! He entered his room, vaguely surprised. After undoing the He fastened the first button of his frock coat and seemed to hesitate; finally, he retraced his steps, stopped before the portrait, and examined it. In the dim light filtering through the cream-colored silk curtains, the face appeared somewhat altered. The expression seemed different. It was as if there were a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was truly strange! He turned, and, walking to the window, drew back the curtains. A brilliant light filled the room and swept away the fantastic shadows from the dark corners where they lingered. The strange expression he had glimpsed in the face remained there, even more perceptible. The flickering light revealed lines of cruelty around the mouth as if he himself, having done something horrible, were catching them on his face in a mirror. He stepped back, and taking from the table an oval mirror surrounded by small ivory cupids, one of Lord Henry’s many gifts, hastened to gaze into its polished depths…. No line like that tormented the scarlet of his lips…. What did it mean ? He rubbed his eyes, moved even closer to the painting, and examined it again …. No one had touched it, certainly, and yet, there was no doubt that something had been changed…. He wasn’t dreaming! The thing was horribly apparent…. He threw himself into an armchair and collected his thoughts…. Suddenly, what he had said in Basil’s studio on the very day the portrait had been finished came back to him. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered the mad desire to remain young while this painting aged…. Ah! If only her beauty could remain untarnished, and if only this portrait painted on this canvas could bear the weight of his passions, his sins!… Could this painting not be marked with lines of suffering and doubt, while he himself retained the delicate bloom and prettiness of his adolescence? His wish, by God! could not be granted! Such things are impossible! It was even monstrous to even think of them…. And yet, the portrait stood before him, its mouth a grimace of cruelty! Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was that child’s fault, not his own…. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given her his love because he had believed her to be brilliant…. She had disappointed him. She had been so ordinary, so unworthy… Still, a feeling of profound regret overwhelmed him as he saw her again in his mind’s eye, prostrate at his feet, sobbing like a small child! He remembered the callousness with which he had looked at her then… Why had he been made this way? Why had such a soul been given to him? But hadn’t he suffered too? During the three hours the play had lasted , he had lived through centuries of pain, eternities upon eternities of torture! His life was worth more than hers… If he had hurt her, hadn’t she, in turn, made his existence ugly? Besides, women are better equipped than men to bear sorrows… They live on emotions; they think of nothing else … When they take lovers, it’s simply to have someone to make scenes with. Lord Henry had told him so , and Lord Henry knew women. Why should he worry about Sibyl Vane? She meant nothing to him. But the portrait?… What to make of it? It held the secret of his life, revealed its history; it had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to hate his soul?… Should he look at it again? No! It was purely an illusion of his troubled senses; the horrible night he had just spent had conjured up phantoms!… All at once, that same scarlet stain that drives men mad had spread across his mind…. The portrait hadn’t changed. It was madness to even consider it to think… Yet he gazed at him with his beautiful, ravaged face, his cruel smile… His brilliant hair shone in the morning sun. His azure eyes met his. A feeling of infinite pity, not for himself, but for his painted image, seized him. It was already changed, and it would deteriorate further. The gold would tarnish… The reds and whites of his complexion would fade. For every sin he committed, a stain would be added to the others, gradually obscuring his beauty… But he would not sin! The portrait, changed or not, would be the visible emblem of his conscience. He would resist temptation. He would never see Lord Henry again—he would never again listen, in any case, to the subtle, poisonous theories that had, for the first time, in Basil’s garden , instilled in him the passion for impossible things. He would return to Sibyl Vane, offer her his repentance, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty. She had suffered more than he. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. She would regain her former fascination with him; they would be happy together. Life, beside her, would be beautiful and pure. He rose from the armchair, drew a tall, wide screen in front of the portrait, still shivering as he gazed at it… How awful! he thought, going to open the French doors… When he reached the lawn, he sighed deeply. The fresh morning air seemed to dispel all his dark thoughts; he thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love returned to him. He repeated her name, and repeated it again. The birds singing in the dew-filled garden seemed to speak of her to the flowers… Chapter 8. Noon had long since struck when he awoke. His valet had come several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was still asleep, and had wondered what could possibly be keeping his young master in bed so late. Finally, Victor heard the bell ring and came in quietly, carrying a cup of tea and a packet of letters on a small tray of old Chinese Sèvres porcelain; he drew back the olive satin curtains with blue designs, hung in front of the three large windows…. “Sir slept well this morning,” he remarked, smiling. “What time is it, Victor?” asked Dorian Gray lazily. “A quarter past one, sir. So late!”… He sat up in bed, and after drinking some tea, began to look at the letters; one of them was from Lord Henry and had been brought in that very morning. He hesitated for a moment and put it aside. He opened the others casually. They contained the usual collection of cards, dinner invitations, tickets to private exhibitions, programs for charity concerts, and everything else a fashionable young man might receive each morning during the season. He found a hefty bill for a Louis XV silver toiletry set , which he hadn’t yet had the courage to send to his guardians, people of bygone days who didn’t understand that we live in a time when useless things are the only necessary things; he also perused a few courteous proposals from moneylenders on Jermyn Street, who offered to advance him any sum as soon as he saw fit and at the most reasonable rates. Ten minutes later, he got up, put on a cashmere dressing gown embroidered with silk, and went into the bathroom, paved with onyx. The cold water revived him after his long sleep; He seemed to have forgotten everything he had just been through… A vague feeling of having taken part in some strange tragedy crossed his mind once or twice, but as if surrounded by the unreality of a dream… As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast, served on a small table set near the open window. The weather was delightful; the warm air seemed laden with spices…. A bee flew in and buzzed around the dragon-blue bowl, filled with sulfur-yellow roses, that sat before him. He felt perfectly happy. His gaze suddenly fell upon the screen he had placed in front of the portrait, and he flinched…. “Sir is cold,” asked the footman, serving an omelet. “I’ll close the window…” Dorian shook his head. “I’m not cold,” he murmured. Was it true? Had the portrait really changed? Or was it merely a trick of his own imagination that had shown him an expression of cruelty where an expression of joy had been painted? Surely, a painted canvas could not change like that? The thought was absurd. It would make a good story to tell Basil someday; it would amuse him. However, the memory of it was still vivid in his mind…. First, in the dim light, then in the full light, he had seen it, that touch of cruelty around her tormented lips…. He almost feared that the valet would leave the room, for he knew, he knew that he would run back to contemplate the portrait again, as soon as he was alone…. He was sure of it. When the servant, after serving the coffee and cigarettes, went towards the door, he felt a violent urge to tell him to stay. As the door closed behind him, he called him back…. The servant remained motionless, awaiting orders…. Dorian looked at him. ‘I’m not responsible for anyone, Victor,’ he said with a sigh. The man bowed and disappeared…. Then, he got up from the table, lit a cigarette, and stretched out on a divan with luxurious cushions placed opposite the screen; He gazed curiously at the object, the antiquated screen made of gilded Cordovan leather , embossed and worked in a floral pattern, dating from the reign of Louis XIV—wondering if he had ever before concealed the secret of a man’s life. Would he remove the portrait after all? Why not leave it there? What good would it do to know? If it were true, it would be terrible… If not, it wasn’t worth his while… But if, by some unfortunate chance, other eyes than his own were to discover the portrait and note its horrific alteration? What would he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to see his own portrait again? Basil surely would. He had to examine the canvas once more… Anything rather than this infernal state of doubt! He got up and went to close the two doors. At least he would be alone to contemplate the mask of his shame…. So he drew back the screen and looked at himself face to face…. Yes, it was true! The portrait had changed!… As he often remembered later, and always not without astonishment, he found himself examining the portrait with an indefinable feeling of scientific interest. That such a change could have occurred seemed impossible to him…and yet it was!… Were there some subtle affinities between the chemical atoms mingled in shapes and colors on the canvas, and the soul it contained? Could it be that they had brought to fruition what that soul had thought; that what it dreamed, they had made real? Was there not some other, and terrible, reason in this? He shuddered, frightened…. Turning back to the sofa, he collapsed onto it, staring blankly at the portrait, trembling with horror!… This thing had, however, had an effect on him…. He was becoming aware of his injustice and cruelty toward Sibyl Vane…. It wasn’t too late to right his wrongs. She could still become his wife. His selfish, unreal love would yield to some higher influence, transform into a nobler passion, and her portrait by Basil Hallward would be his guide through life, he would be what holiness is to some, conscience to others, and the fear of God to all…. There are Opiums for remorse, moral narcotics for the mind. Yes, this was a visible symbol of the degradation brought about by sin!… It was a warning sign of the impending disasters that men prepare for their souls! Three struck, then four. Half past rang its double chime…. Dorian Gray did not move…. He was trying to gather the crimson threads of his life and braid them together; he was trying to find his way through the labyrinth of burning passion in which he wandered. He did not know what to do, what to think?… Finally, he went to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, begging her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. He filled pages with words of furious grief, followed by even more furious cries of pain…. There is a kind of pleasure in self-reproach…. When we blame ourselves, we think that no one else has the right to blame us. It is confession, not the priest, that grants us absolution. When Dorian had finished his letter, he felt forgiven. There was a sudden knock at the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside: “My dear friend, I must speak with you. Let me in. I cannot bear to see you barricaded like this…” He did not answer and remained motionless. There was another knock , then a very loud one…. Wouldn’t it have been better to let Lord Henry in and explain the new way of life he was about to lead, to quarrel with him if necessary, to leave him if that inevitable course of action proved unavoidable? He stood up, hurriedly pulled the screen over the portrait, and unbolted the door. “I’m really sorry for my persistence, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, coming in. “But you mustn’t dwell on it too much. ” “Sibyl Vane, you mean?” asked the young man. ” Of course,” replied Lord Henry, sitting down in an armchair and slowly removing his yellow gloves. “It’s terrible, in a way , but it’s not your fault. Tell me, did you go backstage after the play? ” “Yes… ” “I knew it. Did you give her a hard time? ” “I was brutal, Harry, perfectly brutal. But it’s over now. I’m not sorry it happened. It taught me more about myself . ” “Ah, Dorian, I’m glad you see it that way.” I was afraid I’d see you overcome with remorse, tearing out your beautiful curly hair…. –Ah, no, I’m finished!… said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling…. I am perfectly happy now…. I know what conscience is, for starters; it’s not what you told me; it’s the most divine thing in us…. Don’t make fun of it anymore, Harry, at least not in front of me. I need to be good…. I can’t bear the thought of having an ugly soul…. –A charming artistic basis for morality, Dorian. I congratulate you, but where shall you begin? –Why, by marrying Sibyl Vane…. –Marrying Sibyl Vane! cried Lord Henry, startled and looking at him with bewildered astonishment. But, my dear Dorian…. –Yes, Harry. I know what you’re going to say: a scathing critique of marriage; Don’t elaborate. Don’t tell me anything new about it. Two days ago, I offered Sibyl Vane my hand in marriage; I don’t want to break my word: she will be my wife…. –Your wife, Dorian!… Didn’t you receive my letter?… I wrote to you this morning and had my servant deliver it to you. –Your letter?… Ah! Yes, I remember! I haven’t read it yet, Harry. I was afraid I’d find something in it that would upset me. You’re poisoning my life with your epigrams. –So you know nothing?… –What do you mean?… Lord Henry crossed the room, and sitting down beside Dorian Gray, He took both hands in his own, and squeezing them tightly, he said, “Dorian, my letter—don’t be alarmed!—informed you of the death of Sibyl Vane!…” A cry of pain burst from the young man’s lips; he leaped to his feet, tearing himself from Lord Henry’s embrace: “Dead!… Sibyl dead!… It can’t be true!… It’s a horrible lie! How dare you say such a thing? ” “It’s perfectly true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry gravely. “It’s in this morning’s papers. I wrote to tell you not to receive anyone until my arrival. There will be an inquiry in which you must not be involved. Things like this make a man fashionable in Paris, but in London there are so many prejudices… Here, one never begins with a scandal; one saves that for one’s old age.” I like to think your name isn’t known at the theater; if that’s the case, all is well. No one has seen you near their box? Is this of any importance? Dorian didn’t answer for several moments. He was overcome with terror…. He finally stammered in a stifled voice: “Harry, you speak of an investigation? What do you mean? Could Sibyl have…? Oh! Harry, I don’t want to think about it! But speak quickly! Tell me everything!… “I have no doubt; it wasn’t an accident, Dorian, although the public may believe it. It seems that when she was about to leave the theater with her mother, around half past midnight, she said she had forgotten something at home…. They waited for her for a while, but she didn’t come down. They went upstairs and found her dead on the floor of her box. She had swallowed something by mistake, something terrible that is used in theaters.” I don’t know what it was, but there must have been prussic acid or white lead in it. I’d readily believe it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantly…. –Harry, Harry, it’s terrible! cried the young man. –Yes, it’s truly tragic, that’s for sure, but you mustn’t get involved. I saw in the Standard that she was seventeen; I would have thought her younger, she looked like a child and knew so little how to act…. Dorian, don’t hit yourself!… Come and dine with me, and afterwards we’ll go to the Opera. Patti is performing tonight, and everyone will be there. You’ll come to my sister’s box; There will be some pretty women there…. –So, I killed Sibyl Vane, murmured Dorian, I killed her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife…and yet the roses are no less beautiful for it, the birds will sing no less in my garden…. And this evening, I shall go to dinner with you: I shall go from there to the Opera, and, no doubt, I shall go to supper somewhere afterwards…. How powerfully dramatic life is!… If I had read this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept…. Now that it is happening, and to me, it seems much too astonishing to weep over!… Look, this is the first passionate love letter I have ever written in my life; do you not find it strange that this first love letter is addressed to a dead girl!… Can they feel, these white and silent things we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, know, hear? Oh, Harry, how I loved her! It seems like years ago!… She was everything to me… Then came that dreadful evening—was it last night ?—when she played so badly, and my heart broke! She explained why? It was horribly touching! I wasn’t moved: I thought her foolish!… Something happened suddenly that terrified me! I can’t tell you what it was, but it was awful…. I wanted to go back to her; I felt I had done wrong… and now she’s dead! My God! My God! Harry, what am I to do? You know what “I am in danger, and nothing is there to protect me! She would have done it for me! She had no right to kill herself… It was selfish of her.” “My dear Dorian,” replied Lord Henry, taking a cigarette and pulling a box of gilt matches from his pocket, “the only way a woman can reform a man is to pester him so much that he loses all possible interest in life. If you had married that girl, you would have been unhappy; you would have treated her kindly; one can always be kind to people from whom one expects nothing. But she would soon have discovered that you were completely indifferent to her, and when a woman discovers that about her husband, she either dresses terribly or wears splendid hats paid for by the husband… of another woman.” I say nothing of the adultery, which could have been abject, which, in short, I would not have permitted, but I assure you, in any case, that it would all have been a complete misunderstanding. “Perhaps,” murmured the horribly pale young man, pacing back and forth in the room; “but I thought it was my duty; it is not my fault that this terrible drama prevented me from doing what I believed to be right. I remember you once telling me that good resolutions are doomed, that they are always made too late. Mine is a case in point… ” “Good resolutions can only uselessly interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity, and their result is nil. From time to time, they give us a few luxurious, sterile emotions which possess a certain charm for the weak. That is what one can deduce from them.” They can be compared to checks a man would draw on a bank where he has no account. ‘Harry,’ cried Dorian Gray, coming to sit down beside him, ‘why can’t I feel this tragedy as I wish to? I’m not heartless, am I? ‘ ‘You’ve done too many foolish things in the last fortnight for you to be allowed to think yourself so, Dorian,’ replied Lord Henry with his gentle, melancholy smile. The young man frowned. ‘I don’t like that explanation, Harry,’ he continued, ‘but it pleases me to hear that you don’t think me heartless; I really am not, I know that… And yet I realize that I am not affected by it as I ought to be; it seems to me merely the wonderful epilogue to a wonderful drama. It has all the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I played a large part, but in which I was not harmed.’ “Yes, indeed, it is an interesting question,” said Lord Henry, who took exquisite pleasure in playing on the unconscious selfishness of the adolescent, “an extremely interesting question… I imagine the only explanation is this. It often happens that the real tragedies of life unfold in such an unartistic way that they wound us with their raw violence, their utter incoherence, their absurd need to signify something, their complete lack of style. They affect us just as vulgarity does; they give us an impression of pure brute force, and we revolt against it. Sometimes, however, a tragedy possessing artistic elements of beauty passes through our lives; if these elements of beauty are real, it appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. We suddenly find ourselves not the actors, but the spectators of the play, or rather, we are both. We watch ourselves, and the sheer interest of the spectacle seduces us. What really happened in the case at hand?” A woman killed herself for love of you. I’m glad such a thing never happened to me; it would have made me love love for the rest of my life. My days. The women who adored me—they weren’t many, but there were some—wanted to continue, even though I had long since ceased to pay attention to them, or they to pay attention to me. They’ve grown fat and tiresome, and when I meet them, they launch into the chapter of reminiscences…. Oh! The terrible memory of women! What a frightening thing! What perfect intellectual stagnation it reveals! One can retain the color of life in one’s memory, but one cannot remember the details, always vulgar…. “I’ll sow poppies in my garden,” Dorian sighed. “I don’t see the need,” replied his companion. “Life always holds poppies in its hands. Certainly, from time to time, things last. Once, I wore nothing but violets for a whole season, as an artistic way of mourning a passion that refused to die. Finally, it died; I don’t know what killed it.” I think it was the proposition to sacrifice the whole world for me; it’s always a tiresome moment: it fills you with the terror of eternity. Well , would you believe it, a week ago I was at Lady Hampshire’s, sitting at dinner near the lady in question, and she insisted on starting all over again, clearing away the past and raking the future. I had buried my novel in a bed of asphodels; she claimed to be exhuming it and assured me that I hadn’t spoiled her life. I ‘m allowed to believe she ate enormously; so I felt no anxiety at all…. But what a lack of taste she showed! The only charm of the past is that it is the past, and women never know when the curtain has fallen; they always demand a sixth act, and propose to continue the show when the interest has gone away…. If they were allowed to do as they pleased, every comedy would end tragically, and every tragedy would end in farce. They are exquisitely artificial, but they have no sense of art. You are happier than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that none of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane has done for you. Ordinary women always find solace, some by wearing sentimental colors. Never place your trust in a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age, or in a thirty-five-year-old woman fond of pink ribbons; it always means they’ve had affairs. Others find great consolation in the unexpected discovery of their husbands’ good qualities. They parade their marital bliss as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religion consoles still others. Its mysteries have all the charm of flirtation, a woman once told me, and I can understand why. Besides, nothing makes you feel so vain as telling yourself you are a sinner. Conscience makes us selfish…. Yes, there really is no end to the consolations women find in modern life, and I haven’t even mentioned the most important one yet. ‘What is it, Harry?’ the young man asked indifferently. ‘The obvious consolation: taking on a new admirer when you lose one. In good society, it always makes a woman younger…. But really, Dorian, how unlike Sibyl Vane must have been to the women we meet. There is something absolutely beautiful about her death. I am glad to live in a century where such miracles occur . They make us believe in the reality of the things we play with, like the novel, passion, love…. ‘I was quite cruel to her, you forget that…. ‘I am certain that women appreciate cruelty, real cruelty, more than anything else. They have admirable primal instincts.’ We have emancipated them, but they have nonetheless remained slaves seeking their masters; they like to be dominated. I’m sure you were splendid! I’ve never seen you in a real rage, but I imagine how charming you must be. And besides, you told me something the day before yesterday, which seemed a bit fanciful to me then, but which I now feel is perfectly true, and which gives me the key to everything…. –What was it, Harry? –You told me that Sibyl Vane played all the heroines of novels for you, that one evening she was Desdemona, and another, Ophelia, that she died like Juliet, and was resurrected like Imogene! –She’ll never be resurrected now, said the young man, his face in his hands. –No, she’ll never be resurrected; she’s played her last part…. But you must think of that solitary death in that glittering box as if it were a strange, mournful fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as if it were a surprising scene by Webster, Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. This young girl never truly lived, and she never died…. She was always like a dream to you…, like that phantom who appears in Shakespeare’s plays, making them more delightful by her presence, like a reed through which Shakespeare’s music flows, enriched with joy and sound. She spoiled her life the moment she entered it, and life spoiled her; she died from it…. Weep for Ophelia, if you will; cover your brow with ashes because Cordelia was strangled; curse heaven because Brabantio’s daughter is dead, but do not waste your tears on the corpse of Sibyl Vane; she was less real than those others…. A silence followed. Twilight darkened the room; silently, on velvet steps, shadows slipped into the garden. The colors of objects faded lazily. After a few minutes, Dorian Gray raised his head. “You explained it to me, Harry,” he murmured with a sigh of relief. “I felt everything you said, but somehow I was frightened by it and didn’t dare express it to myself. How well you know me!… But we won’t speak of what happened again ; it was a wonderful experience, that’s all. I don’t think life has anything so wonderful in store for me yet. ” “Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing, with your extraordinary beauty, that you are not capable of doing. ” “But think, Harry, that I will become grotesque, old, wrinkled!… So?” “Then,” Lord Henry continued, rising, “then, my dear Dorian, you will have to fight for your victories; at present, they are handed to you . You must keep your beauty. We live in an age that reads too much to be wise and thinks too much to be beautiful.” We can’t do without you… Now, the best thing for you to do is get dressed and go down to the club. We ‘re rather late, as you can see. –I think I’ll meet you at the Opera, Harry. I’m too tired to eat anything. What’s your sister’s box number? –Twenty-seven, I believe. It’s in the front row; you’ll see her name on the door? I’m sorry you can’t come for dinner. –It’s simply not possible, said Dorian casually… I’m very much indebted to you for everything you’ve said to me; you’re certainly my best friend; no one has ever understood me like you. –We’re only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian, replied Lord Henry, shaking his hand. Goodbye. I hope to see you before half past nine. Remember that Patti sings…. As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray rang, and after a moment, Victor appeared with the lamps and drew back the blinds. Dorian was growing impatient, wishing he were already gone, and it seemed to him that Victor was taking forever…. As soon as he was out, he rushed to the screen and discovered The painting. No! Nothing new had changed in the portrait; he had known of Sibyl Vane’s death before he did; he knew the events of life as they unfolded. The wicked cruelty that marred the delicate lines of her mouth had appeared, no doubt, at the very moment the young girl drank the poison… Or was he indifferent to events? Did he simply know what transpired in her soul? He marveled, hoping that one day he would see the change occur before his eyes, and this thought made him shudder. Poor Sibyl! What a story it had been! She had often mimed death on stage. Death had touched her and taken her with it. How had she acted out that final, terrifying scene? Had she cursed him as she died? No! She had died for love of him, and love, from now on, would be a sacrament to her. She had redeemed everything by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He no longer wanted to think about what she had made him feel that terrible evening at the theater. When he thought of her, it would be as if she were a magnificent tragic figure sent onto the world stage to reveal the supreme reality of Love. A magnificent tragic figure! Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembered her childlike air, her gentle and capricious manner, her fierce and trembling grace. He quickly held them back and looked again at the portrait. He felt that the time had come, this time, to make his choice. Hadn’t his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided for him… life, and also the fierce curiosity he felt for it… Eternal youth, infinite passion, subtle and secret pleasures, ardent joys and even more ardent sins—all these things he was destined to experience. The portrait would bear the weight of his shame, that was all!… A pang of pain pierced his heart as he thought of the disintegration his beautiful face, painted on the canvas, would undergo. Once, in a childish act of Narcissus’s mockery, he had kissed, or pretended to kiss, those painted lips, which now smiled at him so cruelly. For days and days, he had sat before his portrait, marveling at its beauty, almost enamored of it, as it seemed to him many times…. Must it now be altered with every sin he succumbed to? Would it become a monstrous and disgusting object to be hidden away in some locked room, far from the sunlight that had so often licked the brilliant gold of his wavy hair? What immeasurable derision! For a moment, he thought of praying for the horrible sympathy between him and the portrait to cease. A prayer had done so; Perhaps a prayer could destroy it?… However, who, knowing life, would hesitate, in order to preserve the chance of remaining forever young, however fantastic that chance might seem, to risk the consequences that this choice could entail?… Besides, did it depend on his will?… Was it truly prayer that had produced this substitution? Could no scientific reason explain it? If thought could exert an influence on a living organism, could this influence not also be exerted on dead or inorganic things? Could not these things, external to ourselves, without conscious thought or desire, vibrate in unison with our moods or passions, atom calling to atom in a secret love or a strange affinity? But the reason was irrelevant. He would no longer attempt such a terrible power through prayer. If the painting were to deteriorate, nothing could prevent it. That was clear. Why delve into it further? For there would be genuine pleasure in watching for this change? He could follow his mind into its secret thoughts; this portrait would be the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed his own body, it would reveal his own soul. And when the winter of life came, in the portrait, he would remain on the shivering edge of spring and of summer. When blood rushed to his face, leaving behind a pallid, chalky mask with leaden eyes, he would retain the splendor of adolescence. No bloom of his youth would wither; the pulse of his life would not weaken. Like the gods of Greece, he would be strong, and light, and joyful. What could happen to the image painted on the canvas matter to him? He would be safe: everything was there!… Smiling, he replaced the screen in the position it occupied before the portrait and went into the room where his valet awaited him. An hour later, he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning back in his chair. Chapter 9. The next morning, while he was having breakfast, Basil Hallward entered. “I am very glad to find you, Dorian,” he said gravely. ” I
