Das Bildnis des Dorian Gray 🎭🖼️ | Oscar Wilde Hörbuch auf Deutsch
Welcome to German Audiobooks. Today we transport you to Oscar Wilde’s dazzling, dangerously sparkling novel, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” A young man of extraordinary beauty is seduced by Lord Henry’s brilliant cynicism, while the painter Basil Hallward captures his essence in a masterpiece. When Dorian wishes to remain eternally young, a secret double life begins: he indulges in London salons, hidden vices, and forbidden pleasures—but only the portrait bears the marks of his guilt. Listen to a tale of desire, influence, and the toxicity of perfect beauty—elegant, wicked, timeless. Chapter 1. The studio was awash in the strong scent of roses, and when the gentle summer breeze swayed the trees in the garden, the heavy fragrance of lilac or the more delicate scent of hawthorn would drift in through the open door. From the corner of his divan, with its Persian saddlebags, where Lord Henry Wotton reclined, smoking countless cigarettes as usual, he could just make out the glimmer of the honey-sweet, honey-colored blossoms of a laburnum bush, whose trembling branches seemed to bear the weight of such fiery beauty with a mere sigh. Now and then, the fantastical shadows of passing birds flitted across the long bast-silk curtains drawn before the large window. For a moment, this evoked a kind of Japanese atmosphere and made the Lord think of the pale, nephrite-yellow painters of Tokyo, who, with the aid of an art that must necessarily be called static, seek to conjure a sense of speed and movement. The deep hum of the bees, taking their hesitant flight through the tall, unmown grass or circling with monotonous tenacity around the dusty golden spires of the rampant honeysuckle, made the silence seem even more oppressive. The dull roar of London murmured like the bass notes of a distant organ. In the middle of the room, on a high easel, stood the life-size portrait of an extraordinarily handsome young man, and opposite him, a few steps away, sat his creator, the painter Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years before had caused such a stir among the crowd and given rise to so many strange speculations. As the painter contemplated the graceful and charming figure that his art had so splendidly captured, a joyful smile flitted across his face and seemed to linger there. But suddenly he started up, closed his eyes, and pressed his eyelids shut with his fingers, as if afraid of awakening from a peculiar dream and trying to lock it away in his brain. ” It is your best work, Basil, the best you have ever done,” said Lord Henry, sounding sleepy. “You must send it to the Grosvenor next year.” The Academy is too big and too ordinary. Every time I went there, there were either so many people that I couldn’t see the paintings, and that was bad, or so many paintings that I couldn’t see the people, and that was even worse. The Grosvenor is the only proper place. ” I have no intention of exhibiting it at all,” replied the painter , throwing back his head in that peculiar way at which his friends in Oxford had often laughed. “No, I won’t exhibit it anywhere. ” Lord Henry raised his eyebrows and looked at the other in astonishment through the thin blue arabesques of smoke rising in such adventurous swirls from the strong, opium-soaked cigarette. “Not exhibit it anywhere? Why, my dear fellow? Do you have a reason? What oddballs you painters are! You do everything in the world to make a name for yourselves. And once you’ve finally got it, you seem to want to get rid of it again.” That ‘s silly of you, for there is only one wretched thing on earth more embarrassing than being on everyone’s lips, and that is: not being on everyone’s lips. A portrait like that would elevate you far above all the young people in England and would make the old people burst with envy , insofar as old people are still capable of feeling anything at all. “I know you’ll laugh at me,” he replied, “but I truly cannot display it. There’s too much of myself in it.” Lord Henry stretched out on the divan and laughed. “ Yes, I knew that; but it remains true nonetheless, I’m sure of it. Too much of you in it, you say? On my word, Basil, I never would have guessed you were so vain; I really can’t see the faintest resemblance between you, with your coarse, angular face and coal-black hair, and this young Adonis, who looks as if he were fashioned from ivory and rose petals. No, my dear Basil, it’s a narcissus, and you—of course you have a witty face and so on. But beauty, real beauty, ends where witty expression begins. Wit is in itself a kind of excess and ruins the symmetry of every face. The moment you start thinking, you become all nose, or all forehead, or some other hideous thing.” Just look at all those men who have accomplished something in learned professions. Aren’t they all exceedingly ugly? Except, of course, for the men of the Church. But in the Church, they simply don’t think. An eighty-year-old bishop still says the same things he was taught as an eighteen-year-old lad, and as a result, he always looks delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you never told me, but whose image truly enchants me, never thinks. Of that I am absolutely convinced. He is some brainless, beautiful creature that we should always have with us in winter, when there are no flowers to look at, and in summer, when we need something to cool our minds. So don’t flatter yourself, Basil: you don’t look anything like him. You don’t understand me at all, Henry, replied the artist. Of course I don’t look like him. I know that myself. In fact, I would be quite sad if I did. You don’t need to shrug your shoulders. I tell you the truth. Every physical and mental peculiarity carries a certain tragedy; a tragedy, perhaps, like the fate of kings on their errant paths through world history, which seems to cling to their feet. It is better not to be different from one’s fellow human beings. The ugly and the stupid have the best lives in the world. They can sit quietly and gawk at the game without a care. They know nothing of victories, but in return, they are spared the acquaintance of defeats. They live as we all should: undisturbed, indifferent, and without discomfort. They bring no harm to others, nor do they receive it from another’s hand. Your station and your wealth, Harry, my mind, as much as I have of it, my art, as much as it is worth, Dorian Gray for his good looks—we must all suffer for the gifts of the gods , suffer terribly. Dorian Gray? Is that his name? asked Lord Henry, walking through the studio toward Basil Hallward. Yes, that is his name. I didn’t really want to tell you. But why not? Oh, I can’t explain it like that. If I love someone very, very much , I don’t reveal their name to anyone. That would seem to me as giving away a part of their very being. I’ve gradually developed a sort of love for secrets. That seems to be the only way left to make life our time mysterious and wonderful. The most ordinary occurrence becomes rich in beauty when it is concealed. Nor do I ever say where I’m going when I leave town. If I did, all my enjoyment of it would be gone. It may be a silly habit, but it does bring a bit of romance into life. You’re probably thinking I’m terribly foolish? Not in the least, answered Lord Henry, not in the least, my dear Basil. You seem to forget that I’m married, and that the main charm of marriage lies in the fact that it makes a life of deception a necessity for both parties. I never know where my wife is, and My wife never knows what I’m doing. When we’re together— we are together occasionally, when we’re invited to dinner or when we go to the Duke’s country house—we tell each other the most outlandish stories with the most serious faces. My wife understands this perfectly, without a doubt better than I do. She never contradicts herself with the facts, whereas I do it constantly . But when she catches me, she never makes a scene. I sometimes wish she would. But she just laughs at me. ” I can’t stand the way you talk about your marriage,” said Basil Hallward, walking slowly toward the door that led into the garden. “I think you’re actually quite a good husband and are just always ashamed of that virtue. You’re a strange fellow indeed: you never say anything moral and you never do anything wrong. Your cynicism is nothing but posturing.” “Naturalness is always a pose, and the most irritating pose I know!” exclaimed Lord Henry, laughing. The two young men went together into the garden and sat down on a long bamboo bench in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight shimmered and danced across the smooth leaves. White daisies trembled in the grass. After a while, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. “I’m afraid I must be off soon, Basil,” he grumbled, “but before I go, you absolutely must answer the question I asked you earlier.” “ What was that?” said the painter, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Well, you know. Surely not, Harry.” “Very well, I’ll tell you again. You’re to explain to me why you don’t want to exhibit Dorian Gray’s portrait. I insist on knowing the real reason.” “I’ve already told you the real reason.” “No, you haven’t. You only said it was because there was too much of yourself in the picture.” “That’s childish, ” said Basil Hallward, looking straight into the other’s face, ” every portrait painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the model. The model is merely the occasion, the opportunity. It is not this that is revealed by the painter; no, it is rather the painter who reveals himself on the colored canvas. So I will not exhibit this picture for that reason, because I fear I have revealed in it the secret of my own soul. ” Lord Henry laughed. “And what would that be?” he asked. ” I will tell you,” answered Hallward; but there came a look of bewilderment on his face. ” I am most curious, Basil,” his companion continued, looking back at him. ” Oh, there is really not much to tell, Harry,” replied the painter, “and you hardly understand it, I am afraid. Perhaps you don’t even believe me.” Lord Henry smiled, and then bent down to pick a pink-tinged daisy from the grass, which he examined. “I will certainly understand you,” he replied, his eyes fixed intently on the small, golden, white-feathered flower disc, “and as for belief, I can believe anything, provided it is improbable enough.” The wind shook a few blossoms from the trees, and the heavy, multi-starred clusters of lilac bushes stirred in the sultry air. A cricket began to chirp on the garden wall, and a long, thin damselfly flitted past on its brown gauze wings like a blue thread . Lord Henry thought he could hear Basil Hallward’s heart pounding and wondered what might be coming. “ The story is quite simple,” the painter said after a while. “ Two months ago, I went to one of Lady Brandon’s mass receptions. You know, we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time to remind the public that we are not savages. You once told me: ‘In a tailcoat and white tie, even a stockbroker can be suspected of being cultured.’” Well, I was there for about ten minutes talking to corpulent, dressed-up, Among refined widows and dull academics, I suddenly realized someone was looking at me. I turned halfway and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. I felt myself go pale as our eyes met. A strange feeling of fear came over me. I knew I was standing face to face with a person whose mere appearance so captivated me that, if I allowed it, it would inevitably seize my whole nature, my whole soul, even my art . I have never in my life needed any outside influence . You know yourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature . I have always been my own master; at least I was until I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to make you understand. Something seemed to foreshadow that I was at a terrible turning point in my life. I had the peculiar feeling that fate had in store for me the most exquisite pleasures and the most exquisite pains . I was frightened, and I turned to leave. Conscience didn’t drive me: it was a kind of cowardice. I don’t pride myself on having attempted this escape. In fact, conscience and cowardice are one and the same. Conscience is merely the registered company name. Nothing more. I don’t believe it, Harry, and I don’t think you do either. But whatever the reason—it may well have been pride, for I have always been very proud— I hurried toward the door. Naturally, I collided with Lady Brandon. ” You’re not planning on running off already, Mr. Hallward?” she shrieked. “You know her shrill voice.” “Yes, she’s a peacock in everything except beauty,” said Lord Henry , plucking the daisy between his long, nervous fingers. I couldn’t get rid of her. She dragged me toward the royals , the people with medals and stars, and the elderly ladies with enormous tiaras and parrot noses. She called me her best friend. I had only seen her once before , but she had decided to make me the star of the show. I believe a picture of me had recently been very successful; at least, the newspapers had been buzzing about it, and in the nineteenth century, that’s the measure of immortality. Suddenly, I was standing face to face with the young man whose appearance had so strangely disturbed me earlier. We stood very close together, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me. Perhaps, though, it was n’t so reckless after all. It was simply unavoidable. We would have spoken even without an introduction. I’m certain of it. Dorian told me so afterward. He, too, felt that our acquaintance was fate. ” And how did Lady Brandon describe the wonderful young man?” his companion asked. “I know it’s her custom to make a little sketch of each of her guests .” I remember how she once introduced me to a dreadful old man with a crimson face, his chest covered in medals and ribbons, and whispered the most astonishing details about him into my ear in a tragic murmur audible to everyone in the room . I simply had to run away. I like to discover people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his wares. She either explains them to you until there’s nothing left to know, or she tells you everything except what you want to know. Poor Lady Brandon! You’re hard on her, said Hallward distractedly. My good boy, she wanted to open a drawing-room and only managed a restaurant. How can I admire her then? But tell me now , what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray? Oh, something like, “Delightful young man—his poor mother.” And I, quite inseparable—forgotten entirely what he was doing—I’m almost afraid —nothing at all—oh yes, he plays the piano—or was it the violin, dear Mr. Gray? We both had to laugh and became friends at once. Laughter is surely not the worst beginning for a friendship, and certainly its most beautiful end, said the young lord, picking himself another daisy. Hallward shook his head. You have no idea what friendship is, Harry, he muttered, and just as little as what enmity is. You like everyone; in other words, you’re indifferent to everyone. How cruelly unfair of you! cried Lord Henry, pushing his hat back and looking up at the lamb-like clouds, which drifted like confused balls of lustrous white silk across the turquoise vault of the sky . Yes, cruelly unfair of you. I distinguish people very sharply. I chose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good character, and my enemies for their intelligence. A person can never be too careful in choosing their enemies. I don’t have a single fool among them. They are all people of a certain intellectual caliber, and therefore they all hold me in high esteem. Am I very vain? I think I am a little . I think so too, Harry. But according to your classification, I would only be among your acquaintances. My dear old Basil, you are far, far more than an acquaintance. And far less than a friend! Some sort of brother, perhaps? Pah, brother! Keep brothers away from me. My eldest refuses to die, and my younger ones seem to be doing the same. Harry! cried Basil, frowning. My dear boy, I don’t mean it so seriously. But I can’t help it, I loathe my relatives. I suppose it stems from the fact that no one can tolerate their own faults in another . I fully understand the anger of English democrats at the so-called vices of the upper classes. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be among their privileges, and that any of us who expose ourselves by them is, in a sense, poaching on their territory. When poor Southwark’s divorce proceedings were underway, their indignation was truly magnificent. And yet, in my opinion, not even one-tenth of the proletariat lives according to morality. I don’t agree with a single word you say, and, what’s more, Harry, you yourself don’t believe it in the least. Lord Henry stroked his brown goatee and tapped his dainty ebony walking stick against the cap of his elegant patent leather boot. How English you are, Basil! You’ve made that point twice today . When you suggest an idea to a proper Englishman— always a rash act in itself—it never occurs to him to consider whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing that seems to matter to him is whether the speaker himself believes it. But the value of an idea has not the slightest thing to do with the sincerity of the one who expresses it. In all likelihood, the more insincere the man is, the more ingenious the idea will be, because in that case it will take on neither the coloring of his needs nor his desires nor his prejudices. However, I have no intention of engaging in political, social, or metaphysical discussions with you . I prefer people to principles, and unprincipled people are the dearest thing on earth. Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him? Every day. I would be unhappy if I didn’t see him for a day. He is simply a necessity for me. How strange! I always thought you cared about nothing but your art. He is now all my art, said the painter earnestly. Sometimes I think, Harry, that there are only two important epochs in world history. The first is the appearance of a new art technique, and the second is the appearance of a new personality. In art. What the invention of oil painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and one day the face of Dorian Gray will be to me. The point is not that I paint him, draw him, sketch him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is far more to me than a model or a person who sits for me. I certainly do not claim that I am dissatisfied with what I have done after him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it . There is nothing at all that art cannot express, and I know that what I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work, indeed, the most successful work of my life. But in some strange way—I hardly think you will understand this—his personality has revealed to me an entirely new kind of art, a completely new style. I see things differently, I think about them differently. I can now grasp life in a way that was not given to me before. A dream of form in our days of thought: who was it who said so? I have forgotten, but that is what Dorian Gray means to me. The mere visible presence of this boy—for to me he is scarcely more than that, though he is already over twenty—his mere visible presence— ah! I do not think you have any idea what it means to me! Without even knowing it, he reveals to me the lines of a new school, a school in which is contained all the passion of Romanticism and all the perfection of the Greek spirit. The harmony of soul and body, how much that is! We in our delusion have torn the two apart and invented for ourselves a realism that is commonplace, and an idealism that is empty. Harry! If you could know what Dorian Gray means to me! Do you remember that landscape of mine for which Agnew offered me such an insane amount of money, and which I never wanted to part with? It is certainly one of the best pieces I have ever done. And why? Because Dorian Gray was sitting beside me while I painted it. Some very fine fluid flowed from him to me, and for the first time in my life, I discovered in the simple woodland landscape the wonder I had always searched for and never found. Basil, that is quite an extraordinary story. I must meet Dorian Gray. Hallward sprang up from the bench and paced back and forth in the garden. After a while, he came back. Harry, he said, Dorian Gray is nothing to me but an artistic motif. Perhaps you would find nothing in him at all. I find everything in him. He is, in fact, never more alive in my work than when there is no shadow of him in it. He is, as I said, the inspiration for a style. I find him in the vibrations of certain lines, in the sweetness and delicacy of certain colors. That is all. But why don’t you want to exhibit his painting then? asked Lord Henry. Because, without meaning to, I ‘ve put a certain expression of all this very peculiar artist worship into it, which, of course, I never meant to speak of to him. He has no idea of any of it. He shall never suspect a thing. But the world might guess; and I don’t want to expose my soul to its shallow, spying eyes. They shall never get my heart under their microscope. There’s too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself. Poets aren’t as precise as you are. They know how lucrative it is to publish passion. A broken heart can get a whole series of editions these days. That’s why I find them so awful! Hallward exclaimed. An artist is supposed to create something beautiful, but he’s not supposed to put anything of his own life into it. We live in a time when people want to make art a kind of autobiography. We’ve simply lost the clear concept of beauty. One day I want to show the world, which she is, and that is why the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray. I think you are wrong, Basil, but I don’t want to argue with you. Only the intellectually hollow like to argue. Tell me, does Dorian Gray love you very much? The painter thought for a few moments. He likes me, he answered after a while; certainly he likes me. Of course, I flatter him terribly. I find a very particular pleasure in saying things to him that I later regret, as I know perfectly well. As a rule, he is also charming to me, and we sit in the studio and chatter about a thousand things. Now and then, though, he is horribly thoughtless and seems to find great pleasure in hurting me. Then, Harry, I feel as if I have surrendered my whole soul to someone who treats it like a flower for the buttonhole, like a small badge of honor with which one satisfies one’s vanity, like an ornament for a summer’s day. “Summer days, Basil, sometimes tend to last long,” murmured Lord Henry. “Perhaps you will tire of him sooner than he of you. It is very sad to think of, but it is undoubtedly true that genius outlives beauty. This also explains the fact that we go to such lengths to cram ourselves full of education. In the wild struggle for existence, we all want something lasting, and so we fill our brains with junk and facts, in the foolish hope of thereby securing our place. The thoroughly educated man—that is the modern ideal. And there is something dreadful about the brain of this thoroughly educated man. It is like a curiosity shop, full of monstrosities covered in dust, and where every object is priced above its true value . Still, I think you will tire of it first. One day you will look at your young friend and find that he is somewhat distorted, or you will find fault with his coloring , or something like that.” You will then harbor bitter resentment towards him in your heart and be quite seriously convinced that he has behaved very badly towards you. The next time he visits you, you will be completely cold and indifferent towards him. That will be a great pity, for it will change you. What you have told me is pure poetry, a romance of art, one might call it, and the worst thing about experiencing poetry is that it leaves one so utterly unpoetic. Harry, please, don’t speak like that. As long as I live, the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me. You cannot empathize with my feelings. You change too often. Ah, my dear Basil, that is precisely why I can empathize. Faithful people know only the trivial side of love; only the faithless experience the tragedies of love. And Lord Henry lit a match from a dainty silver matchbox and began to smoke a cigarette, with that self-assured, contented expression as if he had summed up the meaning of the whole world in a single sentence. There was a soft rustling of chirping sparrows in the green ivy leaves, which seemed to be coated with glossy lacquer, and the blue shadows of the clouds chased each other like swallows across the grass. How charming it was in the garden, and how delightful were other people’s emotions !—far more delightful than their thoughts, it seemed to him. A person’s own soul and the passion of their friends—these are the captivating things of life. He imagined with secret pleasure the dull breakfast he had missed because of his long visit to Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt’s, he would surely have met Lord Goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have revolved around feeding the poor and the need for model housing . People of every social class preached the importance of precisely those virtues for which they had no use in their own lives. The rich man would have extolled the value of thrift. They talked, and the lazybones with true eloquence about the dignity of work. It was delightful to have escaped all that. As he thought of his aunt, something seemed to occur to him. He turned to Basil and said, ” My dear boy, I remember now.” “What do you remember, Harry?” “Where I heard the name Dorian Gray. ” “Where was that?” asked Hallward, frowning slightly. ” Don’t look so angry, Basil.” “It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha’s. She told me she had met a very handsome young man who wanted to help her in the East End, and his name was Dorian Gray. I must admit, she never said anything to me about how handsome he was. Women have no understanding of beauty, at least good women don’t. She said that he was very serious and had a noble soul. I immediately pictured, of course, a creature with glasses and flowing hair and a horrible number of freckles, lumbering about on enormous feet.” I wish now that I had known he was your friend. I’m very glad you didn’t, Harry. Why? I don’t want you to meet him. You don’t want me to meet him? No. Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, said the servant, stepping out into the garden . Now you must introduce me! cried Lord Henry, laughing. The painter turned to his servant, who stood squinting in the sun: Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker; I’ll be there in a few minutes. The man bowed and went into the house. Then the painter looked at Lord Henry. Dorian Gray is my dearest friend, he said. He has a simple and noble soul. Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. Don’t spoil him for me. Don’t try to exert any influence over him. Your influence would be corrupting. The world is large, and there are many delightful people in it. Don’t rob me of the only person who gives my art all the magic it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him! Remember, Harry, I trust you. He spoke very slowly, and the words seemed to escape him against his will. What nonsense you’re talking! said Lord Henry, smiling, and took Hallward under his arm and led him into the house. Chapter 2. As they entered, they saw Dorian Gray. He was sitting at the piano with his back to them, leafing through a volume of music containing Schumann’s Waldszenen. You must lend me these, Basil! he exclaimed. I want to learn to play them. They are quite delightful. That depends entirely on how you sit for me today, Dorian. Ah, I’ve grown tired of sitting, and I don’t want a life-size portrait of myself at all, answered the young man, rocking about in the music chair in a stubborn, capricious boyish manner. But when he saw Lord Henry, a faint blush rose for a moment in his cheeks, and he jumped to his feet. “I beg your pardon, Basil, I didn’t know anyone was with you. This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old friend from Oxford. I was just telling him how exemplary your sitting is, and now you’ve spoiled it all.” “You haven’t spoiled my pleasure in making your acquaintance, Herr Gray,” said Lord Henry, walking up to him and extending his hand. “My aunt has often spoken of you. You are one of her favorites and, I fear, also one of her victims.” “ I am currently on Lady Agatha’s blacklist,” replied Dorian with a comically rueful expression. “I promised her I would accompany her to a club in Whitechapel last Tuesday, and then I forgot the arrangement. We were supposed to play four-handed pieces together there —three pieces, I believe. I don’t know what she’ll say to me about it now. I’m afraid to pay her a visit.” Oh, I’ll reconcile you with my aunt. She’s extremely fond of you. And I also believe it didn’t do any harm that you weren’t there. The listeners surely assumed it was played four-handed. “When Aunt Agatha sits down at the piano, she makes quite a racket for two people. You speak very badly of her, and you’re not exactly paying me a compliment,” Dorian replied with a laugh. Lord Henry looked at him. “Yes, he was truly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved dark red lips, his open blue eyes, and his wavy, golden-blond hair. There was an expression in his face that inspired immediate trust. All the radiance of youth was there, and so too all the passionate purity of youth. One sensed that he had not yet been tainted by the world. No wonder Basil Hallward adored him. You are far too handsome to concern yourself with charity work, Mr. Gray —far too handsome!” And Lord Henry threw himself onto the divan and opened his cigarette case. The painter, meanwhile, had been busily mixing his paints and preparing his brushes . He looked rather pained, and when he heard Lord Henry’s last remark, he looked at him, considered it for a moment, and then said, “Harry, I want to finish the picture today. Would you find it very rude of me if I asked you to leave us alone now?” Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. “Shall I go, Mr. Gray?” he asked. ” Oh, please, no, Lord Henry. I see Basil is having one of his bad days again, and I can’t stand him when he’s grumbling like that. Besides, I’d like to know why I shouldn’t concern myself with charity work?” “I don’t know whether I should tell you that, Mr. Gray. It’s such a tedious subject that one would have to discuss it seriously. But I’m certainly not going now, after you’ve given me permission to stay.” “You don’t seriously object, do you, Basil? You’ve told me often enough that you like it when your models can chat with someone. ” Hallward bit his lip. If Dorian wishes, you will of course stay. Dorian’s whims are laws for everyone except himself. Lord Henry took off his hat and gloves. Despite your urgent request, Basil, I am afraid I must go. I have a rendezvous with someone at the Orleans Club. Farewell, Mr. Gray! Please do visit me one afternoon in Curzon Street. You will almost always find me at five o’clock. Please write to me when you will come. I would be very sorry if you missed me. Basil, cried Dorian Gray, if Lord Henry Wotton goes, then I go too. You never part your lips when you paint, and it is terribly tiring to stand on a podium and try so hard to look friendly. Please ask him to stay. I insist. Stay, Harry, you will give Dorian pleasure, and me as well, said Hallward, without looking up from his portrait. He’s quite right, I never speak a word while I work, nor do I listen, and that must be very boring for my unfortunate models. So please, stay. But what am I to do with my husband in Orleans? The painter laughed. I think that won’t be a problem. Just sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, go up onto the dais and don’t move around too much, and don’t pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence on all his friends, except me . Dorian Gray went up onto the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr and, turning to Lord Henry, whom he had taken a liking to at once, let out a little funny sigh. This man was so very different from Basil. The two of them made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments, Dorian said to him, “Do you really have such a bad influence, Lord Henry? Is it as bad as Basil says?” There is no such thing as a so-called good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral—immoral from a scientific point of view. Why? Because influencing someone is like lending them your own soul. They no longer think their natural thoughts and their inner fire is gone. in his natural fire. His virtues are not his own at all. His sins, if there is such a thing as sins, are merely borrowed. He becomes an echo to the tones of another, an actor in a role not written for him. The meaning of existence is self-development. To fully express one’s own nature— this is the task each of us here has to accomplish. Nowadays, everyone is afraid of themselves. They have forgotten their most sacred duty, namely, the duty to themselves. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve and go naked. Courage has been lost to our race. Perhaps we never truly possessed it. Fear of society as the foundation of morality, and fear of God as the mystery of religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet— Dorian, turn your head a little more to the right, please, said the painter, who was completely absorbed in his work, but had nevertheless noticed that an expression had come across the young man’s face that he had never seen there before. And yet, Lord Henry continued in his deep, musical voice, moving his hand with the graceful manner he had possessed back in his Eton days, I believe that if people would only live their own lives to the fullest, give form to every feeling, express every thought, bring every dream into being—I believe that such a surge of new joy would enter the world that we would all forget the ills of the Middle Ages and return to the Hellenic ideal; indeed, we might even arrive at something finer and richer than the Hellenic ideal. But even the bravest among us is afraid of himself . The self-mutilation of savages has its tragic remnant in the self-denial that mutilates our lives. We atone for our renunciations. Every impulse we seek to stifle continues to fester within, poisoning us. The body sins only once and is freed through sin, for action is always a kind of purification. Nothing remains but the memory of a pleasure or the painful lust of remorse. The only way to overcome temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul will grow sick with longing for the fulfillment it has denied itself, sick with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. In the brain, and in the brain alone, are also the great sins of the world committed. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rosy youth and your rose-pale boyhood innocence, you have already experienced passions that frightened you, have had thoughts that terrified you, have had dreams, both waking and sleeping, whose mere memory made your cheeks flush with shame—” Stop,” stammered Dorian Gray, “stop, you are confusing me . I don’t know what to say. There is an answer to this, but I cannot find it. Say nothing more! Let me think. Or rather, let me try not to think about it. ” For about ten minutes he stood motionless, his lips half-open, his eyes strangely luminous. He was dimly aware that entirely new influences were at work within him. And yet it seemed as if they were actually coming from within himself. The few words Basil’s friend had spoken to him—undoubtedly casually tossed aside, full of deliberate paradox—had touched a secret string in his soul , one that had never been touched before, but which he now heard trembling and sobbing in strange ferocity. Music had stirred him in a similar way. Music had often agitated him . But music was something indefinite. It doesn’t bring forth a new world within us; rather, it creates a new chaos within us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear and vivid and cruel! There was no escaping them. And yet, what a profound magic lay within them! They seemed to possess the power to give tangible form to formless things, and seemed to contain a music within them as sweet as that of the violin or the lute. Mere words! Was there anything as real as words? Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that had remained incomprehensible to him. Now he understood them. Suddenly, life took on blazing colors for him. Now it seemed to him as if he had walked right through fire. Why had he never noticed it before? Lord Henry watched him with a discerning smile. He understood well that psychological moment when one must not speak a word. He felt intensely interested. The sudden effect of his words astonished him; Now he remembered a book he had read at sixteen, a book that had revealed much to him that was previously unknown, and he wondered whether Dorian Gray was now having a similar experience. He had only shot an arrow into the blue. Had he hit the mark? How captivating this boy was! Meanwhile, Hallward continued painting with those wonderful, bold strokes that are the mark of all true refinement and perfection, for art can only achieve this through power. He didn’t even notice the wordless silence. “Basil, I’ve had enough of standing!” Dorian suddenly exclaimed. ” I must go out and sit down in the garden. The air here is stifling. ” “My dearest, I’m so sorry. When I paint, I can think of nothing else. But you’ve never posed better. You were perfectly still. And I’ve finally achieved the expression I was looking for—the half-open lips and the gleam in your eyes.” I don’t know what Harry told you, but I’m sure he’s the one who made you look so magnificent. I suspect he complimented you. You mustn’t believe a single word he says. He didn’t compliment me at all. Perhaps that’s why I don’t believe a word he said . “You know yourself that you believe every word of it,” replied Lord Harry, looking at him with his soft, dreamy eyes. ” Let’s go out into the garden together. It’s terribly hot in the studio. Basil, let’s get some kind of iced drink, something with strawberries in it.” “Certainly, Harry. Just ring the bell yourself, and when Parker comes, I’ll tell him what you want. I have to finish the background here first, and then I’ll come later. But don’t keep Dorian around for too long. I’ve never been in a better mood to paint than I am today. This portrait will be my masterpiece. As it stands, it already is.” Lord Henry went out into the garden and found Dorian Gray there, hiding his face behind the large, cool clusters of lilac blossoms and feverishly inhaling their fragrance as if he were drinking wine. He approached him closely and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You are quite right to act that way,” he said softly. “Nothing helps the soul better than the senses, just as nothing can help the senses better than the soul.” The young man started and took a step back. He was without a hat, and the tangle of leaves had stirred his unruly curls , disturbing their golden strands. There was an expression of fear in his eyes, such as those of people abruptly awakened from sleep. His delicate nostrils quivered, and a secret nerve twitched slightly in his scarlet lips, causing them to tremble constantly. “Yes,” Lord Henry continued, “that is one of the great mysteries of existence— to heal the soul through the senses and the senses through the soul . You are a marvelous human being! You know more than you realize, just as you know less than is useful to you.” Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. An irresistible charm drew him to this tall, graceful young man. He looked down at the man standing beside him. His romantic, olive-toned face and the weary expression on it captivated him. There was something in the tired tone of his voice that utterly enthralled him. His hands, too, cool, white, and flowery, were alluring. They moved with his words, accompanying them like music, and seemed to speak their own language. But he was also afraid of him, and ashamed of that fear. Why had a stranger had to come and reveal himself to him? He had known Basil Hallward for months now, but that friendship had never transformed him. Now, suddenly, someone had entered his life who seemed to have unveiled life’s mystery to him. And yet, what was there to fear? He was no schoolboy or little girl. It was foolish to be afraid. ” Come and let’s sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. ” Parker has brought us something to drink, and if you stay standing in this blazing sun much longer , you’ll ruin your complexion, and Basil will never paint you again.” You really mustn’t let the sun burn you. It would suit you ill. What more could you possibly care about? cried Dorian Gray, laughing as he sat down on a bench at the far end of the garden. You should care about everything, Mr. Gray. Why? Because you have the most wonderful youth, and youth is the only thing that has any value. I don’t feel it, Lord Henry. No, you don’t feel it now. Later, when you are old, wrinkled, and ugly, when thinking has carved furrows into your brow and passion has burned your lips with its terrible fire, then you will feel it, feel it terribly. Now you can go wherever you like, and you will charm the whole world! Will it always be so?… You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have it. And beauty is a form of genius—in truth, it is even higher than genius, since it needs no explanation. It is one of life’s great facts, like sunlight or spring, or like the reflection of the silver conch we call the moon in dark waters. It cannot be denied. It has a divine, sublime right. Whoever possesses it, it makes a prince. You smile? Oh, if you have lost it, you no longer smile… People sometimes say beauty is merely superficial. Perhaps. But at least it is not as superficial as thought. For me, beauty is the wonder of all wonders. Only the empty-headed fail to judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible… Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been kind to you. But what the gods bestow, they soon take away again. You have only a few years in which you can truly live completely, wholeheartedly. As your youth fades, it takes its beauty with it, and then you will suddenly discover that no more victories await you, or that you will have to content yourself with those sad victories whose memory of the past will make more bitter than defeats. Every passing month brings you closer to a terrible end. Time is jealous of you and fights against your lilies and roses. You will grow pale and hollow-cheeked, and your eyes will grow dim. You will suffer unspeakably… Alas! Live your youth while it lasts. Do not waste the gold of your days, do not lend your ear to the philistines, do not toil to improve hopeless misfortunes, do not give your life to the ignorant, the lowly, the common people! These are the sick aims, the false ideals of our time. Live! Live the beautiful life that is within you! Let nothing be lost! Restlessly seek new sensory experiences! Fear nothing… A new hedonism—our century desperately needs it. You could become its visible symbol. With your personality, you can dare anything. The world is yours for one summer… In the moment when When I saw you, I realized you had no idea what you truly are, what you truly could be. So much about you delighted me that I felt compelled to tell you something about your nature. I thought to myself what tragedy it would be if you lived in vain. For your youth lasts only such a short time—such a short time. The everyday wildflowers wither, but they bloom again. The golden rain will be just as yellow next June as it is today. In a month, the clematis will set forth purple stars, and year after year, the green night of its leaves envelops such purple stars. But we humans never get our youth back. The joy that whips the pulse of the twenty-year-old wanes. Our limbs fail, our senses grow shallow. We decay and become ghastly chrysalises, haunted by memories of the passions we shied away from and the alluring temptations to which we lacked the courage to succumb . Youth! Youth! There is nothing in the world but youth! Dorian Gray listened, wide-eyed and amazed. The lilac branch he was holding fell onto the gravel. A bee in its furry coat darted over and buzzed around it for a moment. Then it busily crawled about on the small star-shaped flowers. He watched it with that strange interest in ordinary things that we try to cultivate in ourselves when we are afraid of something crucial, or when a new feeling shakes us for which we have no formula, or when a terrible thought grips the brain and demands that we surrender to it. After a while, the bee buzzed away. He saw it crawl into the colorful trumpet-shaped tube of a Tyrian bindweed. The flower seemed to shudder and then moved gracefully back and forth. Suddenly, the painter appeared beneath the door of the studio and, with short, repeated gestures, invited them in. They looked at each other and smiled. “I’m waiting!” he cried. “Come in! The light is quite splendid, and you may bring your glasses.” They stood up and strolled back along the path. Two greenish-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear tree at the corner of the garden, a thrush began to warble. ” Are you pleased to have met me, Herr Gray?” asked Lord Henry, looking at him. ” Yes, now I am pleased. I don’t know if I will always be! ” “Always!” that is a dreadful word. I shudder when I hear it. Women love it so much. They ruin every adventure by trying to give it eternity. Besides, it is a meaningless word. The only difference between a whim and a passion that lasts a lifetime is that the whim lasts a little longer. When they entered the studio, Dorian Gray laid his hand on Lord Henry’s arm. “Let our friendship be a whim, then,” he said softly, blushing at his own boldness. Then he stepped up onto the dais and resumed his position. Lord Henry threw himself into a comfortable wicker chair and watched him. The back-and-forth movement of the brush on the canvas was the only sound breaking the silence; only occasionally could one hear Hallward’s footsteps as he stepped back to inspect his work from a distance . In the slanting rays of sunlight that flooded through the open door, dust motes danced in golden scales. The heavy scent of roses hung over everything. When about a quarter of an hour had passed, Hallward stopped painting, gazed at Dorian for a long time, then looked at the portrait for a long time, gnawed on the handle of one of his large brushes, and frowned. “All finished!” he exclaimed at last, bent down, and wrote his name in large, bright red letters in the left corner of the canvas. Lord Henry approached and examined the painting with a connoisseur’s eye. It was indeed a wonderful work of art, and wonderfully likeness as well. ” My dear boy,” he said, “I wish you the best of luck. It is the finest portrait of all our time. Mr. Gray, come and see it.” “Myself!” The young man awoke with a start , as if from a dream. “Is it really finished?” he murmured as he stepped down from the podium. ” Completely finished,” replied the painter. “And you posed splendidly today . I am very, very grateful to you. ” “That’s entirely my doing,” interjected Lord Henry. “Isn’t it, Mr. Gray?” Dorian made no reply, but without listening, stepped before his portrait and turned to the work. When he saw it, he flinched, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of delight flashed in his eyes, as if he were recognizing himself for the first time. Motionless and lost in wonder, he stood there, vaguely aware that Hallward was speaking to him, though he couldn’t grasp the meaning of the words. The feeling of his own beauty came over him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. He had considered Basil Hallward’s compliments merely affectionate exaggerations of friendship. He had heard them, laughed at them, and forgotten them. They had never affected his very being. Then Lord Henry Wotton had come along with his peculiar hymn to youth, his terrible warning of its transience. That had shaken him awake just in time, and as he stood there now, gazing at the image of his own beauty, the full reality of that description penetrated him. Yes, the day had to come when his face would be wrinkled and withered, his eyes dull and colorless, the grace of his form broken and distorted. The scarlet of his lips would fade, the golden sheen of his hair steal away. The life formed by his soul was destroying his body. He would become ugly, loathsome, and formless. As he thought of it, a sharp pain pierced him like a knife, making the finest nerves of his being tremble. His eyes darkened to amethysts, and a veil of tears veiled them. It was as if an ice-cold hand had been laid upon his heart. Don’t you like it? “Hell!” Hallward exclaimed at last, a little irritated by the young man’s silence, the reason for which he didn’t understand. ” Of course he likes it,” said Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’t ? It’s one of the greatest works of modern art. I’ll give you any amount you ask for it. I must have it. It’s not mine, Harry. Whose is it then?” “Dorian, of course,” replied the painter. “He’s in luck…” ” How sad!” whispered Dorian, his eyes still fixed on the painting. “How sad! I’ll grow old and ugly and repulsive. But this painting will always stay young. It will never age beyond this June day…” “If only it were the other way around! If I could stay young forever, and in return let the painting age! For that— for that—I’d give anything! Yes, nothing in the world would be too much for it! I’d give my soul for it!” “That exchange would hardly suit you, Basil,” cried Lord Henry , laughing. “That would be bad for your painting.” ” I’d seriously object, Harry,” said Hallward. Dorian Gray turned to him and looked at him. “I am convinced, Basil. Art means more to you than your friends. I mean no more to you than a green bronze statue. Perhaps scarcely that much, I should say. ” The painter was frozen with astonishment. To speak like that was completely out of character for Dorian. What had happened? He seemed quite agitated. His face was flushed, and his cheeks burned. “Yes,” he continued, “I mean less to you than that ivory Hermes or that silver faun there. You will always cherish those. How long will you cherish me? Probably until the first wrinkle disfigures my face. I know now that once you lose your beauty, you have lost everything. Your portrait has taught me this. Lord Henry Wotton is quite right. Youth is the only thing of value in the world. As soon as I discover that I am growing old, I will kill myself.” Hallward went pale and seized him by the hand. “Dorian, Dorian!” he cried, “don’t say such things.” I’ve never had a friend like you and I’ll never have another like it. You’re not jealous of inanimate objects, are you? You, who are more beautiful than any of them. I’m jealous of anything whose beauty doesn’t die. I ‘m jealous of the picture you painted of me. Why does it get to keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives it something. Oh, if only it were the other way around! If the picture could change and I could always remain as I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me one day— mock me terribly! Hot tears welled up in his eyes, he pulled his hand away, threw himself onto the divan, and buried his face in the pillows as if in prayer. That’s your work, Harry, said the painter bitterly. Lord Henry shrugged. It’s the real Dorian Gray— nothing more. It isn’t. If it isn’t, what does that have to do with me? “You should have left when I asked you to,” he grumbled. ” I stayed when you asked me to,” was Lord Henry’s reply. ” Harry, I can’t start a fight with my two best friends at once, but it’s both your fault that I have to hate the finest piece I’ve ever managed, and I’m going to destroy it. Is it, after all, more than canvas and paint? I don’t want it interfering with three lives and ruining them.” Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow and looked at him with a pale face and tear-filled eyes as he walked over to the pine painting table that stood beneath the tall, curtained window. What was Basil about to begin? His fingers rummaged among the jumble of tin tubes and dry brushes, as if searching for something. Yes, they were searching for the long scraper with the narrow blade of supple steel. At last, he had found it. He was going to slash the canvas. With a stifled sob, the young man leapt from the divan, rushed at Hallward, snatched the knife from his hand, and hurled it into the farthest corner of the studio. “Don’t do it, Basil, don’t do it!” he cried. “It would be murder.” “I’m glad you finally like my work, Dorian,” said the painter coolly, when he had recovered from his astonishment. ” I wouldn’t have believed it.” ” Like it? I’m in love with this painting, Basil. It’s a part of me. I feel it. Very well, as soon as you’re dry, you shall be varnished, framed, and sent to you. Then you can do with yourself what you like.” He strode across the room and rang for tea. “You do drink tea, don’t you, Dorian? Do you, too, Harry? Or do you have no time for such simple pleasures? ” “I worship simple pleasures,” said Lord Henry. “They are the last refuge of complicated natures. But I don’t fanci scenes, except on the stage.” What great fellows you two are! Who was it again who defined man as a rational animal ? That was one of the most hasty definitions ever made. Man has a whole lot of qualities, but certainly not reason. All in all, by the way: thank goodness, though I would actually prefer it if you two whirlwinds hadn’t quarreled over the picture. You should have given it to me, Basil. That foolish boy doesn’t really need it, and I need it very much. If you give it to anyone but me, Basil, I’ll never forgive you, cried Dorian Gray; and I won’t allow anyone to call me a foolish boy. You know, Dorian, the picture is yours. I gave it to you before it even existed. And you know, Lord Gray, that you were a little foolish, and that you can’t seriously object to being reminded of your great youth. This morning I would have objected very much, Lord Henry. Ah! This morning. Since then, you’ve experienced quite a bit. There was a knock at the door, and the servant entered carrying a laden tea tray and served the tea on a small Japanese table. The cups and spoons clattered, and a Georgian samovar began to… A humming sound. Two curved Chinese porcelain bowls were brought in by a young servant. Dorian Gray went and poured the tea. The two men strolled to the table and looked under the lids of the bowls. “We shall go to the theater this evening,” said Lord Henry. “ There must be something going on somewhere. I have agreed to supper at the White Club, but only an old friend is expecting me; so I can send him a telegram to say that I am not well or that I cannot come because of a later engagement. I would consider that a charming excuse. It has a rather surprising fragrance of sincerity.” “It is so tiresome to pull on a tailcoat,” muttered Hallward. “And when one has it on, one looks so dreadful.” “Yes,” replied Lord Henry dreamily, “nineteenth- century dress is hideous. It is so gloomy, so depressing. Sin is the only color that remains in modern life.” You really shouldn’t say such things in front of Dorian, Harry! Which Dorian? The one who pours our tea, or the other one in the picture? Neither. I’d love to go to the theatre with you, Lord Henry, said the young man. Then please do come. And you too, Basil, aren’t you? I can’t, I really can’t. I prefer it this way. I have a great deal to do. Very well then. Then it’ll be just the two of us alone, Mr. Gray. I’m really looking forward to it. The painter bit his lip and strode over to the painting, teacup in hand. I’ll stay here with the real Dorian, he said sadly. Is that the real one? cried the original, walking slowly towards him as well. Am I really like that? Yes, that’s exactly how you are. How wonderful, Basil! At least you look like that now. But the painting will never change, sighed Hallward. That’s something, I suppose. What a big deal they make of fidelity these days! exclaimed Lord Henry. And yet, even in love, it is a purely physiological question. It has not the slightest thing to do with our own will. Young men would like to be faithful and are not; old men would like to be unfaithful and cannot: that is all that can be said about it. “Don’t go to the theater tonight, Dorian,” begged Hallward. “Stay here and dine with me.” ” I cannot, Basil.” “Why?” ” Because I promised Lord Henry Wotton I would accompany him. He will no longer be fond of you if you keep your promises so faithfully. He always breaks his. I beg you not to go. ” Dorian Gray shook his head, laughing. ” I implore you. ” The young man swayed and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching the two of them from the tea table with an amused smile. “I must go, Basil,” he replied. ” Very well,” said Hallward, and went over to the table where he set down his cup. It’s quite late, and since you still have to change, you have no time to lose. Goodbye, Harry! Goodbye, Dorian! Come again soon. Come tomorrow. Certainly. But don’t forget! No, of course not! cried Dorian. And… Harry! Yes, Basil? Don’t forget what I told you when we were sitting in the garden this morning. I’ve forgotten. I trust you. I wish I could trust myself, said Lord Henry , laughing. Come, Mr. Gray, my carriage is downstairs, and I can drop you off at your apartment. Goodbye, Basil! It was a very entertaining afternoon. As the door closed behind them, the painter threw himself down on the divan, and a pained expression came across his face. Chapter 3. At twelve and a half the next day, Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to Albany to pay a visit to his uncle, Lord Fermor, a cheerful but rather gruff old man. A bachelor whom the outside world called an egoist because they could derive no particular benefit from him, but who was known in society as generous because he lavished the best possible care on those who amused him . His father had been the British ambassador to Madrid when Isabella was still young and no one knew of Prim, but had resigned from the diplomatic service in a moment of capricious anger because he hadn’t been offered the ambassadorship in Paris, to which he felt fully entitled by virtue of his birth, his aversion to work, his excellent English in his dispatches, and his unbridled love of pleasure. The son, who had been his father’s private secretary, had resigned at the same time as his boss, which was considered quite mad at the time, and when the title was finally transferred to him a few months later, he devoted himself earnestly to the great aristocratic study of doing absolutely nothing. He owned two large houses in the city, but preferred to live in a bachelor apartment because it was less hassle, and usually dined at the club. He dabbled a bit in the management of his coal mines in the Midland counties, excusing this reprehensible industrial activity by saying that the only advantage of owning coal was to enable a gentleman to burn wood in his own fireplace. Politically, he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in government, for at that time he slandered them and called them radical rabble. He was a hero to his valet, who tormented him, and a terror to most of his relatives, whom he tormented. Only England could have produced him, and he himself always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were old-fashioned, but there was some truth to his prejudices . When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle in a flaky hunting coat, a rather cheap cigar in his mouth, and muttering over The Times. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you here so early? I always thought you dandies never rose before two o’clock and never came into view before five. Pure family love, on my word, Uncle George; I need something from you. ” “Money, presumably,” said Lord Fermor, making a sour face. “Very well, sit down and tell me everything. You young people of today think that money is all there is. ” “Yes,” grumbled Lord Henry, adjusting his flower in his buttonhole , “and when they get older, they know it. But I don’t need money. Only people who pay their bills need money, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is a second-eldest son’s capital , and one can live brilliantly on it. Besides, I always buy from Dartmoor’s suppliers, and so I never have any trouble. ” What I need is information, not useful information, of course, but worthless information. I can tell you everything, Harry, that has ever been in an English Blue Book, although these rascals nowadays churn out a load of rubbish. Things were better when I was a diplomat. But I hear they hire people on the basis of an examination now. What can you expect? Examinations, my good man, are utter humbug from A to Z. If someone is a gentleman, he already knows enough, and if he isn’t a gentleman, he may know all sorts of things, it wo n’t do him any good. Mr. Dorian Gray has nothing to do with Blue Books, said Lord Henry in his sleepy tone. Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is that? asked Lord Fermor, frowning his bushy white eyebrows. That’s what I came here to find out, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. Namely, the grandson of the late Lord Kelso. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me something about his mother. What do you know about her? Her? Who did she marry? You knew just about everyone in your day , so probably her too. I’m currently very interested in Mr. Gray. I only met him yesterday . “Kelso’s grandson!” the old man repeated, “Kelso’s grandson!” …of course … I was very close to his mother. I think I was even at her christening. She was an exceptionally beautiful girl, this Margaret Devereux, and then she made all the young men swoon when she ran off with a young nobody, an absolute nobody, my friend, an ensign in the infantry or something like that. Of course. I remember the whole story now as if it happened yesterday. The poor fellow was then killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the wedding. A nasty story was told about it at the time . They said old Kelso had hired some scoundrel, some adventurer from Belgium, to publicly insult his son-in-law, paid him for it, my good man, simply paid him to do it, and this fellow then impaled his victim like a dove. The story was, of course, hushed up, but Kelso had to eat his cutlet alone at the club for a while. I heard he brought his daughter back with him, but she never spoke another word to him. Oh yes, that was a nasty business. The girl died , too, barely a year later. So, she left behind a son? I’d forgotten about that. What kind of boy is he? If he looks like his mother, he must be a handsome fellow. He is very handsome, Lord Henry agreed. I hope he will fall into the right hands, the old man continued . There must be a lot of money waiting for him if Kelso deals with him as he should. His mother had money, by the way. All the Selby estate came to her through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought he was a vile cur. Which, incidentally, he was. He came to Madrid once when I was there. Well, I was ashamed of the fellow. The Queen used to ask me about the English gentleman who was always arguing with the coachmen about the fare. They made a whole novel out of it. I didn’t dare appear at court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than the cab drivers. “I know nothing about that,” Lord Henry replied. “But I suspect the young man will be wealthy someday. He’s not yet of age. Selby belongs to him, I know that. He told me so.” And… his mother was very beautiful then? “Margaret Devereux was one of the most delightful creatures I ‘ve ever seen, Harry. What on earth drove her to act the way she did, I never understood. She could have married any man she wanted.” Carlington was madly in love with her. But she was a romantic. All the women in that family were like that. The men were a sorry lot, but by heavens! The women were wonderful! Carlington was on his knees before her. He confessed it to me himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn’t a girl in London back then who wasn’t after him. By the way, Harry, since we ‘re on the subject of misalliances: what’s all this nonsense your father from Dartmoor is telling me, wanting to marry an American? Are n’t English girls good enough for him? It’s fashionable now to marry Americans, Uncle George. I defend English women against the whole world, Harry, said Lord Fermor, banging his fist on the table. They’re clamoring for American women. They don’t last, I’m told, grumbled the uncle. A long engagement tires them out, but they’re brilliant for a steeplechase . They’re pilots. I don’t think Dartmoor has a chance. What kind of family is she? muttered the old man. Does she even have one? Lord Henry shook his head. American girls are as clever at hiding their parents as English women are at hiding theirs. “Past,” he answered, and stood up to leave. ” So, a pork merchant, presumably. I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I’m told that trading canned pork is next to politics the most lucrative profession in America. Is she pretty? She acts as if she were. Most American women do. It’s the secret of their magnetic appeal. Why don’t these American women stay in their own country? They always say it’s paradise for women. It is. And that’s why, like Eve, they’re so keen to leave,” said Lord Henry. “Goodbye, Uncle George! I’ll be late for breakfast if I stay any longer. Thank you very much for the information you gave me. I always feel the need to hear everything about my new friends and as little as possible about my old ones. Where will you have breakfast, Harry?” ” At Aunt Agatha’s. I’ve arranged to go there with Mr. Gray. It’s her latest protégé.” “Hm!” Tell Aunt Agatha, Harry, to leave me alone with her charity nonsense. I’ve got her this far! Good heavens, the good woman thinks I have nothing better to do than write checks for her boring old clubs. Agreed, Uncle George, I’ll order it for her, but it won’t do any good. Charity hussies lose all humanity. That’s their most striking characteristic. The old man grumbled in agreement and rang his servant. Lord Henry strode through the low arcades to Burlington Street and then headed towards Berkeley Square. So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parents. However crudely outlined they had been given to him, they had excited him in the manner of a strange, almost modern novel. A beautiful woman who sacrifices everything for a mad passion. A few wild, blissful weeks, abruptly cut short by a heinous, treacherous crime, months of silent despair, and then a child born in pain. The mother mowed down by death, the boy left to the loneliness and tyranny of an old, loveless man. Yes, that was an interesting backdrop. It gave the young man depth, made him even more perfect. Behind everything precious in the world lurks a secret tragedy; worlds must vibrate in such a way that the smallest flower can bloom… And how delightful he had been last night, sitting opposite him in the club, his eyes wide with fear, his lips parted in shy longing, the red candles bathing the awakening wonder of his face in a still -rosy hue. To speak with him was like playing a select violin. He yielded to every pressure, every trembling touch of the bow… There was something incredibly servile about exerting influence over someone. No other activity could compare. To pour one’s own soul into a graceful form and let it linger there for a moment: to receive one’s own chords of thought back in echo, enriched by the music of passion and youth: to immerse one’s own temperament in another , as if it were the most ethereal fluid or a rare fragrance: therein lay a true pleasure—perhaps the most satisfying pleasure left to us in such a limited and vulgar age as ours, so crude in its enjoyments and so crass in its desires… He was also a wonderful type, this young man whom he had met by such a wonderful coincidence in Basil’s studio, or at least could be transformed into a wonderful type. He was endowed with grace and the snowy purity of youth, and a beauty such as one finds in ancient Greek marble statues. There was nothing that could not be made of him. One could make a titan or a plaything of him. What a pity that such Beauty must wither… And Basil? How interesting he was to the psychologist! This new kind of art, this new way of looking at life , which was awakened to him in the strangest way by the visible presence of a person who knew nothing of it: the silent spirit, who dwelt in a gloomy forest landscape and wandered unseen into the open field, suddenly revealed itself like a dryad, and without fear, because in the soul that yearned for him, that wondrous vision had awakened, to which only extraordinary things are revealed: the mere forms and lines of things became, as it were, nobler and acquired a kind of symbolic meaning, as if they themselves were only shadows of another and more perfect form, whose images they raised to reality: how remarkable it all was! He remembered that there had been something similar in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in the world of thought, who had first investigated it? Was it not Buonarroti who had carved it into the colored marble of his sonnet cycle? But in our century it was a rare thing… Yes, he wanted to try to be for Dorian Gray what the young man, without knowing it, was for the painter who had created the magnificent portrait. He wanted to try to rule in him—had, in truth, already partly done so. He wanted to make that wonderful mind his own. There was something irresistibly magnetic in that offspring of Death and Love. Suddenly he stopped and looked up at the houses. He discovered that he had already passed his aunt’s house and went back, smiling silently. When he entered the rather gloomy hall, the servant told him that the family had already gone to breakfast. He gave a hat and cane to a footman and went into the dining room. ” Late as ever, Harry,” called his aunt, nodding at him. He invented a plausible excuse, sat down in the empty seat next to her, and looked around to see who else was there. Dorian greeted him shyly from the end of the table, his cheeks flushing with secret pleasure. Opposite him sat the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good humor and character, whom everyone liked, and whose body was built in those sublime architectural proportions which contemporary historians, in women who are not duchesses, describe as plumpness. To her right sat Sir Thomas Burdon, a radical Member of Parliament who followed his party leader in public life and the best chef in private, who, according to a wise and widely accepted rule of life, dined with the Tories and was in agreement with the Liberals. To her left sat Mr. Erskine of Treadley, a splendid and cultured old gentleman who had acquired the bad habit of silence , having, as he once explained to Lady Agatha, said everything he had to say before his thirtieth year . His neighbor was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a veritable saint among women, but so tastelessly dressed that the sight of her always reminded one of a badly bound prayer book. Fortunately for him, to her other side sat Lord Faudel, a very intelligent mediocrity in his prime, as bald as a minister’s report to an interpellation in the House of Commons, and she conversed with him in that intensely earnest tone which, as Lord Henry himself had once remarked, is an unforgivable error into which all truly good people fall, and which none of them can entirely avoid. “We’re talking about poor Dartmoor, Henry!” cried the Duchess, nodding gleefully across the table to him. “Do you really think he’s going to marry that stunning young lady? ” “I think, Your Majesty, she’s quite determined to ask for his hand in marriage. ” “How dreadful!” cried Lady Agatha. “Then someone really should…” to place in the middle. I learn from a most excellent source that your father has a haberdashery in America, said Sir Thomas Burdon with a superior look. My uncle claimed: pork supplier, Sir Thomas. Haberdashery! What are American haberdashery items? asked the Duchess, raising her large hands in amazement and emphasizing each syllable. American novels, answered Lord Henry, taking some of the quail. The Duchess made a look of astonishment. Don’t pay him any attention, my dear, whispered Lady Agatha to her, he never means what he says. When America was discovered, said the radical MP, rattling off some tedious facts. Like all people who are keen to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The Duchess sighed and used her prerogative to interrupt. — Would to God it had never been discovered at all, she exclaimed. Our daughters really don’t stand a chance these days. It’s downright outrageous! “Perhaps America wasn’t discovered at all, when you think about it,” said Mr. Erskine. “I’d say it was merely found.” “Oh, I must confess, though, that I have seen some of its female inhabitants,” replied the Duchess distractedly. “I must admit, most of them are quite lovely. And they dress well, too. They get all their clothes from Paris. I wish I could afford that.” “They say when good Americans die, they go to Paris,” chuckled Sir Thomas, who owned a large box full of discarded jokes . “Indeed? And where do bad Americans go when they die?” asked the Duchess. ” They go to America,” murmured Lord Henry. Sir Thomas frowned. “I’m afraid your nephew has prejudices against that great country,” he said to Lady Agatha. “I’ve traveled all over it in the railway carriages that the directors made available to me. They are exceedingly polite in these matters. I assure you, it is an excellently educational journey over there.” “But must we really swim to Chicago to complete our education?” asked Mr. Erskine wistfully. “I really don’t feel inclined to such a journey.” Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Mr. Erskine of Treadley owns the world on his bookshelves. We men of practical life like to see things, not read about them. The Americans are an extraordinarily interesting people. They are entirely rational. I believe that is their defining characteristic.” “Yes, Mr. Erskine, a people governed entirely by reason. I assure you, there is no nonsense whatsoever among the Americans.” “How dreadful!” exclaimed Lord Henry. ” I can tolerate brute force, but brute reason is intolerable. I always find its application unjust. It is called subjugating the mind.” ” I don’t understand you,” replied Sir Thomas, blushing slightly. ” I understand you, Lord Henry,” murmured Mr. Erskine, smiling. ” Paradoxes are quite fine and good in and of themselves…” the baronet continued. ” Was that a paradox?” “Asked Mr. Erskine. I didn’t think so . Perhaps it was one. Well, the road to truth seems to be paved with paradoxes. To recognize the truth, we must see it dancing on a tightrope. When truths become acrobats, we can judge them. My goodness!” said Lady Agatha, “what a way you men argue! I never understand a word of your chatter. With you, Harry, oh! I am quite angry. Why are you trying to persuade our dear Mr. Dorian Gray not to go to the East End anymore? I assure you, he would be invaluable to us there; his play would delight the people immensely.” ” I prefer him to play for me!” cried Lord Henry, smiling, looking down at the table where he was met by a cheerfully answering glance. “But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,” Lady Agatha continued . “I can sympathize with all sorts of things,” said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders, “except suffering. I can have no sympathy for that. It is too ugly, too terrible, too depressing. There is something terribly morbid about modern sympathy for suffering. One should sympathize with colors, with beauty, with the joy of life. The less one says about the misery of life, the better.” “ But the East End is a very important problem,” remarked Sir Thomas, shaking his head gravely. “Certainly,” 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 with a searching gaze. “ So what change do you propose?” Lord Henry laughed. “I have no desire to change anything in England except the weather,” he replied. “I am content with philosophical contemplation.” But since the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through the excessive use of sympathy, I would suggest that we turn to science so that it may restore us. The advantage of emotions is that they mislead us , and the advantage of science is that it does not concern itself with emotions. But we have such serious responsibilities, Mrs. Vandeleur interjected timidly. Terribly heavy ones, Lady Agatha agreed. Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. Humanity takes itself far too seriously. That is the world’s cardinal sin. If cavemen had been able to laugh, world history would have taken a different course. Your words sound very comforting, trilled the Duchess. I have always felt a kind of guilt when visiting your dear aunt, for I have not the slightest interest in East End. In the future, I will be able to look her in the face without blushing. Blushing is an excellent beauty aid, remarked Lord Henry. Only when one is young, she replied. When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Oh, Lord Henry, I wish you could tell me how to become young again! He thought for a moment. Can you recall any great mistake you made in your youth? he asked then, looking at her firmly across the table. Quite a few, I’m afraid! she exclaimed. Then make them again, he replied gravely. To regain one’s youth, one need only repeat one’s follies. A most delightful theory! she cried. I must put it into practice sometime . A dangerous theory, said Sir Thomas, pinching his thin lips together. Lady Agatha shook her head, but she was amused nonetheless. Mr. Erskine listened. Yes, Henry continued, that is one of life’s great secrets. Nowadays most people die of a kind of creeping understanding, and only when it is too late do they realize that the only things one never regrets are follies. Now the whole table laughed. He played with this idea at will; tossed it into the air and altered it: let it escape and snatched it up again: made it glitter fantastically and gave it paradoxes for wings. As he continued, this glory of folly rounded itself into a philosophical system, and philosophy itself grew young and danced, accompanied by the mad music of pleasure, in its wine-stained robes and ivy-wreathed curls, like a Bacchante over the hills of life, teasing the clumsy Silenus for remaining sober. Facts fled from her like the frightened beasts of the forest. Her white feet pounded in the unruly winepress where wise Omar sat, until the frothy grape juice splashed in purple-bubbled waves against her bare limbs or ran in red spray down the dark, dripping, arched sides of the vat. It was a whole Brilliant improvisation. He sensed that Dorian Gray’s eyes were upon him, and the awareness that there was one among his listeners whose temperament he wished to charm added spice to his wit and color to his imagination. He was witty, imaginative, irresistible. He captivated his audience to the point of letting loose, and laughing, they followed his Pied Piper. Dorian Gray never took his eyes off him but sat as if under a spell, while one smile after another graced his lips and the wonder in his dark eyes deepened ever more . Finally, reality, in the guise of everyday life, entered the room in the form of a footman who informed the Duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “What a pity!” she exclaimed. “I must be gone. I must fetch my husband from the club and take him to some silly meeting at Willis’s, where he presides.” If I am late, he will surely be annoyed, and in the hat I am wearing, I could not bear a scene. He is far too frail for that. One harsh word and he would be ruined. No, dear Agatha, I must be gone. Farewell, Lord Henry! You are a most delightful person and dreadfully immoral. I truly do not know what to make of your views. You must come and have supper with us sometime. Tuesday? Are you free on Tuesdays? For you I would abandon any other engagement, Duchess , said Lord Henry, bowing. Ah! That is very kind and very odious of you, she cried; so do not forget to come, and she swept out of the room, accompanied by Lady Agatha and the other ladies. When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine came to him, drew his chair very close to him, and put his hand on his arm. You talk like a book, he said; why don’t you write one? I enjoy reading books far too much to have any desire to write one, Mr. Erskine. Certainly, I sometimes long to write a novel, which would have to be as delightful and as unreal as a Persian carpet. But in England, there is no literary audience except for newspapers, catechisms, and encyclopedias. Of all the peoples of the world, the English have the least developed sense of the beauty of literature. I’m afraid you’re right, replied Mr. Erskine. I myself once had literary ambitions, but I abandoned them 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 the table? I’ve quite forgotten what I said, replied Lord Henry with a smile. It must have been very funny? Indeed, very funny indeed! I truly believe you are an exceedingly dangerous man, and if anything happens to our good Duchess, we will all hold you primarily responsible . But I would like to have a longer debate with you about life . The generation into which I was born was very dull. When you are tired of London, come to Treadley and expound your philosophy of pleasure to me there over a most delicious Burgundy, which I am so fortunate to possess. That will be a great pleasure. A visit to Treadley is a great advantage. It has a perfect host and a perfect library. Which will be complete with you, replied the old gentleman with a courteous bow. And now I must bid farewell to your excellent aunt. I must go to the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there. All of you, Herr Erskine? Forty of us in forty club chairs. We are practicing for an academy anglaise. Lord Henry laughed and stood up. I am going to the park! he exclaimed. As he stepped through the doorway, Dorian Gray touched his arm. ” Allow me to come with you,” he whispered. “But I thought you promised Basil Hallward you would visit him,” Lord Henry objected. “ I would rather go with you; indeed, I feel I must come with you. Please, allow it. And promise me you will talk the whole time? No one speaks as delightfully as you.” “Ah! I have talked quite enough for today,” said Lord Henry, smiling. “All I wish now is to contemplate life. You may come and contemplate with me, if you like.” Chapter 4. One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was sitting back in a swelling armchair in the small library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. It was a most delightful room of its kind, paneled all the way to the ceiling in olive-stained oak, with a cream-colored frieze and stucco decorations, and a brick-red felt carpet that ended in long silk fringes. On a charming little satinwood table stood a figurine by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Cent Nouvelles, bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and decorated with golden daisies, like those the queen had chosen for her coat of arms. On the mantelpiece stood a few large blue porcelain vases filled with parrot tulips, and through the narrow, leaded diamond-shaped panes of the windows filtered the apricot light of a London summer’s day. Lord Henry hadn’t come home yet. He was always late, his principle being that punctuality was a waste of time. Therefore, the young man looked rather bored as he casually flipped through the pages of a richly illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut , which he had found in one of the bookcases. The measured, steady tick-tock of the Louis Quatorze clock made him nervous. Once or twice he made a face to leave. Finally, he heard a footstep outside and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry!” he said, sounding a low reproach. “I’m sorry, it’s not Harry, Mr. Gray,” a shrill voice replied. He looked around quickly and jumped to his feet. “ I beg your pardon, I thought— you thought it was my husband. It’s only his wife. I must introduce myself. I know you quite well from your photographs. I believe my husband has seventeen of them.” “ Not seventeen, Lady Henry. Fair, eighteen then. And then I saw you with him at the Opera last night .” As she spoke, she laughed nervously and watched him with her fuzzy, forget-me-not eyes. She was an odd woman, whose clothes always looked as if they had been drawn in a fit of rage and put on during a thunderstorm. She was usually in love with someone, and since her passion was never reciprocated, she had retained all her illusions. She tried to appear picturesque, but only succeeded in looking disheveled. Her name was Victoria, and she had a morbid passion for running into church. That was during Lohengrin, Lady Henry, wasn’t it? Yes, it was during the delightful Lohengrin. I love Wagner’s music more than anyone else’s. It’s so loud that you can talk all the time without the neighbors hearing what you’re saying. That ‘s a welcome advantage. Don’t you think so, Mr. Gray? The nervous, staccato laughter escaped her thin lips again, and her fingers began to play with a long paper knife made of tortoiseshell. Dorian shook his head, smiling. I’m sorry, Lady Henry, that’s not my opinion. I never converse while music is being played— at least not when it’s good music. When you hear bad music, though, you’re obliged to drown it out with conversation. Ah, that’s one of Harry’s maxims, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? I always hear Harry’s opinions from his friends. That’s the only way I ever learn about them. But don’t think I don’t love good music too. I adore it, but I’m afraid of her. She makes me too romantic. I used to absolutely adore piano players—sometimes two at a time, Harry assures me. I don’t know what it is about them . Perhaps it’s because they’re foreigners. They all are, aren’t they? Even those born in England become foreigners after a while, don’t they? It’s very clever of them, and very beneficial to art. It makes them cosmopolitans, doesn’t it? You’ve never been to one of my gatherings, Mr. Gray. You must come sometime. I can’t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in acquiring foreigners. They give the house such a picturesque appearance. But there’s Harry. —Harry, I came here to look for you, to ask you something—I’ve quite forgotten what—and I met Mr. Gray here. We talked so delightfully about music. Our views on it are the same. No, I think our views on it are quite different. But he was most lovely. I am so glad to have seen him. That is delightful, my dear, quite delightful, said Lord Henry, raising his dark, arched eyebrows and looking at them both with a delighted smile. I am so sorry, Dorian, that I am late. I was in Wardour Street looking at an old brocade and had to haggle for hours. These days people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. I must be going! exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking an embarrassed silence with her sudden, unprovoked laugh. I promised to go out with the Duchess. Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Goodbye, Harry. You won’t be dining at home, will you? Neither will I. Perhaps I will see you at Lady Thornbury’s. Most likely, my dear, said Lord Henry, and shut the door behind her as she fluttered out of the room like a bird of paradise left out in the rain all night, leaving behind a delicate scent of jasmine. Harry lit a cigarette and threw himself onto the sofa. “Never marry a woman with straw-yellow hair, Dorian,” he said after a few drags. “Why not, Harry?” “Because they’re so sentimental. ” ” But I like sentimental people. Never marry at all, Dorian! Men marry because they’re tired; women because they’re curious: both end up disappointed.” ” I don’t think I’ll marry, Harry. I’m too much in love.” “That’s one of your aphorisms. I put it into practice, like everything you say.” “Who are you in love with?” Lord Harry asked after a pause. “An actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing. Lord Henry shrugged. “A rather common opening. You wouldn’t say that if you knew her.” “Who is it?” “Her name is Sibyl Vane.” ” Never heard of her. Nobody has. But someday you’ll hear of her. She’s a genius.” “My dear boy, there is no woman who is a genius. Women are a decorative sex.” They never have anything to say, but they say it delightfully. Women represent the triumph of matter over spirit, just as men represent the triumph of spirit over morality . Harry, how can you? My dear Dorian, it is true, though. I am currently engaged in the analysis of women, so I must know. The subject is not as complicated as I thought. I find that, in the end, there are only two kinds of women: the plain ones and the made-up ones. The plain women are very useful. If you wish to be considered an honorable person, you need only take one of them to dinner. The other women are delightful. But they make one mistake. They wear makeup to look young. Our grandmothers wore makeup to chat wittily. Rouge and wit went hand in hand. That is all over now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her age… Daughter, she is quite content. As for conversation, there are at most five women in all of London worth talking to , and two of them are impossible in decent company. But enough, tell me about your genius! How long have you known her? Oh, Harry, your views frighten me! Don’t worry about it. So, how long have you known her? About three weeks. And where did you make the discovery? I’ll tell you, Harry, but you mustn’t speak ugly about it. Incidentally, it wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything there is to know about life. For many days after I first saw you, something seemed to stir in my veins. When I walked in the park or strolled down Piccadilly, I looked at everyone I met, wanting with a mad curiosity to find out what kind of lives people led. Some of them captivated me. Others filled me with dread. A seductive poison hung in the air. I was gripped by a passion for experiences… So one evening around seven, I decided to set out in search of an adventure. I had such a feeling that our gray, gigantic London, with its hundreds of thousands of dirty sinners and its dazzling sins, as you once put it, must hold something in store for me . I invented a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a certain pleasure. I remembered what you told me that wonderful evening when we first dined together: that the search for beauty was the true secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I set off and wandered eastward, where I soon lost my way in a maze of sooty streets and black, grassless squares . Around 7:30, I passed a small, quaint theater with large, flickering gas flames and garish posters. A revolting Jew, in the most astonishing coat I have ever seen, stood by the door puffing on a stale cigar. He had greasy cheeks, and a huge diamond glittered on the grimy chest of his shirt. “A box, Baron?” he asked me, removing his hat with grandiose obsequiousness. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was a complete monster. You’ll laugh at me, I know, but I actually went in and paid a twenty-mark for the proscenium box. I still ca n’t explain why I did it; and yet—if I hadn’t —dearest Harry, I would have missed the greatest event of my life . Yes, laugh all you want. It’s ugly of you. I’m not laughing, Dorian, at least not at you. But you should n’t call it the greatest event of your life. Say rather, the first event of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. The grande Passion is the prerogative of all people who have nothing to do. It is the only benefit that idlers bring to a country. Be not afraid! Heavenly things still await you. This is merely the beginning. Do you consider my nature so superficial? cried Dorian Gray, offended. No, I consider it so profound. What do you mean? My dear boy, those who love only once in their lives are, in fact, the superficial ones. What they call propriety and fidelity, I call either the inertia of habit or a lack of imagination. Fidelity in the emotional life is the same as consistency in the intellectual life: nothing but the admission of weakness. Fidelity! I must analyze its concept later. Therein lies the pleasure of possession. What a quantity of things would we throw away if we did not fear that others might pick them up? But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on. So there I was, sitting in a ghastly little box, with a common curtain staring right in my face. I peered behind the curtain and looked around the theater. It was a shabbily elegant thing, crammed full of cupids and cornucopias, like the cheapest kind of wedding cake. The gallery and standing room were reasonably full, but the two rows of greasy armchairs at the front were completely empty, and the seat they presumably called the first tier was practically deserted. Women were going around with oranges and ginger beer, and an unbelievable amount of nuts were being cracked open. It must have been just like the heyday of British drama. Just like that, I suppose, and very depressing. I was beginning to wonder what on earth I was going to do with myself when my eyes fell on the playbill. What do you think they were playing, Harry? I suppose The Little Cretin, or Nonsense, but Innocent. Our fathers loved these kinds of plays, I think. The longer I live, Dorian, the more I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is never good enough for us. In art as in politics, grandpas are always wrong. The play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. I must admit that the thought of seeing Shakespeare in such a wretched dive annoyed me . And yet, somehow, it interested me. In any case, I decided to wait for the first act. A dreadful orchestra was playing, conducted by a young Hebrew man sitting at a squeaking piano, which almost made me run away; but eventually, the curtain rose and the play began . Romeo was a ludicrous old man with thickly painted eyebrows, a drunken tragedian voice, and a Falstaff-like figure like a beer barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the comedian, who interspersed antics of his own improvisation and was most intimately connected to the gallery. They were both just as grotesque as the scenery, which looked as if it had come from a fairground. But Julia! Harry, imagine a girl, barely seventeen, with a flowery face, a narrow Greek head with dark brown braids, with eyes like violet fountains of hot passion, with lips like rose petals. The most delightful creature I have ever seen in my life. You once said to me, pathos doesn’t seize you, but beauty, chaste beauty in itself, could well fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the film of tears over my eyes. And her voice—I have never heard such a voice. At first very softly, in deep, rich minor keys, which seemed to trickle slowly and individually into my ear. Then a little louder and more resonant, like a flute or a distant hobo. In the garden scene, she had that trembling fervor you hear when nightingales sing before day and dew. There were moments when her voice had the restrained passion of violin notes. You know how a voice can shake you. Your voice and Sibyl Vane’s voice, I’ll never forget them. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each one says something different. I don’t know which one to follow. Why shouldn’t I love them? Harry, I do love her. She is everything in my life. Night after night, I go to see her perform. One night she is Rosalind, the next Imogen. I saw her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, drinking the poison from her lover’s lips. I followed her wanderings through the Ardennes, dressed as a handsome boy in breeches, doublet, and a small beret. She was insane and stood before a guilty king, making him wear diamonds and taste bitter herbs. She was innocent, and the black hands of jealousy squeezed her delicate neck. I have seen her in every century and in every costume. Ordinary women They speak nothing to our imagination. They are bound to their time. No magic can change them. One knows their minds as quickly as their kindness. One always knows them. There is no mystery in them. They ride to the park in the morning and chatter at tea in the afternoon. They have their stereotypical smiles and their elegant fashion sense. But an actress! How different such an actress! Harry! Why did n’t you tell me that nothing deserves to be loved more than an actress? Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian. Oh, indeed, horrible creatures with dyed hair and made-up faces. Don’t disparage dyed hair and made-up faces. There is a certain charm to them at times, said Lord Henry. I wish I had never told you about Sibyl Vane. You couldn’t have done otherwise, Dorian. All your life you will tell me everything you do. Yes, Harry, I believe it is so. I am practically obliged to tell you everything. You have a strange power over me. If I ever committed a crime, I would come straight to you and confess. You would understand. People like you—the bold sunbeams of life— don’t commit crimes, Dorian. But I thank you for your compliment nonetheless. And now tell me—please pass me the matches ; thank you—what is your real relationship with Sibyl Vane? Dorian Gray jumped to his feet, his cheeks flushed and his eyes flashing. Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred to me. Only sacred things are worth touching, Dorian, said Lord Henry, with a strange, poignant tone in his voice. But why are you hurt? I suspect she will be yours one day. When you fall in love, you always begin by deceiving yourself, and you always end by deceiving others. That’s what the world calls a love story. In any case, I think you know it? Of course I know it. On the very first evening at the theater, the dreadful old Jew came to my box after the performance and offered to take me backstage and introduce me to her. I was furious and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body lay in a marble tomb in Verona. Judging by the dismayed look on his face, I suspect he thought I’d drunk too much champagne or something similar. No wonder! Then he asked me if I wrote for any newspaper. I told him I didn’t even read one. That seemed to disappoint him terribly , and he confided in me that all the theater critics had conspired against him and that every single one of them was corruptible. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was quite right. On the other hand , judging by their appearance, they probably weren’t very expensive. “Anyway, they seemed to be beyond his means,” Dorian said with a laugh. Meanwhile, the theater lights were turned out, and I had to leave. He asked me to try some cigars, which he highly recommended. I thanked him. The next evening, of course, I went again. When he saw me, he bowed deeply and assured me I was a generous patron of the arts. He is a most repulsive creature, although he has an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He once told me, with a touch of pride, that his five bankruptcies were all due to the Bard; that’s what he stubbornly called Shakespeare. He seemed to consider it a merit. It is a merit, dear Dorian—a great merit. Most people go bankrupt because they’ve invested too much in the prose of life . To have ruined oneself with poetry is an honorable distinction. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane ? On the third evening. She was playing Rosalind. I had to go backstage. I tossed her some flowers, and she looked at me, or at least I imagined she did. The old Jew was Persistent. He seemed determined to take me backstage, and so I gave in. It was odd that I didn’t want to meet her, wasn’t it? No, I don’t think so. Why, dear Harry? I’ll explain another time. Now I’d like to hear about the girl. About Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and sweet. She’s still almost like a child. Her eyes opened in the most adorable wonder when I told her what I thought of her playing, and she seemed quite unaware of her own skill. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning by the door of the dusty dressing room, giving theatrical speeches about the two of us as we stared at each other like children. He insisted on calling me Baron, so I had to assure Sibyl that I was nothing of the sort. She said to me quite simply, “You look more like a prince. I ‘ll call you Prince Fairy-Tale Handsome.” My word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to flatter . You don’t understand her, Harry. She just regarded me like a character in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded, elderly woman who, on the first night, played Lady Capulet in a sort of Turkish-red dressing gown and looked as if she’d seen better days. I know that way of looking. She makes me uneasy, said Lord Henry in a low voice, looking at his rings. The Jew wanted to tell me her life story, but I noticed I wasn’t interested. You were right about that. There’s always something incredibly commonplace about other people’s tragedies . Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What do I care where she comes from? From her little head to her little foot, she’s a heavenly creature. Every night I live to see her act, and every night she’s more delightful. I suspect that’s the reason you never eat with me anymore . I immediately thought there was some strange story behind it. There is, but it’s not quite what I expected. “Dear Harry, we’re together every day, either at breakfast or dinner , and I’ve been to the opera with you several times ,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in surprise. ” You’re always terribly late. Yes, I must go and see Sibyl perform, even if only for one act . I hunger to see her, and when I think of the heavenly soul enclosed in that delicate ivory body , I’m overcome with silent awe. Can you have dinner with me tonight, Dorian?” He shook his head. “Tonight she’s Imogen,” he answered, ” and tomorrow night Julia.” “When is she Sibyl Vane?” “Never! I wish you luck with that. How dreadful you are! She embodies all the great female figures of world history. She is more than a creature.” You laugh, but I tell you, she’s a genius. I love her, and I want to make her love me too. You know all the secrets of life; you must tell me how I can charm Sibyl Vane so that she will love me. I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grieve. I want our radiant passion to revive their dust and raise their ashes to pain. Oh God, Harry, how I adore her ! He paced the room as he spoke. Red, frantic blotches burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited. Lord Henry regarded him with quiet pleasure. How different he was now from that embarrassed, timid boy he had found in Basil Hallward’s studio! His nature had blossomed like a flower, bearing petals of burning scarlet. From its secret hiding place, his soul had crept forth, and lust had sprung up upon it. Halfway there. And what do you intend to do now? Lord Henry finally said. I want you and Basil to accompany me one evening and see her perform. I have no qualms about the effect. You’ll have to admit she’s a genius. Then we’ll have to wrest her from the Jew. She’s bound to him for another three years—exactly two years and eight months. Of course, I’ll have to pay him something . Once all that’s settled, I’ll find a theater in the West End and let her make a real entrance there. She’ll drive the world as mad as she drove me. That’ll hardly be possible, my dear boy. Yes, it will; for in her is not only art, the most consummate artistic instinct, but she also has personality; and you yourself have told me often enough that only personalities, not principles, rule the world. Very well, when shall we go then? Let me think. Today is Tuesday. Shall we set for tomorrow? Tomorrow she’s playing Juliet. Agreed! Tomorrow at eight in the Bristol. I’ll bring Basil. Please, not at eight o’clock, Harry. Half past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, when she meets Romeo. Half past six! What a time of day! It would be like eating supper in the afternoon or reading an English novel. It can’t be before seven. No gentleman dines before seven. Will you see Basil by then? Or should I write to him? Dear Basil! I haven’t bothered to see him for a whole week. That’s very ugly of me, because he sent me my portrait in a splendid frame of his own design, and although I’m a little jealous of the picture, being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit it delights me completely. Please, write. I don’t want to see him alone again. He says things to me that upset me. He gives me good lessons. Lord Henry smiled. People have a strong tendency to give away what they themselves need most. I call this Chimborazo generosity. Oh, Basil is the best of men, but he does seem to me a little bit philistine. I’ve discovered this since I’ve known you, Harry. Basil, my dear boy, soaks his works with everything that is delightful about him. The result is that he is left with nothing in life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. All the artists I have met who are personally attractive were bad artists. Good artists live only in their creations and are therefore completely uninteresting in life. A great poet, a truly great poet, is the most unpoetic creature in the world. But minor poets are always charming. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque their appearance. The mere fact of having published a collection of mediocre sonnets makes such people simply irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry they do not dare to live. ” I would like to know if that is really so, Harry,” said Dorian Gray, who had by now poured some perfume onto his handkerchief from a large gold-rimmed flask on the table. “It must be, if you say so. But now I must go. Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget tomorrow! Farewell!” When he had left the room, Lord Henry closed his heavy eyelids and began to reflect. Certainly, few people had interested him as much as Dorian Gray, and yet the young man’s mad passion for another person did not cause him the slightest anger or jealousy. It pleased him. Dorian only became more interesting because of it. The methods of natural science had always delighted him, but the ordinary subject matter of that science had seemed petty and inconsequential, and so he had begun to He had begun to vivisect himself and had ended up vivisecting others. Human life—that seemed to him the only object worthy of investigation. Compared to it, everything else was utterly insignificant. Of course, when observing life in that strange melting pot of pain and pleasure, one couldn’t wear a glass mask over one’s face, nor could one ward off the sulfurous fumes that confused one’s brain and swirled one’s imagination with monstrous figments and botched dreams. There were poisons so subtle that one had to be afflicted with them to know their peculiarities. There were diseases so strange that one had to have gone through them to understand their nature. And yet, what a reward one received for it! How wonderfully the whole world then transforms! To observe the strangely rigorous logic of passion and the richly colored instinct and emotional life of the mind —to see where the two lines intersect and where they diverge, at what point they are in harmony and at what point they clash again—that is a delight! What does the price matter! One can never pay too high a price for a sensory experience . He was aware—and this thought brought a joyful gleam to his agate-brown eyes—that through certain words he had spoken, musical words in a melodious tone, Dorian Gray’s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed before her in adoration. To a great extent, the young man was his creation. He had brought him to maturity prematurely. That was something. Ordinary people wait until life reveals its secrets to them, but to the chosen few, the mysteries of existence are unveiled before the veil is lifted. Sometimes this is the effect of art, especially poetry, which directly addresses the passions and the intellect. Occasionally, however, a complex personality takes this place and exercises the office of art , is in fact a true work of art in its own right, for life creates its consummate masterpieces just as poetry, sculpture, or painting do. Yes, this young man was rich before his time. He reaped while he was still spring. The pulse and passion of youth dwelt within him, and he was beginning to become aware of it. It was delightful to observe him. With his beautiful face and beautiful soul, he was a marvel of life. It mattered nothing how it all ended, or should end. He resembled one of those graceful figures on a tapestry or in a play, whose joys seem far removed from ours , but whose pains stir our sense of beauty and whose wounds are like red roses. Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious it all is! Animal instincts reside in the soul, and the body has its moments of spiritual refinement. The senses can be purified, and the intellect can become coarse. Who can say where carnal drives end and spiritual ones begin? How shallow are the arbitrary explanations of amateur psychologists! And yet, how difficult is the decision between the doctrines of the various schools. Is the soul a shadow dwelling in the house of sin? Or is the body truly enclosed within the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of mind and matter is a mystery, and the union of mind and matter is yet another mystery. He pondered whether we could ever make psychology such an exact science that even the smallest cog in the machine of life would be revealed to us. As things stand today, we never truly understand ourselves and only rarely others. Experience has no ethical significance whatsoever. It is merely the label that people attach to their errors. Moralists have mostly viewed them as a kind of warning, attributing a certain ethical efficacy to them. Those who claimed to cultivate character have praised experience as a means of enlightening us about what we should and should not do. But experience possesses no motivating power. It is no more an active cause than conscience. All it actually teaches is that our future will be like our past, and that the sin we once committed with abhorrence and reluctance, we will repeat again and again, and then with pleasure. He was well aware that the experimental method was the only one by which any scientific explanation of the passions could be obtained; and Dorian Gray was certainly a convenient subject for him, and seemed to promise rich and valuable results. His sudden, tempestuous love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological fact of great interest. There was no doubt that curiosity played a strong role , curiosity and a lust for new experiences; yet it was not a simple passion, but rather a quite complicated one. What remained of the purely sensual impulses of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, transmuted into something that seemed to the young man himself quite devoid of anything sensual, and was therefore all the more dangerous. All passions whose origins we deceive ourselves about exert the strongest hold on us. Our weakest drives are those whose nature we clearly understand. It
often happens that we conduct experiments on ourselves in our thoughts and believe we are trying them on others. While Lord Henry was still sitting and brooding over these matters, there was a knock at the door; a servant entered and reminded him that it was time to change for dinner. He rose and looked down at the street. The sunset had bathed the upper windows of the houses opposite in a fiery gold. The panes glowed like heated plates of metal. The sky above resembled a withered rose. It reminded him of his friend’s young, fiery life , and he wondered how it would all end. When he arrived home around 12:30 a.m., he found a telegram lying on the table in the hall. He opened it and saw that it was from Dorian Gray. It informed him that he was engaged to Sibyl Vane. Chapter 5. Mother, Mother, I am so happy! whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman, who sat with her back to the harsh light in the only armchair in their squalid parlor. I am so happy! she repeated, and you will be happy too. Mrs. Vane shuddered and laid her thin, bismuth-white hands on her daughter’s head. Happy! she echoed, I am only happy, Sibyl, when I see you acting. You must think of nothing but your roles. Mr. Isaacs has been very kind to us, and we owe him money. The girl looked up, her lips drooping. “Money, Mother?” she cried. “What does money matter? Love is more than money! Mr. Isaacs gave us a thousand marks advance so we could pay off our debts and buy James a decent outfit . Don’t forget that, Sibyl. A thousand marks is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs behaved very well. He’s no gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he speaks to me,” the girl said, rising and going to the window. ” I don’t know how we would manage without him,” the old woman replied tearfully. Sibyl Vane threw her head back and laughed. “We don’t need him anymore, Mother. Prince Fairy-Tale-Stylish will decide our lives from now on.” Then she fell silent. A wave of blood rushed to her cheeks, turning them a deep red. Her rapid breath parted her blossoming lips. They trembled. A south wind of hot passion swept through her , stirring the smooth folds of her gown. “I love him,” she said simply. “Foolish child! Foolish child!” were the parrot-like words that flew back at her in reply. The imploring gesture of her crooked fingers, adorned with fake rings, made the exclamation even more comical. The girl laughed again. There was something in her voice like the jubilation of a caged bird. Her eyes caught the melody of laughter and repeated it in its brilliance; then they closed for a moment, as if to conceal their secret. When they opened again, the glimmer of a dream had vanished. From the worn chair, Wisdom spoke to her with thin lips, urging reflection and offering advice from the Book of Cowardice, which its author had mistakenly titled Common Sense . She did not listen. In the prison of her passion, she felt free. Her prince, Prince Fairy-Tale-Beautiful, was with her. She had summoned her memory to summon him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned on her lips once more. Her eyelids burned again with his breath. Then wisdom took up other registers and spoke of inquiring and investigating. It might well be that this young man was rich. If so, then marriage would have to be considered. Waves of worldly cunning lapped around the girl’s ear. The arrows of worldly wisdom whizzed past her. She saw the thin lips move and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The word-laden silence confused her. “Mother, Mother,” she cried, “why does he love me so dearly?” “I know why I love him. I love him because he is as love itself must be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet—I don’t know why—I feel well far beneath him, but I don’t feel insignificant.” I am proud , terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Fairy-Tale? The old woman went pale beneath the thick powder plastered to her cheeks, and her withered lips trembled in spasmodic pain. Sibyl rushed to her, threw her arms around her neck, and kissed her. Forgive me, Mother! I know it pains you to think of our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much . Don’t look so sad. Today I am as happy as you were twenty years ago. Oh, if only I could be this happy forever! My child, you are far too young to think of a love affair. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don’t even know his name. The whole thing is most inappropriate, and truly, just as James is preparing to go to Australia, and I have so many things to think about, I must say you should have shown more consideration . After all, as I said, if he is rich… Oh
, Mother, Mother, let me be happy! Mrs. Vane looked at her and suddenly embraced her with one of those false theatrical gestures that often become second nature to actors . At that moment the door opened, and a young lad with shaggy brown hair came into the room. He was of short build, and his hands and feet were large and moved somewhat awkwardly. He was not as well-mannered as his sister. One could scarcely have guessed the close kinship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him, and her smile widened. In her mind, she had her son play the part of the audience. She was convinced that the tableau was interesting. “You could save a few kisses for me, Sibyl,” said the boy with a good-natured growl. ” Oh, Jim, you don’t care for kisses at all!” she cried. “You’re a horrible old bear!” And she skipped across the room to him and hugged him. James Vane looked tenderly into his sister’s face. “I’d like to go for a walk with you, Sibyl. I hardly think I’ll ever see this terrible I never see London again. I really don’t care in the slightest. My son, don’t talk such dreadful things, grumbled Mrs. Vane, sighing as she picked up a glittery theater costume and began mending it. She felt a little disappointment that he hadn’t joined the group. It would have enhanced the picturesque effect of the scene so nicely. Why not, Mother? I mean it. You offend me, my son. I hope you come back from Australia a made man. I suppose there’s no society in the colonies, so to speak, or at least nothing I would call society; so when you’ve made your fortune, you’ll have to come back and make your mark in London. Society, muttered the young man. I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want to make enough money to get you and Sibyl away from the theater. I hate it. Oh, Jim, said Sibyl, laughing, how unkind of you! But, will you really go for a walk with me? That’s kind! I was afraid you were going to say goodbye to your friends, to Tom Hardy, who gave you that horrible pipe, or to Nell Langton, who laughs at you for smoking it. It’s very kind of you to give me your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Come, let’s go to the park. I’m too shabbily dressed for that, he replied, frowning . Only elegant people go to the park. Nonsense, Jim, she whispered, stroking his sleeve. He hesitated for a moment. Very well then, he said at last, but don’t take too long getting dressed. She danced out the door. You could hear her singing as she ran up the stairs. Her little feet pattered at the top. He walked across the room two or three times, then turned to the silent figure in the armchair. Mother, are my things packed? he asked. All done, James, she answered, without looking up from her work . For some months now, she had felt uneasy when she was alone with her rough, brooding son. Her superficial nature, with its suppressed secret, was disturbed whenever their eyes met. She wondered if he suspected anything. His silence, since he made no other remarks, became unbearable. So she began to whine. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by unexpectedly surrendering. I hope, James, your life at sea will satisfy you. You must never forget that it was your own choice. You could have gone into a lawyer’s office . Lawyers are a highly respected class of people and are often invited to the best families in the country. I hate offices and I hate clerks, he replied. But you are quite right, I chose my own life. All I say is: Watch over Sibyl! Let no harm befall her. Mother, you must watch over her! James, you have a strange way of speaking. Of course, I keep a watchful eye on her. I hear a gentleman comes to the theater every evening and goes backstage and talks to her. Is that true? What’s the story with that? James, you talk about things you don’t understand. We in our profession are used to receiving a great deal of pleasant attention . I myself received many flowers in my day. Back then, people still knew something about acting. As for Sibyl, I don’t know at the moment whether her feelings are serious or not. But there ‘s no doubt that the young man in question is a consummate gentleman. He’s always exceptionally polite to me. He also looks as if he were rich, and the bouquets he sends are quite lovely. But you don’t even know his name, the young man pointed out gruffly. No, answered the mother calmly. He has n’t yet revealed his real name to us. I find that very romantic of him. He’s probably a gentleman of noble birth. James Vane bit his lip. “Watch over Sibyl!” he shouted. ” Watch over her! My son, you hurt me terribly. Sibyl is constantly under my special care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, I see no reason to avoid a union with him. I am quite certain he belongs to the aristocracy. He certainly looks the part, I must say. It will be a brilliant match for Sibyl. They would make a delightful couple. His beauty is truly remarkable; it catches everyone’s eye.” The young man muttered something to himself and drummed his fat fingers against the windowpane. He had just turned to say something when the door opened and Sibyl rushed in. ” Why the solemn faces of you both!” she exclaimed. “What is it?” “Nothing,” he answered. “One must be serious sometimes. Goodbye, Mother; I’m going to have dinner at five. Everything is packed except for the shirts; so you don’t need to worry about anything else.” “Goodbye, my son,” she answered with a bow of affected, regal dignity. She was deeply offended by the tone he had used with her, and there was something in his gaze that had frightened her. “Give me a kiss, Mother,” said the girl. Her flower-like lips touched her withered cheeks and warmed their chill. “My child! My child!” cried Mrs. Vane, looking up at the ceiling as if searching in her imagination for a gallery. “Come, Sibyl,” said her brother impatiently. He could not stand his mother’s mannerisms . They stepped out into the shimmering, wind-swept sunshine and strolled down the dreary Euston Road. Passersby looked in astonishment at the unfriendly, heavy-set young man in the rough, ill-fitting clothes, accompanied by such a lovely, fine-looking girl. He resembled a gardener’s boy carrying a rose. Jim frowned from time to time when he noticed the searching gaze of a stranger. He had that aversion to being stared at, the kind of thing that only comes to people of intelligence late in life and that never leaves the herd mentality. Sibyl, on the other hand, was oblivious to the effect she had on him. Her love trembled on her smiling lips. She thought of her Prince Charming, and so that she could think of him all the more vividly , she didn’t speak of him, but only chattered about the ship Jim was to sail on, the gold he was sure to find, the stunningly beautiful heiress whose life he was to rescue from the notorious red-blonde bush bandits. For he would n’t remain a sailor, or a ship’s clerk, or whatever he was to become for the time being . Oh no! Such a life at sea was dreadful. He should only think about being crammed into a dreadful ship, with the roaring, cat-like waves constantly trying to break through, and a black wind blowing over the masts and tearing the sails into long, soaking wet strips. He should leave the ship in Melbourne, bid the captain a polite farewell, and go straight to the goldfields. Before a week had passed, he would come across a great nugget of pure gold, the largest ever found , and would get it to the shore in a large wagon guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushmen would ambush them three times but would be driven back after a tremendous massacre. Or no! He shouldn’t go to the goldfields at all. They are terrible places where people get drunk and shoot each other dead in taverns and speak dreadful language. He was meant to become a peaceful cattle breeder, and one evening, as he was riding home, he encountered the beautiful heiress who was being abducted by a robber on a black horse, and so he pursued him and freed her. Naturally, she fell in love with him and he with her, and they married and returned home and lived in a large palace in London. Yes, delightful things awaited him. But he also had to be very good, never lose his patience or waste his money. She was only a year older than him, but she already knew considerably more about life. He also had to write to her reliably every post day and pray every night before going to sleep. God was very good and would watch over him. She, too, would pray for him, and in a few years he would return home rich and happy. The lad listened to her grumbling and made no reply. His heart ached at having to leave home. But that wasn’t all that made him so gloomy and upset. Inexperienced as he was, he felt acutely the danger inherent in Sibyl’s position. This young dandy courting her could n’t possibly be sincere. He was a distinguished master, and that earned him his hatred, a hatred born of a peculiar racial instinct, one he couldn’t account for and which, precisely for that reason, controlled him all the more powerfully. He also knew his mother’s superficiality and vanity and saw in them tremendous dangers to Sibyl and Sibyl’s happiness. Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older, they sit in judgment over them, sometimes even forgiving them. His mother! He longed to ask her about something he had carried around with him in silence for many months. A chance word he had overheard at the theater, a whispered joke he had caught one evening while waiting at the stage door, had unleashed a torrent of terrible thoughts. The memory of it pained him like the slash of a riding crop across his face. His brows furrowed deeply, and in a painful spasm, he bit his lip. ” You don’t hear a single word I say, Jim!” cried Sibyl, ” and I’m making the most delightful plans for your future. Say something!” “What should I say?” ” Oh, that you’ll be a good boy and not forget us,” she replied, smiling at him. He shrugged. “It’s more likely that you’ll forget me than that I’ll forget you, Sibyl.” She blushed. “What do you mean, Jim?” she asked. ” You have a new friend, I hear. Who is it? Why did n’t you tell me about him? He doesn’t mean you any good.” “Stop it, Jim!” she exclaimed. “You mustn’t say anything against him. I love him.” “What, and you don’t even know his name?” he retorted. “Who is it? I have a right to know. He’s called Prince Fairy-Tale-Fair. Don’t you like the name?” Oh, you foolish boy! You should never forget him. If you saw him only once, you would think him the most delightful person on earth. One day you will meet him: when you come back from Australia. You will like him very much. Everyone likes him, and I… I love him. I wish you could come to the theater tonight. He will come, and I am playing Juliet! Oh, how I shall play her! Imagine, Jim, loving and playing Juliet! Knowing that he is sitting there! Playing for his delight! I am afraid I shall frighten, terrify, or enthrall my colleagues. To love is to rise above oneself. Dreadful Mr. Isaacs will shout to his cronies at the tavern table that I am a genius. He has trumpeted me like a dogma; tonight he will announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And all this is his work, his alone, the prince’s fairytale beauty, my wonderful lover, my god of the muses. But I am a poor thing beside him. Poor. So what? If poverty creeps into a house, love flies out the window. Our proverbs must be changed. They were conceived in winter , and now it is summer, for me spring, a dance of blossoms under a blue sky. ” He is a gentleman of high society,” the lad said darkly. “A prince!” she cried in a melodious voice. “What more could you want? He’ll make you his slave. I’m terrified at the thought of being free! I advise you to beware of him. To see him is to worship him, to know him is to trust him! Sibyl, your love is driving you mad.” She laughed and took his arm. “My dear old Jim, you speak as if you were a hundred years old. One fine day you will love yourself. Then you’ll know what it means. Don’t look at me so grumpily. You should rejoice in the knowledge that, even though you are leaving, you are leaving me happier than I have ever been. Life has been hard for us so far, terribly hard and difficult. But now it will be different. You are going into a new world, and I have found a new one.” — ” There are two chairs free; let’s sit down and review the elegant people. ” They sat down in the middle of a crowd of spectators. The tulip beds along the path blazed like summoning firebells. A white haze, like a trembling cloud of violet powder, hung in the sultry air. The pale parasols danced up and down like giant butterflies. She got her brother to talk about himself, his prospects, and his plans. He spoke hesitantly and laboriously. They let their words fall into place slowly, like gamblers announcing their points. Sibyl felt crushed. She couldn’t share her joy. A faint smile playing around his sullen mouth was the only reply she received. After some time, they both fell silent. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and Dorian Gray drove past in an open carriage with two ladies. She jumped up. “There he is!” she cried. ” Who?” asked Jim Vane. “The fairytale prince,” she answered, and peered after the carriage. He jumped up and roughly grasped her arm. Show him to me. Which one is it? Show him to me, I must see him! he cried. But at that moment the Duke of Verwick’s four-horse carriage drove in, and by the time the view was clear again, the carriage had already left the park. He’s gone, murmured Sibyl sadly. I wish you had seen him. I wish you had too, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever harms you, I’ll kill him! She looked at him, terrified. He repeated his words. They cut the air like a dagger. The people all around began to stare at her. A lady very close by giggled. Come away, Jim; come away, she whispered. He followed her grim mouth as she strode through the crowd. He was pleased that he had said that. When she reached the statue of Achilles, she turned to look at him. There was pity in her eyes, which turned into laughter on her lips. She shook her head at him. “You’re twisted, Jim, completely twisted; a naughty boy, nothing more. How can you say such ugly things ? You don’t even know what you’re babbling about. You’re just jealous and unkind. Oh! I wanted you to fall in love for once. Love makes people good, and what you said was bad. ” “I’m only sixteen,” he replied, “but I know what to do . Mother can’t help you. She doesn’t know how to protect you. I wish now I hadn’t gone to Australia at all. I’m not averse to calling the whole thing off. I would, if my contract weren’t already signed.” ” Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You’re like one of the heroes in those silly melodramas Mother loved to act in. I don’t want to argue with you. I’ve seen him, and to see him is perfect happiness. We won’t argue.” I know you ‘d never hurt someone I love, wouldn’t you? ” As long as you love him, hardly,” came the sinister reply. ” I will always love him!” she cried. ” And him?” “Also always.” That’s his good fortune! She recoiled from him. Then she laughed and placed her hand on his arm. He was only a boy, after all. At Marble Arch, they boarded a bus that took them close to their squalid flat on Euston Road. It was already past five o’clock, and Sibyl needed to lie down for a few hours before her performance. Jim insisted that she do so. He said he would prefer to say goodbye to her without her mother present. She would surely make a scene, and he detested scenes of any kind. They said their goodbyes in Sibyl’s room. Jealousy and a grim, murderous hatred burned in the young man’s heart for the stranger who, he thought, had come between them. But when her arms clasped his neck and her fingers ran through his hair, he softened and kissed her with genuine tenderness. As he went downstairs, tears welled in his eyes. His mother was waiting for him downstairs. As he entered, she grumbled about his lateness. He made no reply but sat down to his meager meal. Flies buzzed around the table and crawled across the stained tablecloth. Through the clatter of the omnibuses and the rattle of the horse-drawn carriages, he could hear the monotonous voice robbing him of every minute he had left. After a while, he pushed his plate back and rested his head in his hands. He felt he had a right to know. If things were as he suspected, he should have been told long ago. Tormented by fear, his mother watched him. The words trickled mechanically from her lips. Her fingers crumpled a torn lace handkerchief. When the clock struck six, he stood up and went to the door. Then he turned and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers, he read a fervent plea for pity. This only made him angrier. “Mother, I have something to ask you,” he said. Her eyes darted around the room. She gave no answer. “Tell me the truth! I have a right to know! Were you married to my father?” She let out a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment she had dreaded day and night for weeks and months, had finally arrived, and yet she felt no fear. Indeed, it was, in a way, a disappointment. The bluntness of the question demanded a direct answer. The situation had not been built up gradually. It was raw. It reminded her of a failed recitation. “No,” she answered, astonished by the harsh simplicity of life. ” Then my father was a scoundrel!” the boy shouted, clenching his fist. She shook her head. “I knew he wasn’t free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have provided for us.” Say nothing against him, my son. He was your father and a gentleman. He really had high connections. A curse escaped his lips. “It doesn’t concern me for my sake,” he cried, “but don’t let Sibyl…” Is he a gentleman or not, who loves her, or says so? With high connections, I suppose. For a moment, a terrible feeling of humiliation came over the woman. Her head fell. With trembling hands, she wiped her eyes. “Sibyl has a mother,” she whispered, “I didn’t.” The young man was moved. He went to her, leaned over her, and kissed her. “I’m sorry if I hurt you by asking about my father,” he said, “but I couldn’t help it. Now I must go. Goodbye! Don’t forget that you only have one child to protect now, and believe me, if that man harms my sister, I’ll find out who it is, track him down, and beat him to death like a dog.” I swear to you! The ludicrous exaggeration of his oath, the passionate hand gestures that accompanied it, the fantastic, melodramatic words. They made life interesting again for the old woman. This atmosphere was familiar to her. She breathed as if relieved, and for the first time in many months, she truly admired her son. She would have liked to continue the scene at the same emotional level, but he cut it short. Suitcases had to be taken downstairs and blankets procured. The building’s handyman bustled back and forth. The price was negotiated with the coachman. Thus, the moment was spoiled by petty details. With a renewed sense of disappointment, she stood at the window, letting the torn lace handkerchief flutter in the air , as her son drove away. She felt as if a great opportunity had been missed. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how dreary her life would be in the future, since she now only had one child to look after. She had remembered that sentence. She had liked it. She said nothing of his oath. It had been declaimed vividly and dramatically. She had the feeling that one day they would all laugh about it. Chapter 6. You’ve heard the latest news, Basil? said Lord Henry that same evening, as Hallward entered the small private room at the Bristol, where dinner was set for three. No, Harry, answered the artist, handing his hat and coat to the waiter. What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope. I’m not interested in that. There isn’t a single person in the whole House of Commons one would want to paint; although a bit of varnish wouldn’t hurt some of them. Dorian Gray is engaged, said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward recoiled and immediately frowned. Dorian engaged! he cried. Impossible! It’s truly true. To whom? To some minor actress. I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible. Dorian is far too clever not to do crazy things from time to time, dear Basil. Marriage is hardly something one can do from time to time, Harry. Except in America, Lord Henry replied carelessly. But I did n’t say he was married. I said he was engaged. There’s a big difference. I remember quite clearly being married , but I can’t remember being engaged. I almost think I never was. But consider Dorian’s birth, his position, his fortune. It would be pointless for him to marry so far beneath him. If you want him to marry that girl, you need only tell him so , Basil. He’ll certainly do it. When a man does something exquisitely foolish, he always does it for the noblest of reasons. I hope she’s a good girl, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to some common creature who will drag him down and corrupt his mind. Oh, she’s more than good—she’s beautiful, said Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and bitter orange. Dorian says she’s beautiful, and he’s not often wrong about such things. His image of her has sharpened his judgment of other people’s outward appearances. It has, among other things, produced this brilliant success. We’re to see her tonight, if the boy doesn’t forget his arrangement. Are you serious? Completely, Basil. It would be bad for me if I ever had to be more serious in life than I am now. But do you approve of it, Harry? asked the painter, pacing the room, biting his lip. You can’t possibly approve of it. It’s a foolish delusion. I never approve or disapprove of anything again. It puts you in a completely mad position about life. We weren’t sent into the world to display our moral prejudices. I never take notice of what ordinary people say, and I never interfere in things that lovely people intend to do. When a personality captivates me, I find every form of expression that personality chooses delightful. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl playing Juliet and wants to marry her. Why not? If he wanted to marry Messalina, he would be no less interesting. You know I’m no advocate of marriage. The real disadvantage of marriage is that one becomes selfless. And selfless people are colorless. They become impersonal. However, there are certain temperaments that are made more complicated by marriage. They retain their egoism and expand it by adding a number of other selves. They find themselves compelled to lead more than one life. They become more finely organized, and to become more finely organized seems to me the purpose of human life. Moreover, every experience has its value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope Dorian Gray will marry this girl, adore her passionately for six months, and then suddenly be attracted to another . It would be splendid to witness. You don’t believe a word of it, Harry; and you know it . If Dorian Gray’s life were ruined, no man would be sadder than you. You are much better than you pretend to be. Lord Henry laughed. The reason we all think so highly of others is that we are all afraid of ourselves. The basis of optimism is nothing but fear. We consider ourselves generous because we attribute virtues to our neighbor from which we might derive some benefit. We praise the banker so that we can overdraw our account, and we find good qualities in the bush dog in the hope that it will spare our purse. I believe every word I have spoken. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. As for ruined lives, no life is truly ruined whose growth is not stunted. If you want to corrupt a personality, you need only improve it. Marriage, however, is a folly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between man and woman. Of course, I would advise those rather. They have the charm of being fashionable. But then there is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can. Dear Harry, dear Basil, you must both wish me happiness, said the young man, throwing off his evening cloak with its atlas-lined wings and shaking hands with his friends. I have never been so blissful. Of course, it has all come suddenly; all delightful things come suddenly. And yet it seems to have been the only thing I have been searching for all my life. He was glowing with excitement and joy and looked extraordinarily handsome. I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian, said Hallward, but I cannot quite forgive you for not telling me about your engagement. You did tell Harry. And I cannot forgive you for being late, Lord Henry chimed in with a smile, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. Come, let us sit down and see what the new boss can do, and then you can tell us how it all came about. There really isn’t much to tell! “What happened just happened,” Dorian exclaimed as they sat down around the small table. “When I left you last night, Harry, I got dressed, ate at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street that you introduced me to, and went to the theater at eight o’clock. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course, the set was ghastly and Orlando laughable. But Sibyl! You should have seen her. When she came on in her boy clothes, she was simply wonderful. She wore a moss-green velvet doublet with cinnamon-brown sleeves, short brown breeches laced crisscross above the knee, a lovely green beret with a falcon feather held by a sparkling stone, and was wrapped in a hooded cloak lined in dark red. She had never seemed more beautiful to me . She had all the delicate grace of the Tanagra figure, which you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair curled around her face like dark leaves around a pale rose. And her acting—well, you ‘ll see it tonight. She’s a born artist, after all. I sat completely enchanted in the grimy box. I forgot I was in London, living in the nineteenth century. I was far away with my lover in a forest no human eye had ever seen. After the performance, I went backstage and spoke with her. As we sat side by side, a look suddenly appeared in her eyes that I had never seen before. My lips were drawn to hers. We kissed. I cannot describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my life was compressed into a perfect moment of rosy bliss. She trembled all over and shook like a white daffodil. Then she threw herself to her knees and kissed my hands. I know I should n’t tell you all this, but I can’t help myself. Of course, our betrothal is the deepest secret. She hasn’t even spoken of it to her mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley will surely be furious. I don’t care. In less than a year, I’ll be of age and can do as I please. Wasn’t I right, Basil, to take my lover from the realm of poetry and find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak whispered their secret in my ear. Rosalind’s arms were around my neck, and I kissed Juliet on the mouth. Yes, Dorian, I think you were right, said Hallward slowly. Have you seen her today? asked Lord Henry. Dorian Gray shook his head. I left her in the Forest of the Bulge and will find her again in a garden in Verona. Lord Henry sipped his champagne thoughtfully. At what moment did you speak of marriage, Dorian? And what was her reply ? Perhaps you’ve forgotten all this. Dear Harry, I didn’t treat it as a business transaction, and I did n’t propose formally. I told her I loved her, and she said she didn’t deserve to be my wife. Not deserve! What is the whole world to me compared to her! Women are wonderfully practical, murmured Lord Henry—much more practical than we are. In situations like this, we often forget to mention marriage, and they always remind us. Hallward put his hand on his arm. Not so, Harry. You’re offending Dorian. He’s not like other men. He would never make anyone unhappy. His nature is too noble for that. Lord Henry looked across the table. Dorian is never offended by me, he answered. I asked for the best reason there is , the only reason that excuses a question—simply out of curiosity. I have a theory that it ‘s always women who propose to us, and not the other way around. Except, of course, for the middle classes. But the middle classes are simply not modern. Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. You’re quite incorrigible, Harry; but I’m not angry. No one can be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane, you’ll feel that the man who could harm her must be an animal, a heartless animal. I cannot comprehend how one can be brought to shame a being one loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to put her on a pedestal of gold and then watch the whole world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. That’s why you mock it. Oh, don’t mock ! An irrevocable vow I will make. Her trust will make me faithful, her faith will make me good. When I am with her, I will deny everything you have taught me. I will become a very different person from the one you see in me. I am transformed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s hand makes me forget all your falseness. Enchanting, poisonous, delightful theories forgotten. And those would be? asked Lord Henry, taking salad. Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories about pleasure. Indeed, all your theories, Harry. Pleasure is the only thing in the world that deserves a theory, he answered in his soft, musical voice. But I ‘m afraid it is not my own theory. It belongs to nature, not to me. Pleasure is nature’s seal, the mark of her approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when we are good, we are not always happy. Ah, yes, what do you mean by good? cried Basil Hallward. Yes, repeated Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking over the massive bouquet of red-blooded irises in the middle of the table at Lord Henry, what do you mean by good, Harry? “To be good means to be at peace with oneself,” he replied, grasping the thin stem of his glass with pale, finely pointed fingers . “Dissonance means having to agree with others. One’s own life—that’s what matters. As for the lives of our neighbors, well, if one insists on being an ape or a puritan, then by all means throw your moral views in their faces, but ultimately they’re none of your business. Besides , individualism does indeed have higher aims. Modern morality consists in recognizing the standards of one’s time. I’m of the opinion that any cultured person who recognizes the standards of their time is thereby committing one of the gravest moral crimes . ” “But if one lives only for oneself, Harry, doesn’t one have to pay a terrible price for that?” asked the painter. ” Yes, these days we’re overpriced in everything.” I believe the real tragedy of poverty is that the poor can afford nothing but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like all beautiful things, are a prerogative of the wealthy classes. One must pay in a different coin than money. In what coin, Basil? I mean with remorse, with pain, with… well, with the feeling of humiliation. Lord Henry shrugged. My dear boy, medieval art is delightful, but medieval feelings are no longer fashionable. One can certainly use them in poetry. But the only things that can be used in poetry are those that are no longer of concern in reality. Believe me, no civilized person regrets a pleasure once experienced, and no uncivilized person knows what pleasure is. I know what pleasure is! cried Dorian Gray. To worship someone. That is certainly better than being worshipped, answered Harry, playing with some fruit. Being worshipped is embarrassing. Women treat us just as mankind treats its gods. They worship us and torment us incessantly, demanding that we do something for them. I would say that everything they ask of us, they first gave us, said the young man solemnly and quietly. They create love in us. They have a right to demand it back. That’s quite right, Dorian, cried Hallward. Nothing is ever quite right, said Lord Henry. That’s it, interrupted Dorian. You must admit, Harry, that only women give men life’s purest gold. Perhaps, he sighed, but inevitably they then demand it back, exchanged for small change. That’s the trouble. Women, a witty Frenchman once said, inspire us to create masterpieces and always prevent us from executing them. Harry, you’re dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much . You’ll always like me, Dorian, he replied. Shall we have some coffee, children? — Waiter, bring coffee, fine champagne, and cigarettes. No, leave the cigarettes, I have some with me. Basil, I can’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must Take a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect expression of perfect pleasure. It is delicious and yet leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one ask for? Yes, Dorian, you will always love me. I am for you the epitome of all the sins you will never have the courage to commit . What nonsense you’re talking, Harry! cried the young man, lighting his cigarette from the fire-breathing silver dragon the waiter had placed on the table. We shall go to the theater now. When Sibyl performs, you will gain a new ideal of life. She will reveal to you something you have not known before. I have experienced everything, said Lord Henry with a weary look in his eyes, but I am always ready to acquire a new emotion. Only I fear that there are hardly any such things left for me. Still, your wonderful girl may shake me to my core. I love the art of acting. It is so much more real than life. We shall go. Dorian, you can get in with me. Basil, I’m sorry, but there’s only room for two in my Brougham. You’ll have to take a cab. They stood up, put on their coats, and drank their coffee standing. The painter was silent and dejected. A gloomy feeling weighed on him. He couldn’t approve of this marriage, and yet it seemed better than many other things that could have happened. After a few minutes, they went downstairs together. He rode alone, as arranged, and looked at the flashing lights of the small carriage rolling ahead of him. A strange feeling of great loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be what he had once been to him. Life had come between them… Before his eyes, everything grew dark, and the crowded, illuminated streets blurred before his vision. When his cab arrived at the theater, he felt as if he had aged many years . Chapter 7. For some reason, the house was particularly crowded that evening , and the fat Jewish director who met them at the door beamed from ear to ear in an oily, twitching smile. He escorted them to their box with a certain boastful humility, hastily waving his fat, jeweled hands and nearly cracking his voice. Dorian loathed him more than ever. He felt as if he had come to visit Miranda and had been received by Caliban. Lord Henry, on the other hand, had some liking for him. At least he declared that he liked him, insisted on shaking his hand, and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a significant genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself by watching the figures in the standing room. The heat was extremely oppressive, and the huge sunburst chandelier blazed like a gigantic dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The young people in the gallery had taken off their skirts and waistcoats and hung them over the railing. They were shouting to each other across the entire theater and feeding oranges to the garishly dressed girls beside them. A few women in the standing room below were laughing. Their voices were horribly shrill and unpleasant. From the sideboard came the sound of uncorking bottles. “What a strange place to find one’s goddess!” said Lord Henry. “Yes,” replied Dorian Gray. “Here I have found her, and she is more divine than anything living. When she performs, you forget everything. These common, crude people, with their everyday faces and brutal movements, are completely transformed as soon as she is on stage. They sit there silently and watch her. They weep and laugh when she wants them to. She keeps them in the mood as one does a violin. She ennobles them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as oneself.” ” Of the same flesh and blood as oneself? Oh, I hope not!” cried Dorian Gray. Lord Henry, who was scrutinizing the people in the gallery through his opera glasses. ” Don’t listen to him, Dorian!” said the painter. “I understand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. The man you love must be wonderful, and any girl who achieves the effect you describe must be refined and noble. To ennoble one’s fellow human beings—that is worth the effort. If this girl can enliven those who have lived soullessly, if she can awaken a sense of beauty in people whose existence has been dirty and ugly, if she can free them from their self-interest and draw tears from them for sorrows that are not their own, then she is worthy of your veneration, then she is worthy of the veneration of the whole world. Such a marriage is quite right. I didn’t think so at first, but now I admit it. The gods created Sibyl Vane for you. Without her, you would have been incomplete. ” “Thank you, Basil,” replied Dorian Gray, and pressed his hand. I knew you understood me. Harry is a cynic; he frightens me. But then the orchestra comes in. It’s dreadful, but it only lasts a mere five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you see a girl to whom I want to give my whole life, to whom I have surrendered everything good in me. A quarter of an hour later, Sibyl Vane entered the stage to a roaring roar of applause. Yes, she was truly delightful—one of the most delightful creatures, thought Lord Henry, he had ever seen. There was something doe-like in her shy grace and her astonished eyes. A faint blush, like the reflection of a rose in a silver mirror, came across her cheeks as she took in the packed and enthusiastic house. She took a few steps back, and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward jumped to his feet and began to clap. Motionless, and as if in a deep dream, Dorian Gray sat and looked at her. Lord Henry stared intently through his glass and murmured, “Delightful! Delightful!” The scene represented the hall in Capulet’s house, and Romeo, in his pilgrim’s garb, had appeared with Mercutio and his other companions. The music preluded, as best it could, with a few chords, and the dancing began. In the midst of the throng of clumsy, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a higher world. Her body floated in the dance like a flower on water. The lines of her neck resembled those of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be of cool ivory. And yet she seemed strangely absent. She showed no sign of pleasure as her eye rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak— “No, pilgrim, blame the hand for its chaste, devout greeting”— The holy right hand may tolerate touch, and hand in hand is a pious pilgrim’s kiss— with the short dialogue that follows, she spoke in a completely affected tone. The voice sounded wonderful, but the tone was entirely wrong. It didn’t capture the mood. It robbed the verses of all life. It made the passion untrue. Dorian Gray paled when he heard it. He was embarrassed and frightened. His two friends didn’t dare say anything to him. She seemed to be completely talentless. They were terribly disappointed. But they knew that the true test for every Juliet was the balcony scene in the second act. That was what they were waiting for. If she failed there, there was nothing to her. She looked lovely when she appeared in the moonlight. No one could deny that. But the theatricality of her acting was unbearable and grew worse as it went on. Her gestures were ridiculously affected. She exaggerated the pathos of everything she had to say. The wonderful verses— You know the night veils my face, Otherwise a girl’s blush would color my cheeks To what you heard me say a moment ago— she declaimed with the embarrassing precision of a schoolgirl who had a mediocre elocution teacher in school. When she Leaning over the balcony, she began the magnificent verses— Though I rejoice in your presence, I do not rejoice in this night’s union: It is too swift, too rash, too sudden, too much like lightning that has already passed, even before one can say: it flashes.—Sleep sweetly! May a warm summer breeze unfold the love bud into a flower until we meet again— she spoke the words as if they held no meaning for her. It was n’t excitement. No, far from being agitated, she seemed quite content with herself. It was simply bad art. It was utter rubbish. Even the ordinary, uneducated audience in the standing room and gallery lost interest in the performance. They grew restless and began to talk and hiss loudly. The Jewish director, standing at the back of the first tier, stamped his feet and cursed in fury. The only one who remained motionless was the girl herself. When the second act was over, a storm of hissing broke out, and Lord Henry rose from his chair and put on his coat. “She is beautiful, Dorian,” he said, “but she cannot act. We shall go. ” “I want to see the play to the end,” the young man replied in a hard, bitter voice. “I am most sorry that I caused you to waste an evening, Harry. I must apologize to both of you. ” “My dear Dorian, I think Miss Vane was ill,” Hallward interrupted . “We shall come again another evening.” ” I wish she were ill,” he replied. “But I think she has no feeling and is cold. She is completely changed. Last night she was a great artist. Tonight she is just an ordinary, mediocre actress.” “Do not speak like that of someone you love, Dorian. Love is a far more wonderful thing than art.” “They are both merely forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But we must go. Dorian, you mustn’t stay here any longer. It’s detrimental to morals to see bad acting. I don’t believe, by the way, that you’ll let your wife perform. So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden puppet! She is truly enchanting, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience for you. There are only two kinds of captivating people—those who know everything and those who know nothing at all. Good Lord, my dear boy, don’t make such a tragic face! The recipe for staying young is simply never to have any unproductive excitement. Come with Basil and me to the club! We’ll smoke cigarettes and drink to Sibyl Vane’s beauty. She is beautiful. What more could you want?” ” Go, Harry!” cried the young man. “I want to be alone. Basil, go! Oh, can’t you see my heart is breaking?” Hot tears welled up in his eyes. His lips trembled, he pressed himself into the darkest corner of the box, leaned against the wall, and buried his face in his hands.