came last night and was told you were at the Opera. I knew it was impossible.” But I wish you had left me a note, telling me where you had gone. I had a very sad evening, fearing that one tragedy would be followed by another. You should have telegraphed me as soon as you heard about it. I read it by chance in the latest edition of the Globe at the club. I came here immediately and was truly sorry not to find you. I cannot tell you how heartbroken I was by it all. I know how you must be suffering. But where were you? Did you go to see the poor girl’s mother? Just a moment. I had thought of looking for you there. The address was in the paper. Somewhere in Euston Road, wasn’t it? But I was afraid of disturbing a grief I could not console. Poor woman! What a state she must have been in! Her only child!… What was she saying? –My dear Basil, what do I know? muttered Dorian Gray, taking small sips of pale yellow wine from a delicately rimmed, gilt Venetian glass, looking profoundly bored. “I was at the Opera; you should have come. I met Lady Gwendoline, Harry’s sister, for the first time. We were in her box. She’s quite charming, and Patti sang divinely. Don’t talk about horrible things. If you never talked about something, it would be as if it had never happened. It’s only expression, as Harry says, that gives things reality. I must say, that wasn’t the poor woman’s only child. There’s a son, a lovely boy, I believe. But he’s not in the theater. He’s a sailor, or something like that. And now tell me about yourself and what you’re painting? ” “You’ve been to the Opera?” said Hallward slowly, with a hint of sadness in his voice. You were at the Opera while Sibyl Vane lay dead in a squalid hovel? You can tell me about other charming women and Patti, who sang divinely, before the girl you loved even had the peace of a tomb to sleep in?… Don’t you think of the horrors reserved for that tiny lily-like body! –Stop, Basil, I don’t want to hear them! cried Dorian, rising to his feet . Don’t speak to me of such things. What’s done is done. The past is the past. –You call yesterday the past? –What happens in the present moment will belong to it. Only superficial people want years to free themselves from an emotion. A man in control of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, make them agreeable, and master them. “Dorian, this is horrible!… Something has completely changed you. You still look like that wonderful young man who came to my studio every day to pose for his portrait. But back then you were simple, natural, and tender. You were the least tainted.” Creatures. Now I don’t know what’s come over you. You speak as if you have neither heart nor pity. It’s Harry’s influence that’s done this, I can see it clearly…. The young man blushed and, going to the window, stood for a few moments gazing at the sunny, flowery lawn. “I owe Harry a great deal, Basil,” he said at last, “more than I owe you . You taught me nothing but to be vain. ” “Perfect?… and so I am punished for it, Dorian, or shall I be someday . ” “I don’t know what you mean, Basil,” he cried, turning around . “I don’t know what you want! What do you want?” “I would like to find the Dorian Gray I painted,” said the artist sadly. “Basil,” said the teenager, going to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, “you’ve come too late. Yesterday, when I learned that Sibyl Vane had committed suicide…. ” “Committed suicide, my God!” “Is that quite certain?” cried Hallward, looking at him with an expression of horror. “My dear Basil! Surely you didn’t think it was a mere accident. Certainly, she committed suicide. ” The other buried his head in his hands. “It’s frightening,” he murmured, as a shiver ran through him. “No,” said Dorian Gray, “it’s not frightening at all. It’s one of the greatest romantic tragedies of our time. Ordinarily, actors lead the most ordinary lives. They are good husbands, faithful wives, something dull; you understand, average virtue and all that goes with it. How different Sibyl was! She lived her greatest tragedy. She was constantly a heroine. The last night she acted, the night you saw her, she acted badly because she had understood the reality of love.” When she learned of her disappointments, she died as Juliet might have. In that respect, she still belonged to the realm of art. She has something of a martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic futility of martyrdom, all the beauty of desolation. But as I told you, don’t think I didn’t suffer. If you had come yesterday, at some point—around half past five perhaps, or a quarter to six—you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here and who, incidentally, brought me the news, wondered where I was going with this. I suffered intensely. Then it passed. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, for that matter, except sentimental people. And you are cruelly unfair, Basil: you come here to console me, which is charming of you ; you find me completely consoled and you are furious! Just like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life trying to right some wrong, or change some unjust law— I can’t remember exactly. Finally, he succeeded, and nothing could overcome his despair. He had absolutely nothing left to do but die of boredom, and he became a resolute misanthrope. Now, my dear Basil, if you truly wish to console me, teach me to forget what happened or to consider it from a rather artistic point of view. Wasn’t it Gautier who wrote about the Consolation of the Arts? I remember finding one day in your studio a small volume bound in vellum, from which I plucked that delightful phrase. Still, I am not like that young man you spoke of when we were together at Marlow, that young man who said that yellow satin could console us for all the miseries of existence. I love beautiful things that one can touch and hold: old brocades, green bronzes, lacquers, ivories, exquisitely worked, ornamented, adorned; there is much to be gained from these things. But the artistic temperament they create, or at least reveal, is even more important to me. To become the spectator of one’s own life, as Harry says, is to escape from earthly sufferings. I know I surprise you by speaking like this. You haven’t understood how I’ve grown. I was a schoolboy when you first knew me. I’m a man now, with new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I’m different, but you mustn’t love me any less. I’ve changed, but you’ll always be my friend. Of course, I love Harry very much; I know you’re better than him… You’re not stronger, you’re too afraid of life, but you’re better. How happy we were together! Don’t abandon me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me; I am what I am. There’s nothing more to say! The painter seemed singularly moved. The young man was very dear to him, and his personality had marked a turning point in his art. He couldn’t bear the thought of reproaching him any longer. After all, his indifference might only be a passing mood; There was so much kindness and nobility in him. “Well, Dorian,” he said at last, with a sad smile; “I won’t speak to you again about this horrible affair. I only hope your name won’t be involved. The inquiry is to take place this afternoon. Have you been summoned?” Dorian shook his head, and a look of boredom crossed his face at the word “inquiry.” There was something so brutal and vulgar about it! “They don’t know his name,” he replied. “But surely she did? ” “Only my first name, and I’m certain she never told anyone. She told me once that they were all very curious to know who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was Prince Charming. That was kind of her. You’ll have to make me a sketch of Sibyl, Basil.” I would like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and a few fragments of pathetic phrases. —I will try to do something, Dorian, if it pleases you. But you will have to come and pose for me again. I cannot do without you. —I can no longer pose for you, Basil. It is quite impossible! he cried, stepping back. The painter looked him in the face…. —My dear child, what nonsense! Would you say that what I have done of you does not please you? What is that about?… Why have you pushed the screen in front of your portrait? Let me look at it. It is the best thing I have ever done. Take down that screen, Dorian. It is truly discourteous of your servant to hide my work like this. It seemed to me that something was different here when I came in. —My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You do not imagine that I let him arrange my apartment. He arranges my flowers sometimes, and that’s all. No, I did that myself. The light fell too harshly on the portrait. —Too harshly, but not at all, dear friend. The exposure is admirable. Let me see…. And Hallward went to the corner of the room. A cry of terror escaped Dorian Gray’s lips. He darted between the painter and the screen. —Basil, he said, turning pale, you will not look at that, I will not . —Not look at my own work! You can’t be serious. Why shouldn’t I look at it? exclaimed Hallward, laughing. —If you try to look at it, Basil, I give you my word of honor that I will never speak to you again in my life!… I am quite serious, I offer you no explanation and you must not ask for one. But think about it, if you touch the screen, it’s all over between us!… Hallward was stunned. He stared at Dorian in utter astonishment. He had never seen him like this. The young man was pale with anger. His hands clenched, and the pupils of his eyes narrowed. two blue flames seemed to appear. A trembling ran through him…. “Dorian! ” “Don’t speak!” “But what is it? Certainly I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to,” he said rather coldly, turning on his heel and going to the window, “but it seems rather absurd to me that I shouldn’t be able to see my work, especially when I am going to exhibit it in Paris this autumn. I ‘ll probably have to give it another coat of varnish by then; so I should have it someday; why not now? ” “Exhibit it!… You want to exhibit it?” exclaimed Dorian Gray, overcome with a strange dread. “The world would see his secret? They would come and yawn at the mystery of his life? It was impossible! Something—he didn’t know what—would happen first…. ” “Yes, I don’t suppose you have anything to object to. Georges Petit is going to put together my best paintings for a special exhibition which will open on the rue de Sèze in the first week of October.” The portrait will only be out of here for a month; I think you can easily part with it for that time. Besides, you’ll surely be out of town. And if you always keep it behind a screen, you hardly have to worry about it. Dorian ran a hand over his sweat-beaded brow. He felt as if he were in some terrible danger. “You told me a month ago that you would never display it,” he cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You who are supposed to be steadfast have just as many whims as anyone else. The only difference is that your whims are meaningless. You can’t have forgotten that you solemnly assured me that nothing in the world could make you display it. You said exactly the same thing to Harry.” He stopped suddenly; a flash went through his eyes. He remembered Lord Henry once saying to him, half-seriously, half-laughing : “If you want to have a curious quarter of an hour, ask Basil why he won’t exhibit your portrait. He told me, and it was a revelation. Yes, Basil, too, perhaps, had his secret. He would try to find out what it was… ” “Basil,” he said, drawing close to him and looking him straight in the eye, “we each have a secret. Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine. Why did you refuse to exhibit my portrait? ” The painter shuddered in spite of himself. “Dorian, if I told you, you might love me less, and you would surely laugh at me; I could bear neither of those things.” If you wish me to never look at your portrait again, so be it … I may, at least, always look at you… If you wish my best work to be forever hidden from the world, I agree… Your friendship is dearer to me than any glory or fame. ‘No, Basil, you must tell me,’ insisted Dorian Gray, ‘I believe I have a right to know.’ His impression of terror had vanished and curiosity had taken its place. He was resolved to learn Basil Hallward’s secret. ‘Let us sit down, Dorian,’ said the troubled painter, ‘let us sit down; and answer my question. Have you noticed anything curious in the portrait? Something that probably didn’t strike you at first, but was suddenly revealed to you? ‘ ‘Basil!’ cried the young man, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands and looking at him with burning, frightened eyes. ‘I see you have noticed it… Don’t speak!’ Wait until you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the day I met you, your personality had an extraordinary influence on me. I was dominated, soul, mind, and talent, by you. You became for me the visible embodiment of that never-before-seen ideal, the thought of which haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I loved you; I became jealous. Of all those to whom you spoke, I wanted you all to myself; I was only happy when I was with you. When you were far from me, you were still present in my art… Of course, I never let you know any of this. It would have been impossible. You wouldn’t have understood; I myself scarcely understand it. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face , and the world became wondrous in my eyes, perhaps too wondrous, for there is a peril in such adoration, the peril of losing it, no less than that of preserving it… The weeks passed, and I became more and more absorbed in you. Then began a new phase. I had drawn you as a shepherd, Paris, clad in delicate armor, as an Adonis armed with a polished spear and in hunter’s garb. Crowned with heavy lotus blossoms, you had posed on the prow of Hadrian’s trireme , gazing beyond the green and muddy Nile. You had leaned over the limpid pond of a Greek landscape, gazing in the silver of the silent waters at the wonder of your own face. And all that had been what art could be: unconsciousness, idealism, approximation . One day, a fateful day I sometimes think about, I resolved to paint a splendid portrait of you as you are now, not in the costumes of bygone eras, but in your own clothes and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the subject or simply the idea of ​​your own personality, thus presenting itself to me unadorned and unveiled, I cannot say. But I know that while I was working on it, every brushstroke, every touch of color seemed to reveal my secret. I was afraid that everyone might know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had said too much, put too much of myself into this work. It was then that I resolved never to allow this portrait to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed by it. But then you didn’t realize what it all meant to me. Harry, to whom I spoke, laughed at me; I didn’t care . When the painting was finished and I sat alone before it , I felt I had been right… But a few days after it had left my studio, as soon as I was rid of the unbearable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been mad to imagine seeing anything in it other than your beauty, and more than I could ever paint. And even now I can’t help but feel the error of believing that the passion felt in the act of creation can ever be shown in the finished work. Art is always more abstract than we imagine. Form and color speak to us of form and color, that’s all. It often seems to me that the work conceals the artist far more than it reveals him. So when I received this offer from Paris, I resolved to make your portrait the centerpiece of my exhibition. I never suspected you could refuse me. I see now that you were right. This portrait cannot be shown. You mustn’t hold it against me, Dorian, for everything I’ve just said. As I once told Harry, you are meant to be loved…. Dorian Gray sighed deeply. His cheeks flushed again, and a smile played on his lips. The danger had passed. He was safe for the moment. He couldn’t, however, suppress an infinite pity for the painter who had just made such a strange confession, and he wondered if he himself could ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had this charm of being very dangerous, but that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be truly loved. Could there ever be someone who would fill him with such a strange idolatry? Was this one of those things life had in store for him?… –It seems extraordinary to me, Dorian, said Hallward, that you have “I really saw that in the portrait. Did you really see it? ” “I saw something in it,” he replied, “something that seemed very curious to me. ” “Well, will you admit now that I’m going to look at it? ” Dorian shook his head. “You mustn’t ask me that, Basil. I really can’t leave you face to face with that painting. ” “Will you ever manage it? ” “Never! ” “Perhaps you’re right. And now, goodbye, Dorian. You ‘ve been the only person in my life who has truly influenced my talent. Everything good I’ve done, I owe to you. Ah! You don’t know how much it costs me to tell you all this!” “My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what did you say? Simply that you felt you admired me too much… That’s not even a compliment. ” “It couldn’t be a compliment. It was a confession; now that I’ve made it, it seems to me that something of me has gone with it.” Perhaps one shouldn’t express adoration in words. –That was a very disappointing confession. –What were you expecting, Dorian? Didn’t you see anything else in the painting? There was nothing else to see… –No, there was nothing more to see. Why ask? But you mustn’t speak of adoration. It’s madness. You and I are friends ; we must leave it at that… –You still have Harry! said the painter sadly. –Oh, Harry! cried the teenager with a burst of laughter; Harry spends his days saying incredible things and his evenings doing unbelievable things. Just the kind of life I’d like. But I don’t think I’ll go to Harry in a moment of embarrassment; I’ll come to you at once, Basil. –Will you pose for me again? –Impossible! –You’re ruining my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man ever meets his ideal twice; very few are even lucky enough to meet him once. ‘I can give you no explanation, Basil; I must not pose for you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own…. I will come and have tea with you. It will be just as pleasant. ‘ ‘More pleasant for you, I’m afraid,’ murmured Hallward sadly . ‘And now goodbye. I am sorry you will not let me look at the picture again. But there is nothing we can do about it. I understand perfectly how you feel.’ When he had left, Dorian smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew the real reason! And how strange it was that, instead of being forced to reveal his own secret, he had managed, almost by chance, to wrest his friend’s secret from him! How this astonishing confession explained it to him! The painter’s absurd fits of jealousy, his fierce devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticence—he understood it all now, and it displeased him. It seemed to him that there might be something tragic in such a romanticized friendship. He sighed, then rang the bell. The portrait had to be hidden at all costs. He could no longer risk revealing it to prying eyes. It had been sheer folly on his part to leave it, even for an hour, in a room where all his friends had free access. Chapter 10. When the servant entered, he observed him closely, wondering if the man had been curious enough to look behind the screen. The valet was perfectly impassive and awaited his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked to the mirror, in which he gazed. He could see Victor’s face perfectly reflected there. It was a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to fear on that front. However, he thought it wise to remain vigilant. He told her, in a very low voice, to ask the housekeeper to come and speak to her and then go to the framer and ask him to send her Immediately, two of his men. It seemed to him, when the footman left, that his eyes were directed toward the screen. Or perhaps it was simply a trick of his imagination? A few moments later, Mrs. Leaf, dressed in her black silk gown, her wrinkled hands covered in old-fashioned mittens, entered the library. He asked her for the key to the study. “The old study, Mr. Dorian?” she exclaimed, “but it’s full of dust! I must have it put in order and cleaned before you go in. It’s not presentable for you, sir, not at all. ” “I don’t need it to be in order, Leaf. I simply need the key…” “But, sir, you’ll be covered in cobwebs if you go in there. What! It hasn’t been opened for five years, not since His Lordship died.” He flinched at the mention of his grandfather. He had retained a dreadful memory of him . “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I only need to see this room, that’s all. Give me the key.” “Here’s the key, sir,” said the old woman , feverishly searching her keyring. “Here’s the key. I’ll have it taken from the keyring at once. But I don’t think you intend to live up there, sir; you’re so comfortable here.” “No, no,” he cried impatiently. “Thank you, Leaf. That’s very good. ” She lingered for a moment, quite talkative about some details of the household. He sighed and told her to do as she pleased. She withdrew, simpering. When the door had closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked around. His gaze fell upon a large purple satin bedspread, laden with heavy gold embroidery, a splendid seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, it could serve to wrap the horrible object. Perhaps this cloth had already served as a funeral pall. Now it was a matter of covering something that had its own corruption, worse even than the corruption of death, something capable of engendering horror and yet would never die. What worms are to a corpse, its sins would be to the image painted on the canvas. They would destroy its beauty and gnaw at its grace. They would defile it, cover it with shame… And yet the image would endure; it would always be alive. He blushed and regretted for a moment not having told Basil the true reason why he wished to hide the painting. Basil would have helped him resist the influence of Lord Henry and the even more poisonous influences of his own temperament. The love he bore him—for it was truly love—was nothing but noble and intellectual. It wasn’t the mere physical admiration of beauty that arises from the senses and dies with their weariness. It was the kind of love known to Michelangelo, Montaigne, Winckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could be obliterated. Regret, denial, or oblivion could do that. But the future was inevitable. There were passions within him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would cast upon him the shadow of their perverse reality. He took from the daybed the large silk and gold drapery that covered him and, throwing it over his arm, passed behind the screen. Was the portrait more hideous than before? It seemed to him that it hadn’t changed, and his aversion to it was only increased. The golden hair, the blue eyes, and the red roses of the lips—everything was there. Only the expression was different. It was horrific in its cruelty. Compared to all the reproaches and censure he saw there, How futile Basil’s remonstrances about Sibyl Vane seemed to him ! How futile and of little interest! His own soul looked down at him from that canvas and judged him. An expression of sorrow crossed his face, and he threw the rich shroud over the painting. At that very moment, there was a knock at the door; he was passing to the other side of the screen when his servant entered. “The framers are here, sir.” It seemed to him that he should first send this man away. He mustn’t know where the painting would be hidden. There was something deceitful about him; his eyes were restless and treacherous. Sitting down at his table, he wrote a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at a quarter past eight in the evening. “Wait for the reply,” he said, handing the note to the servant, “and then show these men in.” Two minutes later, there was another knock at the door, and Mr. Hubbard himself, the famous frame-maker of South Audley Street, entered with a forbidding-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a small, flourishing man with reddish sideburns, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the financial shortcomings of the artists who dealt with him. He usually never left his shop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception for Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed everyone. Just seeing him was a joy. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbing his fleshy, freckled hands together. “I thought I should take the honor of asking you in person. I happen to have a beautiful frame, sir, a find from a sale. An old Florentine.” This, I believe, comes from Fonthill… It would suit a religious subject admirably, Mr. Gray. —I’m sorry you took the trouble to come up, Mr. Hubbard. I’ll go and see the frame, certainly, though I’m hardly a fan of religious art at the moment, but today I only wanted to have a picture carried up to the very top of the house. It’s quite heavy, and I was thinking of asking you to lend me two of your men. —No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. Always happy to be of service. What is this work of art? —Here it is, replied Dorian, folding back the screen. Can you carry it as it is, with its cover? I wish it not to be damaged in the process. —That’s very easy, sir, said the illustrious frame-maker, setting about, with the help of his apprentice, detaching the picture from the long copper chains from which it was suspended. And where shall we take it, Mr. Gray? “I’ll show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you’ll follow me. Or perhaps you’d be better off going ahead. I’m afraid it’s quite a climb; we’ll take the wider front staircase . ” He opened the door for them, they crossed the hall, and began to ascend. The frame’s ornamentation made the painting very bulky, and from time to time, despite Mr. Hubbard’s obsequious protests—he, like all merchants, took great displeasure at seeing a gentleman doing something useful—Dorian gave them a helping hand. “It’s quite a load to carry up, sir,” said the little man, panting, when they reached the top landing. He was mopping his bare brow. “I think it is very heavy indeed,” murmured Dorian, opening the door to the room that was to hold the strange secret of his life and conceal his soul from the eyes of men. He hadn’t been in that room for over four years, no, not since it had served as his playroom as a child, and later as a study. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which Lord Kelso had had built especially for her grandson, for this child whom his striking resemblance to his mother, and other reasons, had always made her hate and keep at a distance. It seemed to Dorian that she had changed little. There it was, the vast Italian cassone with its gilded and tarnished moldings, its panels with fantastical paintings, in which he had so often hidden as a child. There were still the varnished wooden shelves filled with schoolbooks with dog-eared pages. Behind it hung on the wall the same torn Flemish tapestry, where a faded king and queen played chess in a garden, while a company of falconers galloped in the background, holding their hooded birds at the tips of their gloved fists. How it all came flooding back to him! Every moment of his solitary childhood was evoked as he looked around . He remembered the spotless purity of his childhood and it seemed horrible to him that the fateful portrait should be hidden in this place. How little he could have imagined, in those distant days, all that life had in store for him! But there was no other room in the house so far removed from prying eyes. He had the key; no one but him could enter. Beneath its silken shroud, the face painted on the canvas might become bestial, bloated, foul. What did it matter? No one would see it. He himself wouldn’t want to look at it… Why should he watch over the hideous corruption of his soul? He would keep his youth; that was enough. And, after all, couldn’t his character be improved? There was no reason for the future to be so full of shame. Some love might cross his path, purify him, and deliver him from the sins already creeping around him in spirit and flesh—those strange, undescribed sins to which mystery lends its charm and subtlety. Perhaps one day the cruel expression would abandon the sensitive, scarlet mouth, and he could then show the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece. But no, that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the painted image would age: it might escape the hideousness of vice, but the hideousness of age lay in wait. The cheeks would become hollow and flabby. Yellow crow’s feet would encircle the withered eyes, marking them with a horrible stigma. The hair would lose its shine; the drooping, half-open mouth would take on that coarse or ridiculous expression that old people have. She would have the wrinkled neck, the hands with thick blue veins, the crooked body of that grandfather who had been so harsh with him in his childhood. The painting had to be hidden from view. It couldn’t be otherwise. “Bring it in, please, Mr. Hubbard,” he said with difficulty, turning away. “I’m sorry to keep you so long; I was thinking of something else. ” “Always happy to rest, Mr. Gray,” said the framer , still puffing. “Where shall we put it? ” “Oh! Anywhere here… that will do. I don’t need it hung. Just lean it against the wall; thank you. ” “May we look at this work of art, sir?” Dorian flinched. “You wouldn’t be interested, Mr. Hubbard,” he said, his eyes never leaving him . He was ready to pounce and knock him to the ground had he tried to lift the sumptuous veil that concealed the secret of his life. “I don’t want to bother you any longer. I am most obliged to you for your kindness in coming here.” “Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Always ready to serve you!” And Mr. Hubbard hurried down the stairs, followed by his assistant, who was looking at Dorian with fearful astonishment reflected in his coarse, ungainly features. Never had he seen anyone so wonderfully handsome. When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian closed the door and put the key in his pocket. He was safe. No one could look. The hideous painting. No eye but his could see its shame. Returning to his library, he noticed it was past five o’clock and tea had already been served. On a small, fragrant black wooden table, delicately inlaid with mother-of-pearl—a gift from Lady Radley, his guardian’s wife, a charming, professionally ill woman who spent every winter in Cairo—lay a note from Lord Henry with a yellow-bound book, its cover slightly torn and its edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of the St. James’s Gazette lay on the tea tray. Victor had obviously returned. He wondered if he had not met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and inquired of them what they had been up to. He would surely notice the painting’s absence; indeed, he probably had already noticed it when bringing the tea. The screen was not yet back in place, and there was an empty space on the wall. Perhaps one night he would catch him creeping to the top of the house and trying to force open the bedroom door. It was dreadful to have a spy in one’s own home. He had heard of wealthy people exploited their entire lives by a servant who had read a letter, overheard a conversation, picked up a card with an address, or found a withered flower or a scrap of lace under a pillow . He sighed, poured himself some tea, and opened Lord Henry’s letter. It simply stated that he was sending him the newspaper and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at 8:15 . He casually opened the St. James’s Gazette and skimmed through it. A mark in red pencil caught his eye on the fifth page. He read carefully the following paragraph: INQUIRY INTO AN ACTRESS—An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, into the death of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Theatre Royal, Holborn. It was concluded that death was accidental. Much sympathy was shown to the deceased’s mother, who appeared very distressed while giving her testimony, and to Dr. Birrell, who drew up the young woman’s death certificate. He grew somber and, tearing the sheet in two, began pacing the room, trampling the pieces of newspaper. How dreadful it all was! What true horror things create! He was a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him this report. It was stupid of him to have marked it in red pencil. Victor could have read it. That man knew enough English to do so. Perhaps he had even read it and suspected something? After all, what did it matter? What connection was there between Dorian Gray and the death of Sibyl Vane? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. His eyes fell upon the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. He wondered what it was. He approached the small, pearl-hued, octagonal stand, which always seemed to him to be the work of some strange Egyptian bees working in silver; and taking the volume, he settled himself in an armchair and began to leaf through it; after a moment, he was absorbed in it. It was the strangest book he had ever read. It seemed to him that, to the delicate sounds of exquisitely dressed flutes, the sins of the world were passing before him in a silent procession. What he had dimly dreamed was taking shape before his eyes; Things he had never imagined were gradually revealed to him. It was a novel without a plot, with a single character, a simple psychological study of a young Parisian who occupied his life trying to embody, in the nineteenth century, all the passions and ways of thinking of other centuries, and to summarize within himself the states of mind through which the world had passed, loving these things for their sheer artificiality. Renunciations that men had foolishly called Virtues, as well as those natural rebellions that wise men still call Sins. The style was curiously chiseled, lively and obscure at once, full of slang and archaisms, technical expressions and carefully crafted sentences, like that which characterizes the works of those fine artists of the French school: the Symbolists. It contained metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in their colors. The lives of the destitute were described in terms of mystical philosophy. At times, one no longer knew whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of a medieval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisoned book. Heavy fumes of incense rose from its pages, clouding the mind. The simple rhythm of the sentences, the strange monotony of their music, full of intricate refrains and meticulously repeated movements, evoked in the young man’s mind, as the chapters unfolded , a kind of reverie, a morbid dream, rendering him oblivious to the falling of day and the encroaching shadows. A cloudless, grayish-green sky, punctuated by a solitary star, lit the windows. He read by this pale light for as long as he was able . Finally, after his servant had repeatedly reminded him of the late hour, he got up, went to the next room to place the book on the small Florentine table he always kept by his bed, and dressed for dinner. It was nearly nine o’clock when he arrived at the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone in the drawing-room, looking very annoyed. “I’m very sorry, Harry!” he shouted at him, “But it’s entirely your fault! The book you sent me interested me so much that I lost track of time. ” “Yes, I thought you would have liked it,” replied his host, rising. “I don’t say I liked it, I say I found it interesting; there’s a great difference. ” “Ah! You’ve discovered that!” murmured Lord Henry. And they went into the dining room. Chapter 11. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book; it might perhaps be more accurate to say that he never thought of freeing himself from it. He had nine wide-margined copies of the first edition brought from Paris and bound in different colors, so that they might correspond to his varied moods and the changing whims of his character, over which, at times, he seemed to have lost all control. The book’s hero, the young and prodigious Parisian in whom romantic and scientific influences had so strangely intertwined, became to him a kind of prefiguration of himself; and in truth, the book seemed to him to be the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. From a certain point of view, he was more fortunate than the fantastic hero of the novel. He never knew—and never had any reason to know—that indefinable and grotesque horror of mirrors, of polished metal surfaces, of still waters, which came so early into the young Parisian’s life following the premature decline of a beauty that had once been so remarkable. It was almost with a cruel joy—does not cruelty find its place in all joy as in all pleasure?—that he read the last part of the volume, with its truly tragic and somewhat emphatic analysis of the sadness and despair of one who loses what he himself has most dearly valued in others and in the world. For the marvelous beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others with him, never seemed to abandon him. Even those who had heard the most unusual tales about him, and although, from time to time, strange rumors circulated about his way of life In London, becoming the talk of the clubs, they couldn’t believe his disgrace when they saw him. He still had the appearance of someone untouched by the world. Men who usually spoke crudely among themselves fell silent when they caught sight of him. There was something in the purity of his face that made them quiet. His mere presence seemed to remind them of the innocence they had tarnished. They marveled that such a graceful and charming being could have escaped the stain of an era that was at once so sordid and so sensual. Often, upon returning home from one of his mysterious and prolonged absences—absences that gave rise to so much speculation among those who were his friends, or who thought themselves to be—he would creep upstairs to the locked room, unlock the door with a key he never left behind, and there, mirror in hand, facing Basil Hallward’s portrait, he would compare the aging, malevolent face painted on the canvas with his own face, which seemed to smile back at him in the mirror. The sharpness of the contrast heightened his pleasure. He became increasingly enamored of his own beauty, increasingly interested in the decay of his soul. He examined with meticulous care, and sometimes with terrible, monstrous delight, the hideous stigmata that disfigured that wrinkled brow or twisted around the thick, sensual mouth, wondering which were more horrible, signs of sin or marks of age…. He placed his white hands beside the rough, puffy hands of the painting, and smiled…. He mocked the deforming body and the weary limbs. Sometimes, however, in the evening, lying awake in his room imbued with delicate perfumes, or in the squalid garret of the disreputable little tavern near the Docks, which he was accustomed to frequenting in disguise and under a false name, he thought of the ruin he was bringing upon his soul, with a despair all the more poignant for being purely selfish. But these moments were rare. This curiosity about life, which Lord Henry had first instilled in him while they sat in the garden of their painter friend, seemed to grow with relish. The more he knew, the more he wanted to know. He had voracious appetites, which became more insatiable the more he satisfied them. However, he did not abandon all contact with the world. Once or twice a month during the winter, and every Wednesday evening during the warmer months, he opened his splendid home to guests and had the most celebrated musicians of the day charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His intimate dinner parties, in the preparation of which Lord Henry assisted, were noted as much for the careful selection and rank of those invited as for the exquisite taste displayed in the table setting, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, its embroidered tablecloths, and its antique silver and gold tableware . There were many among the young men who saw, or thought they saw, in Dorian Gray the true embodiment of the type they had often dreamed of in their youth at Eton or Oxford, the type combining something of the student’s genuine culture with the grace, distinction, or perfect manners of a man of the world. He seemed to them to be one of those of whom Dante speaks, one of those who seek to perfect themselves through the worship of Beauty. Like Gautier, he was one for whom the visible world truly exists… And certainly, Life was for him the first, the greatest of the arts, the one for which all others appear to be merely preparation. Fashion, by which what is truly fantastic becomes a universal moment, and Dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to proclaim the absolute modernity of Beauty, had, naturally, captured his attention. His manner of dressing, the particular ways that, of From time to time, he affected a certain air, and had a marked influence on the young socialites at Mayfair balls or in the club windows of Pall Mall, who copied him in everything and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his grace; this, moreover, seemed to him secondary and foolish. For, although he was ready to accept the position offered to him upon entering society, and although he found, in truth, a curious pleasure in the thought that he could become for modern London what, in the imperial Rome of Nero, the author of the Satyricon had still been, deep down, he desired to be more than a mere Arbiter Elegantiarum, consulted on the wearing of a jewel, the knot of a tie, or the handling of a cane. He sought to elaborate some new way of life that would have its own reasoned philosophy, its ordered principles, and would find its highest realization in the spiritualization of the senses. The cult of the senses has often, and quite rightly, been decried, men feeling instinctively terrified by passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and which they are aware of confronting with less highly organized forms of existence. But it seemed to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, that men had remained brutish and savage because the world had sought to starve them through submission or annihilate them through pain, instead of aspiring to make them the elements of a new spirituality, of which a subtle instinct for Beauty was the dominant characteristic. As he imagined man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of defeat…. So many had been vanquished, and for such a petty end. There had been willful and mad defections, monstrous forms of self-torture and renunciation, born of fear, and resulting in a degradation infinitely more terrible than the imagined degradation they had, in their ignorance, sought to avoid. Nature, in its marvelous irony, made the anchorite feed on desert animals and gave the hermit the beasts of the plains for companions. Certainly, there could be, as Lord Harry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that would recreate life and draw it out of the crude and unpleasant puritanism that is reviving in our time. This would be a matter for the intellectual, certainly; no theory, no system involving the sacrifice of a passionate mode of experience was to be accepted . Its aim, truly, was experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, whatever they might be, sweet or bitter. No more consideration should be given to asceticism, which brings about the death of the senses, than to vulgar debauchery, which dulls them; but man had to be taught to concentrate his will on the moments of a life which is itself only a moment. There are few among us who have not sometimes awakened before dawn, or after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamored of death, or after one of those nights of horror and formless joy, when, through the cells of the brain, phantoms more terrible than reality itself slip by , animated by that ardent life proper to all grotesques, and which lends Gothic art its enduring vitality—this art being, one might believe, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled by the disease of reverie… Gradually, white fingers creep through the curtains, which seem to tremble… In shadowy, fantastical forms, mute shadows conceal themselves in the corners of the room and crouch there… Outside, there is the awakening of birds among the leaves, the footsteps of workmen going to their jobs, or the sighs and sobs of the wind blowing from the hills, wandering around the house silent, as if he feared to awaken the sleepers, who would then have to recall the slumber of his purple cellar. Veils and veils of fine, dark gauze rise, and by degrees, things regain their shapes and colors, and we watch for the dawn remaking the world anew. The pale mirrors regain their mimetic life. The extinguished candles are where we left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book we were reading, or the mounted flower we wore to the ball, or the letter we were afraid to read or that we read too often…. Nothing seems to have changed. From the unreal shadows of the night, the real life we ​​once knew resurfaces. We must remember where we left it; And then a terrible feeling of the necessary continuity of energy in some tedious circle of stereotyped habits seizes us , or perhaps a wild desire that our eyelids should one morning open onto a world that had been remade anew in the darkness for our pleasure—a world in which things would have new shapes and new colors, which would be changed, which would have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, no survival, even in the conscious form of obligation or regret, the very remembrance of joys having its bitterness, and the memory of pleasures, its pains. It was the creation of such worlds that seemed to Dorian Gray, one of the few, the very purpose of life; in his pursuit of sensations, it would be new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness so essential to the novel; He would adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be foreign to his nature, would not abandon them to their captivating influences, and, having thus grasped their nuances and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, would leave them with that skeptical indifference which is not incompatible with a genuine ardor of temperament and which is even, according to some modern psychologists, a necessary condition for it. Rumors circulated for some time that he was going to embrace Roman Catholic communion; and certainly the Roman ritual had always held a great attraction for him. The daily Sacrifice, more terribly real than all the sacrifices of the ancient world, attracted him as much by its superb disdain for the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy it seeks to symbolize. He loved to kneel on the cold marble paving stones and watch the priest, in his stiff, flowered dalmatic, slowly parting the tabernacle veil with his white hands, or raising the jeweled monstrance containing the pale host that one might sometimes believe to be, in truth, the panis coelestis, the bread of angels—or, clothed in the attributes of Christ’s Passion, breaking the host in the chalice and striking his breast for his sins. The smoking censers, which children dressed in lace and scarlet swung solemnly in the air like great golden flowers, captivated him immensely. As
he left, he would marvel at the dimly lit confessionals and linger in the shadow of one of them, listening to the men and women whisper through the worn grille the true story of their lives. But he never fell into the error of halting his intellectual development through the formal acceptance of a belief or system, nor did he take as his permanent home an inn barely suitable for a single night or a few hours of a moonless , starless night. Mysticism, with its marvelous power to imbue commonplace things with strangeness, and the subtle antinomy that always seems to accompany it, stirred him for a time… For a time, too, he leaned toward the materialist doctrines of German Darwinism, and found a curious pleasure in placing the thoughts and the passions of men in some pearly cell of the brain, or in some white nerve of the body, indulging in the concept of the absolute dependence of the mind on certain physical conditions, morbid or sanitary, normal or diseased. But, as has already been said, no theory about life seemed to him to have any importance compared to Life itself. He was profoundly aware of the sterility of intellectual speculation when separated from action and experience. He perceived that the senses, no less than the soul, also had their spiritual and revealed mysteries. He began to study perfumes, and the secrets of their preparation, distilling powerfully perfumed oils himself, or burning fragrant gums from the Orient. He understood that there was no disposition of mind that did not find its counterpart in sensory life , and tried to discover their true relationships; Thus, incense seemed to him the scent of mystics and ambergris, that of passionate lovers; violet evokes the memory of lost loves, musk drives one mad, and champac perverts the imagination. He often attempted to establish a psychology of perfumes, and to assess the various influences of sweet, fragrant roots, flowers laden with perfumed pollen, aromatic balms, dark scented woods, Indian spikenard which makes one ill, hovenia which drives men mad, and aloe, which is said to drive melancholy from the soul. At other times, he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long, latticed room with a vermilion and gold ceiling and olive-green lacquered walls, he gave strange concerts where mad gypsies drew ardent music from small zithers, where solemn Tunisians in yellow tartans coaxed sounds from the stretched strings of monstrous lutes, while sneering negroes beat monotonously on copper drums, and thin Indians crouching on scarlet mats, wearing turbans, blew into long reed or bronze pipes, charming, or pretending to charm, enormous hooded snakes or horrible horned vipers. The harsh intervals and sharp dissonances of this barbaric music awoke him when the grace of Schubert, the beautiful melancholies of Chopin , and the celestial harmonies of Beethoven could not move him. He collected from every corner of the world the strangest instruments he could find, even in the tombs of dead peoples or among the few savage tribes that had survived Western civilization , and he loved to touch them, to try them out. He possessed the mysterious juruparis of the Indians of the Rio Black person, which women are not allowed to see, and which young men can only contemplate after they have been subjected to fasting and flagellation ; the earthenware jars of the Peruvians from which sounds like the piercing cries of birds are drawn; the flutes made of human bones like those Alfonso de Olvalle heard in Chile; and the resonant green jaspers found near Cuzco, which give a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles, which resonated when shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which the musician must not blow, but draw the air; the rough ture of the Amazon tribes, from which the sentinels perched all day in high trees sound, and which, it is said, can be heard three leagues away ; the teponaztli with two vibrating wooden tongues, which are beaten with rushes coated with an elastic gum obtained from the milky sap of plants; Astec bells, called yolt, gathered in clusters, and a large cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of large snakes similar to the one seen by Bernal Diaz when he entered the Mexican temple with Cortez, and of which he left us such a vivid description of the painful sound . The fantastical nature of these instruments charmed him, and he experienced a strange joy in thinking that art, like nature, had its monsters, things of bestial form with hideous voices. However, after a while, they bored him, and he would go to his box at the Opera, alone or with Lord Henry, to listen, ecstatic with happiness, to Tannhäuser, seeing in the overture of the masterpiece the prelude to the tragedy of his own soul. A fancy for jewels seized him, and one day he appeared at a ball disguised as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, wearing a costume covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste obsessed him for years , and one can believe that it never left him. He often spent entire days arranging and rearranging in their boxes the various stones he had collected: for example, the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red in the lamplight, the cymophane with its silver threads, the pistachio-colored peridot, the pink and yellow topazes, the carbuncles of a fiery scarlet with trembling four-rayed stars, the flame-red cinnamon stones , the orange and violet spinels, and the amethysts with alternating layers of ruby ​​and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, the pearly whiteness of the moonstone, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He had three emeralds of extraordinary size and incomparable richness of color brought from Amsterdam, and he had a turquoise of the old rock that was the envy of all connoisseurs. He also discovered marvelous stories of precious stones…. In Alfonso’s Clericalis Disciplina, there is mention of a serpent with eyes of true hyacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, it is said that the conqueror of Emathia found serpents in the Jordan Valley wearing emerald necklaces on their backs. Philostratus recounts that there was a gem in the brain of a dragon which, by displaying letters of gold and a purple robe, could lull the monster to sleep and kill it. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de Boniface, a diamond made a man invisible, and Indian agate made him eloquent. Carnelian soothed anger, hyacinth induced sleep, and amethyst dispelled the fumes of drunkenness. Garnet drove away demons , and hydropicus changed the moon’s color. Selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and meloceus, which revealed thieves, could only be tarnished by the blood of a kid. Leonardo Camillus saw a white stone found in the brain of a freshly killed toad, which was a sure antidote to poisons; the bezoar found in the heart of an antelope was a charm against the plague; according to Democritus, the aspilates found in the nests of Arabian birds protected their wearers from all danger from fire. The King of Ceylon rode through the city with a large ruby ​​in his hand for his coronation ceremony. The doors of John the Priest’s palace were made of sardonyx, in the center of which was inlaid the horn of a horned viper, ensuring that no man carrying poison could enter. On the pediment were two golden apples, each containing a carbuncle, so that the gold shone by day and the carbuncles lit up the night. In Lodge’s strange novel, *A Pearl of America*, it is written that in the queen’s chamber, one could see all the chaste women of the world, dressed in silver, gazing through beautiful mirrors of chrysolite, carbuncle, sapphire, and green emerald. Marco Polo saw the inhabitants of Zipango place pink pearls in the mouths of the dead. A sea monster had fallen in love with a pearl that a diver brought back. King Perozes had killed the thief and wept for seven moons over the loss of the jewel. When the Huns lured the king into a great pit, he flew away, Procopius tells us, and was never found, although Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred tons of gold coins to whoever discovered him. The King of Malabar showed a certain Venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for each god he worshipped. When the Duke of Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of France, his horse was covered in gold leaf, if we are to believe Brantôme, and his hat wore a double row of rubies that gave off a brilliant light. Charles of England rode with stirrups set with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a suit, valued at thirty thousand marks, covered in balsam rubies. Hall describes Henry VIII going to the Tower before his coronation, wearing a doublet trimmed with gold, the breastplate embroidered with diamonds and other rich jewels, and around his neck a large baldric adorned with enormous brooms. The favorites of James I wore emerald earrings held by gold filigree. Edward II gave Piers Gaveston red gold armor studded with hyacinths, a necklace of gold roses set with turquoise, and a pearl-encrusted helmet. Henry II wore jeweled gloves reaching to the elbow and had a falconry glove sewn with twenty rubies and fifty-two pearls. The ducal hat of Charles the Bold, the last Duke of Burgundy, was laden with pear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires. What exquisite life was that of old! What magnificence in pomp and decoration! It still seemed wonderful to read, those luxurious splendors of bygone times! Then he turned his attention to the embroideries and tapestries that served as frescoes in the icy halls of the northern nations. As he became absorbed in this subject—he had always had an extraordinary ability to completely absorb his mind into whatever he undertook—he grew somber at the thought of the ruin that time brought upon beautiful and prestigious things. He, however, had escaped it… Summers followed summers, and the yellow daffodils had bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, and he had not changed! No winter marred his face, tarnished his floral purity. What a difference from material things! Where were they now? Where was the beautiful crocus-colored robe, for which the gods had fought the giants, which dark-haired maidens had woven for Athena’s pleasure?… Where was the enormous velarium that Nero had unfurled before the Colosseum in Rome, that titanic purple sail on which were depicted the starry heavens and Apollo driving his chariot of white steeds with golden reins?… He lingered to look at the curious tablecloths brought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were placed all the delicacies and meats needed for the feasts, the funeral pall of King Chilperic embroidered with three hundred golden bees, the fantastic robes that aroused the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, on which were depicted lions, panthers, bears, mastiffs, forests, rocks, hunters—in short, everything a painter can copy from nature—and the costume once worn by Charles of Orléans, whose sleeves were adorned with worms of a song beginning with: Madam, I am so happy…. The musical accompaniment to the words was woven in gold thread, and each note, having the square shape of time, was made of four pearls…. He read the description of the furnishings of the room that was prepared at Reims for Queen Jeanne of Burgundy; it was decorated with thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots embroidered and emblazoned with the King’s arms, in addition to five hundred and sixty-one butterflies whose wings bore the The queen’s coat of arms, all in gold. Catherine de Medici had a mourning bed made for her of black velvet strewn with crescent moons and suns. The curtains were of damask; on their gold and silver fields were embroidered wreaths of greenery and garlands, the edges fringed with pearls, and the chamber containing this bed was surrounded by mottoes cut from black velvet and placed on a silver background. Louis XIV had caryatids dressed in gold, fifteen feet high, in his palaces. The lit de justice of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of gold brocade from Smyrna sewn with turquoise, and upon it, verses from the Koran. Its supports were of gilded silver, marvelously worked, lavishly adorned with enameled medallions or precious stones. It had been captured near Vienna in a Turkish camp, and the banner of Muhammad had flown beneath the shimmering gold of its canopy. For a whole year, Dorian was passionate about accumulating the most delightful specimens he could find of textile art and embroidery; he acquired the adorable Delhi muslins finely woven with gold palms and studded with iridescent scarab wings; the Deccan gauzes, whose transparency is called in the East woven air, running water or evening dew; strange historiated fabrics from Java; skillfully worked yellow Chinese tapestries ; books bound in tawny satin or prestigious blue silk , bearing on their covers fleurs-de-lis, birds, figures; Hungarian point lace, Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian embroideries with gilt corners and Japanese Fukusas in shades of green gold, full of birds with multicolored and dazzling plumage. He also had a particular passion for ecclesiastical vestments , as he did for everything related to the service of the Church. In the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had collected rare and marvelous specimens of what are truly the garments of the Bride of Christ, who must clothe herself in purple, jewels, and fine linens with which she conceals her body , weakened by self-mortification, worn down by self-imposed suffering, and wounded by the self-inflicted injuries. He owned a sumptuous cope of crimson silk and damask gold, adorned with a continuous design of golden pomegranates resting on six-petaled flowers surrounded by pine cones encrusted with pearls. The orphreys depicted scenes from the life of the Virgin, and her Coronation was embroidered at the head with colored silks; it was an Italian work of the 15th century. Another cope was of green velvet, brocaded with corded acanthus leaves from which long-stemmed white flowers were attached; the details were worked in silver thread and colored crystals were found there; a head of a Seraphim was depicted, worked in gold thread; the orphreys were dappled with red and gold silks, and strewn with medallions of several saints and martyrs, among them Saint Sebastian. He also had chasubles of amber-colored silk, brocades of gold and blue silk, damasks of yellow silk, gold fabrics depicting the Passion and the Crucifixion, embroidered with lions, peacocks, and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask , decorated with tulips, dolphins, and fleurs-de-lis; altar cloths of scarlet velvet and blue linen; Corpora, chalice veils, maniples… Something piqued his imagination at the thought of the mystical uses to which all these things might have been put. For these treasures, all these things he collected in his charming home, were a means of oblivion, a way for him to escape, for a time, certain terrors he could not bear. On the walls of the solitary, locked room where his entire childhood had been spent. When the ordeal had happened, he had hung from his hands the terrible portrait whose shifting features revealed to him the true degradation of his life, and before it, as a curtain, he had placed a pallium of purple and gold. For weeks he did not visit it, trying to forget the hideous thing painted, and regaining his lightheartedness of heart and carefree joy, he plunged passionately back into life. Then, one night, he would slip out of his house and go to the dreadful vicinity of the Blue Gate Fields, and he would stay there for days until he was driven out. Upon his return, he would sit opposite the portrait, alternately vomiting up its image and himself, though at other times filled with that pride of individualism which is half a fascination with sin, and smiling, with secret pleasure, at the formless shadow bearing the burden that should have been his. After a few years, he could no longer stay away from England and sold the villa he shared in Trouville with Lord Henry, as well as the small white-walled house he owned in Algiers where they had spent more than one winter. He couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from the painting, which held such a prominent place in his life, and he was terrified at the thought that someone might enter the room during his absence, despite the bars he had installed on the door. He felt, however, that the portrait would tell no one anything, although beneath the depravity and ugliness of its features, it bore a striking resemblance to him; but what could it possibly teach someone who saw it? He would laugh at those who tried to mock him. He hadn’t painted it himself; what could such vileness and shame matter to him? Would anyone even believe him if he admitted it? He feared something, despite everything… Sometimes, when he was at his Nottinghamshire home, surrounded by the elegant young men of his class, of whom he was the acknowledged leader, astonishing the county with his unrestrained luxury and the incredible splendor of his lifestyle, he would suddenly leave his hosts and run abruptly into town to make sure the door hadn’t been forced and that the painting was still there… What if it had been stolen? The thought filled him with horror! The world would then know his secret… Didn’t he already? For although he fascinated most people, many despised him. He was almost blacklisted from a West End club, of which his birth and social standing entitled him to be a member, and it was said that once, upon being ushered into a drawing room at the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman rose and left immediately in a manner that was noticed. Strange stories circulated about him when he was over twenty-five. It was rumored that he had been seen quarreling with foreign sailors in a disreputable tavern near Whitechapel, that he associated with thieves and counterfeiters and knew the secrets of their trade. His extraordinary absences became notorious, and when he reappeared in society, men would talk to one another in corners, or pass by him sneering, or look at him with cold, searching eyes as if determined to discover his secret. He paid no attention to these insolences and this lack of respect; Moreover, in the opinion of most people, his frank and good-natured manner, his charming childlike smile, and the boundless grace of his marvelous youth seemed a sufficient answer to the calumnies, as they called them, that circulated about him. It was noticed, however, that those who had appeared to be his closest friends now seemed to shun him. The women who had fiercely adored him, and, for his sake, had braved social censure and defied propriety, turned pale with shame or horror when he entered the room. where they were. But these whispered scandals, on the contrary, increased his strange and dangerous charm for some. His great fortune was a source of security for him. Society, civilized society at least, finds it difficult to believe anything bad about those who are rich and handsome. It instinctively feels that manners are of greater importance than morality, and, in its eyes, the highest respectability is of less value than having a good leader. It is truly poor consolation to tell oneself that a man who has given you a bad dinner, or made you drink questionable wine, has an irreproachable private life. Even the practice of the cardinal virtues cannot redeem half-baked starters, as Lord Henry, speaking one day on this subject, remarked, and there is indeed much to be said on this subject, for the rules of good society are, or could be, the same as those of art. Form is absolutely essential. It might have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and might combine the insincerity of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I don’t think so. It is simply a method by which we can multiply our personalities. This, at least, was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He marveled at the shallow psychology that conceives of the Self in man as something simple, permanent, trustworthy , and of a certain essence. For him, man was a being composed of myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex and multiform creature who carried within him strange legacies of doubt and passion, and whose very flesh was infected with the monstrous diseases of death. He loved to wander in the cold, bare picture gallery of his country house, contemplating the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, of whom Francis Osborne says in his Memoirs on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James that he was cherished by the court for his handsome face, which he did not long retain… Was it the life of young Herbert that he sometimes continued?… Had some strange, poisonous germ been passed down from generation to generation to him? Was it not some obscure remnant of that withered grace that had made him so suddenly and almost without cause, utter in Basil Hallward’s studio that mad prayer that had changed his life?…
There, in a red doublet embroidered with gold, in a cloak covered with jewels, his ruff and cuffs studded with gold, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver and sand armor at his feet. What had been this man’s legacy? Had he left her, this lover of Giovanna of Naples, an inheritance of sin and shame? Were they simply his own actions, the dreams this dead man had not dared to realize? On a muted canvas, Lady Elizabeth Devereux smiled, her gauze headdress , her laced pearl bodice, her sleeves slashed with pink satin. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped a necklace enameled with white Damask roses. On the table beside her lay an apple and a mandolin. There were large green rosettes on her small pointed shoes. He knew her life and the strange stories that were known of her lovers. Was something of her temperament in him? Her oval eyes with their heavy lids seemed to be watching him curiously. And that George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and his fantastic beauty patches! What a nasty look he had! His face was tanned and Saturnian, and his sensual lips curled disdainfully. On his yellow, gaunt hands, laden with rings, hung cuffs of precious lace. He had been one of the dandies of the eighteenth century and, in his youth, a friend of Lord Ferrars. What to make of this second Lord Beckenham, companion of the Prince Regent in his darkest days and one of the witnesses to his secret marriage to Mrs. Fitz Herbert?… How proud and handsome he looked, with his chestnut hair and insolent bearing! What passions had he instilled in him? The world had judged him infamous; he was a regular at the orgies of Carlton House. The Star of the Garter shone on his chest…. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pale creature with thin lips, dressed in black. Her blood, too, flowed in him. How curious it all seemed to him! And his mother, who resembled Lady Hamilton, his mother with moist lips, red as wine!… He knew what he inherited from her! She had bequeathed him her beauty, and her passion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in a loose Bacchante’s robe; there were vine leaves in her hair, a stream of purple flowed from the cup she held. The flesh tones in the painting were muted, but the eyes were still marvelous in their depth and the brilliance of their color. They seemed to follow him as he walked. We have ancestors in literature, as well as in our own race, perhaps even closer in type and temperament, and many have an influence on you of which you are aware. It sometimes seemed to Dorian Gray that the history of the world was only that of his life, not as if he had lived it in actions and deeds, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain, in his passions. He imagined that he had known them all, those strange and terrible figures who had passed upon the world’s stage, who made sin so seductive, and evil so subtle; it seemed to him that by mysterious ways, their lives had been his own. The hero of the marvelous novel that had so influenced his life had himself known these strange dreams; In the seventh chapter, he recounts how, crowned with laurels to protect himself from lightning, he sat like Tiberius in a garden at Capri, reading Elephantine’s obscene books while dwarves and peacocks strutted around him, and the flute player mocked the incense burner… Like Caligula, he had caroused in the stables with the green-shirted grooms and dined in an ivory manger with a horse whose forehead was adorned with jewels… Like Domitian, he had wandered through corridors lined with marble mirrors, his eyes wild at the thought of the knife that would end his days, sick with that boredom, that terrible tedium vitae, which comes to those to whom life has denied nothing. He had peered, through a clear emerald, at the red carnage of the Circus, and, in a litter of pearls and purple , which was pulled by silver-shod mules, he had been carried by the Via Pomegranates to the House of Gold, and heard, as he passed, men shout: Nero Caesar!… Like Heliogabalus, he had painted his face, and among women, had spun the distaff, and brought the Moon from Carthage, to unite it with the Sun in a mystical marriage. Again and again, Dorian reread this fantastical chapter, and the two following chapters, in which, as in a curious tapestry or with skillfully inlaid enamels, were painted the terrible and beautiful figures of those whom Vice, Blood, and Weariness had made monstrous and demented: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who killed his wife and stained her lips with scarlet poison, so that her lover would suck death by kissing the dead thing he idolized; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul II, who vainly wanted to take the title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used greyhounds to hunt men, and whose bruised corpse was covered with roses by a prostitute who had loved him!… And the Borgia on his white horse, the Fratricide galloping beside him , his cloak stained with Perot’s blood; Pietro Ratio, the young cardinal archbishop of Florence, child and favorite of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was matched only by his debauchery, and who received L’honora d’argon under a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, while caressing a young boy whom he used at parties like Gamma or Halas; Zeppelin, whose melancholy could only be cured by the spectacle of death, having a passion for blood, as others have for wine—Ezzelin, son of the devil, it was said, who cheated his father at dice, when he was gambling with his soul!… And L’abattissent Ciao, who mockingly took the name of innocent, into whose torpid veins was infused, by a Jewish doctor, the blood of three adolescents; Sigismondo Malatesta, the Dansotta lover, and the lord of Rimini , whose effigy was burned in Rome as an enemy of God and men, who strangled Polissonna with a towel, made Givra d’Ester drink poison from an emerald cup, and built a pagan church for the worship of Christ, in honor of a shameful passion!… And this Charles VI, who loved his brother’s wife so savagely that a leper warned of the crime he was about to commit, this Charles VI whose demented passion could only be cured by Saracen cards on which were painted the images of Love, Death, and Madness !
And he still remembered, in his ornate doublet, his hat adorned with jewels, his hair curled like acanthus leaves, Griffonnait Baguions, who killed Astre and his fiancée, Simplette and her page, but whose grace was such that, when he was found dying in the yellow square of Perlouse, those who hated him could only weep, and those who had cursed him, swallowed him, blessed him!… A horrible fascination emanated from them all! He saw them at night, and by day they troubled his imagination. The Renaissance knew strange ways of poisoning: by a helmet or a lit torch, by an embroidered glove or a diamond fan, by a golden scent ball, or by an amber chain…. Dorian Gray, however, had been poisoned by a book!… There were times when he simply regarded Evil as a necessary means to the realization of his concept of Beauty. Chapter 12. It was November 9th, the day before his thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered later. He was leaving Lord Henry’s house around eleven o’clock, where he had dined, wrapped in thick furs, the night being very cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man passed close by him in the fog, walking very quickly, the collar of his gray chandelier turned up. He had a suitcase in his hand. Dorian recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange feeling of fear, which he could not explain, came over him. He made no sign of recognition and quickly continued on his way in the direction of his house…. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian caught sight of him stopping on the pavement and calling out to him. A few moments later, his hand was resting on his arm. “Dorian! What extraordinary luck! I’ve been waiting for you in your library until nine o’clock.” Finally, I took pity on your tired servant and told him to go to bed as I left. I am seeing you in Paris on the midnight train, and I was particularly keen to see you before my departure. It seemed to me that it was you, or at least your fur, when we passed each other. But I wasn’t sure. Didn’t you recognize me? –It’s foggy, my dear Basil; I could hardly make out Grosvenor Square. I believe my house is here somewhere, but I’m not at all certain. I’m sorry you’re leaving, for it has been ages since I last saw you. But I suppose you “You will return soon.” “No, I shall be away from England for six months; I intend to take a studio in Paris and retire there until I have finished a great painting I have in my head. However, it was not about myself that I wished to speak to you. Here we are at your door. Allow me to come in a moment; I have something to tell you. ” “I am delighted. But won’t you miss your train?” said Dorian Gray casually, going up the steps and opening his door with his master key. The lamplight struggled against the fog; Hallward took out his watch. “I have all the time in the world,” he replied. “The train doesn’t leave until fifteen past midnight , and it is barely eleven. Besides, I was on my way to the club to fetch you when I met you. You see, I will not wait for my luggage; I have sent it ahead; I have only this suitcase with me, and I can easily go to Victoria in twenty minutes.” Dorian looked at him and smiled. “What traveling attire for an elegant painter! A Gladstone suitcase and a chandelier! Come in, for the fog will soon fill the hall. And remember, we mustn’t speak of serious matters. There’s nothing serious today, or at least nothing can be. ” Hallward shook his head as he entered and followed Dorian into the library. A bright wood fire blazed in the large fireplace. The lamps were lit, and an open silver Dutch liquor cabinet , soda siphons, and large cut-crystal glasses were arranged on a small marquetry table. “You see, your servant has made me feel right at home, Dorian. He’s given me everything I need, including your finest gold-tipped cigarettes. He’s a very hospitable fellow, whom I like better than that Frenchman you had. What became of that Frenchman, by the way?” Dorian shrugged. “I believe he married Lady Radley’s maid and established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomania is all the rage there, it seems. It’s rather foolish of the French, isn’t it? But, all things considered, he wasn’t a bad servant. I never liked him, but I never had cause to complain. People often imagine absurd things. He was very devoted to me and seemed very distressed when he left. Another brandy and soda? Do you prefer Rhine wine to seltzer? I always have some. There’s certainly some in the next room.” “Thank you, I don’t want anything else,” said the painter, taking off his hat and coat and throwing them over the suitcase he had placed in a corner. ” And
now, my dear friend, I want to speak to you seriously. Don’t sulk like that; you’re making my task more difficult… ” “What is it?” “Dorian cried out with his usual vivacity, throwing himself onto the sofa. ‘I hope it’s not about me. I’m tired of myself tonight. I wish I were someone else. ‘ ‘It’s about you,’ Hallward replied in a deep, earnest voice. ‘I must tell you. I’ll only have half an hour with you. ‘ Dorian sighed, lit a cigarette, and murmured, ‘Half an hour! ‘ ‘That’s not too long to question you, Dorian, and it’s entirely in your own interest that I speak. I think it’s good that you know the horrible things being said about you in London. ‘ ‘I don’t wish to know them. I like scandals about others, but those about me don’t interest me at all. They have no merit of novelty. They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in his good name. ‘” You don’t want to be talked about as vile and degraded. Of course, you have your position, your wealth, and all that. But position and wealth aren’t everything. You think Although I don’t believe these rumors. And besides, I can’t believe them when I see you. Vice is written all over a man’s face. It cannot be hidden. People sometimes speak of secret vices; there are no secret vices. If a corrupt man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the drooping of his eyelids, or even in the shape of his hands. Someone—I won’t say his name, but you know him—came last year to ask me to paint his portrait. I had never seen him and had heard nothing about him; I’ve heard about him since. He offered me an exorbitant price; I refused. There was something about the shape of his fingers that I hated. I know now that I was perfectly right in my assumptions: his life is a horror. But you, Dorian, with your pure, radiant, innocent face, with your marvelous and unaltered youth, I can believe nothing against you. And yet I see you very rarely; you never come to my studio anymore, and when I am away from you, when I hear these hideous whispers about you, I no longer know what to say. How is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the club’s drawing room as soon as you enter? Why do so many people in London refuse to visit you or invite you to their homes? You were a friend of Lord Tavelé. I met him at dinner last week. Your name was mentioned in the conversation about those miniatures you lent to the Duale exhibition. Tavelé made a disdainful face and said that you might perhaps have a great deal of artistic taste, but that you were a man whom no pure young girl could be allowed to know and whom no chaste woman could be placed in the presence of. I reminded him that I was one of your friends and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me to my face, in front of everyone. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? Look… That poor boy who served in the Guards and committed suicide—you were his great friend. And Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with his name tarnished; you and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his sad end? What about Lord Kent’s only son and his ruined career? I met his father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and grief. And what about the young pair from Perth? What kind of life have they led me now? What gentleman would want them as a friend?… “Stop, Basil,” said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, “you’re talking about things you know nothing about.” And with a hint of utter contempt in his voice: “You ask me why Berwick is leaving a place I’m arriving at? It’s because I know his whole life story, not because he knows anything about mine. With blood like his, how could his story possibly be sincere? You question me about Henry Ashton and young Perd. Did I teach one his vices and the other his debauchery? If Kent’s foolish son takes his wife off the street, is that my fault? If Arien Single signs his friends’ names on his tickets, am I his guardian? I know how people gossip in England. The middle class puts on a show of their moral prejudices over dessert, and whispers to each other what they call the libertinism of their superiors, so as to give the impression that they are part of high society and on the best of terms with those they slander.” In this country, all it takes is for a man to have distinction and intelligence for any malicious tongue to attack him. And what sort of lives do these people who pose as paragons of morality lead? My dear friend, you forget that we are in the birthplace of hypocrisy. –Dorian, cried Hallward, that is not the point. England is Quite vile, I know, and English society is entirely to blame. That’s precisely why I need to know you are pure. And you haven’t been. Or one has the right to judge a man by the influence he has on his friends: yours seem to have lost all sense of honor, of goodness, of purity. You have filled them with a madness of pleasure. They have tumbled into abysses; you have left them there. Yes, you have abandoned them there, and you can still smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse. I know that you and Harry are inseparable; and for that reason, if not for some other, you should not have made a laughingstock of his sister’s name. –Be careful, Basil, you are going too far!… –I must speak, and you must listen! You will listen!… When you met Lady Gwendoline, not a breath of scandal had touched her. Is there a single respectable woman in London today who would want to be seen in a car with her in the Park? What, even her own children can’t live with her! Then there are other stories: they say you’ve been seen at dawn, slipping out of infamous houses and stealthily, disguised, into the filthiest dens of London. Are these stories true? Could they be true?… When I first heard them, I burst out laughing. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. What is your country house like , and what kind of life do you lead there?… Dorian, you don’t know what people are saying about you. I hardly need to tell you that I don’t want to lecture you. I remember Harry once saying that every man who fancies himself a preacher always starts by saying that and then immediately breaks his word. I want to give you a lecture. I would like to see you lead a life that would earn you the respect of the world. I would like you to have an untarnished name and a pure reputation. I would like you to rid yourself of these horrible people who keep you in your company. Don’t shrug your shoulders like that… Don’t remain so indifferent… Your influence is great; use it for good, not evil. It is said that you corrupt all those who become your close friends and that the mere fact that you enter a house is enough for all the shame to follow you. I don’t know if it’s true or not. How could I know? But it is said. I have been given details that seem impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my closest friends at Oxford. He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him, dying and isolated in her villa in Menton. Your name was mixed up in the most terrible confession I have ever read. I told him it was absurd, that I knew you perfectly well and that you were incapable of such things. Know you! I would like to know you! But before I could answer that, I would have had to see your soul. ‘See my soul!’ murmured Dorian Gray, rising up before the sofa and turning pale with terror. ‘Yes,’ replied Hallward gravely, with deep emotion in his voice, ‘see your soul… But only God can see it!’ A laugh of bitter mockery fell from the lips of the younger of the two. ‘You will see it yourself tonight!’ he cried, seizing the lamp. ‘ Come, it is the work of your own hands. Why don’t you look at it? You can tell everyone afterward, if you like. No one will believe you. And if they do believe you, they will love me all the more. I know our times better than you, though you gossip about them so tediously. Come, I tell you! You have held forth enough on corruption.’ Now you will see her face to face!… There was a kind of mad pride in every word he uttered. He stamped his foot with his usual childish insolence. He felt a terrifying joy at the thought that another would share his secret and that the man who had painted the picture, The source of his shame, he would be burdened all his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. “Yes,” he continued, approaching him and looking him straight in his stern eyes. “I will show you my soul! You will see that thing which, according to you, is given only God to see!…” Hallward recoiled… “This is blasphemy, Dorian!” he cried. “Such things must not be said ! They are horrible and mean nothing… ” “You think so?” He laughed again. “I am sure of it. As for what I told you this evening, it was for your own good. You know that I have always been a devoted friend to you. ” “Do not come near me! Finish what you have to say…” A painful contortion altered the painter’s features. He paused for a moment, and a burning compassion overwhelmed him. What right did he have, after all, to interfere in Dorian Gray’s life? If he had done a tenth of what was said about him, how he must have suffered!… Then he straightened up, walked to the fireplace, and standing before the fire, considered the burning logs with their frost-white ashes and the flickering flames. “I’m waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a harsh, high voice. He turned around…. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. ” You must give me an answer to the horrible accusations made against you. If you tell me they are entirely false from beginning to end, I will believe you. Refute them, Dorian, refute them! Can’t you see what will become of me? My God! Don’t tell me you’re wicked, and corrupt, and covered in shame!”… Dorian Gray smiled; his lips curled in a smirk of satisfaction. “Come up with me, Basil,” he said quietly; “I keep a journal of my life day by day, and it never leaves the room where it is written; I will show it to you if you come with me. ” “I will go with you if you wish, Dorian… I realize I have missed my train… It doesn’t matter, I will leave tomorrow. But don’t ask me to read anything tonight. All I need is an answer to my question. ” “It will be given to you up there; I cannot give it to you here. It is not long to read…” Chapter 13. He left the room and began to climb the stairs, Basil Hallward following closely behind. They walked softly, as one instinctively does at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and the stairs. A rising wind rattled the windows. When they reached the upper landing, Dorian placed the lamp on the floor, and taking his key, turned it in the lock. “You insist on knowing, Basil?” he asked in a low voice. “Yes! ” “I’m glad,” he replied, smiling. Then he added rather rudely, “You’re the only man in the world who has the right to know everything about me. You’ve played a bigger role in my life than you realize . ” And taking the lamp, he opened the door and entered. A cold draft enveloped them, and the flame, flickering for a moment, took on a dark orange hue. He shuddered… “Close the door behind you,” he breathed, placing the lamp on the table. Hallward looked around, deeply astonished. The room appeared uninhabited for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, a painting covered with a veil, an old Italian cassone, and a large, empty bookcase were its only furnishings, along with a chair and a table. As Dorian lit a half- burned candle on the mantelpiece, he saw that everything in the room was covered in dust and the carpet was in tatters. A mouse scurried away in fright behind the wainscoting. There was a damp, musty smell. “So, you believe that only God can see the soul, Basil? Draw back this curtain, and you’ll see mine!” His voice was cold and cruel. “Are you mad, Dorian, or are you acting?” murmured the painter, frowning. “You dare not? I’ll take it down myself,” said the young man, tearing the curtain from its rod and throwing it onto the floor. A cry of horror burst from the painter’s lips when, in the dim lamplight, he saw the hideous face that seemed to grimace on the canvas. There was something in that expression that filled him with disgust and dread. Heavens! Could that be the face, the very face of Dorian Gray? The horror, however, had not entirely spoiled that marvelous beauty. Gold remained in the thinning hair, and the sensual mouth still retained some of its scarlet. The swollen eyes retained something of their original azure purity, and the elegant curves of the finely chiseled nostrils and powerfully sculpted neck had not entirely vanished. Yes, it was indeed Dorian himself. But who had done this? He thought he recognized his own painting, and the frame was indeed the one he had designed. The idea was monstrous, he was terrified! He seized the candle and held it up to the canvas. In the left corner, his name was written in tall letters of pure vermilion. It was a hideous parody, an infamous, vile satire! He had never done anything like this. Yet, it was indeed his own painting. He