“Come, Basil,” said Lord Henry in a strangely tender voice; and the two young men went out together. A few moments later, the stage lights flared again, and the curtain rose for the third act. Dorian Gray returned to his seat. He looked pale, absent, indifferent. The play dragged on, seemingly endless. Half the audience left, stamping their heavy boots and laughing. The whole thing was a complete fiasco. The final act was performed to almost empty seats. The curtain fell with hisses and mocking grunts. As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed backstage to the dressing room. The girl stood there alone, with a triumphant expression on her face. Her eyes shone with a strange fire. A kind of radiance hovered around her. Her half-open lips smiled like a secret known only to them. When he entered, she looked at him with an expression of unspeakable happiness. It came over her. “How badly I played today, Dorian!” she cried. ” Terrible,” he answered, looking at her in amazement—” terrible. It was truly dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was like. No idea what I went through.” The girl smiled. “Dorian,” she answered, drawing out his name with a musical sound, as if it were sweeter than honey to the red blossoms of her mouth—”Dorian, you should have understood. But now you do understand, don’t you?” ” What?” he demanded vehemently. “Why I played so badly tonight. Why I will always play badly. Why I will never play well again.” He shrugged. “You must be ill. If you are ill, you shouldn’t play. You only make a fool of yourself. My friends were bored. So was I.” She didn’t seem to hear what he said. She was transfixed with pleasure. An ecstasy of happiness possessed her. Dorian, Dorian, she cried, before I knew you, acting was the only reality in my life. I lived only in the theater. I took it all for real. One evening I was Rosalind, and the next I was Portia. Beatrice’s happiness was my happiness, and Kordelia’s tears were mine. I believed in everything. These common folk who acted with me seemed divine. The painted scenery meant the world to me. I knew nothing but shadows, and I took them for reality. Then you came—O my beautiful lover—and freed my soul from its prison. You taught me what true reality is. Today, for the first time, I saw through all the emptiness , the deception, the absurdity of the false, lying trinket among which I had been playing. Tonight I knew for the first time that this Romeo is hideous and old and made up, that the moon in the garden is a trick, the whole scene vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were not true, not my words, not what I should have said. You have given me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You have taught me what love is. My beloved! My beloved! Prince Fairy-Tale-Fair! Prince of my life! I can no longer bear the shadows . You are more to me than all art ever could be. What do I have to do with the puppets of a play? When I appeared tonight , I could not understand how it had come to pass that everything should have vanished. I had thought I would be wonderful. I realized that I failed completely. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. It was a glorious knowledge. I heard them hiss and smiled. What could they know of a love like ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me with you somewhere we can be alone. I hate the theater. I may have been able to portray a feeling I don’t feel, but I can’t play one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, do you understand now what that means? Even if I could, it would be a desecration to play while I love. You have made me see. He threw himself onto the sofa and turned his face away. You have killed my love, he murmured. She looked at him in amazement and laughed. He made no reply. She came to him and stroked his hair with her small fingers. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He pushed her away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he jumped to his feet and strode to the door. Yes, he cried, you have killed my love. Until now, you captivated my imagination. Now you don’t even captivate my curiosity. You simply don’t work. I loved you because you were a miracle, because you had genius and spirit, because you embodied the dreams of great poets and gave form and body to the shadows of art. You threw all that away. Now you are empty and shallow. My God. What a fool I was to love you! How blinded I was! Now you mean nothing to me. I never want you again. To see you again. Never to think of you again. Never to speak your name again. You don’t know what you once were to me. Yes, once, once… Oh, I can’t bear to think of it. I wish I had never seen you. You destroyed the poetry of my life. How little you must know of love if you say it paralyzes your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, a star, something glorious. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty little face. The girl had turned deathly pale and was trembling. She clasped her hands together, and her voice seemed to have been choked in her throat. You can’t be serious, Dorian? she whispered. You’re just pretending. Pretending? I’ll leave that up to you. You understand so well, he replied bitterly. She rose from her knees and walked toward him with a weeping, pained face. She placed her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes. He pushed her away. “Don’t touch me!” he cried. A soft moan escaped her, and she threw herself at his feet , lying there like a crushed flower. “Dorian, Dorian, don’t leave me!” she cried softly. “I’m so upset that I didn’t play well. I thought of you all the time. But I’ll try again—really, I will try. It came over me so suddenly, this love for you. I think I would never have known about it if you hadn’t kissed me—if we hadn’t kissed each other. Kiss me again, lover! Don’t leave me! I couldn’t survive it. Oh, don’t leave me! My brother… no, nothing about that. He didn’t mean it. He was only joking… But you, oh!” Can you never forgive me for tonight? I will be so diligent and try so hard to be better. Don’t be cruel to me, because I love you more than anything in the world. It’s only this one time that I displeased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown more of myself as an artist. It was foolish of me; and yet I could not do otherwise. Oh, don’t leave me, do n’t leave me. Passionate sobs shook her. She crouched down like a wounded animal, and Dorian Gray looked down at her with his beautiful eyes, and his finely chiseled lips curled in deepest contempt. The emotions of people one no longer loves always have something ridiculous about them. Sibyl Vane seemed to him overly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs only bored him. I am leaving, he said at last in his clear, steady voice. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I can’t bear to see you again. You disappointed me. She continued to weep silently and said nothing, but crawled closer. Her small hands stretched out into the void, as if searching for him. He turned on his feet and left the room. A few moments later, he had left the theater behind. He hardly knew where he went. He remembered wandering through dimly lit alleys, past sad doorways cast in black shadows and wretched-looking houses , women with hoarse voices calling after him with shrill laughter. Drunks, cursing and talking to themselves, staggered past him like giant apes. He had seen cute children crouching on the steps and heard shouts and cursing from gloomy courtyards . As dawn broke, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness was fading, the air was reddening with a pale fire, and the sky arched into a perfect pearl. Mighty wagons laden with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the straight, empty street. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers, and the beauty seemed to soothe his pain. He entered the market hall and watched the men unloading their wagons. A carter in a white coat offered He offered him some of his cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he wouldn’t accept any money for them, and began to eat them distractedly. They had been picked at midnight and held the coolness of the moon. Boys in a long line hauled baskets full of striped tulips and yellow and red roses, trudging past him as they picked their way through the large, yellowish-green piles of vegetables. Beneath the gray, sun-bleached columns of the portico, a group of scruffy girls without hats loitered , waiting for the auction to end. Others crowded around the opening and closing doors of the coffee house in the piazza. The heavy packhorses slipped on the cobblestones and stamped over the uneven stones, shaking their bells and harnesses. Several carters lay asleep on a pile of sacks. With rainbow-colored necks and reddish feet, the pigeons tiptoed about in the middle of it, pecking at grain. After a while, he called a cab and went home. For a few moments, he stood hesitantly on the threshold, gazing across the silent square and at the houses with their gleaming, closed windows and light curtains. The sky was now a true opal, and the rooftops glittered like silver. A thin column of smoke rose from a chimney opposite. It
snaked like a violet ribbon through the pearly air. In the large Venetian gold lantern, some doge’s booty , which hung from the ceiling of the large oak-paneled porch, three flickering gaslights still burned: like thin blue blossoms of fire, fringed by white flames. He turned them out, threw his hat and coat onto the table, and went through the library to the door of his bedroom. It was a large, octagonal room on the ground floor, which, in his newfound appreciation for luxury, he had recently had furnished and hung with some whimsical Renaissance tapestries he had discovered in a disused attic room at Selby Royal. Just as he reached for the handle, his gaze fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He recoiled in surprise. Then he went into his room, looking pensive and troubled. After removing the flower from his buttonhole, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he went back, stood before the portrait, and studied it. In the indistinct, subdued light filtering through the dull, yellowish silk curtains, the face seemed slightly altered. The expression was different. One might say there was a cruel look around the mouth. It was truly strange. He turned, went to the window, and drew back the curtain. The bright morning flooded the room, sweeping the fantastical shadows into gloomy corners where they lay trembling. But the strange expression he had noticed in the portrait’s face not only seemed to remain but to have intensified. The hot, shimmering sunlight revealed the gruesome line around the mouth so clearly, as if he were seeing himself in a mirror after committing a terrible act . He started and took from the table an oval mirror, its frame formed by ivory gods of love, one of Lord Henry’s many gifts, and glanced hastily into its gleaming depths. Not a single line of that kind marred its red lips. What could this mean? He rubbed his eyes and moved very close to the portrait to examine it once more. There was no trace of change in the painting technique, and yet there was no doubt that the expression as a whole had changed. It was not his imagination. The matter was terrifyingly clear. He threw himself into a chair and began to brood. Suddenly, he was overcome by the memory of the words he had spoken in Basil Hallward’s studio on the day the painting was finished. Yes, he remembered. He knew it quite clearly. He had expressed the senseless wish that he himself should remain young, and the portrait age: that his own beauty should remain untarnished, and the face on the canvas should bear the burden of his passions and sins: that the painted image should be furrowed by the lines of suffering and thought, and that he himself should retain the delicate charm and all the loveliness of his youth, of which he had just then become aware. His wish had not been fulfilled, had it? Such things remain impossible. The very thought of such a thing seemed monstrous. And yet, there the picture stood before him, with a look of cruelty around its mouth. Cruelty! Had he been cruel? The girl was to blame, not him. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given her his love because he had thought her to be great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been hollow and worthless. And yet a feeling of infinite pity overcame him when he thought of how she had lain at his feet, sobbing like a small child. He remembered the callousness with which he had regarded her. Why had he been made that way? Why had he been given such a soul? But he, too, had suffered. In the three terrible hours the play had lasted, he had lived through centuries of pain, eternities upon eternities of torment. His life was surely worth as much as hers if he had wounded her for life. She had destroyed him for an instant. Besides, women are better equipped to endure suffering than men. They live by their feelings. They think only of their feelings. If they have a lover, it is only to have someone to make a scene with. Lord Henry had told him this, and Lord Henry knew how women were. Why should he worry about Sibyl Vane? She meant nothing to him now. But the portrait? What could he say to that? It held the secret of his life and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Was it meant to teach him to loathe his own soul? Could he ever look at it again? No; it was only an illusion, a fabrication of confused senses. The terrible night he had endured had left ghosts behind. The tiny scarlet stain that drives people mad had suddenly appeared on his brain. The image had n’t changed. It was madness to believe it had. But it gazed back at him with its beautiful, disfigured face and its cruel smile. Its fair hair shone in the golden sunlight of dawn. Its blue eyes looked into his own. A feeling of boundless pity surged through him, not for himself, no, but for the painted image. It had already changed and would change more. Its gold would fade to gray. Its red and white roses would wither. For every sin he would commit, a stain would emerge and defile its beauty. But he would not sin. The portrait, transformed or untransformed, would be for him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist every temptation. He would not see Lord Henry again—at least not listen to his dazzling, poisonous theories that had first stirred in him, in Basil Hallward’s garden, a passion for impossible things. He would hasten back to Sibyl Vane, strive to refine her art, marry her, and try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he. Poor child! He had been selfish and cruel to her. The spell she had cast on him would return. They would be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure. He rose from his chair and pushed a large screen in front of the portrait. He recoiled when he looked at it. How dreadful, he whispered. Then he stepped to the glass door and opened it. Stepping out into the greenery, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. The fresh morning air seemed to dispel all his dark passions. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint glimmer of his love returned. He repeated her name again and again. The birds singing in the dew-kissed garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. Chapter 8. Midday was long past when he awoke. His servant had tiptoed into the room several times to see if he was awake, and he had wondered why his young master slept so late. Finally, the bell rang, and Victor entered quietly with a bowl of tea and a stack of mail on a narrow sèvres tray and drew back the olive-yellow satin curtains with their shimmering blue lining before the three large windows. “Monsieur slept well this morning,” he said, smiling. ” What time is it?” asked Dorian Gray, still sleepy. A quarter to two, Monsieur! What a late hour it was! He sat up, sipped a few sips of tea, and leafed through the letters. One was from Lord Henry and had been delivered by a messenger that morning. He hesitated for a moment and then set it aside. He opened the others distractedly. They contained the usual collection of cards, dinner invitations, exhibition tickets, programs for charity concerts, and similar requests such as rain down on a young man of society every morning during the season. There was also a rather large bill for a Louis XV toilet service in chased silver, which he had not yet been brave enough to present to his guardians, who were extraordinarily old-fashioned gentlemen and could not grasp that we live in a time when unnecessary things are our only necessity. And furthermore, there was a series of very politely worded letters from Jermyn Street offering to lend him any sum of money at the most moderate interest rate in the shortest possible time. After about ten minutes, he got up, slipped into a refined cashmere dressing gown with silk embroidery, and went into the onyx-floored bathroom. The cold water refreshed him after his long sleep. He seemed to have forgotten everything he had been through . Once or twice, a vague feeling flashed through him, as if he had somehow been involved in some strange tragedy, but the unreality of a dream woven over it. As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light French breakfast, which was laid out on a small, round table near the open window. It was a delightful day. The warm air seemed to be scented with fragrances. A bee flew in and buzzed around the bowl of blue dragon-china, filled with sulfur-yellow roses, that stood before him. He felt perfectly happy. Suddenly, his gaze fell on the screen he had placed in front of the picture, and he flinched. ” Is it too cold for your lord?” asked the servant, placing an omelet on the table. “Should I close the window?” Dorian shook his head. “I’m not cold,” he replied. Was it all true? Had the picture really changed? Or had it merely been his own imagination, conjuring up a hint of wickedness where there had only been a hint of joy ? A painted canvas couldn’t change, could it? That was madness! He would tell Basil this one day as a fairy tale. He would smile about it. And yet, how vivid the memory of the whole thing was! First in the wavering twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had noticed the hint of cruelty around the curved lips. He was genuinely afraid that his servant might go out. He knew that as soon as he was alone, he would have to look at the picture. He was afraid of this certainty. When the servant had brought coffee and cigarettes and turned to leave, he felt the strongest urge to let him stay. As the door closed behind him, he called him back. The man stood there, waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him for a moment. “I am at home for no one, Victor,” he said with a sigh. The man bowed and went out. Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and threw himself onto a sumptuously upholstered ottoman that stood opposite the screen. It was an old folding screen made of gilded Spanish leather, with a floral Louis XIV pattern embossed into it. He studied it searchingly and wondered if the screen had ever concealed the secret of a human life. Should he even move it? Why not leave it there? What good was certainty? If it was true, it was terrible. If it was n’t, why worry about it? But what if, by some twist of fate or fatal accident, eyes other than his peered behind it and saw the terrible change? What would he do if Basil Hallward came and wanted to see his own image ? Basil surely would. No, the matter had to be investigated , and immediately. Anything was better than this dreadful uncertainty. He stood up and locked both doors. He wanted to be alone, at least, when he contemplated the mask of his shame. Then he pushed the screen aside and saw himself face to face. It was entirely true. The image had changed. He often recalled later, always with no small amount of astonishment, that he had first examined the picture with a sense of scientific interest . That such a change was possible seemed unbelievable to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some secret kinship between the chemical atoms that become form and color on the canvas and the soul that lived within it? Could it be that they actually expressed what his soul was thinking? —that they made reality what she dreamed? Or was there some other terrible relationship? He shuddered, gripped by fear. Then he went back to the ottoman and lay there, staring at the portrait in morbid terror. But he felt it had had an effect. It had made him realize how unjust, how cruel he had been to Sibyl Vane. It wasn’t too late to make amends. She could still become his wife. His false, selfish love should give way to a higher power, should rise to a nobler passion, and the portrait Basil Hallward had painted should be his guide through life, should be for him what holiness is for some, conscience for others, and fear of God for all of us. There were sleeping pills for pangs of conscience, medications that could lull morality to sleep. But here was the visible symbol of humiliation brought about by sin. Here was the eternally indelible mark of the corruption that people inflict on their own souls. The clock struck three and four, and for another half hour the double chime rang out, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to unravel the scarlet threads of life and weave them into a pattern; to find his way out of the blood-red labyrinth of passion through which he wandered. He did not know what to do, nor what to think. At last he went to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, begging her to forgive him and accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with wild words of worry and even more vehement ones of pain. There is a pleasure in self-accusation. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has the right to blame us. Confession, not the priest, gives us absolution. When Dorian the Having finished his letter, he felt he had been forgiven. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s voice outside. ” Dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once! I cannot allow you to shut yourself off like this!” At first, he made no answer but remained quite silent. The knocking repeated itself and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in and explain that he wished to lead a new life, to argue with him if necessary, and to part ways with him if separation was required. He jumped up, hastily pushed the screen in front of the picture, and unlocked the door. ” I am so very sorry about everything, Dorian,” said Lord Henry as he entered. “But you mustn’t dwell on it too much.” ” Do you mean Sibyl Vane?” asked the young man. ” Yes, of course,” replied Lord Henry, lowering himself into a chair and slowly removing his yellow gloves. “It is certainly, on the one hand , terrible, but it wasn’t your fault.” Tell me, did you go backstage and see her after the play ? Yes. I was convinced. Did you make a scene? I was brutal, Harry, brutal to be honest. But everything’s all right now. I don’t regret what happened. It’s taught me to know myself better. Oh, Dorian, I’m so glad you see it that way. I was afraid I’d find you tormented by guilt, tearing at your pretty curly hair. I went through all that, said Dorian, shaking his head with a smile. Now I’m perfectly happy. Most importantly, I now know what it means to have a conscience. It’s not what you told me . It’s the most divine thing in us. Don’t mock it, never again, Harry—at least never again in my presence. I’ll be good now . I can’t bear the thought of having defiled my soul . Truly a delightful, artistic basis for morality, Dorian. I congratulate you on that. But how will you begin? By marrying Sibyl Vane. Marry Sibyl Vane? Lord Henry cried out, rising and looking at him with the most dismayed astonishment. But my dear Dorian— Yes, Harry, I know what you’re going to say. Something nasty about marriage. Don’t say it. Never say such things to me again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I will not break my word. She shall be my wife. Your wife, Dorian… Didn’t you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning and sent the message through my servant. Your letter? Ah yes, I remember. I haven’t read it yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something in it I wouldn’t like. You vivisect life with your aphorisms. So you know nothing. What are you talking about? Lord Henry paced the room, then sat down beside Dorian Gray, took both his hands, and held them tightly. “Dorian,” he said, ” my letter—don’t be alarmed—was to inform you that Sibyl Vane is dead. ” A cry of pain rang out from the young man’s lips, and he jumped to his feet, tearing his hands free from Lord Henry’s grasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! It isn’t true. It’s a terrible lie. How dare you say such a thing?” “It is quite true, Dorian,” said Lord Henry gravely. “It’s in all the morning papers. I wrote to you at once and asked you not to see anyone until I came. There must, of course, be an inquiry, and you mustn’t be drawn into it. Things of this kind make a man the hero of the day in Paris. But in London, people have too many prejudices. Here, one must never debut with a scandal. One must save that for later in life, to remain interesting. I suppose they don’t know your name at the theater. In that case, all is well.” Did anyone see you go into the dressing room? That’s an important factor. For a few moments Dorian didn’t answer. He was paralyzed with horror. Finally, he stammered in a choked voice: “Harry, did you say an investigation? What did you mean? Did Sibyl—?” “Oh, Harry, I can’t bear it. Make it short. Tell me everything at once. I have no doubt that it wasn’t an accident, Dorian, even if it has to be presented that way to the public. It seems she left the theater with her mother, around 12:30, and then suddenly said she’d forgotten something upstairs. They waited for her for some time, but she didn’t come back down. Finally, they found her dead on the floor in her dressing room. She’d accidentally drunk something, some horrible stuff they need in the theaters. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it must have been either hydrocyanic acid or lead white. I suspect hydrocyanic acid, because she seems to have died instantly.” “Harry, Harry, it’s terrible!” cried the young man. Yes; of course it’s very tragic, but you mustn’t get involved in it. I read in the Standard that she was seventeen. I would have thought she was even younger. She looked just like a child and seemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn’t let it get to you so much . You must come with me and have dinner, and afterwards we’ll go to the opera for a bit. Patti is singing, and the whole world will be there . You can come with me to my sister’s box. She’s bringing some fabulous women with her. So that’s how I murdered Sibyl Vane, Dorian Gray said, half to himself —murdered her, as surely as if I had slit her delicate throat with a knife. And yet the roses are no less delightful for it. The birds in my garden sing just as merrily. And tonight I’m going to dinner with you and then to the opera, and afterwards probably to supper somewhere. How strangely dramatic life is. If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept. But now that it has actually happened, that it has happened to me, it seems too wonderful for tears. There lies the first passionate love letter I have ever written. Strange that my first passionate love letter is addressed to a dead girl. I wonder if they still have any feeling, these white, mute people we call dead. Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or hear? Oh, Harry, how I once loved her! It seems to me like years ago now . She was everything to me. Then came that dreadful evening —was it really only yesterday?—when she played so badly and almost broke my heart. She explained everything to me. It was terribly touching. But it made no impression on me whatsoever. I thought of her as a superficial creature. Then something happened suddenly that frightened me. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was dreadful. I resolved to go back to her. I felt I had been wrong. And now she’s dead. My God! My God! Harry, what am I to do? You don’t know the danger I’m in, and there ‘s nothing to keep me going. She would have done it for me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her. My dear Dorian, Lord Harry replied, taking a cigarette from its case and producing a gold matchbox, the only way a woman can improve a man is by boring him so thoroughly that he loses all interest in life. If you had married that girl, you would have been corrupted. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. You can always treat kindly people you don’t care for. But she would soon have found out that you didn’t care for her at all. And when a woman senses indifference in her husband, she neglects herself. Either dreadful, or she wears overly elegant hats that another woman’s husband has to pay for. I won’t say anything about the social inequality, which would have been appalling; I would, of course, never have admitted it, but I assure you, it would have been completely wrong in any case. ” Presumably,” murmured the young man, pacing back and forth in the room, his face terribly pale . “But I believe it is my duty. It is not my fault that this dreadful tragedy has prevented me from doing the right thing. I remember you once saying that a strange curse hangs over good intentions—namely, that they are always made too late. That was certainly the case with mine. Good intentions are useless attempts to overturn the laws of nature. Their origin is pure vanity. Their success is absolutely zero. They give us now and then a little of those barren sensations of pleasure that exert a certain attraction on weak people.” That is all that can be said in their favor. They are mere checks made payable to a bank where one has no account. “Harry,” cried Dorian Gray, approaching and sitting down beside him. “Why can’t I feel this tragedy as strongly as I should? I can’t believe I am heartless.” “Do you think that of me?” ” You have played too many foolish pranks in the last two weeks to have any claim to that honorary title , Dorian,” replied Lord Harry with his quiet, melancholy smile. The young man frowned. “That explanation means nothing to me, really, Harry, but I am still glad you don’t think me heartless . I certainly am not. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this event does not affect me as it should. It strikes me as the wonderful final scene of a wonderful drama.” It has the terrible beauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I played a major part, but in which I myself was not wounded. ” It is an interesting question,” said Lord Harry, who took particular pleasure in playing with the young man’s unconscious egoism— “an extraordinarily interesting question. I think the real explanation is probably this. It often happens that the tragedies of reality unfold in such an unartistic form that they wound us with their raw violence, their absolute lack of coherence, their ludicrous meaninglessness, and their extraordinary lack of style. They grieve us just as meanness does. They give us a sense of sudden, brutal violence, and we rebel against it. Sometimes, however, a tragedy crosses our lives that contains elements of artistic beauty . If these elements of beauty are indeed present, then the whole thing simply seizes our sense of dramatic effect. We discover at once that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather, we are both. We observe ourselves and are shaken by the wonder of fate. What really happened in this case? Someone killed themselves out of love for you. I wish I had ever had such an experience. I would have been in love with love for the rest of my life . The people who adored me—there weren’t many, but some nonetheless—were always eager to keep living, long after I had stopped caring for them , or they for me. They grew fat and dull, and when I meet them now, they immediately reminisce. That dreadful, tenacious memory of women! What a terrible thing it is! And what utter mental stagnation it reveals. One should absorb the color of life , but never remember details. Details are always commonplace. “I must sow poppies in my garden,” Dorian sighed. “ That’s unnecessary,” his companion replied. “Life itself always has poppies in stock. Of course, now and then things last longer. Once I wore nothing but violets for a whole season , as a kind of artistic mourning for a novel that wouldn’t die. Eventually, though, it did die. I can no longer remember what killed it. I suspect it was her suggestion that I give up the whole world. That is always a terrible moment. It fills one with the horrors of eternity. Already—would you believe it now?—last week, at Lady Hampshire’s, I was sitting at table next to the lady in question, and she again couldn’t help but go over the whole thing, dredging up the past and painting a picture of the future. I had buried the whole novel under a bed of asphodel. She dug it up again and assured me that I had ruined her life.” I feel obliged to note that she nevertheless ate with astonishing appetite, so that I felt no pangs of conscience at all. But what a lack of tact she displayed! The only charm of the past lies precisely in the fact that it is past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want a sixth act, and as soon as all interest in the play has waned, they suggest we continue. If they were given their way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every comedy would culminate in farce. They are often delightful products of art, but they have no sense of art. You are luckier than I am. I assure you, Dorian, not a single woman I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vane did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of them do so by falling in love with sentimental colors. Never trust a woman who wears mauves, no matter her age, or a woman over thirty-five who loves pink ribbons. That always means they have a story. Others find great comfort in suddenly discovering the virtues of their husbands. They rub their marital bliss in your face as if it were the most captivating sin. Some, again, find solace in religion. Its mysteries have all the charms of a love affair, a woman once assured me, and I can well understand why. Incidentally, nothing makes us so vain as being told we are sinners. Conscience turns us all into egoists. Yes, there really is no end to the consolations women find in modern life. I haven’t even mentioned the most important one yet. Which is it, Harry? the young man asked distractedly. Oh, the most commonplace consolation. Taking away another woman’s admirer when you’ve lost your own. In good company, a woman always finds her way again in that way. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the other women one meets. For me , there is something truly beautiful in her death. I am glad that I live in a century where such miracles still happen. They give us renewed faith in the reality of the things we otherwise play with, like romance, passion, and love. I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that. I fear women value cruelty, everyday cruelty, more than anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We have emancipated them, but they remain slaves who keep their eyes fixed on their masters, despite everything. They love to be dominated. I am convinced that you put on a brilliant show. I never saw you truly and completely angry, but I can imagine how delightful you must have looked. And besides, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed like just a fantastic idea at the time, but now I see that it was completely true, and I consider it the key. To the whole affair. What was that, Harry? You told me Sibyl Vane embodied all the female figures of Romanticism for you—she was Desdemona one evening and Ophelia the next; when she died as Juliet, she rose again as Imogen. She will never rise again, the young man groaned, burying his face in his hands. No, she will never rise again. She has played her last part. But you must think of that lonely death in the shabby dressing room as a strangely eerie fragment from a tragedy dating back to the time of King James, as a marvelous scene in Webster or Ford or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never really lived, so she never really died. For you, she was never more than a dream, a shadowy spirit flitting through Shakespeare’s plays, making them all the more alluring by her very existence, the note of a flute through which Shakespeare’s music sounded richer and more joyful. The moment she touched real life, she destroyed it, and it destroyed her, and so she departed. Mourn for Ophelia, if it pleases you. Scatter ashes on your head because Kordelia was strangled. Cry to heaven because Brabantio’s daughter died. But do not waste your tears for Sibyl Vane. She was less real than they are. A silence fell. Evening dawned in the room. Soundlessly, on silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded wearily from all things. After a while, Dorian Gray looked up. “You have made me clear to myself,” he whispered with a sigh of relief. “Everything you said, I felt too, only I was afraid of it, and I could not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we shall never speak again of what happened . It was a miraculous experience. That is all.” I want to know if anything so wonderful still awaits me in life. Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There’s nothing you couldn’t do with your extraordinary beauty. But imagine, Harry, if I grew thin and old and wrinkled, what then? Ah then, said Lord Harry, rising to leave—then, my dearest Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they will still be handed to you. No, you must remain beautiful as you are. We live in an age of too much reading to be wise, and too much thinking to be beautiful . We cannot do without you. And now you’d better get dressed and go to the club. We’re already late. I mean, I’d rather meet you at the Opera, Harry. I’m too tired to eat. What’s the number of your sister’s box? Twenty-seven, I think, it’s in the first tier. You’ll find her name on the door. But I’m sorry you’re not coming with us to dinner. I’m not in the mood, said Dorian distractedly, but I’m very grateful for everything you’ve said to me. You really are my best friend. No one has ever understood me better than you. We’re only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian, replied Lord Harry, shaking his hand. Goodbye! I hope to see you before 9:30 . Don’t forget: Patti is singing. As the door closed behind him, Dorian Gray rang the bell, and after a few minutes, Victor appeared with the lamps and drew down the curtains. He waited impatiently for the servant to disappear again. The man seemed to take an incredible amount of time for everything. As soon as he was out again, Dorian rushed to the screen and pushed it back. No, the picture hadn’t changed again. It had received the news of Sibyl Vane’s death before it even knew it . It knew the events of life as soon as they happened. This trait of evil cruelty, which disfigured the fine lines of the mouth, had undoubtedly appeared the moment the girl had taken the poison. Or did the image not care about the effects of an act? Did it only take note of processes in the soul? He would have loved to know and hoped to one day witness such a transformation before his eyes, and he shuddered as he hoped. Poor Sibyl! How strangely romantic it all had been! She had often portrayed death on stage. Then death itself had seized her and taken her away. How must she have played that horrific final scene ? Had she cursed him as she died? No; she had died out of love for him, and love was to remain sacred to him forevermore . She had atoned for everything through the sacrifice of her life. He no longer wanted to think about what he had endured on her account that terrible evening at the theater. When he thought of her, it should be as if of a wondrously tragic figure, placed on the world stage to proclaim the highest realization of love. A wondrously tragic figure? Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled her childlike appearance, her cheerful, fantastical nature, her shy, timid grace. He hastily shooed everything away and looked again at the portrait. He felt that the time had come to choose. Or had the choice already been made? Yes, life had decided for him— life and its boundless curiosity about life. Eternal youth, inexhaustible passion, select, mysterious pleasures, wild joys and even wilder sins—all this he would have. The portrait would bear the burden of his disgrace: that was all. A feeling of embarrassment crept over him as he thought of the desecration that awaited this beautiful face on the canvas. Once, in a boyish parody of Narcissus, he had kissed, or at least pretended to kiss, the painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him . Morning after morning he had sat before the picture and gazed in wonder at its beauty; At times, it seemed to him as if he were in love with his own image. Was it now to change with every whim he indulged? Was it to become a monstrous, repulsive thing that had to be locked away in a curtained corner from the glare of the sun, which had so often made the curly wonder of his hair shine even more golden? What a pity! What a pity! For a moment, he thought of praying that the dreadful relationship between him and the image might cease. It had changed because he had asked for it to; perhaps, if he asked for it, it could also remain unchanged. And yet, who, with any inkling of life, would relinquish the possibility of remaining forever young, however fantastical that possibility might be, however fateful its consequences might be? Moreover, was it truly within his power? Was prayer really the cause of the transformation? Could there not be some strange scientific explanation for the whole affair ? If thought could exert an effect on a living organism, couldn’t thought also influence dead, inorganic things? Indeed, couldn’t things that are entirely outside our person intervene without thought or conscious desire, trembling in harmony with our whims and fits of passion ? Couldn’t atom speak to atom in secret inclination or strange kinship? But ultimately, the causes were irrelevant. He would never again attempt to exert a terrible power through prayer . If the image wished to change, then let it change . That had once been the case. Why delve too deeply into a mystery? Admittedly, it must be a powerful pleasure to observe such a process. He would be enabled to follow his mind into secret hiding places. This image would become his most magical mirror . As it had revealed his body to him, so it would now unveil his soul. And when winter descended upon the painting, he would still stand there, where spring wavers, wondering whether he would… Summer’s leading threshold was to be crossed. If the blood ran dry from his face, leaving behind a chalk-white mask with dull eyes, he would still retain the radiance of infancy. Not a bloom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not a pulse of his life would ever falter. Like the gods of Greece, he would remain strong and nimble and cheerful. What did it matter what became of the painted image on the canvas? He himself was secure. That was all that mattered. He pushed the parasol back into its old place before the picture, smiling as he did so. Then he went into his bedroom, where his servant was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord Harry was leaning over his chair. Chapter 9. As he sat at breakfast the next morning, Basil Hallward entered the room. “I am so glad to see you, Dorian,” he said solemnly. ” I was here last night, and I was told you were at the opera.” I knew, of course, that it was impossible. But I would have preferred that you had left a word about where you really were. I spent a terrible night, half-fearing that one tragedy would follow another. I mean, you could have sent me a telegram as soon as you received the news. I read it by chance in the last evening edition of the Globe, which fell into my hands at the club. I rushed here immediately and was unhappy not to find you at home. I cannot tell you how deeply this whole affair cuts me. I know what you must be suffering. But where were you? Did you go to see the girl’s mother? For a moment I thought of following you there. The address was in the newspaper. Somewhere on Euston Road, wasn’t it? But I was afraid of intruding on a pain I could not alleviate. The poor woman! What a state she must be in! And her only child! What did she say to all this? My dear Basil, how should I know? said Dorian Gray, sipping some pale yellow wine from a lovely bulbous Venetian glass inlaid with gold beads, and looking quite unwilling. I was at the opera. You should have gone too. I met Harry’s sister, Lady Gwendolen, there. We were in her box. She is a charming woman; and Patti sang divinely. Don’t speak of terrible things! If you don’t speak of something, it hasn’t happened. Only what you speak of, says Harry, gives things their reality. I should mention, though, that she wasn’t the woman’s only child. There’s another son, a splendid boy, I suppose. But he’s not in the theater. A sailor or something like that. And now tell me something of yourself, what do you paint? You were at the opera? said Hallward, his voice strained with pain. You were at the opera while Sibyl Vane lay dead in some dingy room? You can tell me about other enchanting women, and how Patti sang divinely even before the girl you loved found the peace of the grave where she is to sleep? Man, consider what horrors await that little white body! Stop, Basil, I don’t want to hear any of it! cried Dorian, jumping to his feet. You mustn’t tell me anything about these things. What’s done is done, what’s past is past. Do you call yesterday the past? What does the actual passage of time have to do with it? Only shallow people need years to overcome a feeling. A person who is master of himself can overcome pain as easily as he can discover pleasure. I don’t want to be the plaything of my emotions. I want to use them, rejoice in them, and control them. Dorian, it’s dreadful! Something has completely changed you. You still look exactly like the gorgeous boy who went to [location] every day. My studio came to sit for my portrait. But then you were simpler, more natural, and warmer. You were the most unspoiled child in the whole world. I don’t know what has come over you now. You speak as if you have no heart, no compassion within you. That’s Harry’s influence. I can see it. The young man blushed, went to the window, and gazed for a few moments at the shimmering green, sun-dappled garden. I owe Harry a great deal, a great deal, Basil, he said at last—more than I owe you. You taught me nothing but vanity. I have been punished for it, Dorian—or will be one day. I don’t know what you mean, Basil, Dorian exclaimed, turning around. I don’t know what you want. What do you want? I want the Dorian Gray I painted back, said the artist sadly. Basil, replied the young man, stepping forward and placing his hand on his shoulder, you have come too late. When I heard yesterday that Sibyl Vane had killed herself— Killed herself! God in heaven! Are you quite sure? cried Hallward, staring at him with an expression of utter horror. My dear Basil! You don’t think it was just an ordinary accident, do you? Of course she killed herself. The older man buried his face in his hands. How dreadful! he whispered, a shiver running through him. No, said Dorian Gray, there is nothing dreadful about it at all. It is one of the greatest romantic tragedies of our time. Actors usually lead the most mundane lives. They are good husbands or faithful wives or something else dull. You know what I mean—homesick virtue and all that. How different Sibyl was! She lived her best tragedy. She was always a heroine. On the last night she acted—the night you saw her —she acted badly because she had recognized love as reality . When she realized her unreality, she died as Julia would have. She vanished once more into the realm of art. There’s something of a martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic futility of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But as I said, don’t think I didn’t suffer. If you had come at a certain moment yesterday, around 5:30 or 5:45, you would have found me dissolved in tears. Even Harry, who was here and brought me the news, has no idea what I went through. I suffered namelessly. Then it passed. I can’t relive the feeling. No one can, except sentimental people. And you’re terribly unfair, Basil. You come here to comfort me. That ‘s good and kind of you. You find me comforted and you’re furious. That’s what your sympathy looks like! You remind me of a story Harry told me about a philanthropist who tormented himself for twenty years trying to rectify some injustice or change an unjust law—I can’t quite remember. He finally succeeded, and nothing could have been greater than his disappointment. He now had absolutely nothing to do, nearly died of boredom, and became an unforgiving misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you truly wish to console me, teach me to forget what has happened, or teach me to view it from a purely artistic perspective. Wasn’t it Gautier who liked to write about the consolation of the arts? I remember a small parchment-bound book once falling into my hands in your studio, and I came across this delightful expression in it. Well, I’m not like that young man you once told me about in Marlow, who used to say that yellow atlas could console you for all of life’s misery. I love beautiful things you can hold in your hand and touch. Old brocade, green-patinated Bronzes, lacquerware, ivory carvings, exquisite interior design, luxury, splendor—these are all things that can give you a lot. But the artistic mood they create, or at least reveal, means even more to me. To be a spectator of one’s own life, as Harry says, means to escape life’s pain . I know you’re surprised that I speak to you like this. You haven’t noticed how I’ve changed. I was a schoolboy when you first met me. Now I’m a man. I have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. I’m different, but you mustn’t love me any less. I’ve changed, but you must always remain my friend. Of course, I love Harry very much. But I also know that you’re better than him. You’re not stronger—you’re too afraid of life for that—but you’re better. And how happy we were together! Don’t leave me, Basil, and don’t quarrel with me. I am what I am. I can say no more about it. The painter was strangely moved. The young man was incredibly dear to him, and his appearance had been the great turning point in his art. He couldn’t bear the thought of making any further accusations against him . In the end, his indifference was only a passing mood. There was so much good, so much nobility in him. “Very well, Dorian,” he said at last with a wistful smile, ” from this day forward, I will never speak of this terrible matter again. I only hope your name won’t be mentioned in connection with it. The autopsy is to take place this afternoon. Have you been summoned?” Dorian shook his head, and an unpleasant feeling crossed his face at the word “autopsy.” There was something so crude and base in all of this . “They don’t know my name,” he replied . “But she did know it, didn’t she? Only my first name, and she certainly didn’t tell that to anyone.” She once told me that everyone was very eager to know who I was, and that she constantly told them my name was Prince Fairy-Tale-Beautiful. That was kind of her. You must make me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I would like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some stammered, pathetic words. I will try to make something, Dorian, if it will please you . But you must come and sit for me again. I can’t get anywhere without you. I can never sit for you again, Basil. That’s impossible! cried Dorian , and recoiled. The painter stared at him. My dear boy, what nonsense, he cried. Are you saying that you don’t like my painting? Where is it? Why have you put the screen away? Let me see it. It is the best work I have ever done. Take the screen away, Dorian! It is a disgrace that your servant is hiding my painting like that. I noticed as soon as I entered that the room had been completely changed. My servant had nothing to do with it, Basil. You don’t think I leave him to arrange anything in my room? He sometimes arranges my flowers—that’s all. No, I did it myself. The light was too strong for the picture. Too strong? Certainly not, my dear fellow. It has a perfectly good place. Let me see it! And Hallward strode into the corner of the room. A cry of horror escaped Dorian Gray’s lips, and he threw himself between the painter and the screen. Basil, he said, looking quite pale, you mustn’t see it. I don’t want to. Not see my own picture? You can’t be serious! Why shouldn’t I see it? cried Hallward, laughing. If you try to look at it, Basil, I give you my word of honor that as long as I live, I will never speak another word to you. I mean it completely. I’ll give no explanation, and you won’t ask for one. But remember, if you touch this screen, it’s all over between us! Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray, utterly astonished. and… He had never seen him like that before. The young man was truly pale with anger. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes looked like blue wheels of fire. He was trembling all over . “Dorian! Don’t speak! But what is the matter?” “Of course I won’t look at the painting if you don’t want me to,” said the painter rather coldly, turning and going over to the window. “But it seems truly quite mad to me that I shouldn’t see my own work, especially since I intend to exhibit it in Paris in the autumn. I will probably have to varnish it again beforehand, so I will certainly see it one day anyway, so why not today? Exhibit it? You want to exhibit it?” cried Dorian Gray, overcome by a strange feeling of fear. Was the whole world to learn his secret? Was the public to gawk at the secret of his life? That was impossible. Something—he didn’t yet know what—had to be done immediately. ” Yes, I don’t think you’ll object.” Georges Petit will soon be gathering my best paintings for a special exhibition in the Rue de Sèze, which is to open in the first week of October. The painting will only be gone for a month. I mean, you could easily do without it for that long. You won’t be in town during that time anyway. And if you ‘re going to keep it hidden behind a screen at all, it can’t mean much to you. Dorian Gray ran a hand over his forehead. Beads of sweat stood on it. He felt he was on the verge of terrible danger . “You told me a month ago you’d never exhibit it!” he cried. “Why have you changed your mind? You people who make such a fuss about consistency have just as many whims as anyone else. The only difference is that your whims are of little use. You can’t have forgotten that you solemnly assured me nothing in the world could make you put the painting up for exhibition. You said the very same thing to Harry.” He stopped abruptly, and a gleam came into his eyes. He remembered Lord Harry once saying to him, half-seriously and half-jokingly: “If you want to experience a strange quarter of an hour, let Basil tell you why he won’t exhibit your portrait. He told me the reason, and it was a revelation. Yes, perhaps Basil had his own secret. He wanted to ask him and put him to the test. ‘Basil,’ he said, stepping very close and looking him straight in the face, ‘each of us has a secret. Tell me yours, and I ‘ll tell you mine. What reason did you have for refusing to exhibit my painting?’ The painter shuddered, involuntarily. ‘Dorian, if I told you, you would probably love me less, and you would certainly laugh at me. I couldn’t bear either. If you want me never to see your painting again, then I’ll be content. I can always look at you myself.’ If you wish to keep the best work I have ever done hidden from the world, so be it . Your friendship is worth more to me than fame and recognition. No, Basil, you must tell me. I believe I have a right to know. His fear had left him, and curiosity had taken its place. He was determined to uncover Basil Hallward’s secret. “Let’s sit down, Dorian,” said the painter, looking bewildered. ” Let’s sit down and answer me a question. Did you notice anything unusual about the painting ? Something that perhaps didn’t strike you at first, but then suddenly revealed itself?” “Basil!” cried the young man, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands and staring at him with wild, disturbed eyes. ” I see you did notice it. Say nothing. Wait until you have heard what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality exercised the most extraordinary…” You had an influence on me. I was dominated by you; my soul, my mind, my entire strength was yours. You became for me the visible embodiment of the invisible ideal whose image haunts us artists like a delicious dream. I worshipped you. I became jealous of every person you spoke to. I wanted you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you . When you were away from me, you still lived on in my art… Of course, I never let you know any of this. That would have been impossible. You wouldn’t have understood. I myself hardly understood it. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face and that the world had revealed itself to my eyes as a miracle—perhaps too powerful a miracle, for in such frenzied worship lies a danger, the danger that the worship will cease, and the danger that it will persist… Weeks and weeks passed, and I became more and more lost in you. Then came a new stage. I had painted you as Paris in shining armor and as Adonis in hunter’s garb with a flashing spear. Crowned with heavy lotus blossoms, you sat on the prow of Hadrian’s barge, gazing into the green, muddy Nile. You leaned over the still waters of a Greek forest landscape and saw the wonder of your own face reflected in the silent silver mirror. And it was all as art should be: unconscious, ideal, and transcendent. One day—sometimes I think it was a fateful day— I decided to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you truly are, not in the costume of bygone eras, but in your own attire and your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method or the magic of your own personality that confronted me so clearly, without any veil or mist, I cannot say. But I know that as I worked, each layer of paint seemed to reveal my secret. I was afraid others might discover the idolatry I practiced with you . I felt, Dorian, that I had said too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. At that time, I decided never to exhibit the painting . It offended you a little, but back then you simply didn’t understand what it meant to me; Harry, to whom I told it, laughed at me. But that didn’t make me wrong. When the painting was finished, and I sat alone before it, I felt that I had been right… Well, a few days later, when it had left my studio, and I had soon overcome the unbearable spell of its presence, it seemed to me that it had been mad of me to see more in it than that you were very pretty, and that I could paint well. Even now , I cannot help feeling that it must be an error to believe that the enthusiasm one has while creating is tangibly expressed in the work one creates . Art is always more abstract than we imagine. Form and color tell us about form and color— nothing more. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more than it reveals. And when I received the proposal from Paris, I decided to make your painting the centerpiece of my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t allow it. I see now that you are right. The painting must not be exhibited. You mustn’t be angry with me, Dorian, for the things I said. I once told Harry, “You are made to be adored.” Dorian Gray breathed a deep sigh of relief. His cheeks regained their color, and a smile played on his lips. The danger was over. For the moment, he was saved. Yet he felt boundless pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession, and he wondered if he himself could ever be so strongly controlled by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the allure of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical, than that one could truly love him. Would there ever be a person he could strangely idolize? Was that one of the things life still had in store for him? “It’s a complete mystery to me,” said Hallward, “that you claim to have seen that in the portrait. Did you really see it?” ” I saw something in it,” he replied, “something that struck me as very peculiar. And now you probably have no objection to seeing it sometime?” Dorian shook his head. “You mustn’t ask that of me, Basil. It’s impossible for me to see you standing before the picture.” “But another time?” ” Never! ” “Very well, perhaps you’re right. And now farewell, Dorian. You have been the only person in my life who has had any real influence on my art. Whatever good I have ever done, I thank you for. Ah! You can’t imagine what it cost me to tell you all that I have said. ” “My dear Basil,” said Dorian, “what did you tell me?” Nothing but that you feel you admire me too much. That’s not even a compliment. It shouldn’t be a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I ‘ve made it, it seems to me as if I’ve lost something. One should never cloak one’s adoration in the garb of words. Your confession disappointed me. Yes, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn’t see anything else in the picture, did you? There wasn’t anything else to see, was there? No, there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you shouldn’t speak of adoration. That’s folly. You and I, we are friends, Basil, and must always remain so. You have Harry now, said the painter sadly. Oh, Harry! cried the young man with a cheerful laugh. Harry spends his days saying incredible things and his evenings doing improbable things. That’s just the kind of life I’d like to lead. At least I don’t think I’d ever go to Harry if I were troubled. I would rather come to you. You want to sit with me again? Impossible! You will destroy my artistic existence if you refuse. No one encounters two ideals. Few find one. I cannot explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit with you again. There is something fateful about a person’s portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come to you and have tea with you; that will be just as pleasant. Prettier for you, I am afraid, Hallward muttered sadly to himself. And now, farewell. I am sorry you would not let me see the portrait again. But there is nothing to be done about it. I understand very well how you feel. When he had left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he suspected of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having to reveal his own secret, he had almost by chance managed to wrest his friend’s from him . How much this peculiar confession explained to him! The painter’s incomprehensible fits of jealousy, his impetuous adoration, his exaggerated praise, his peculiar silences —he understood it all now, and he felt sorry for him. A friendship so steeped in romance seemed to him to possess a certain tragedy. He sighed and pressed the bell. The portrait had to be hidden at all costs. He couldn’t expose himself to the risk of such discovery a second time. It had been mad of him to leave the thing in a room accessible to all his friends for even an hour . Chapter 10. When his servant entered, he looked at him searchingly and wondered if it had already occurred to him to look behind the screen. But the man looked quite harmless and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette, walked over to the mirror, and looked into it. He could see Viktor’s face clearly in it. It was a motionless mask of subservience. Therefore, there was nothing to fear, therefore nothing. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. In a very low voice, he instructed him to summon the housekeeper and then go to the framer so that he might send two assistants at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room, his eyes turned in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his imagination? After a few moments, Mrs. Leaf, in her black silk dress, old-fashioned thread gloves on her wrinkled hands, entered the library. He demanded the key to the schoolroom from her. ” The old schoolroom, Herr Dorian!