knew it, and it seemed to him that his blood, which had been burning just moments before, suddenly turned cold. His own painting! What did it mean ? Why this transformation? He turned, looking at Dorian with the eyes of a madman. His lips trembled, and his parched tongue could not utter a single word. He ran his hand over his forehead; it was damp with a cold sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantelpiece, watching him with that strange expression one sees on the face of those absorbed in the performance when a great artist is playing. It was neither true sorrow nor true joy. It was the expression of a spectator, with, perhaps, a glint of triumph in his eyes. He had removed the flower from his buttonhole and was sniffing it affectedly. “What does all this mean?” cried Hallward at last. His own voice rang with a brightness unaccustomed to his ears. “Years ago, when I was a child,” said Dorian Gray, crumpling the flower in his hand, “you met me, flattered me , and taught me to be vain of my beauty.” One day, you introduced me to one of your friends, who explained to me the miracle of youth, and you painted this portrait which revealed to me the miracle of beauty. In a moment of madness that, even now, I don’t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, which you might call a prayer…. –I remember! Oh! How I remember! No! It’s an impossible thing…. This room is damp, mold has taken hold on the canvas. The colors I used were of some poor composition…. I tell you, this thing is impossible! –Ah! What is impossible? murmured the young man, going to the window and pressing his forehead against the frosted glass. –You told me you had destroyed it? –I was wrong, it destroyed me! –I cannot believe that this is my painting. –Can’t you see your ideal in it? said Dorian bitterly. “My ideal, as you call it… As you used to call it!… There was nothing wrong with it, nothing shameful; you were for me an ideal such as I shall never meet again… And this is the face of a satyr. ” “It is the face of my soul!” “Lord! What a thing I have idolized! These are the eyes of a demon!” “Each of us carries heaven and hell within us, Basil,” cried Dorian, with a fierce gesture of despair. Hallward turned back to the portrait and considered it. “My God! If this is true,” he said, “and if this is what you have done with your life, you must be even more corrupt than those who speak against you imagine !” He brought the candle closer again to examine the canvas more closely. The surface seemed to have undergone no change; it was just as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the shame and horror had come. By means of some strange inner life, the leprosy of sin seemed to be eating away at this face. The rot of a body at the bottom of a damp tomb was less frightening!… His hand trembled, and the candle fell from the candlestick onto the rug, where it shattered. He stepped on it, pushing it away. Then he sank into the armchair by the table and buried his face in his hands. “Good heavens! Dorian, what a lesson! What a terrible lesson!” There was no reply, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. “Let us pray! Dorian, let us pray!” he murmured. “What were we taught to say in our childhood? ‘Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins, cleanse us of our iniquities!’ Let us say it together. The prayer of your pride has been heard; the prayer of your repentance will be heard too! I worshipped you too much! I am punished for it. You loved yourself too much… We are both punished! ” Dorian Gray turned slowly and looked at him with eyes darkened by tears. “It is too late, Basil,” he stammered. “It is never too late, Dorian! Let us kneel and try to remember a prayer. Is there not a verse that says: Though your sins are like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow? ” “Those words have no meaning for me now! ” “Ah!” Don’t say that. You’ve done enough harm in your life. My God! Can’t you see that damned face staring back at us? Dorian Gray looked at the portrait, and suddenly, an indefinable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward seized him, as if suggested to him by that painted figure on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grimacing lips…. The savage instincts of a hunted beast awoke within him, and he hated that man sitting at that table more than anything else in his life!… He looked fiercely around him…. An object glittered on the painted chest opposite him. His eye fell upon it. He remembered what it was: a knife he had assembled a few days before to cut a rope and had forgotten to take back. He moved forward quietly, passing close to Hallward. Reaching the back of the man, he took the knife and turned around. Hallward made a movement as if to rise from his chair. Dorian leaped at him, plunged the knife behind his ear, severing his carotid artery, smashing his head against the table, and striking furiously. There was a muffled groan and the horrible sound of blood in his throat. Three times both arms shot convulsively up, grotesquely waving two hands with clenched fingers in the air. He struck twice more, but the man didn’t move. Something began to trickle onto the floor. He paused for a moment, still pressing down on the head. Then he threw the knife onto the table and listened. He heard nothing but the sound of droplets falling gently onto the worn carpet. He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. The house was completely quiet. There was no one there. For a few moments, he remained leaning over the banister, trying to pierce the deep, silent darkness of the void. Then he took the key out of the lock, went back inside, and locked himself in the room… The man was still sitting in the armchair, lying against the table, his head bowed, his back bent, with his long, fantastical arms. Were it not for the gaping, red hole in his neck and the small pool of clots … The dark patches spreading across the table made one think the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all happened! He felt strangely calm, and going to the window, he opened it and stepped onto the balcony. The wind had swept away the fog, and the sky was like the monstrous tail of a peacock, studded with myriad golden eyes. He looked into the street and saw a policeman making his rounds, casting long beams of light from his lantern onto the doors of the silent houses. The crimson glow of a prowling coupé lit up the corner of the street, then vanished. A woman wrapped in a flowing shawl crept slowly along the railings of the square; she staggered forward. From time to time, she stopped to look behind her; then, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman ran to her and spoke to her. She stumbled away, bursting into laughter. A harsh wind swept across the square. The gaslights flickered, pallid, and the bare trees clattered their rusty branches. He shivered and went back inside, closing the window. Reaching the door, he turned the key in the lock and opened it. He hadn’t even glanced at the murdered man. He felt that keeping it a secret wouldn’t change his situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery was due was gone from his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was of curious Moorish workmanship, made of solid silver inlaid with burnished steel arabesques and adorned with large turquoise stones. Perhaps his servant would notice its absence and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then went back inside and took it from the table. He couldn’t help but stare at the dead man. How still he was! How horribly white his long hands were ! He was a frightening wax figure… Having closed the door behind him, he descended the stairs quietly. The steps creaked beneath his feet as if they were groaning. He stopped several times and waited… No, all was still… It was only the sound of his footsteps… When he reached the library, he spotted the suitcase and the overcoat in a corner. They had to be hidden somewhere. He opened a secret cupboard concealed in the wood paneling where he kept his strange disguises; he locked the items inside. He could easily burn them later. Then he took out his watch. It was twenty to two. He sat down and began to think… Every year, almost every month, men were hanged in England for what he had just done… There was a kind of murderous frenzy in the air. Some red star had come too close to earth… And besides, what evidence would there be against him? Basil Hallward had left his house at eleven o’clock. No one had seen him return. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet was in bed… Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had left, and on the midnight train, as he had intended. With his peculiar habits of reserve, months would pass before any suspicion could arise. Months! Everything could be destroyed long before then… A sudden idea flashed through his mind. He put on his fur coat and hat and went out into the vestibule. There he stopped, listening to the heavy, slowed tread of the policeman on the opposite pavement and watching the light from his dim lantern reflected in a window. He waited, holding his breath… After a few moments, he pulled the latch and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him. Then he rang the bell… After about five minutes, his servant appeared, half-dressed, looking as if he were fast asleep. “I’m sorry I woke you, Francis,” he said, entering, “but I forgot my master key. What time is it?” “Two ten, sir,” replied the man, looking at the clock and blinking. “Two ten! I’m terribly late! You’ll have to wake me up at nine tomorrow; I have something to do.” “Very well, sir. ” “Has anyone come this evening?” “Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here until eleven, and then left to catch the train. ” “Oh! I’m sorry I didn’t see him. Did he leave a note?” “No, sir, he said he’d write to you from Paris if he didn’t find you at the club. ” “Very well, Francis. Don’t forget to call me tomorrow at nine. ” “No, sir.” The man disappeared down the corridor, shuffling his slippers. Dorian Gray threw his overcoat and hat onto a table and went into the library. He paced back and forth for a quarter of an hour, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took the Blue Book from a shelf and began to turn the pages…. Alan Campbell, 152 Hertford Street, Mayfair. Yes, this was the man she needed…. Chapter 14. The next morning at nine o’clock, his servant entered with a cup of chocolate on a tray and drew back the blinds. Dorian was sleeping peacefully on his right side, his cheek resting on one hand. He looked like a young man tired from playing or studying. The footman had to touch his shoulder twice before he awoke, and when he opened his eyes, a faint smile appeared on his lips, as if he were emerging from some delightful dream. However, he had not dreamed at all. His night had been undisturbed by any image of pleasure or pain; but youth smiles for no reason: it is the most charming of its privileges. He turned over, and leaning on his elbow, began to sip his chocolate. The pale November sun flooded the room. The sky was clear, and there was a gentle warmth in the air. It was almost a May morning. Little by little, the events of the previous night invaded his memory, marching silently with their bloody footsteps! They reconstituted themselves with terrible precision. He shuddered at the memory of all he had suffered, and for a moment, the same strange feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward that had driven him to kill him when he sat in the armchair overwhelmed him and chilled him with a shiver. The dead man was still up there too, and in the full sunlight now. It was horrible! Such hideous things are made for darkness, not for broad daylight… He felt that if he pursued this reverie, he would become ill or mad. There were sins whose charm lay more in memory than in the act itself, strange triumphs that rewarded pride far more than passions and gave the mind a refinement of joy far greater than the pleasure they brought or could ever bring to the senses. But this was not one of those. It was a memory to be banished from his mind; he had to be put to sleep with poppies, strangled, lest he himself would strangle it. When the half-hour struck, he ran his hand over his forehead and rose hastily ; he dressed with even more care than usual, taking his time choosing his tie and pin and changing his rings several times. He also took a long time to eat breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his servant about a new livery he wanted made for his servants at Selby, all the while opening his mail. One of the letters made him smile, three others bored him. He reread the same one several times, then tore it up with a slight expression of weariness: “What a terrible thing, a woman’s memory! As Lord Henry says…” he murmured. After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips with He grabbed a napkin, signaled to his servant to wait, and sat down at his table to write two letters. He put one in his pocket and handed the other to the footman: “Deliver this to 152 Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of London, ask for his address.” As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching on a sheet of paper, drawing flowers, architectural motifs, and then human figures. He suddenly noticed that every figure he had drawn bore a striking resemblance to Basil Hallward. He started and, rising, went to his bookcase where he took a volume at random. He was determined not to think about recent events until it became absolutely necessary. Once he was lying on the sofa, he looked at the title of the book. It was a Charpentier edition on Japanese paper of Gautier’s Enamels and Cameos, adorned with an etching by Jacquemart. The binding was lemon-yellow leather, stamped with a gold latticework and a scattering of pomegranates; this book had been given to him by Adrien Singleton. As he turned the pages, his eyes fell upon the poem in Lacenaire’s hand, the cold, yellow hand of torture, still poorly washed, with reddish hairs and faun-like fingers . He looked at his own white, tapered fingers and shuddered slightly involuntarily…. He continued leafing through the volume and stopped at these delightful stanzas about Venice: On a chromatic scale. Her breast of streaming pearls, The Venus of the Adriatic Emerges from the water, her pink and white body. The domes, on the azure of the waves, Following the pure contour of the phrase, Swell like rounded throats Raised by a sigh of love. The skiff approaches and sets me down, Casting its mooring line to the pillar, Before a pink facade, On the marble of a staircase. How exquisite it was! Reading it, he felt as if he were gliding down the green lagoons of the city, the color of rose and pearl, seated in a black gondola with a silver prow and trailing curtains. These simple verses reminded him of those long, turquoise bands slowly unfolding on the Lido’s horizon. The sudden burst of color evoked those birds with throats of iris and opal that flutter around the tall bell tower, its interior like a honeycomb, or stroll with such grace beneath the dark, dusty arcades. He leaned back, his eyes half-closed, repeating to himself: Before a pink facade, On the marble of a staircase… All of Venice was in those sweet verses… He remembered the autumn he had spent there and the prestigious love that had driven him to delightful and delirious follies. There are novels everywhere. But Venice, like Oxford, had remained the true setting for every novel, and for the true romantic, the setting is everything or almost everything. Basil had accompanied him for part of the time and had become enamored of Tintoretto. Poor Basil! What a horrible death!… He shuddered again and picked up the volume, trying to forget. He
read those delightful verses about the swallows in the little Smyrna café coming and going, while the Hajis sitting all around count the amber beads of their rosaries and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tassel pipes and speak gravely to one another; those about the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde, which weeps tears of granite for its sunless exile, languishing from being able to return to the burning Nile, covered in lotuses where sphinxes, pink and red ibises, white vultures with golden talons, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes crawl in the green, smoky mud; He began to daydream over these verses, which sing of marble stained with kisses and speak to us of that curious statue which Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the charming monster lying in the porphyry room of the Louvre. Soon the book fell from his hands…. He was getting agitated, a Terror gripped him. What if Alan Campbell were to be absent from England? Days would pass before his return. Perhaps he would refuse to come. What then? Every moment was vitally important. They had been great friends five years before, almost inseparable, in truth. Then their intimacy had suddenly ceased. When they met in society now, only Dorian Gray ever met, but never Alan Campbell. He was a very intelligent young man, though he had little appreciation for the fine arts despite a certain understanding of poetic beauty , which he had acquired entirely from Dorian. His dominant passion was science . At Cambridge, he had spent most of his time working in the Laboratory and achieved a good ranking in natural sciences. He was still very much devoted to the study of chemistry and had his own laboratory, in which he shut himself up all day, much to the despair of his mother, who had dreamed of a seat in Parliament for him and clung to the vague notion that a chemist was a man who wrote prescriptions. He was also a very good musician, playing the violin and piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had brought him and Dorian together; music, and also that indefinable, subtle attraction Dorian seemed able to exert whenever he wished, and which he often did even unconsciously. They had met at Lady Berkshire’s the evening Rubinstein played there, and since then they had always been seen together at the Opera and wherever good music was being performed. This intimacy continued for eighteen months. Campbell was constantly either at Selby Royal or Grosvenor Square. For him, as for so many others, Dorian Gray was the epitome of all that is wonderful and alluring in life. Whether a quarrel had arisen between them was unknown. But it was suddenly noticed that they barely spoke to each other when they met, and that Campbell always left early from gatherings attended by Dorian Gray. Moreover, he had changed; he suffered from strange melancholies, seemed almost to hate music, and no longer wanted to play himself, offering as an excuse, when asked , that his scientific studies absorbed him so completely that he no longer had time to practice. And this was true. Every day, biology interested him more and more, and his name was mentioned several times in scientific journals in connection with curious experiments. This was the man Dorian Gray had been waiting for. He constantly looked at the clock. As the minutes ticked by, he became horribly agitated. Finally he rose, paced the room like a captive bird; his steps were jerky, his hands strangely cold. The waiting was becoming unbearable. Time seemed to walk on leaden feet, and he felt himself being swept away by a monstrous gust over the edge of some gaping precipice. He knew what awaited him, he could see it, and trembling, he pressed his burning eyelids with his clammy hands as if to annihilate his sight, or to force his eyes back into their sockets forever. It was in vain… His brain had its own sustenance, and the vision, made grotesque by terror, unfolded in contortions, painfully disfigured, dancing before him like a foul mannequin and grimacing beneath shifting masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him, and that blind, slow-breathing force ceased its swarming…. Horrible thoughts, in that death of time, raced before him, showing him a hideous future…. Having beheld it, horror petrified him…. At last the door opened, and his servant entered. He turned his terrified eyes toward him…. ‘Mr. Campbell, sir,’ said the man. A sigh of relief escaped his parched lips and the Color returned to his cheeks. “Tell him to come in, Francis.” He felt himself regaining his composure. His fit of cowardice had vanished. The man bowed and left…. A moment later, Alan Campbell entered, pale and stern, his pallor accentuated by the stark black of his hair and eyebrows. “Alan! How kind of you!… Thank you for coming. ” “I was resolved never to set foot in your house again, Gray. But as you said, it was a matter of life and death….” His voice was harsh and cold. He spoke slowly. There was a hint of contempt in his steady, scrutinizing gaze upon Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his astrakhan overcoat and seemed oblivious to the welcome he was receiving. “Yes, it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and for more than one person. Please, sit down.” Campbell took a chair near the table, and Dorian sat opposite him . The two men’s eyes met. Infinite compassion shone in Dorian’s. He knew what he was about to do was awful! After an agonizing silence, he leaned over the table and said quietly, watching the effect of each word on the face of the man he had summoned: “Alan, in a locked room at the very top of this house, a room no one but me has ever entered, a dead man is sitting by a table. He died ten hours ago. Don’t flinch or look at me like that… Who this man is, why and how he died, are none of your business. What you have to do is this… ” “Stop, Gray! I don’t want to know anything more… Whether what you just told me is true or not is none of my business… I absolutely refuse to be involved in your life.” Keep your horrible secrets to yourself . They no longer interest me…. –Alan, they will interest you…. This one will. I am terribly sorry for you, Alan. But I can do nothing about it myself. You are the only man who can save me. I am forced to involve you in this; I have no choice…. Alan, you are a scientist. You know chemistry and everything related to it. You have conducted experiments. What you have to do now is destroy that body up there, destroy it so that no trace of it remains. No one saw this man enter my house. He is believed to be in Paris at the moment. His absence will go unnoticed for months. When it is noticed, no trace of his presence here will remain. As for you, Alan, you must transform him, with everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I can scatter to the wind. –You are mad, Dorian! “Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian! ” “You’re mad, I tell you, mad to imagine I could lift a finger to help you, mad to make such a confession! I want nothing to do with this business, whatever it may be. Do you think I want to risk my reputation for you? What do I care about this diabolical work you’re doing? He committed suicide, Alan. ” “I like that better! But who drove him there? You, I suppose?” “Do you still refuse to do this for me? ” “Certainly, I refuse. I absolutely don’t want to get involved. I don’t care about the shame that awaits you. You deserve it all. I won’t be sorry to see you compromised, publicly compromised. How dare you ask me, of all men, to be involved in this horror? I would have thought you knew more about character.” Your friend Lord Henry Wotton could have instructed you better in psychology, among other things he taught you… Nothing will persuade me to take a step to save you. You have come to the wrong person. See another of your friends; do not approach me… “Alan, it’s murder!… I killed him…. You have no idea how much he made me suffer. Whatever my life may have been, he contributed more to making it what it was and to ruining it than poor Harry. He may not have meant to, but the result is the same. ” “Murder, good heavens! Dorian, is that what you’ve come to? I won’t denounce you, it’s not my business…. However, even without my intervention, you’ll surely be arrested. No one commits a crime without some clumsiness. But I want nothing to do with this… ” “You must have something to do with this…. Wait, wait a moment, listen to me…. Just listen, Alan…. All I’m asking is that you conduct a scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and morgues, and the horrors you witness there don’t move you at all.” If, in one of those fetid laboratories or dissection rooms, you were to find this man lying on a lead table crisscrossed with gutters from which blood flows, you would simply regard him as an admirable subject. Not a hair would stand on end. You wouldn’t believe you were doing anything wrong . On the contrary, you would probably think you were working for the good of humanity, or increasing the world’s scientific treasure, satisfying an intellectual curiosity, or something of that sort…. What I am asking of you is something you have often done before. Truly, destroying a corpse must be much less horrible than what you are accustomed to doing. And, think about it, this corpse is the only evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it will surely be discovered if you do not help me!… –I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the whole affair. She doesn’t interest me…. –Alan, I beg you! Think of my position! Just as you arrived, I was fainting with terror. Perhaps one day you yourself will know that terror…. No! Don’t think of that. Consider the matter solely from a scientific point of view. You don’t inquire where the corpses used in your experiments come from?… Don’t inquire about this one. I’ve told you too much about it. But I implore you to do so. We were friends, Alan! –Don’t speak of those days, Dorian, they are dead. –The dead sometimes linger…. The man up there won’t go away . He is sitting against the table, his head bowed and his arms outstretched. Alan! Alan! If you don’t come to my aid, I am lost!… What! But they will hang me, Alan! Don’t you understand? They ‘ll hang me for what I’ve done!… –There’s no point in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to get involved in any of this. It’s madness of you to ask me to. –You refuse? –Yes. –I beg you, Alan! –It’s no use. The same look of compassion appeared in Dorian Gray’s eyes. He reached out, took a piece of paper, and wrote a few words. He reread the note twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it onto the table. Having done this, he got up and went to the window. Campbell looked at him in surprise, then took the paper and opened it. As he read, a dreadful pallor spread across his face, and he slumped back in his chair. His heart was pounding. After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned and sat behind him, his hand resting on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for you, Alan,” he murmured, “but you’ve left me no alternative. I had a letter all ready; here it is. You see the address. If you don’t help me, I’ll have to send it; if you don’t help me, I’ll send it… You know what will happen… But you will help me. It’s impossible that you… Refuse now. I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice of admitting it…. You were severe, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man ever dared to—no living man, at least. I endured it all. Now it is my turn to dictate the terms. Campbell hid his head in his hands; a shudder ran through him…. “Yes, it is my turn to dictate my terms, Alan. You know them. It is very simple. Come, don’t get so worked up . It must be done. Consider it and do it…” A groan escaped Campbell’s lips, and he began to tremble all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to divide time into successive atoms of agony, each too heavy to bear. It seemed to him that an iron band was slowly tightening around his brow, and that the shame that threatened him had already reached him. The hand on his shoulder weighed on him like lead , unbearably. It seemed to crush him. “Well, Alan! You must decide. ” “I can’t,” he said mechanically, as if those words could have changed the situation. “You must. You have no choice. Don’t wait any longer. ” He hesitated for a moment. “Is there a fire in that upper room? ” “Yes, there’s a gas appliance with asbestos. ” “I must go home to get some instruments from the laboratory.” “No, Alan, you’re not leaving here. Write what you need on a piece of paper, and my servant will take a cab and fetch it for you. ” Campbell scribbled a few lines, blotted them, and wrote his assistant’s address on an envelope. Dorian took the note and read it carefully; then he rang the bell and gave it to his servant with orders to return as soon as possible and bring back the requested items. When the street door had closed, Campbell rose nervously and went to the fireplace. He seemed to be shivering with some kind of fever. For nearly twenty minutes neither man spoke. A fly buzzed loudly in the room, and the ticking of the clock sounded like hammer blows. The bell struck one. Campbell turned and, looking at Dorian, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was a purity and a distinction in that despairing face that drove him mad. “You are vile, absolutely vile,” he murmured. ” Fie! Alan, you saved my life,” said Dorian. “Your life, good heavens! What a life! You went from corruption to corruption to crime. In doing what I am about to do, what you are forcing me to do, it is not your life I am thinking of. ” “Ah! Alan!” Dorian murmured with a sigh. I wish you would have for me a thousandth part of the pity I have for you. He turned his back on him as he spoke and went to look out the garden window.
Campbell made no reply. After about ten minutes, there was a knock at the door and the servant entered, carrying with him a large mahogany box full of drugs, a long roll of steel and platinum wire, and two strangely shaped iron spikes. “Should we leave these here, sir?” he asked Campbell. “Yes,” said Dorian. “I believe, Francis, I have one more errand for you. What is the name of the man in Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids? ” “Harden, sir.” “Yes, Harden… You will go to Richmond to see Harden himself, and you will tell him to send me twice as many orchids as I ordered , and to put in as few white ones as possible… No, no white ones at all… The weather is delightful, Francis, and Richmond is a lovely place; Otherwise, I wouldn’t want to bother you with this. –Not at all, sir. What time should I be back? Dorian looked at Campbell. –How long will your experiment take, Alan? he said in a voice Calm and indifferent, as if the presence of a third party gave her unexpected courage. Campbell flinched and bit his lip. “About five o’clock,” he replied. “Then it will be time for you to return around seven-thirty, Francis. Or rather, wait, prepare what I need to dress. You will have the evening to yourself. I am not dining here, so I will not need you again. ” “Thank you, sir,” replied the valet, withdrawing. “Now, Alan, let’s not waste a moment… How heavy this crate is! I will carry it up; take the other items.” He spoke quickly, in a commanding tone. Campbell felt dominated. They left together. Reaching the top landing, Dorian took out his key and put it in the lock. Then he stopped, his eyes troubled, shivering… “I don’t think I’ll be able to get in, Alan!” he murmured. “I don’t care, I don’t need you,” Campbell said coldly. Dorian opened the door a crack… At that moment, he caught sight of the portrait’s eyes in the bright sunlight, as if they were staring back at him. Before him, on the parquet floor, lay the torn curtain. He remembered that the previous night he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal painting; he longed to flee, but he held back, trembling. What was that hideous red stain, wet and shiny, that he saw on one of the hands, as if the canvas had oozed blood? What a horrible thing, more horrible, it seemed to him at that moment, than that motionless, silent bundle slumped against the table, that shapeless, grotesque mass whose shadow was cast upon the soiled carpet, showing him that it had not moved and was still there, just as he had left it….
He sighed deeply, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes, turning his head away, he entered swiftly, resolved not to cast even a glance at the corpse…. Then, stopping and picking up the purple and gold curtain, he threw it over the frame…. Then he remained motionless, afraid to turn around, his eyes fixed on the arabesques of the embroidery before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy crate and the metal tools necessary for his horrible work. He wondered if Campbell and Basil Hallward had ever met, and if so, what they might have thought of each other. “Leave me now,” said a harsh voice behind him. He turned and hurried out, having vaguely glimpsed the corpse sprawled across the back of the armchair and Campbell gazing at its yellow, glistening face. As he went downstairs, he heard the sound of the key in the lock… Alan was locking himself in… It was well after seven o’clock when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but perfectly calm. “I have done as you asked,” he murmured. ” And now, farewell! Let us never meet again! ” “You have saved me, Alan; I shall never forget it,” said Dorian simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs… A horrible smell of nitric acid filled the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table this morning was gone… Chapter 15. That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed, his buttonhole adorned with a large bouquet of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady Narborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. The veins in his temples throbbed feverishly, and he was in a state of wild excitement, but the elegant curtsy he offered to the hand of the lady of the house was as easy and graceful as usual. Perhaps one is never more at ease than when one has some comedy to play. Certainly, none of those who saw Dorian Gray that evening could have imagined that he had just passed through a drama as horrible as any drama of our time. Those delicate fingers They could have held an assassin’s knife, nor those smiling lips blasphemed God. Despite himself, he marveled at the calm of her mind, and for a moment he felt deeply the terrible pleasure of leading a double life. It was an intimate gathering, soon transformed into confusion by Lady Narborough, a very intelligent woman of whom Lord Henry spoke as someone who had retained beautiful remnants of remarkable ugliness. She had proven herself the excellent wife of one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having properly buried her husband under a marble mausoleum of her own design, and married her daughters to wealthy, mature men, she now devoted herself to the pleasures of French art , French cuisine, and the French spirit whenever she could attain it. Dorian was one of her great favorites; she always told him she was delighted not to have known him in his youth. “For, my dear friend, I am sure I would have fallen madly in love with you,” she added, “I would have thrown my bonnet over the windmills for you! It’s fortunate that no one was thinking of you then! Besides, our bonnets were so unpleasant and the windmills so busy catching the wind that I never had a flirtation with anyone. And then, it was all Narborough’s fault. He was so nearsighted that there would have been no pleasure in deceiving a husband who could never see a thing!… His guests that evening were rather dull…. As she explained to Dorian, behind a worn fan, one of her married daughters had unexpectedly fallen upon her, and to make matters worse, had brought her husband with her. ” “I find that very rude of him, my dear,” she whispered in his ear. “Of course, I spend every summer with them on my way back from Homburg, but an old woman like me needs to get some fresh air now and then. Besides, I really do wake them up. You can’t imagine the life they lead. It’s the most complete country life. They get up early because they have so much to do, and go to bed early because they have so little to think about. There hasn’t been the slightest scandal in the whole neighborhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth, so they all fall asleep after dinner. You mustn’t go and sit near them. You’ll stay near me and keep me entertained…” Dorian murmured a polite compliment and looked around. It was certainly a tedious gathering. Two people were unknown to him, and the others were: Ernest Harrowden, one of those mediocre middle-aged men so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are nonetheless hated by their friends; Lady Ruxton, a woman of forty-seven, with a flamboyant dress and a hooked nose, who always tried to get herself into trouble, but was so perfectly ordinary that, to her great disappointment, no one would ever have wanted to believe any slander about her; Mrs. Erlynne, a person with Venetian red hair, very reserved, affected by a delightful stammer; Lady Alice Chapman, the hostess’s daughter, sad and poorly dressed, endowed with one of those banal British faces that one never remembers; And finally, her husband, a red-cheeked fellow with white sideburns, who, like many of his kind, thought that excessive joviality could compensate for a complete lack of ideas… Dorian almost regretted having come when Lady Narborough, gazing at the large clock that displayed its pretentious gilt-bronze scrolls on the mauve-draped mantelpiece , exclaimed: “How wrong Henry Wotton is to be so late! I sent for him this morning on a whim, and he promised not to miss us. ” It was a consolation to know that Harry was coming, and when the door opened and he heard her soft, musical voice, lending his Charmed by some insincere compliment, his boredom left him. Yet, at the table, he could eat nothing. Dishes followed one another on his plate without him tasting any. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called: an insult to poor Adolphe who composed the menu expressly for you. From time to time, Lord Henry looked at him, astonished by his silence and his absorbed expression. The sommelier refilled his glass of Champagne; he drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. “Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, when the hot and cold drinks were served, ” what is the matter with you this evening?… You don’t seem at ease? ” “He’s in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and I think he’s afraid to confess it to me, for fear I’ll be jealous.” And he’s right, I certainly would be…. –Dear Lady Narborough, murmured Dorian, smiling, I haven’t been in love for a good week, not since Madame de Ferrol left London. –How can men be in love with that woman? cried the old lady. I truly cannot understand it! –It’s simply because she reminds you of your childhood, Lady Narborough, said Lord Henry. She’s the only link between us and your short dresses. –She doesn’t remind me of my short dresses at all, Lord Henry. But I remember very well seeing her in Vienna 30 years ago…. Was she low-cut then? –She still is, he replied, taking an olive between his long fingers, and when she’s in her finest attire she looks like a deluxe edition of a bad French novel. She’s truly extraordinary and full of surprises. Her taste for family is astonishing: when her third husband died, her hair turned perfectly golden with grief! “Can you tell, Harry!” cried Dorian. “That’s a romantic explanation!” laughed the landlady. “But you say her third husband, Lord Henry… You don’t mean Ferrol is the fourth? ” “Certainly, Lady Narborough. ” “I don’t believe a word of it.” “Ask Mr. Gray instead; he’s one of her closest friends. ” “Is it true, Mr. Gray? ” “She told me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. ” I asked her if, like Margaret of Navarre, she kept their embalmed hearts hanging from her belt. She said no, because none of them did.” “Four husbands!… My word, that’s too much zeal!” “Too much audacity,” I told her, replied Dorian. “Oh! She’s quite audacious, my dear fellow, and what is Ferrol like?… I don’t know him.” “The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal class,” said Lord Henry, taking small sips of his drink. Lady Narborough struck him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I’m not surprised the world thinks you’re extremely wicked!” “But why does the world say that?” asked Lord Henry, raising his head. “It can only be the future world. This world and I are on excellent terms. ” “Everyone I know thinks you’re very wicked!” cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry became serious for a moment. “It’s quite monstrous,” he said at last, “this way people have of saying things behind their backs that are… absolutely true!” “Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning back in his chair. “I should hope so!” said the hostess, laughing. But if, in truth, you all adore Madame de Ferrol so ridiculously, I too will have to remarry , to be fashionable. —You will never remarry, Lady Narborough, interrupted Lord Henry. You were far too happy the first time. When a woman remarries, it’s because she hated her first husband. When a man remarries, it’s because he adored his first wife. Women Women seek their happiness, men risk theirs. ‘Narborough wasn’t perfect!’ cried the old lady. ‘If he had been, you wouldn’t have adored him,’ came the reply. ‘ Women love us for our faults. If we have enough, they ‘ll overlook everything, even our intelligence… You won’t invite me again, I’m afraid, for having said that, Lady Narborough, but it’s entirely true. ‘ ‘Indeed, it’s true, Lord Henry… If we women didn’t love you for your faults, what would become of you? None of you could marry. You’d be a bunch of unfortunate bachelors… Not that it would change much for you, though: today, all married men live like boys and all boys like married men. ‘ ‘Fin of the century!’ murmured Lord Henry. ‘Fin of the world!’ replied the hostess. “I wish it were the end of the world,” said Dorian with a sigh. “ Life is a great disappointment.” “Ah, my dear friend!” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves. “Do n’t tell me you’ve exhausted life. When a man says that, you understand that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I often wish I had been so myself; but you, you are made to be good, you are so handsome! I shall find you a pretty wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think Mr. Gray should marry?” “That’s what I always tell him, Lady Narborough,” agreed Lord Henry, bowing. “Good. We shall have to look after a suitable match for him. I shall go through the Debrett carefully this evening and draw up a list of all the eligible young ladies.” “With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian. “Certainly, with their ages duly recognized… But nothing must be done hastily. I want it to be what the Morning Post calls a matched union, and I want you to be happy! ” “What nonsense is said about happy marriages!” cried Lord Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman as long as he doesn’t love her!” “Ah! What a dreadful cynic you are!” said the old lady, rising and beckoning to Lady Ruxton. “You must come back to dinner with me soon. You are truly an admirable tonic, much better than the one Sir Andrew has forbidden me. You must also tell me what people you would like to meet. I want it to be a perfect selection. ” “I like men with a future and women with a past,” replied Lord Henry. “Don’t you think that might make good company?” “I’m afraid so,” she said, laughing, as she headed for the door. “A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t realize you hadn’t finished your cigarette. ” “It’s nothing, Lady Narborough, I smoke far too much. I’ll limit myself in the future. ” “Don’t do that, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal; more than enough is as good as a feast. ” Lady Ruxton looked at him curiously. “You’ll have to come and explain that to me one of these afternoons, Lord Henry; the theory sounds appealing,” she murmured, as she left majestically. “Now try not to talk too much about politics and scandals,” Lady Narborough called from the doorway. “Otherwise we’ll quarrel.” The men burst into laughter, and Mr. Chapman solemnly ascended from the end of the table and took his place of honor. Dorian Gray went to sit next to Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to speak loudly about the situation in the House of Commons. He laughed heartily as he named his opponents. The word doctrinaire—a word full of terrors for the British mind—came up from time to time in his conversation. An alliterative prefix is ​​an ornament to the art of oratory. He raised the Union Jack to the pinnacle of Thought. Familiar name given to the English flag. ND T. The hereditary stupidity of the race—which he jovially called English common sense—was, as he demonstrated, the true bulwark of Society. A smile came to Lord Henry’s lips as he turned to Dorian. “Are you better, dear friend?” he asked. “You seemed ill at ease at the table? ” “I’m very well, Harry, a little tired, that’s all. ” “You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite mad about you. She told me she’d be going to Selby. ” “She promised to come on the twentieth. ” “Will Monmouth be there too?” “Oh, yes, Harry… ” “He bores me terribly, almost as much as he bores the duchess. She’s very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks that indefinable charm of the weak. It’s feet of clay that make the gold of the statue precious.” Her feet are very pretty, but they’re not clay; they’re white porcelain, if you will. They’ve been through the fire, and what fire doesn’t destroy, it hardens. She’s had adventures…. “How long has she been married?” asked Dorian. “For ages,” she told me. “I believe, according to the heraldry, it must be ten years, but ten years with Monmouth can count as an eternity. Who else will be coming? ” “Oh! The Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the regulars…. I’ve invited Lord Grotrian. ” “I like him,” said Lord Henry. “He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I find him charming. He makes up for his sometimes exaggerated attire and his always overly perfect upbringing. He’s a very modern figure. ” “I don’t know if he’ll be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father. ” “Ah!” What a pest these people are! Try to get him to come. By the way, Dorian, you left very early last night. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. What did you do?… Did you go straight home? Dorian looked at him sharply. “No, Harry,” he said at last. “I didn’t get home until about three . ” “Did you go to the club? ” “Yes,” he replied. Then he bit his lip. “No, I mean, I didn’t go to the club… I went for a walk. I don’t remember what I did… How nosy you are, Harry! You always want to know what we do; I always need to forget what I’ve done… I got home at half past two, if you insist on knowing the exact time; I’d forgotten my key and my servant had to let me in. If you need proof, you can ask him.” Lord Henry shrugged. “As if I cared, my dear friend! Let’s go up to the drawing-room.” “No, thank you, Mr. Chapman, no sherry… ” “Something has happened to you, Dorian… Tell me what it is. You’re not yourself tonight. ” “Don’t worry about me, Harry, I’m just irritable, nervous. I’ll come to see you tomorrow or the day after. Give my apologies to Lady Narborough. I won’t come up. I’m going home. I must go home. ” “Very well, Dorian. I hope to see you tomorrow at tea; the Duchess will be coming. ” “I’ll do my best, Harry,” he said, and left. As he walked home, he felt the terror he had banished creeping back into him. Lord Henry’s unexpected questions had momentarily thrown him off balance, and he still needed peace and quiet. Dangerous objects remained to be destroyed. He recoiled at the thought of touching them with his hands. However, it had to be done. He resigned himself to it, and when he had locked the door to his library, he opened the secret cupboard where he had thrown Basil Hallward’s coat and suitcase. A large fire was burning in the fireplace; he threw in another log. The smell of charred leather and burning cloth was unbearable. It took him three-quarters It took an hour to burn it all down. Finally, he felt himself weakening, almost ill; and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a perforated copper incense burner, he refreshed his hands and forehead with musk-infused toilet vinegar. Suddenly he shivered…. His eyes shone strangely, he feverishly bit his lower lip. Between two windows stood a large Florentine cabinet, made of ebony inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli. He gazed at it as if it were an object capable of both delighting and frightening him, and as if it contained something he both desired and feared. His breathing was ragged. A mad desire seized him. He lit a cigarette, then threw it away. His eyelids drooped, and the long fringes of his eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheeks. He looked again at the cabinet. Finally, he rose from the sofa where he had been lying, went to the cabinet, opened it, and pressed a button hidden in a corner. A triangular drawer slowly slid out. His fingers instinctively plunged inside and pulled out a small , delicately crafted box of old gold lacquer; its sides were decorated with small raised waves and silk cords from which hung tassels of metallic thread and crystal beads. He opened the box. It contained a green paste with the appearance of wax and a strong, penetrating odor…. He hesitated for a moment, a strange smile on his lips…. He shivered, although the room was extraordinarily warm, then he stretched and looked at the clock. It was twenty to midnight. He put the box back, closed the cabinet door, and went back into his room. When the twelve bronze strokes of midnight sounded in the thick night, Dorian Gray, poorly dressed, his neck wrapped in a scarf, slipped out of his house. In Bond Street he met a hansom with a fine horse. He hailed him and gave the coachman an address in a low voice. The man shook his head. “It’s too far for me,” he murmured. “Here’s a sovereign for you,” said Dorian; “you’ll have another if you go quickly. ” “Very well, sir,” replied the man, “you’ll be there in an hour,” and having put his tip in his pocket, he turned his horse around, and it set off swiftly in the direction of the river. Chapter 16. A cold rain began to fall, and the streetlamps gleamed ghostly in the damp fog. The public houses were closing, and shadowy groups of men and women were parting in the surrounding areas. Vile bursts of laughter erupted from the bars; In others, drunkards were bawling and shouting…. Stretched out in the hansom, his hat tilted back on his head, Dorian Gray gazed indifferently at the sordid shame of the great city; he repeated to himself the words Lord Henry had spoken to him the day they first met: “Cure the soul by means of the senses and the senses by means of the soul…” Yes, there was the secret; he had often tried it and would try it again. There are opium shops where oblivion can be bought, dens of horror where the memory of old sins is abolished by the madness of new ones. The moon rose low in the sky, like a yellow skull…. From time to time, a heavy, shapeless cloud, like a long arm, hid it. The streetlights were becoming increasingly rare, and the streets narrower and darker…. At one point the coachman lost his way and had to backtrack half a mile; a mist enveloped the horse, trotting through the puddles…. The windows of the hansom were muffled with a gray haze…. To heal the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. These words sounded strangely to his ear…. Yes, his soul was sick to death…. Was it true that the senses could heal it?… Innocent blood had been shed…. How could this be redeemed? Ah! there was no expiation!… But though forgiveness was impossible, Forgetting was still possible, and he was determined to forget it , to abolish the memory of it forever, to crush it as one crushes a viper that has bitten you… Truly, by what right had Basil spoken to him like that? Who had authorized him to set himself up as judge of others? He had said things that were dreadful, horrible, impossible to endure… The hansom was limping along, slower and slower, it seemed… He lowered the trapdoor and told the man to hurry. A hideous craving for opium was beginning to gnaw at him. His throat burned, and his delicate hands clenched nervously; he struck the horse fiercely with his cane. The coachman sneered and whipped his beast… He began to laugh in turn, and the man fell silent… The road was endless, the streets seemed to him like the black web of an invisible spider. This monotony was becoming unbearable, and he was frightened to see the fog thickening. They passed near some solitary brickyards… The fog thinned , and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns from which fanned tongues of orange fire. A dog barked as they passed, and in the distance, some wandering gull cried. The horse stumbled in a rut, swerved, and galloped off… After a moment, they left the muddy path and awakened the echoes of the poorly paved streets… The windows were not lit, but here and there, fantastic shadows were silhouetted against illuminated shutters; he watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous puppets, which seemed alive; he hated them… A dark rage was in his heart. At a street corner, a woman shouted something to them from an open door, and two men ran after the carriage for a sort of hundred yards; the coachman struck them with his whip. It has been recognized that passion makes us return to the same thoughts…. With hideous reiteration, Dorian Gray’s bitten lips repeated and repeated the captivating phrase that spoke to him of soul and meaning, until he had found in it the perfect expression of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, the feelings that dominated him…. From cell to cell of his brain crept the same thought; and the savage desire to live, the most terrible of all human appetites, quickened every nerve and every fiber of his being. The ugliness he had hated because it makes things real became dear to him for that reason; ugliness was the only reality. The abominable brawls, the execrable tavern, the raw violence of a disorderly life, the vileness of thieves and outcasts, were truer, in their intense immediacy of impression, than all the graceful forms of art, than the dreamy shadows of song; it was what he needed for oblivion…. In three days he would be free…. Suddenly, the man abruptly stopped his horse at the entrance to a dark alley. Above the low roofs, and the jagged chimney stacks of the houses, rose the black masts of ships; garlands of white mist clung to the yards like sails of dreams…. “It’s somewhere around here, isn’t it, sir?” asked the coachman’s hoarse voice through the trapdoor. Dorian started and looked around him…. “That’s right,” he replied; And after hastily getting out of the cab and giving the driver the promised tip, he walked briskly in the direction of the quay. Here and there, a lantern shone from the stern of a merchant ship; the light danced and broke in the waves. A red glow came from a long-haul steamer taking on coal. The slippery cobblestones looked like a wet Mackintosh. He hurried to the left, glancing behind him now and then to see if he was being followed. After seven or eight minutes, he He reached a small, low house, squeezed between two wretched factories. A light shone in an upper window. He stopped and knocked oddly. A few moments later, footsteps were heard in the corridor, and there was the sound of chains being unhooked. The door opened softly, and he entered without a word to the vague human form, which vanished into the shadows as he entered. At the end of the corridor hung a torn green curtain, lifted by the wind from the street. Having drawn it aside, he entered a long, low room that looked like a third-rate dance hall . Around the walls, gaslights cast a glaring light that distorted in the mirrors, covered with fly droppings, opposite. Greasy, ribbed tin reflectors stood behind, shimmering discs of light. The floor was covered with ochre-yellow sand, soiled with mud, stained with spilled liquor. Some Malays were squatting near a small charcoal stove, playing with bone tokens and showing off their white teeth as they spoke. In a corner, on a table, a sailor lay with his head buried in his crossed arms, and in front of the garishly painted bar that occupied one whole side of the room, two haggard women were mocking an old man brushing the sleeves of his overcoat with an expression of disgust. “He thinks he has red ants on him,” one of them said, laughing , as Dorian passed by. The man looked at them in terror and began to whimper. At the end of the room, there was a small staircase leading to a dark chamber. As Dorian climbed the three rickety steps, a heavy smell of opium hit him. He sighed deeply, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure…. As he entered, a young man with straight blond hair, lighting a long, thin pipe by a lamp, looked at him and greeted him hesitantly . “You here, Adrien,” Dorian murmured. “Where else could I be?” he replied nonchalantly. “Nobody wants to associate with me anymore… ” “I thought you’d left England.” “Darlington won’t do anything…. My brother finally paid the bill…. George won’t speak to me either. I don’t care,” he added with a sigh. “As long as you have this drug, you don’t need friends.” I think I’ve had too much of this… Dorian stepped back and looked around at the grotesque people lying in fantastical positions on ragged mattresses… Those twisted limbs, gaping mouths, open, glassy eyes, drew him in… He knew in what strange heavens they suffered, and what dark hells taught them the secret of new joys; they were better off than he, imprisoned in his own thoughts. Memory, like a horrible disease, gnawed at his soul; from time to time, he saw Basil Hallward’s eyes fixed upon him… However, he could not remain there; Adrien Singleton’s presence bothered him; he needed to be somewhere where no one knew who he was; he wished he could escape from himself… “I’m going somewhere else,” he said after a moment. “On the platform?” “Yes… ” “That madwoman will surely be there; “We don’t want any more of that here…” Dorian shrugged. “I’m sick of women who love; women who hate are much more interesting. Besides, this drug is even better… ” “It’s exactly the same…” “I prefer this. Come and have something to drink; I desperately need it. ” “I don’t need anything,” the young man murmured. “That doesn’t matter.” Adrien Singleton got up lazily and followed Dorian to the bar. A mulatto, in a torn turban and a dirty ulster, grimaced a hideous greeting as he placed a bottle of brandy and two goblets in front of them. The women moved closer and began to chat. Dorian… She turned her back and, in a low voice, said something to Adrien Singleton. A perverse smile, like a Malay kris, twisted across the face of one of the women: “It seems we’re quite proud tonight,” she sneered. “Don’t speak to me, for God’s sake!” cried Dorian, stamping his foot. “What do you want? Money? Here you go! Don’t speak to me again…” Two flashes of red crossed the woman’s swollen eyes and faded, leaving them glassy and dark. She nodded and snatched the change from the counter with greedy hands. Her companion watched her enviously. “It’s no use,” sighed Adrien Singleton. “I don’t care to come back. What good would it do me? I’m perfectly happy now.” “You’ll write to me if you need anything, won’t you?” said Dorian a moment later. “Perhaps!” “Good evening, then.” “Good evening…” replied the young man, climbing back up the steps, wiping his parched lips with a handkerchief. Dorian went to the door, his face pained; as he drew the curtain, a vile laugh burst from the painted lips of the woman who had taken the money. “It’s the devil’s bargain!” she gasped hoarsely. “Damn it!” he cried, “don’t tell me that!” She snapped her fingers . “It’s Prince Charming you like to be called, isn’t it?” she shrieked behind him. The sleepy sailor jumped to his feet at these words and looked wildly around. He heard the sound of the corridor door closing. He rushed out. Dorian Gray hurried along the docks in the drizzle. His encounter with Adrien Singleton had strangely moved him; He was astonished that the ruin of this young life was truly his own doing, as Basil Hallward had so insultingly told him. He bit his lip, and his eyes saddened for a moment. After all, what did it matter to him?… Life is too short to bear the burden of others’ mistakes any longer. Every man lived his own life and paid his price for living it…. The only misfortune was that one had to pay so often for a single fault, for one had to pay again and again…. In her bargains with men, Destiny never closes her accounts. Psychologists tell us that when the passion for vice, or what men call vice, dominates our nature, every fiber of the body, every cell of the brain, seems to be animated by terrifying movements; men and women, in such moments, lose the free exercise of their will; they march toward a terrible end like automatons. They are denied choice, and conscience itself is dead, or, if it still lives, lives only to give rebellion its allure, and disobedience its charm; for all sins , as theologians tirelessly remind us, are sins of disobedience. When that haughty Angel, morning star, fell from heaven, he fell as a rebel! Hardened, concentrated in evil, his mind tainted, his soul thirsting for revolt, Dorian Gray quickened his pace more and more… As he entered under a dark archway, which he often used to shorten his journey to the disreputable place he was going to, he suddenly felt himself seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was violently thrown against the wall; A brutal hand was gripping his throat! He defended himself wildly, and with a desperate effort, pried the fingers from his neck that were suffocating him. He heard the click of a revolver and saw the glint of a polished barrel pointed at his head, and the obscure shape of a short, stocky man. “What do you want?” he stammered. “Stay still!” said the man. “If you move, I’ll kill you!” “You’re crazy! What have I done to you?” “You have lost the life of Sibyl Vane, and Sibyl Vane was my sister! She killed herself, I know it… But her death is your doing, and I swear I will kill you! I have searched for you for years, without a guide, without a trace. The two people who knew you are dead. I knew nothing of you except the favorite name she called you. By chance, I heard it tonight. Reconcile yourself with God, for tonight you will die!” Dorian Gray nearly fainted with terror. “I never knew her,” he murmured, “I’ve never heard of her. You’re mad!” “You’d better confess your sin, for as surely as I am James Vane, you will die! ” The moment was terrible! Dorian didn’t know what to do, what to say! ” On your knees!” the man cried. “You have one more minute to confess, no more.” I’m leaving for India tomorrow, and I must settle this first… One minute! No more!… Dorian’s arms fell back. Paralyzed with terror, he couldn’t think… Suddenly, a burning hope flashed through his mind!… “Stop!” he cried. “How long has your sister been dead? Quickly, tell me!”… “Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask? Time changes nothing…
” “Eighteen years,” replied Dorian Gray, with a triumphant laugh… “Eighteen years!” “Lead me under a lantern and see my face!”… James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what this meant, then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him out of the archway…. Although the lantern light was dim and flickering, it was enough, it seemed to him, to show him the dreadful error into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he was about to kill had all the freshness of adolescence and the spotless purity of youth. He looked a little over twenty, scarcely more; he could scarcely have been older than his sister had been when he left her so many years before…. It was becoming clear that this was not the man who had ruined his life…. He let him go and stepped back…. “My God! My God!” he cried. “And I was about to kill you!” Dorian Gray breathed…. “You almost committed a horrible crime, my friend,” he said, looking at him sternly. Let this be a warning to you not to seek revenge yourself. —Forgive me, sir, murmured James Vane. I was deceived. A word I overheard in that cursed tavern led me astray . —You’d better go home and put away that revolver, which could get you into trouble, said Dorian Gray, turning on his heel and walking quietly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement, filled with horror, trembling from head to toe. He didn’t see a dark shadow, which, for a moment, had been creeping along the damp wall, was for a moment in the light, and approached him stealthily. He felt a hand on his arm and turned around with a start. It was one of the women drinking at the bar. —Why didn’t you kill him?—she hissed, bringing her wild face close to him. I knew you were following him when you rushed out of Daly’s. You madman! You should have killed him! He has a lot of money, and he’s as bad as evil! –He wasn’t the man I was looking for,’ he replied, ‘and I don’t need anyone’s money. I need a man’s life! The man I want to kill is nearly forty. That one was barely a teenager. Thank God! I haven’t stained my hands with his blood. ‘ The woman gave a bitter laugh… –Barely a teenager,’ she sneered… ‘Do you know that it’s been nearly eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am?’ –You’re lying!’ cried James Vane. She threw her hands up in the air. –Before God, I tell the truth!’ she cried… “Before God!… ” “May I be mute if it isn’t so. He’s the worst of all who come here. They say he sold himself to the devil to keep his handsome face! It’s been almost eighteen years since I met him. He hasn’t changed much since then. That’s as I tell you,” she added with a wistful look. “You swear it?” “I swear it,” her lips echoed. “But don’t betray me,” she moaned. “He frightens me… Give me some money to find lodgings tonight.” He left her with a curse and hurried around the corner, but Dorian Gray had vanished… When he returned, the woman was gone too… Chapter 17. A week later, Dorian Gray was sitting in the greenhouse at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who, along with her tired-looking husband of sixty, was among his guests. It was teatime, and the soft light from the large, lace-covered lamp on the table made the delicate china and repoussé silver of the service gleam; the Duchess presided over the reception. Her white hands moved gracefully among the cups, and her blood-red lips laughed at something Dorian whispered to her. Lord Henry reclined on a silk-draped wicker chair, watching them. On a peach-colored divan, Lady Narborough pretended to listen to the Duke’s description of the latest Brazilian beetle he had just added to his collection. Three young men in elegant tuxedos were offering cakes to some of the ladies. The party consisted of twelve people, and several more were expected the following day. “What are you talking about?” said Lord Henry, leaning over the table and setting down his cup. “I hope Dorian is telling you about my plan to rename everything, Gladys. It’s a charming idea.” “But I needn’t be renamed, Harry,” replied the Duchess, looking at him with her beautiful eyes. “I’m quite happy with my name, and I’m sure Mr. Gray is pleased with his.” “My dear Gladys, I wouldn’t change either of your names for anything in the world; they’re both perfect. I was thinking mostly of the flowers. Yesterday, I picked an orchid for my buttonhole. It was a lovely speckled flower, as wicked as the seven deadly sins. Absentmindedly, I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana or something equally dreadful. It’s a sad truth, but we’ve lost the ability to give pretty names to things. Names are everything. I never argue about facts; my only quarrel is over words: that’s why I hate vulgar realism in literature.” The man who would call a spade a spade should be forced to carry one; it’s the only thing that would suit him…. “So, what shall we call you, Harry?” she asked. “His name is Prince Paradox,” said Dorian. “I recognize him by that trait,” exclaimed the Duchess. “I won’t hear of it,” said Lord Henry, sitting down in an armchair. ” One cannot shake off a label. I refuse the title. ” “Majesties cannot abdicate,” warned pretty lips. “You want me to defend my throne, then?” “Yes.” “I will speak the truths of tomorrow. ” “I prefer the faults of today,” replied the Duchess. “You disarm me, Gladys,” he cried, imitating her obstinacy. ” From your shield, Harry, not your spear… ” “I never joust against beauty,” he said, with his inclination of hand.
“That’s a mistake, believe me. You place too much value on beauty. ” “How can you say that? I believe, I confess, that it’s better to be beautiful than good. But on the other hand, no one is more willing than I am not one to admit that it is better to be good than ugly. –Ugliness is then one of the seven deadly sins, cried the Duchess. What about your comparison to orchids?… –Ugliness is one of the seven cardinal virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underestimate them. –Beer, the Bible, and the seven cardinal virtues have made our England what it is. –So you don’t love your country? –I live here. –That’s because you’re censoring the best of it! –Would you have me rely on Europe’s verdict on us? he inquired. –What does it say about us? –That Tartuffe emigrated to England and set up shop there. –Is that yours, Harry? –I give it to you. –I can’t use it, it’s too true. –You have nothing to fear; our compatriots never recognize themselves in a description. “They are practical.” “They are more cunning than practical. When they set up their ledger , they balance stupidity with wealth and vice with hypocrisy.” “However, we have done great things. ” “Great things were imposed upon us, Gladys. ” “We bore the burden.” “No further than the Stock Exchange. ” She shook her head. “I believe in race,” she cried. “It represents the survivors of the surge. ” “It follows its development.” “Decadence interests me more. ” “What is Art?” she asked. “A disease. ” “Love? ” “An illusion. ” “Religion? ” “Something that elegantly replaces Faith. ” “You are a skeptic. ” “Never! Skepticism is the beginning of Faith. ” “What are you? ” “To define is to limit. ” “Give me a guide.” “The threads are broken. You would lose yourself in the maze.” “You’re leading me astray… Let’s talk of something else.” “Our host is a delightful fellow. Years ago, he was dubbed Prince Charming. ” “Ah! Don’t remind me of that!” cried Dorian Gray. “Our host is rather disagreeable this evening,” remarked the Duchess cheerfully . “I think he believes Monmouth married me, according to his scientific principles, only as the finest specimen he could find of the modern butterfly. ” “I hope, at least, that he won’t get the idea of ​​piercing you with a pin, Duchess,” said Dorian, smiling. “Oh! My maid takes care of that… when I annoy her… ” “And how can you annoy her, Duchess? ” “In the most trivial matters, I assure you. Usually, because I arrive at ten to nine and tell her I must be dressed by half past eight.” “What a mistake on her part!… You should dismiss her. ” “I dare not, Mr. Gray. Just think, she invents hats for me. Do you remember the one I wore to Lady Hilstone’s garden party?… You don’t remember it, I know, but it’s kind of you to pretend you do. Well! It was made of nothing; all pretty hats are made of nothing. ” “Like good reputations, Gladys,” interrupted Lord Henry. ” Every effect you produce gives you one more enemy. To be popular, one must be mediocre. ” “Not with women,” said the Duchess, shaking her head, “and women rule the world. I assure you, we cannot abide mediocrity . We women, as they say, love with our ears as you men love with your eyes, if indeed you ever love at all. ” “It seems to me we never do anything else,” murmured Dorian. “Ah!” “So you never really loved, Mr. Gray,” replied the Duchess in a tone of sad mockery. “My dear Gladys,” cried Lord Henry, “how can you say that?” Passion lives by its repetition, and repetition transforms an inclination into art. Besides, every time we love, it is the only time we have ever loved. The difference in object does not alter the sincerity of passion; it merely intensifies it. We can have at most one great experience in life , and the secret of life is to reproduce it as often as possible. —Even when you were hurt by it, Harry? asked the Duchess after a silence. —Especially when one was hurt by it, replied Lord Henry. A curious expression in her eye, the Duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray: —What do you say to that, Mr. Gray? she inquired. Dorian hesitated a moment; he threw back his head, and laughing: —I always agree with Harry, Duchess. —Even when he is wrong? —Harry is never wrong, Duchess. —And his philosophy makes you happy? —I have never sought happiness. Who needs happiness?… I ‘ve only sought pleasure. –And have you found it, Mr. Gray? –Often, too often…. The Duchess sighed…. –I seek peace, she said, and if I don’t go and dress, I won’t find it tonight. –Let me pick you some orchids, Duchess, cried Dorian , rising and walking into the greenhouse…. –You’re flirting too closely with him, said Lord Henry to his cousin. Be careful. He’s fascinating…. –If he weren’t, there would be no fighting. –Greeks fight Greeks, then? –I’m on the side of the Trojans; they fought for a woman. –They were defeated…. –There are sadder things than defeat, she replied. –You gallop with the reins around your neck…. –It’s the pace that keeps us going. “I’ll write that in my journal tonight. ” “What? ” “That a burned child loves fire. ” “I’m not even singed; my wings are untouched. ” “You use them for everything except flight. ” “Courage has passed from men to women. It’s a new experience for us. ” “You have a rival.” “Who? ” “Lady Narborough,” he breathed, laughing. “She adores her. ” “You fill me with dread. The reminder of antiquity is fatal to us romantics.” “Romantics! You have all the method of science. ” “Men educated us.” “But didn’t explain to you…” “Describe us as a sex,” was the challenge. “Sphinxes without secrets.” She looked at him, smiling… “How long Mr. Gray has been,” she said. “Let’s go and help him. I haven’t told him the color of my dress. ” “You should match your dress to his flowers, Gladys. ” “That would be a premature surrender.” Romantic art proceeds by gradation. I will keep an opportunity for retreat. In the manner of the Parthians? They found safety in the desert; I could not. Women are not always allowed to choose, he replied. He had scarcely finished this threat when from the depths of the greenhouse came a muffled groan, followed by the dull thud of a heavy body falling! Everyone jumped. The Duchess remained motionless with horror. His eyes filled with fear, Lord Henry rushed among the drooping palm fronds and found Dorian Gray lying face down on the brick floor, unconscious, as if dead. He was carried into the blue drawing room and laid on a sofa. After a few minutes, he came to, and looked with a bewildered expression. What happened? he asked. Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?… A trembling seized him…. –My dear Dorian, replied Lord Henry, it was merely a fainting spell, that’s all. You must have overexerted yourself. It would be better for you if you didn’t come to dinner; I will take your place. “No, I’ll go to dinner,” he said, rising to his feet. “I prefer to go downstairs to dinner. I don’t want to be alone!” He went to his room and dressed. At the table, he had a kind of wild and carefree gaiety in his manner; but from time to time, a shudder of terror ran through him as he saw again, plastered like a white handkerchief to the greenhouse windows, the face of James Vane, watching him!… Chapter 18. The next day, he did not go out and spent most of the day in his room, gripped by a mad terror of dying, yet indifferent to life… The fear of being watched, chased, hunted, was beginning to dominate him. He trembled when a draft stirred the tapestries. The dead leaves that the wind drove against the leaded stained-glass windows seemed to him like his vanished resolutions, his burning regrets… When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor’s face looking at him through the misted glass, and horror seemed to have, once again, laid its hand on his heart!… But perhaps it was his troubled mind that had stirred up the vengeance of darkness and placed before his eyes the hideous forms of punishment. Life at present was chaos, but there was something fatally logical in the imagination. It is the imagination that puts remorse on the trail of sin… It is the imagination that makes crime carry with it obscure punishments. In the ordinary world of facts, the wicked are not punished, nor the good rewarded; success is given to the strong, and failure to the weak; that is all … Besides, if some stranger had been loitering around the house, the guards or servants would have seen them. If footprints had been found in the flowerbeds, the gardeners would have noticed them . Clearly, it was all just an illusion; Sibyl Vane’s brother hadn’t returned to kill him. He had left on his ship to sink in some Arctic sea. For him, at least, he was safe. This man didn’t know who he was, couldn’t know; the mask of youth had saved him. And yet, even supposing it were only an illusion, was it not terrifying to think that consciousness could conjure such phantoms, give them visible forms, and make them move !… What kind of existence would his be if, day and night, the shadows of his crime watched him from every silent corner , mocking him from their hiding places, whispering in his ear at parties, waking him with their icy fingers when he slept!… At this thought creeping into his mind, he paled, and suddenly the air seemed to grow cold…. Oh! what a strange hour of madness, that in which he had killed his friend! How dreadful, the mere recollection of that scene! He could still see it! Every hideous detail returned to him, increased in horror!… Out of the dark cavern of time, frightful and draped in scarlet, sprang the image of his crime! When Lord Henry arrived around six o’clock, he found him sobbing as if his heart were bursting! It wasn’t until the third day that he ventured out. There was something in the clear air, heavy with the scent of pine that winter morning, that seemed to restore his joy and zest for life; but it wasn’t merely the physical conditions of the surroundings that had caused this change. His own nature rebelled against this excess of anguish that had sought to spoil, to mutilate the perfection of his calm; it is always thus with subtle and finely tempered temperaments ; their strong passions must either bend them or bruise them. They kill the man if they do not die themselves. Mediocre sorrows and limited loves survive. Great loves and true sorrows are annihilated by their own fullness. He had convinced himself that he had been the victim of his imagination. struck with terror, and he thought of her terrors with compassion and a touch of contempt. After breakfast, he walked for nearly an hour with the Duchess in the garden, then they drove through the park to the hunt. Frost, crunching underfoot, was spread over the grass like sand. The sky was an inverted cup of blue metal . A thin layer of ice bordered the smooth surface of the reed- fringed lake . At the edge of a pine wood, he saw Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the Duchess’s brother, removing two fired cartridges from his shotgun. He jumped out of the carriage and, after telling the groom to take the mare back to the castle, made his way to his hosts through fallen branches and rough undergrowth. “Did you have a good hunt, Geoffrey?” he asked. “Not very good, Dorian… The birds are in the plain: I think it will be better after lunch, when we move inland …” Dorian strolled beside him… The air was crisp and fragrant, the various glimmers that shone in the woods, the raucous cries of the beaters bursting forth from time to time, the sharp cracks of the guns that followed one another, interested him and filled him with a feeling of delicious freedom. He was carried away by the carefree nature of happiness, by the haughty indifference of joy… Suddenly, from a small grassy rise, twenty paces ahead, with its black-tipped ears pricked and its long hind legs stretched out, a hare darted off. It darted towards a clump of alders. Sir Geoffrey shouldered his rifle, but there was something so graceful in the animal’s movements that it delighted Dorian, who cried out: “Don’t shoot, Geoffrey! Let him live!”… “What nonsense, Dorian!” said his companion, laughing, and as the hare bounded into the thicket, he fired…. Two cries were heard, that of the wounded hare, which is dreadful, and that of a mortally wounded man—which is even more horrible! “My God! I’ve hit a beater!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. “What an ass, that man, putting himself in front of the guns! Cease firing!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “A man is wounded!”… The gamekeeper came running up, a stick in his hand. “Where, sir?” he cried, “Where is he?” At that very moment, the firing ceased along the entire line. “Here,” replied Sir Geoffrey furiously, rushing towards the thicket. “Why don’t you keep your men back?… You’ve spoiled my hunt today…” Dorian watched them enter the alder thicket, parting the branches… After a moment, they emerged, carrying a body into the sunlight. He turned around, terrified… It seemed to him that misfortune followed him wherever he went… He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was truly dead, and the gamekeeper’s affirmative reply. The woods suddenly seemed haunted by living figures; he heard the sound of countless feet and a muffled hum of voices… A large golden-throated pheasant flew into the branches above them. After a few moments that, in his distraught state, seemed like endless hours of pain, he felt a hand on his shoulder; He flinched and looked around him. “Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I’d better announce that the hunt is closed for today. It wouldn’t be right to continue it. ” “I wish it were closed forever, Harry,” he replied bitterly. ” This thing is odious and cruel. Is this man…” He couldn’t finish… “I’m afraid so,” replied Lord Henry. “He took the whole charge in the chest. He must be dead on the spot. Come, let’s go home…” They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking… Finally, Dorian turned to Lord Henry and said with a deep sigh, “This is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen indeed!” “What?” inquired Lord Henry. “Ah! That accident, I think. My dear friend, I can’t do anything about it. It’s that man’s fault. Why was he standing in front of the guns? That’s none of our business. It’s naturally unfortunate for Geoffrey. It’s not good to shoot the beaters; it makes people think you’re a bad shot, and yet Geoffrey isn’t, for he shoots very well. But why speak of it?” Dorian shook his head. “A bad omen, Harry! I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen to one of us. To me, perhaps.” He rubbed his eyes in pain. Lord Henry burst out laughing. “The only terrible thing in the world is boredom, Dorian.” It is the only sin for which there is no forgiveness…. But probably, this matter will not cause us any trouble, unless the touts gossip about it at dinner; I will forbid them to speak of it…. As for omens, they do not exist: fate does not send us heralds; it is too wise…. or too cruel for that. Besides, what could happen to you, Dorian?… You have everything a man in the world could desire. Who is there who would not exchange his life for yours?… –There is no one with whom I would not exchange it, Harry…. Don’t laugh !… I speak the truth…. The wretched peasant who has just died is happier than I. I am not afraid of death. It is the coming of death that terrifies me!… Its monstrous wings seem to hover in the heavy air around me!… My God! Don’t you see, behind those trees, a man watching me, waiting for me!… Lord Henry looked in the direction the trembling gloved hand indicated…. “Yes,” he said, laughing…. “I see the gardener waiting for you. I imagine he needs to know which flowers you want on the table this evening…. You’re really nervous, my dear fellow! You’ll have to see the doctor when you get back to town…” Dorian sighed with relief as he saw the gardener approaching. The man raised his hat, looked hesitantly in Lord Henry’s direction , and took out a letter, which he handed to his master. “His Grace told me to wait for a reply,” he murmured. Dorian put the letter in his pocket. “Tell His Grace I’m going home,” he replied coldly. The man turned and ran toward the house. “How women love to do dangerous things,” Lord Henry remarked with a laugh. “It’s one of the qualities I admire most in them. A woman will flirt with anyone in the world, as long as she’s being watched… ” “How you love to say dangerous things, Harry… So, at this moment, you’re going astray. I think very highly of the Duchess, but I don’t love her. ” “And the Duchess likes you very much, but thinks less of you, so you’re a perfect match. ” “You speak scandalously, Harry, and there’s no scandalous basis in our relationship. ” “The basis of all scandal is immoral certainty,” said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. “You’ll sacrifice anyone, Harry, for the sake of an epigram.” “People go to the altar of their own free will,” was the reply. “I would love!” cried Dorian Gray, with a deeply pathetic intonation in his voice. But it seems to me I’ve lost the passion and forgotten the desire. I’m too self-absorbed. My personality has become a burden; I need to escape, to travel, to forget. It’s ridiculous of me to have come here. I think I’ll send Harvey a telegram to have the yacht prepared. On a yacht, you’re safe…. –Against what, Dorian?… You’re in some kind of trouble. Why don’t you tell me? You know I’d help you. “I can’t tell you, Harry,” he replied sadly. “And besides, it’s just a whim of mine. That unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horrible premonition that something similar might happen to me. ” “How foolish!” “I hope so… but I can’t stop thinking about it… Ah! Here’s the Duchess, she looks just like Artemisia in a tailored suit… You see we were coming back, Duchess… ” “I’ve heard what happened, Mr. Gray,” she replied. “Poor Geoffrey is quite upset… It seems you begged him not to shoot that hare. How curious! ” “Yes, it is very curious. I don’t know what made me say that. Some whim, I think; that hare looked like the prettiest thing alive… But I’m sorry you were told about the accident.” “It’s a dreadful subject… ” “It’s a dull subject,” interrupted Lord Henry. “It has no psychological value. Ah! If Geoffrey had done it on purpose, how interesting it would have been!… I’d like to know someone who had committed a real murder. ” “How wrong you are to speak like that!” cried the Duchess. “Isn’t it , Mr. Gray?… Harry!… Mr. Gray is still unwell!… He’ll feel faint!” Dorian sat up with an effort and smiled. “It’s nothing, Duchess,” he murmured, “my nerves are just on edge; that’s all…. I’m afraid I can’t go far this morning. I didn’t hear what Harry said…. Was it wrong? You’ll tell me another time. I think I’d better go to bed.” You’ll excuse me , won’t you?… They had reached the steps of the staircase leading from the conservatory to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned his tired eyes toward the Duchess. “Do you love him very much?” he asked. She didn’t give an immediate answer, considering the view… “I wish I knew,” she said at last. He shook his head. “Knowledge would be fatal. It’s uncertainty that charms you. The mist makes things more wonderful.” “One can lose one’s way.” “All roads lead to the same place, my dear Gladys.” “What is it? ” “Disillusionment.” “It’s my start in life,” she sighed. “He came to you crowned… ” “I’m tired of strawberry leaves.” “They suit you. The strawberry leaf is the heraldic ornament, in England, of ducal coronets. Only in public… ” “You’ll regret them.” “I won’t miss a single petal.” “Monmouth has ears. ” “Old age is hard of hearing. ” “Was he never jealous? ” “I wish he had been.” He looked around as if searching for something… “What are you looking for?” she asked. “The fly off your foil,” he replied. “You dropped it . ” “I still have the mask on,” she said, laughing. “It makes your eyes more adorable!” She laughed again. His teeth appeared, like white pips in a scarlet fruit… Upstairs in his room, Dorian Gray lay on a sofa, terror in every quivering fiber of his being. Life had suddenly become too much for him to bear. The terrible death of the hapless beater, killed in the thicket like a wild animal, seemed to foreshadow his own. He had almost fainted at what Lord Henry had said, by chance, as a cynical joke. At five o’clock, he rang for his valet and ordered him to prepare his trunks for the evening express and to have the brougham harnessed for 8:30 . He was resolved not to sleep another night at Selby Royal; it was a place of ill omen. Death walked there in the sunlight. The forest grass had been stained with blood. Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him he was going to town to see a doctor, and asking him to entertain his guests during his absence. As he was putting it in the envelope, there was a knock at the door, and his footman came to tell him that the head gamekeeper wished to speak with him. He frowned and bit his lip: “Show him in,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. As the man entered, Dorian took a checkbook from his drawer and, opening it before him, said, “I think you’ve come about the unfortunate accident this morning, Thornton,” and picked up a quill. “Yes, sir,” said the gamekeeper. “Was the poor fellow married? Did he have any family?” asked Dorian, looking bored. “If so, I won’t leave them in need and I’ll send them whatever money you think necessary. ” “We don’t know who he is, sir.” That’s why I took the liberty of coming to see you. ‘You don’t know who he is,’ said Dorian casually; ‘what do you mean? Wasn’t he one of your men?’ ‘No, sir; no one has ever seen him; he looks like a sailor. ‘ The quill fell from Dorian’s fingers, and it seemed to him that his heart had suddenly stopped beating. ‘A sailor!’ he exclaimed. ‘You say a sailor?’ ‘Yes, sir… He certainly looks like someone who has served in the navy. He has tattoos on both arms, among other things. ‘ ‘Has anything been found on him,’ said Dorian, leaning towards the man and looking at him intently. ‘Anything that would reveal his name?’ ‘Nothing but a little money, and a six-shooter. We haven’t discovered any name… A decent appearance, but crude.’ A sort of sailor, we believe… Dorian leaped to his feet… A terrible hope surged through him… He clung to it madly… “Where is the body?” he cried. “Quick, I want to see it! ” “It’s been laid in an empty stable at the farmhouse. People don’t like having these sorts of things in their houses. They say a corpse brings bad luck. ” “The farmhouse… Go and wait for me there. Tell a stable boy to bring me a horse…” “No, don’t do that… I’ll go to the stables myself. It will save time.” Less than a quarter of an hour later, Dorian Gray was galloping down the long avenue; the trees seemed to pass before him like a spectral procession, and hostile shadows crossed his path. Suddenly, the mare stumbled at a gatepost and almost threw him. He lashed her neck with his riding crop. She sliced ​​through the air like an arrow; stones flew beneath her hooves…. Finally, he reached the farmhouse. Two men were talking in the yard. He jumped from the saddle and handed the reins to one of them. In the furthest stable, a light shone. Something told him the body was there; he rushed to the door and reached for the latch…. He hesitated for a moment, sensing he was on the verge of a discovery that would either change or ruin his life forever…. Then he pushed the door open and went in. On a pile of sacks, at the back, in a corner, lay the corpse of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and blue trousers. A stained handkerchief covered his face. A common candle, stuck in a bottle beside him , crackled…. Dorian Gray shuddered…. He felt he could not remove the handkerchief himself…. He told a farmhand to come. ‘Take that thing out of your face; I’d like to see it,’ he said, leaning against the doorpost. When the servant had done as he was told, he stepped forward…. A cry of joy burst from his lips! The man who had been killed in the thicket was James Vane!… He stood for a few more moments gazing at the corpse…. As he galloped back to the house, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew his life was safe…. Chapter 19. “Why tell me you want to become good?” cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rosewater . “You are absolutely perfect. Please don’t change…” Dorian Gray nodded: “No, Harry. I have done too many abominable things in my life; I don’t want to do any more. I began my good deeds yesterday. ” “Where were you yesterday?” “In the country, Harry…. I was staying at a little inn. ” “My dear friend,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anyone can be good in the country; there are no temptations there…. That is why people who live outside the city are utterly uncivilized; civilization is by no means an easy thing to attain. There are only two ways to get there: by cultivation or by corruption.” Country folk have no opportunity to attain either; so they stagnate…. “Culture or corruption,” repeated Dorian. “I have known them a little. It seems terrible to me now that those two words should be joined together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I want to change; I think I already am. ” “You haven’t yet told me what your good deed is; or were you saying you’ve done more than one?” asked his companion as he poured a small crimson pyramid of fragrant strawberries onto his plate and dusted it with powdered sugar using a sifted, shell-shaped spoon. “I can tell you, Harry. It’s not a story I’ll tell everyone…. I spared a woman. It sounds pointless, but you’ll understand what I mean…. She was very beautiful and looked remarkably like Sibyl Vane.” I think that’s what drew me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you? How long ago that seems!… Hetty wasn’t of our class, of course; she was just a village girl. But I really loved her; I’m sure I did. During that wonderful month of May we had, I made a habit of going to see her two or three times a week. Yesterday, she met me in a little orchard. Apple blossoms covered her hair, and she was laughing. We were to leave together this morning at dawn…. Suddenly, I decided to leave her, leaving her as blossoming as I had found her…. “I like to think that the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of true pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can end your romance for you. You gave her good advice and… broke her heart…. Was that the beginning of your reformation? ” “Harry, you’re wicked!” You shouldn’t say such abominable things. Hetty’s heart isn’t broken; she wept, that’s understandable, and that was all. But she isn’t dishonored; she can live, like Perdita, in her garden where mint and marigolds grow. —And weep over a faithless Florizel, added Lord Henry, laughing and leaning back in his chair. My dear Dorian, your manners are curiously childish… Do you think that from now on this young girl will be content with someone of her own station? I suppose she’ll one day marry a rough carter or a coarse peasant; the fact of having met you, of having loved you, will make her hate her husband, and she’ll be miserable. From a moral standpoint, I can’t say I have much hope for your great renunciation… For a start, it’s poor… Besides, do you know if Hetty’s body isn’t now floating in some millpond, lit by the stars, surrounded by water lilies, like Ophelia?… –I don’t want to think about that, Harry. You make a mockery of everything, and in doing so, you suggest the most serious tragedies… I’m sorry to warn you, but I no longer pay attention to what you Tell me. I know I did the right thing. Poor Hetty! As I rode to the farm this morning, I saw her face, white at the window, like a bouquet of jasmine…. Let’s not speak of it again, and don’t try to persuade me that the first good deed I’ve done in years, the first small sacrifice of myself that I know of, is some kind of sin. I need to be better. I am becoming better…. Tell me about yourself. What’s the talk in town? I haven’t been to the club for several days. –They’re still talking about poor Basil’s disappearance. –I would have thought people would have grown tired of it by now, said Dorian, pouring himself some wine and frowning slightly. –My dear friend, it’s only been talked about for six weeks, and the English public can’t stand more than one topic of conversation every three months. It has been fairly well divided recently, though: there was my own divorce, and Alan Campbell’s self-harm; now it’s the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard believes that the man in the grey Ulster who left London for Paris on November 9th, on the midnight train, was poor Basil, and the French police say that Basil never came to Paris. I like to think that in a fortnight or so, we’ll hear that he’s been seen in San Francisco. It’s a strange thing, but in San Francisco, you see all the people you think are missing. It must be a delightful city; it has all the attractions of the future world…. “What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, raising his glass of Burgundy to the light and marveling at the calm with which he was discussing the matter. “I haven’t the slightest idea. If Basil wants to hide, that’s none of my business.” If he’s dead… I don’t need to think about it. Death is the only thing that has ever terrified me. I hate it! —”Why?” said the other lazily.— “Because,” replied Lord Henry, passing the gilt lattice of an open salad dressing tin under his nostrils, “one survives everything these days, except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two things in the nineteenth century that cannot be explained… Let’s go and have coffee in the drawing-room, Dorian. You will play me some Chopin. The gentleman my wife ran off with played Chopin exquisitely… Poor Victoria! I loved her very much; the house is a little sad without her. Married life is simply a habit, a bad habit. But one even misses one’s bad habits; perhaps it is those that one misses most; they are an essential part of the personality.” Dorian said nothing, but rising from the table, he went into the next room, sat down at the piano, and let his fingers wander over the black and white ivory keys. When the coffee was brought in, he stopped, and looking at Lord Henry, said, “Harry, has it never occurred to you that Basil was murdered? ” Lord Henry yawned. “Basil was very well known and always wore a Waterbury watch… Why would he have been murdered? He wasn’t clever enough to have enemies ; I’m not talking about his marvelous talent as a painter; but a man can paint like Velázquez and be as dull as can be. Basil was really a bit of a dullman… He interested me once, when he confided to me, years ago, the wild adoration he had for you and that you were the dominant motif in his art. ” “I liked Basil very much,” said Dorian, with a sad note in his voice. But aren’t they saying he was murdered? –Yes, some newspapers… That seems highly unlikely to me. I know there are some disreputable places in Paris, but Basil wasn’t the type to frequent them. He wasn’t curious; that was his flaw. Principal. ‘What would you say, Harry, if I told you I murdered Basil?’ said Dorian, watching him closely as he spoke. ‘I would say, my dear friend, that you are posing for a character that doesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. It wouldn’t become you to commit murder. I’m sorry if I hurt your vanity by speaking thus, but I assure you it’s true. Crime belongs exclusively to the lower classes; I don’t blame them at all, by the way. I imagine that crime is to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations. ‘ ‘A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who has committed a crime would commit the same crime again? Don’t tell me that!’ ‘Everything becomes a pleasure when it is done too often,’ said Lord Henry, laughing. ‘That is one of the most important secrets of existence.’ I would believe, however, that murder is always a fault; one should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner…. But let’s not speak of poor Basil any longer. I would like to believe that he might have had such a romantic end as you suppose; but I cannot…. He must have fallen from an omnibus into the Seine, and the driver didn’t mention it…. Yes, that was probably his end…. I can picture him very well on his back, lying beneath the green waters with heavy barges passing over him and long grasses in his hair. You see, I don’t think he would have produced any fine work after that. During the last ten years, his painting had been declining considerably. Dorian sighed, and Lord Henry, crossing the room, went to tickle the head of a curious Java parrot, a large bird with grey plumage, a green crest and tail, which was perched on a bamboo pole. As his slender fingers touched him, the white flecks of his blinking eyelids moved across his black, glass-like pupils, and he began to sway back and forth . “Yes,” continued Lord Henry, turning and taking his handkerchief from his pocket, “his painting was completely fading. It seemed to me that he had lost something. He had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What separated you?… I think he bored you. If that was the case, he never forgot you. It’s a habit all tiresome people have. By the way, what became of that admirable portrait he painted of you? I do n’t think I’ve seen it since he put the finishing touches on it. Ah!” Yes, I remember you telling me years ago that you had sent it to Selby and that it was lost or stolen en route. You never found it?… What a misfortune! It really was a masterpiece! I remember wanting to buy it. I wish I had bought it now. It belonged to Basil’s best period. Since then, his works have shown that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions which makes a man worthy of being called a representative of English art. Did you place any notices to find it? You should have. “I don’t remember,” said Dorian. “I think I did. But I never liked it. I regret having sat for that portrait. The memory of it all is hateful to me.” He always reminds me of those lines from a well-known play, Hamlet, I think… Let’s see, what do they say?… Like the painting of a sorrow , A face without a heart. Yes, that was exactly it… Lord Henry laughed… “If a man treats his life like an artist, his brain is his heart,” he replied, sinking into an armchair. Dorian Gray shook his head and struck a few chords on the piano. ” Like the painting of a sorrow,” he repeated, “a face without a heart.” heart. The other leaned back, looking at him with half-closed eyes. “By the way, Dorian,” he asked after a pause, “what profit is there for a man who gains the whole world and loses—how the devil was it?—his own soul?” The piano sounded out of tune. Dorian stopped and, looking at his friend, said, “Why do you ask me this, Harry?” “My dear friend,” said Lord Henry, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “I ask because I suppose you can give me an answer. That’s all. I was in the Park last Sunday, and near the Marble Arch there was a gathering of poorly dressed people listening to some vulgar street preacher. As I was passing by, I heard this man posing this question to his audience. It struck me as quite dramatic. London is rich in incidents of this kind.” A damp Sunday, a bizarre Christian in a mackintosh, a circle of sickly, pale figures beneath an uneven canopy of dripping umbrellas, a marvelous phrase hurled to the wind like a cry from hysterical lips—all this was a truly beautiful thing in its own way, and quite suggestive. I thought of telling the prophet that art has a soul, but man does not. I fear, however, that he would not have understood me. —No, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, sold, trafficked in. It can be poisoned or made perfect. There is a soul in all of us. I know this. —Are you quite sure of that, Dorian? —Absolutely sure. —Ah! Then it must be an illusion. Things of which one is absolutely certain are never true. It is the fatality of Faith and the lesson of the Novel. How grave you are! Don’t be so serious. What do you and I have in common with the superstitions of our time? Nothing… We’ve rid ourselves of our belief in the soul… Play me something , Dorian. Play me a nocturne, and while you’re playing, tell me quietly how you’ve managed to keep your youth. You must have some secret. I’m only ten years older than you, and I’m withered, worn, yellowed. You are truly wonderful, Dorian. You’ve never been more charming to see than this evening. You remind me of the first day I saw you. You were a little chubby and shy, quite extraordinary. You’ve changed, certainly, but not outwardly. I would very much like you to tell me your secret. To regain my youth, I would do anything in the world, except exercise, get up early, or be respectable… Oh, youth! Nothing compares to you! What nonsense to speak of the ignorance of young people! The only men whose opinions I listen to with respect are those younger than myself. They seem to be walking ahead of me. Life has revealed its latest wonders to them. As for old men, I always contradict them. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on some event from yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions common in 1820, when people wore long stockings…believed everything and knew absolutely nothing. How delightful that piece you’re playing is! I imagine Chopin must have written it in Majorca, while the sea moaned around his villa and the salty foam splashed against the windows? It’s exquisitely romantic. It’s truly a blessing that we have been left an art that isn’t an art of imitation! Don’t stop; I need music tonight. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and I am Marsyas listening to you. I have my own sorrows, Dorian, of which you have never known anything. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but rather that one was once young. I am sometimes astonished by my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life yours has led! You have savored all things at length. You have crushed the ripe grapes against Your palace. Nothing was hidden from you. And all of this was like the sound of music: you were untouched by it. You are still the same. —I am not the same, Harry. —Yes, you are the same. I imagine what the rest of your days will be like. Don’t spoil it with any renunciations. You are now a complete being. Don’t make yourself incomplete. You are currently without flaw… Don’t nod; you know that perfectly well. However, don’t delude yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. It is a matter of nerves, of fibers, of slowly formed cells where thought is hidden and where passions have their dreams. You may believe yourself saved and strong. But a hint of color glimpsed in the room, a morning sky, a certain scent you once loved that brings back subtle memories, a line from a forgotten poem that comes back to you, a musical phrase you no longer play—it is on all of this, Dorian, I assure you, that our existence depends. Browning wrote it somewhere, but our senses readily allow us to imagine it. There are times when the scent of white lilac permeates me and I feel as if I am reliving the strangest month of my life. I wish I could change with you, Dorian. The world has roared at us both, but it has had you and will always have you in adoration. You are the kind of man our age demands and fears it has found. I am glad you never did anything: never sculpted a statue, never painted a canvas, never produced anything but yourself! Your art was your life. You set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets. Dorian rose from the piano and, running a hand through his hair, murmured, “Yes, life has been exquisite… But I don’t wish to live that same life again, Harry. And you shouldn’t tell me such extravagant things. You don’t know me completely. If you knew everything, I think you would distance yourself from me. Are you laughing? Don’t laugh … Why do you stop playing, Dorian? Go back to the piano and play me that Nocturne again. See that broad, honey-colored moon rising in the dark sky. It’s waiting for you to charm it. If you play, it will draw nearer to the earth… Don’t you want to? Let’s go to the club, then. The evening has been delightful; we must bring it to a close. There ‘s someone at the White who is very eager to make your acquaintance: young Lord Pool, the eldest of Bournemouth’s sons. He’s already copying your ties and has asked to be introduced to me. He’s quite charming, and almost reminds me of you.” “I hope not,” said Dorian sadly, “but I feel tired tonight, Harry; I won’t go to the club. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I want to go to bed early. ” “Stay… You never played so well as tonight. There was something wonderful about your playing. It was a feeling I’ve never heard before. ” “That’s because I’m going to get good,” he smiled. “I’m already a little changed. ” “You can’t change me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “We’ll always be friends. ” “Yet you once poisoned me with a book. I won’t forget that… Harry, promise me you’ll never lend that book to anyone again. It’s evil.” “My dear friend, you’re beginning to preach. You’ll soon be like the converts and revivalists, warning everyone against the sins they themselves are tired of. You’re too charming to do that.” Besides, it’s pointless. We are what we are and will be what we can be. As for being poisoned by a book, one never experiences anything like that. Art has no influence on actions; it annihilates the desire to act, it is superbly sterile. The books the world calls immoral are the books that show it its own shame. That’s all. But let’s not argue. No literature… Come tomorrow, I’m riding at eleven. We can go for a ride together, and then I’ll take you to lunch at Lady Branksome’s. She’s a charming woman; she’d like your advice on a tapestry she’s thinking of buying. Do you think you ‘ll come? Or shall we have lunch with our little duchess? She says she hasn’t seen you in a while. Perhaps you’re tired of Gladys? I thought so. Her way of thinking gets on your nerves… In any case, be here at eleven. “Do I really have to come, Harry? ” “Certainly, the park is lovely at the moment. I don’t think there have been so many lilacs since the year I met you . ” “Very well, I’ll be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good evening, Harry…” When he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out…. Chapter 20. It was a delightful night, so mild, that he threw his overcoat over his arm and didn’t even put his scarf around his neck. As he walked toward the house, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed by. He heard one of them whisper to the other: “It’s Dorian Gray…!” He remembered his former joy when people pointed him out, looked at him, or talked about him. He was tired now of hearing his name spoken. Half the charm he found in the little village he had been to so often lately came from the fact that no one there knew him. He had often told the young woman whose love he had won that he was poor, and she had believed him; once he had told her that he was wicked; she had laughed and replied that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a lovely laugh she had. It was like the song of a thrush! How graceful she was in her cotton dresses and wide-brimmed hats. She knew nothing of life, yet she possessed everything he had lost. When he reached his lodgings, he found his servant waiting for him. He sent him to bed, threw himself down on the library sofa , and began to think about some of the things Lord Henry had told him. Was it true that one could never change? He felt a burning, wild longing for the spotless purity of his adolescence—his rosy, white adolescence, as Lord Henry had once called it. He realized that he had tarnished his soul, corrupted his mind, and created for himself horrible remorse; that he had had a disastrous influence on others, and found in it a perverse joy. Of all the lives that had passed through his and that he had sullied, his own was still the most beautiful and the most full of promise… Was all this irreparable? Was there no hope left for him?… Ah! What a dreadful moment of pride and passion, when he had asked that the portrait bear the weight of his days, and that he himself retain the untarnished splendor of eternal youth! All his misfortune stemmed from this! Would it not have been better if each sin of his life had brought with it its swift and certain punishment? There is a purification in chastisement. Man’s prayer to a just God should be, not: Forgive us our sins! But: Strike us for our iniquities!… The curiously crafted mirror that Lord Henry had given him so long ago lay on the table, and the ivory cupids laughed around it as they had in days of old. He took it, just as he had done that night of horror, when he had first glimpsed a change in the fatal portrait, and cast his tear-filled gaze upon the polished oval. Once, someone who had loved him terribly had written him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history! This phrase came back to him, and he repeated it to himself several times. He suddenly loathed his beauty, and throwing the mirror to the ground, he crushed the shards under his heel!… It was his beauty that had ruined him, this beauty and this youth for which he had prayed so fervently; for without these two things, his life might not have been tainted. His beauty had been nothing but a mask, his youth a mockery. What was youth, anyway? A green and premature moment, a time of frivolous moods, of sickly thoughts…. Why had he wanted to wear his livery…. Youth had ruined him. It was better not to think about the past! Nothing could change him…. It was himself, his own future, that he had to think about…. James Vane lay in an unmarked grave in Selby Cemetery; Alan Campbell had killed himself one night in his laboratory, without revealing the secret he had been forced to learn; the current emotion surrounding Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon subside: it was already diminishing. He was perfectly safe now. It wasn’t, in truth, Basil Hallward’s death that oppressed him; it was the living death of his soul. Basil had painted the portrait that had ruined his life; he couldn’t forgive that: it was the portrait that had done everything…. Basil had said truly unbearable things to him, which he had at first listened to patiently. This murder had been a momentary folly, after all…. As for Alan Campbell, if he had committed suicide, it was because he had wanted to…. He wasn’t responsible for it. A new life…! That was what he desired; that was what he had been waiting for…. Surely it had already begun! He had just spared an innocent being; he would never tempt innocence again; he would be good…. As he thought of Hetty Merton, he wondered if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it couldn’t be as dreadful as it had been? Perhaps, if his life were purified, he would manage to banish from his face every trace of evil passion! Perhaps the signs of evil had already vanished…. If only he could find out ! He took the lamp from the table and went upstairs…. As he unlocked the door, a smile of joy crossed his strangely youthful face and lingered on his lips…. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing he had hidden from everyone’s eyes would no longer be an object of terror. It seemed to him that he was already rid of his burden. He entered quietly, closing the door behind him as was his custom, and drew back the purple curtain that hid the portrait…. A cry of horror and indignation escaped him…. He perceived no change, except that a glint of cunning was in the eyes, and that the crooked crease of hypocrisy had been added to the mouth…! The thing was even more abominable—more abominable, if that were possible—than before; the scarlet stain that covered the hand seemed brighter; the newly shed blood was visible there…. Then he trembled…. Was it merely vanity that had prompted his quick reaction of a moment ago, or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had suggested to him with a mocking laugh? Yes, that need to play a part that makes us do things more beautiful than ourselves? Or perhaps all of these things together?… Why was the red stain larger than before! It seemed to have spread like the sore of some horrible disease on wrinkled fingers!… There was blood on the feet of the portrait as if it had dripped down onto them! There was even blood on the hand that hadn’t held the knife!… Confess his crime? Did he even know what it meant to confess? It was surrendering himself, surrendering himself to death! He began to laugh… The idea was monstrous… Besides, if he confessed, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man; everything that had belonged to him was destroyed; he himself had burned it… The world would simply say he was going mad… He would be locked up if he persisted in his story… However, his duty was to confess, to suffer the shame before everyone, and to make public atonement… There was a God who compelled men to confess their sins on this earth as well as in heaven. Whatever he did, nothing could purify him until he had confessed his crime… His crime!… He shrugged. Basil Hallward’s life mattered little; he was thinking of Hetty Merton… For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he gazed upon… Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Was there nothing more to his renunciation? He had read something more in it. At least, he thought so. But who could say? No, there was nothing more… Out of vanity, he had spared her; out of hypocrisy, he had worn the mask of kindness; out of curiosity, he had tried renunciation… He recognized it now. But would this murder haunt him all his life? Would he always be crushed by his past? Should he confess? Never! There was only one piece of evidence against him. That evidence was the portrait! He would destroy it! Why had he kept it for so many years? He had indulged himself in the pleasure of watching it change and age. He hadn’t felt that pleasure in a long time… It kept him awake at night… When he left home, he was filled with the terror that other eyes than his own might see him. It had cast a melancholy sadness upon his passions. Its mere memory had spoiled many a joyful moment. He had been like a conscience. Yes, he had been Conscience…. He would destroy it!… He looked around him and saw the dagger with which he had struck Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times until it was spotless. It shone…. As he had killed the painter, he would kill the painter’s work, and all that it signified…. He would kill the past, and when that past was dead, he would be free!… He would kill the monstrous portrait of his soul, and deprived of its hideous warnings, he would regain peace. He seized the knife and struck the painting!… There was a great cry, and a fall!… This cry of agony was so horrible that the terrified servants awoke with a start and ran from their rooms! Two gentlemen, passing below in the square, stopped and gazed at the large house. They walked until they met a policeman and brought him back with them. The man rang several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in an upper-story window, the house was dark. After a moment, he left, stood beside it under a carriage entrance, and waited. “Whose house is this, Constable?” asked the older of the two gentlemen. “Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,” replied the policeman. As they left, they glanced at each other and sneered: one of them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle. In the servants’ quarters, the half-dressed staff spoke in hushed voices; old Mistress Leaf sobbed and wrung her hands; Francis was as pale as death. After a quarter of an hour, he went up to the room with the coachman and one of the footmen. They knocked, but there was no answer. They called out; all was silent. Finally, after trying in vain to force the door, they climbed onto the roof and went down through the balcony. The windows gave way easily; their hardware was old. When they entered, they found, hanging on the wall, a splendid portrait of their master as they had always known him, in all the splendor of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, a dagger in his heart! His face was withered, wrinkled, repulsive! It was only by his rings that they could recognize him. You have just traversed the bewitching spiral where charm becomes poison, where art, a mirror of souls, reveals what society disguises. Dorian wanted to preserve his beauty from time; the portrait, however, has forgotten nothing. Wilde questions our thirst for appearances, the intoxication of unbridled hedonism, the responsibility we owe ourselves. What is grace worth without kindness? What becomes of freedom without conscience? Hidden within the brilliance of the aphorisms is a lasting warning: every life, sooner or later, presents the reckoning. Thank you for sharing this journey; may its shadows sharpen your perception of the light.