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it’s full of dust. It must be prepared and put in order before you can go in. It’s not in a state for you to see, sir. Not at all. It doesn’t need to be prepared, good Leaf. I only want the key.” But sir, you’ll get covered in cobwebs if you go in. Well, it hasn’t been opened for almost five years , not since his Grace died. He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had only spiteful memories of him. “That doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I just want to see the room—that’s all. Give me the key.” “Here’s the key, sir,” said the old lady, who had been examining her bunch of keys with trembling, unsteady hands . “Here’s the key; I’ll have it off the bunch in a minute. But you’re not thinking of moving up there, sir, where you’re so comfortable here? ” “No, no!” he cried impatiently. “Thank you, good Leaf. I don’t need anything else.” She lingered for a few more moments and was about to start grumbling about some household matter. He sighed and told her to do everything as she saw fit. With a radiant smile, she left the room. Once the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked around. His eye fell upon a large purple satin cloth with heavy gold embroidery, a sumptuous piece of Venetian work from the late seventeenth century, which his grandfather had unearthed in a monastery near Bologna. Yes, it was perfectly suited to shroud the horrible thing. It had perhaps often served as a pall for the dead. Now it would conceal something that possessed its own kind of decay, a more terrible one than the decay of death—something that would breed horrors and yet never die. What worms are to a corpse, its sins would be to the painted face on the canvas. They would destroy its beauty and devour its grace. They would defile and disfigure it. And yet the image would live on. It would always remain alive. He shuddered, and for a moment regretted not having told Basil the true reason he wanted to hide the picture. Basil could have helped him resist both Lord Henry’s influence and the far more poisonous influences that sprang from his own nature. The love Basil felt for him— for it truly was love—included nothing that was not noble and spiritual. It was not that purely physical admiration which is a birth of the senses and dies with the weariness of the senses. It was a love such as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne and Winckelmann, and Shakespeare, too. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But now it was too late. The past could always be destroyed. Regret, denial, or oblivion could accomplish that. But the future was inevitable. He had passions within him that would find their terrible outlet in him, dreams that would transform their sinful shadows into reality. He reached for the large purple and gold throw that covered the divan He covered it, lifted it with both hands, and went behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas now uglier than before? It seemed unchanged to him; and yet, his loathing of it was even greater. Golden hair, blue eyes, rosy lips—it was all there. Only the expression had changed. It was terrifying in its cruelty. Compared to the reproaches and the rebuke he saw in the picture, how meaningless Basil’s accusations against Sibyl Vane had been—meaningless and insignificant! His own soul looked out at him from the canvas and summoned him to court. A look of pain came across his face, and he threw the sumptuous sofa cover over the picture. As he did so, there was a knock at the door. He emerged from behind the screen as his servant entered. ” The people are here, Monsieur.” He felt he had to be rid of the man now. He must n’t know where the picture was to go. There was something cunning about him, and thoughtful, telltale eyes. He sat down at the desk and scribbled a few lines to Lord Henry, asking him to send him something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at a quarter to eight that evening. ” Wait for a reply,” he said, handing him the letter, “and let the people in.” After two or three minutes, there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard, the famous frame-maker of South Audley Street, entered with a disheveled-looking assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a blooming , rosy-cheeked little man whose admiration for art had been considerably diminished by the age-old lack of money among most of the artists he dealt with. As a rule, he never left his workshop. He waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception for Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that delighted everyone. Just seeing him was a pleasure. What can I do for you, Mr. Gray? he asked, rubbing his fat, freckled hands. I thought I’d do myself the honor of coming over. I’ve just got a splendid frame . Bought it at auction. Old Florentine. From Fonthill, I presume. Wonderfully suited for a religious object, Mr. Gray. I’m sorry you had to come yourself, Mr. Hubbard. I ‘ll gladly come and see the frame sometime—though I’m not particularly interested in religious art at the moment—but today I just want a picture brought downstairs. It’s rather heavy, so I thought you might be so kind as to lend me two of your men. That’s nothing to you at all, Mr. Gray. I’m happy to do you the smallest service. Where is the artwork, sir? This one, Dorian answered, pushing back the screen. Can you get it up there as it is now, ceiling and picture together? I don’t want it getting scratched up the stairs. “That’ll be easy enough,” said the jolly frame-maker, and with the help of his apprentice, he began to untie the picture from the long brass chains from which it hung. “And where is it to be taken now, Mr. Gray?” ” I’ll show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you ‘ll be so kind as to follow me. Or perhaps you’d prefer to go ahead. I’m sorry, but it’s right at the top. We’ll go up the front staircase; it’s wider.” He held the door open for them, and they went out into the vestibule and began to ascend. The elaborate decorations of the frame had made the picture very bulky, and now and then Dorian lent a hand to help them, despite the obsequious objections of Mr. Hubbard, who had the lively aversion of a real craftsman to any useful activity of a gentry . “That’s quite a weight to lug around,” the little man puffed as they reached the last landing. And he He dried his glossy brow. ” I’m sorry it’s so heavy,” Dorian murmured as he unlocked the door to the room that was meant to hold this strange secret of his life and protect his soul from the prying eyes of mankind . He hadn’t entered the room for more than four years—in fact, not since it had served him as a playroom in his childhood , and then, when he was a little older, as a study . It was a large, well-proportioned room, built especially for the use of his young grandson , whom he had always hated because of his striking resemblance to his mother, and for other reasons as well, and wanted to keep as far away from him as possible. The room seemed little changed to Dorian. There was the imposing Italian cabinet with its fantastically painted panels and worn gold ornaments, in which he had often hidden as a boy. There was the polished satinwood bookcase with its dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall above hung the same frayed Flemish tapestry, depicting a faded king and queen playing chess in a garden, while a troop of falconers rode by, carrying birds with cap-covered heads on their gauntlets. How well he remembered everything! Every moment of his solitary childhood came flooding back as he looked around. He recalled the spotless purity of his boyhood, and it seemed terrible to him that the fateful portrait should be hidden right here. How little he had suspected in those long-gone days of all that awaited him! But no other place in the whole house was as safe from prying eyes as this. He had the key, and now no one could go any further. Behind the purple shroud, the painted face on the canvas could now become animalistic, bloated, and depraved. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himself did not want to see it. Why should he let the ghastly decay of his soul haunt him? He retained his youth—that had to suffice. And besides, could n’t his character, in spite of everything, become nobler? There was no reason why the future had to be so filled with vice. Love could enter his life and purify him and protect him from the sins that already seemed to fester in his mind and blood—those strange, unpainted sins whose very obscurity lent them their allure and temptation. Perhaps one day the cruel trait would vanish from the delicate scarlet mouth, and then he would be able to show the world Basil Hallward’s masterpiece. No, that was impossible. Hour by hour and week by week, the face on the canvas aged. It might escape the horrors of sin , but the horrors of age were bound to catch up with it. The cheeks must become hollow or sagging. Yellow crow’s feet must curl around the dull eyes, making them dreadful. The hair had to lose its shine, the mouth gape or sink in, look stupid or ordinary, like the mouths of old people. The neck had to shrink, the hands had to be cold and crisscrossed with blue veins , the body had to hunch over as he had seen his grandfather, who had been so strict with him in his boyhood. The portrait had to remain hidden. There was no way around it . ” Please, Mr. Hubbard, bring it in,” he said wearily, turning away. “I’m sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking about something.” ” Always pleasant to catch one’s breath, Mr. Gray,” replied the framer, still gasping for air. “Where should we put it?” “Oh, anywhere. Perhaps here: it’ll look good here. I do n’t want it hung. Just lean it against the wall.” “Thank you! May I take a look at the artwork?” Dorian was startled. “You wouldn’t be interested, Mr. Hubbard,” he said. He looked intently at the man. He felt capable of rushing at him and throwing him to the ground if he dared to lift the shimmering veil that held the secret of his life. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you most sincerely for being so kind as to come over.” “No cause, no cause, Mr. Gray! It is always a pleasure to do anything for you.” And Mr. Hubbard trudged down the stairs, his assistant following behind, who glanced back at Dorian once more, a look of shy admiration in his plain, everyday face. He had never seen a person so wondrously handsome. When the sound of their footsteps had faded away, Dorian shut the door and put the key in his pocket. Now he felt, as it were, saved! Never would anyone see the horror. No eye but his would ever again behold his disgrace. When he returned to the library, he saw that it was just five o’clock and that tea was already set. On a small table of dark, fragrant wood, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a gift from his guardian’s wife, Lady Radley, a pretty sick woman by profession and habit, who had spent the previous winter in Cairo , lay a note from Lord Henry and beside it a book in a yellowed cover, slightly worn and not quite clean at the corners. A copy of the third daily edition of the St. James Gazette lay on the tea tray. Apparently, Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the people in the vestibule as they left the house, and if he had inquired what they had done. He would certainly miss the picture—had undoubtedly already missed it as he was setting the tea table. The parasol had not yet been put back in its place, and the empty space along the wall was conspicuous. Perhaps one night he would catch him creeping upstairs, trying to force open the door to the attic room. It was dreadful to have a spy in the house. He had heard of rich people who had been bled dry their entire lives by the blackmail of a servant who had once read some letter, overheard a conversation, found a card with an address, or discovered a withered flower or a scrap of crumpled lace under a pillow . He sighed, poured himself some tea, and opened Lord Henry’s note. It stated only that he was sending him the evening paper and a book that might interest him, and that he hoped to see him at the club at a quarter to nine. He slowly opened the St. James and scanned it. A red-pen mark on page five caught his eye. He drew attention to the following notice: Actress’s Posthumous Inquest. A judicial inquest was held this morning by Mr. Danby, the County Coroner, at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, concerning the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress, recently engaged at the Royal Theatre in Holborn. Death was ruled to be an accident. The mother of the deceased, who, during her testimony and that of Dr. Birrel, who had performed the autopsy , gave a heart-rending expression to her grief, evoked deep sympathy . He frowned, tore the sheet of paper, paced the room, and threw away the scraps. How ugly it all was! And what a terrible reality that ugliness gave it all! He was a little annoyed with Lord Henry for sending him the report. And surely it was foolish of him to underline it in red. Victor could have read it. The man understood more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had already read it and begun to suspect something . And even if he had, what did it matter? What did Dorian Gray have to do with Sibyl Vane’s death? There was no cause for fear. Dorian Gray had n’t killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. He was curious to see what it might be. He approached the small, pearly, octagonal stool, which had always seemed to him like the work of strange Egyptian bees, their honeycombs swirling in silver, picked up the book, threw himself into an armchair, and began to leaf through it. After a few moments, he was completely engrossed. It was the strangest book he had ever read. It seemed to him as if the sins of the world, clad in exquisite robes and accompanied by the sound of flutes, were passing before him in a silent, round dance. Things he had certainly dreamt of suddenly became reality. Things he had vaguely dreamt of were gradually revealed to him. It was a novel without a real plot, revolving around a single character, essentially a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life attempting to realize, in the nineteenth century, all the passions and shifts in thought that had belonged to every century except his own, and thus, as it were, to unite within himself the diverse psychological states that the world soul had ever undergone , loving those renunciations that people in their folly have called virtue, for their mere artificiality, as fervently as those rebellions against nature that wise people still call sins. The style in which the book was written consisted of that peculiar, richly ornamented diction, both vivid and obscure, brimming with slang and archaic turns of phrase, technical expressions and carefully crafted circumlocutions, such as characterizes the works of some of the finest artists of the French Symbolist school . It contained metaphors as adventurous in form as orchids and as delicately nuanced as their hues. The life of the senses was described with the terminology of mystical philosophy. At times, one could scarcely tell whether one was reading the spiritual raptures of a medieval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a book full of poison. A thick fog of incense seemed to hover over the pages, numbing the mind. Even the melodic descent of the sentences, the deliberate monotony of their music with its abundance of complicated refrains and rhythmic structures that repeated themselves in the most sophisticated way, produced in the young man’s mind, as he read on from chapter to chapter, a kind of reverie, indeed a veritable illness of dreaming, so that he did not notice the falling day and the creeping shadows. Cloudless, unpierced by the rays of a single star, a copper-green sky glimmered through the windows. He continued reading by the dim light until he could read no more. After his servant had reminded him several times of the late hour, he got up, went into the adjoining room, placed the book on the Florentine side table that always stood beside his bed, and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o’clock when he arrived at the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone in the breakfast room, looking very bored. “I’m sorry, Harry,” he exclaimed, “but it’s all your fault. The book you sent me really captivated me so much that I didn’t notice where the time went.” “Yes, I thought you’d like it,” replied his friend, rising from his chair. ” I didn’t say I liked it, Harry. I said it captivated me. There’s a big difference.” “Ah, you’ve discovered that?” said Lord Henry. And they went together into the dining room. Chapter 11. For years, Dorian Gray could not break free from the influence of this book . Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he didn’t even try to break free. He had no fewer than nine luxury copies of the first edition sent from Paris and had them bound in different colors so that they would match his changing moods and to the changeable moods of his nature, over which he sometimes seemed to have lost all control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and scientific temperaments were so strangely intertwined, became for him a kind of exemplary ideal of himself. And indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his life, written down before he himself had lived it. In one respect, however, he was happier than the fantastical novel’s hero. He never knew—indeed, never had any reason to —the almost grotesque horror of mirrors and polished metal surfaces and still waters that overcame the young Parisian so early in life and that was caused by the sudden decay of a beauty that, by all appearances, must have previously been quite extraordinary. With an almost cruel pleasure—and perhaps in every pleasure, as certainly in every enjoyment, lies cruelty—he used to read the second part of the book, with its truly tragic, if somewhat exaggerated, account of the suffering and despair of a man who had lost what he most valued in others and in the world. For the wondrous beauty that had so captivated Basil Hallward , and many others as well, never seemed to leave him. Even those who had heard the ugliest things about him—and from time to time strange rumors about his lifestyle crept through London and became the talk of the clubs—could, when they saw him, believe nothing that might bring him into disrepute. He always looked as if he had remained unstained in the world. Men who spoke scandalous things fell silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his countenance that kept them in check. His mere presence seemed to awaken in them the memory of the innocence they had defiled. They marveled that such a charming and graceful man as he had been able to escape the defilement of a time that was both impure and sensual. Often, when he returned from one of the mysterious, extended absences that aroused such curious speculations among his friends , or those who considered themselves such, he would creep up to the locked attic room, open the door with the key that now never left him, and stand with a hand mirror before the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He would look now at the disgraceful and aged countenance on the canvas, now at the beautiful, youthful face that smiled back at him from the smooth surface of the mirror. It was precisely the strength of this contrast that tended to heighten his pleasure. He fell more and more in love with his own beauty and felt more and more sympathy for the corruption of his own soul. He examined with painstaking care, and sometimes with monstrous and terrible delight, the ugly lines that furrowed the wrinkled brow or wound around the voluptuous, sensual mouth, and sometimes wondered whether the marks of sin were more terrible or the traces of age. He placed his white hands beside the raw, puffy hands of the image and smiled. He mocked the disfigured body and the withering limbs. Then there were indeed moments, at night, when he lay sleepless in his faintly scented room, or in the dingy parlor of the small, notorious pub near the docks, which he frequented under an assumed name and in disguise, where he thought with a compassion all the more oppressive for its purely ethical origin, of the misery he had brought upon his soul . But moments like these were rare. That curiosity about life, which Lord Henry had first awakened in him when they sat side by side in his friend’s garden, only seemed to grow with its satisfaction . The more he knew, the more he wanted to know. He had great His hunger pangs grew ever more insatiable the more he indulged them. And yet, he hadn’t exactly become dissolute, at least not in his social interactions. Once or twice a month during the winter, and every Wednesday evening during the season , he opened his beautiful house to the world, and invariably the most celebrated musicians were there to delight his guests with their exquisite artistry. His small dinners, for which Lord Henry always assisted, were renowned as much for the careful selection and seating arrangements of the guests as for the refined taste expressed in the table decorations, with their subtly nuanced, symphonic arrangements of exotic plants, embroidered tablecloths, and antique gold and silverware. Indeed, there were a great number of people, especially very young ones, who saw in Dorian Gray, or imagined they saw, the perfect embodiment of a type they had often dreamed of in their days at Eton or Oxford—a type that combined something of the scholar’s true education with the grace, refinement, and consummate manners of a man of the world. To them, he appeared as one of that group of people of whom Dante says they seek to perfect themselves through the worship of beauty. Like Gautier, he was one of those for whom the visible world existed. And certainly, for him, life was the first and greatest art, and all the other arts seemed merely its preparatory school. Of course, fashion, through which the truly fantastic momentarily becomes commonplace, and dandyism, which in its own way represents an attempt to embody an absolutely modern kind of beauty, also exerted their charm on him. His manner of dressing, and the particular stylistic deviations he displayed from time to time, had a pronounced influence on the young dandies at the balls in Mayfair and the windows of the Pall Mall Club, who imitated him in everything he did and adopted every eccentricity that enhanced his grace, but which he himself only took partly seriously. For he was all too easily willing to accept the position offered to him immediately upon coming of age, and he truly found particular pleasure in the idea that he could become to the London of his time what the author of the Satyricon had been to the Rome of Emperor Nero. But in his heart, he longed to be more than an arbiter of elegance, and not merely to be questioned about the wearing of a piece of jewelry, the tying of a cravat, or the manner of carrying a walking stick. He sought to devise a new scheme for living, one that would have its philosophical foundation and ordered principles, and that would reach its highest perfection in the spiritualization of the senses. The cultivation of the senses has often been scorned, and with much justification, since people have a natural, instinctive aversion to passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves and which they are aware of sharing with less highly organized forms of life . Yet it seemed to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained wild and animal only because the world tried to subdue them through hunger or kill them through pain, instead of striving to make them components of a new spiritual world in which a noble consciousness of beauty would be the prevailing driving force. When he looked back on the course of humankind through world history, he was haunted by a sense of loss. So much had been renounced, and for such a small purpose! There had been insane acts of voluntary renunciation, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear and whose result was a humiliation of an unspeakably more terrible kind than that merely imagined humiliation from which they, in their ignorance, wanted to flee, since nature, in its wondrous irony, He drove out the anchorite to feed himself in the company of the desert beasts and gave the hermit the animals of the field as companions. Yes, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new hedonism had to come to renew life and redeem it from that austere, ugly Puritanism which in our day is enjoying a peculiar resurrection. Certainly, it would have to obey the intellect; but it could never accept a theory or system that demanded the sacrifice of any passionate experience. Its true aim should be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. It would want nothing to do with asceticism, which mortifies the senses, or with common debauchery, which dulls them . But it should teach people to gather themselves for the moments of life, since life itself is but a moment. There are few among us who have not sometimes awakened before daybreak, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us love death, or after one of those nights full of terror and lustful nightmares, when specters flutter through the chambers of the brain, specters more terrible than reality itself and filled with the living existence that lurks in all things grotesque and that gives Gothic art its eternally vibrant power, because this very art, one might say, is the special art of those whose minds have been confused by the sickness of fevered dreams. Gradually, pale fingers reach through the curtains and seem to tremble. In black, adventurous forms, silent shadows creep into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, birds stir in the fallen leaves, or one hears the footsteps of people going to work, or the howling and sobbing of the wind coming down from the mountains and circling the silent house, as if afraid of waking the sleepers, yet somehow compelled to summon sleep from its purple cavern into the light. Veil after veil of fine, dark gauze lifts, and gradually things regain their shapes and colors, and we watch as the dawn restores the world to its former form. The blurred mirrors regain their semblance of life. The lightless lamps stand where we left them , and beside them lies the half-opened book we read, or the withered flower we wore to the ball, or the letter we were afraid to read, or that we have read too often. Nothing seems to have changed. From the unreal shadows of the night emerges the real life we knew. We must pick it up where we left off, and we are overcome by the terrible feeling of necessity to continue expending our energies in the same tiring treadmill of stereotypical habits, or perhaps we are overcome by a wild longing that our eyes might one morning open to a world newly created for our pleasure in the darkness of night, a world where things had fresh lines and colors, were altered , or held other secrets, a world where the past had only an insignificant place, or none at all, or at least lived on in no conscious form of obligation or regret, where even the memory of joy contains its bitterness, and pain is mingled with the memory of pleasure. The creation of such worlds seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true meaning of life, or at least its principal meaning; And in his search for sensory experiences that were both new and pleasurable, and that contained that element of strangeness so essential to Romanticism, he often adopted certain ways of thinking, of which he was well aware that they were actually foreign to his nature, surrendering himself to their subtle influences and He would leave her, so to speak, once he had absorbed her color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, with that peculiar indifference which is not incompatible with a truly ardent temperament, and which, in fact, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a prerequisite for it. Once, a rumor circulated that he intended to become Catholic; and certainly, the Catholic cult held a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice of the Mass, which is truly far more awe-inspiring than all the sacrifices of the ancient world, stimulated him as much through its magnificent unconcerned display of sensual appearance as through the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel on the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, his white hands etched in his evocative, flower-embroidered stole, slowly draw back the curtain from the tabernacle, or raise the lantern-shaped, jewel-encrusted monstrance containing that pale host which at times one could truly believe to be the panis coelestis, the bread of the angels, or watch him, clad in the vestments of the Passion of Christ, dip the host into the chalice and beat his breast for his sins. The smoking censers, which the solemn boys in their lace and scarlet cloaks swung in the air, resembling large, golden flowers, exerted a profound charm on him. When he stepped outside, he would gaze in wonder at the dark confessionals and feel a longing to sit in the gloomy shadow of one, listening to the men and women whispering the true story of their lives through the worn grille . But he never fell into the error of hindering his spiritual development by formally adopting any belief or system, nor mistakenly believing that a house to live in was merely an inn suitable only for a brief stay during the night , or for just a few hours during a night when the stars weren’t shining and the moon was changing. Mysticism, with its wondrous power to make ordinary things seem strange , and that deep heretical yearning which always seems to accompany it, entices him for a season; And then, for another season, he again turned to the materialistic teachings of the Darwinian movement in Germany, finding particular pleasure in tracing people’s thoughts and passions back to some pearl-sized cell in the brain or some white nerve in the body , practically reveling in the idea of the mind’s absolute dependence on certain physical conditions, whether morbid or healthy, normal or pathological. But, as has been reported of him before, no theory of life seemed to him of any significance compared to life itself. He was acutely aware of the madness into which all intellectual speculation must lead when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, had to reveal their spiritual secrets. And so, for a time, he devoted himself to the study of fragrances, strove to uncover the secrets of their preparation, distilled heavily scented oils , and burned fragrant gum that came from the Orient. He recognized that there was no mood of the mind that did not find its counterpart in the life of the senses, and he strove to discover the true relationship between the two, to work out why incense made people feel mystical, why ambergris stirred passions, where the scent of violets evoked memories of lost romance, why musk confused the brain, and how champagne tainted the imagination: and so he sometimes attempted to elaborate a precise psychology of fragrances and to determine their various effects, for example, sweet-smelling Roots, fragrant, seed-bearing flowers, aromatic balsams, dark, strong-smelling woods, valerian, which induces vomiting, hovenia, which makes one mad, and aloe, which is said to be able to drive melancholy from the soul. At other times, he devoted himself entirely to music, often giving concerts in a long, dimly lit hall whose walls were covered in olive-green lacquer and whose ceiling was patterned in red and gold. There, mad Gypsies coaxed wild music from small zithers, or solemn men from Tunis, wrapped in yellow cloths, plucked the taut strings of strangely large lutes, while grinning Negroes beat monotonously on copper drums and slender, turbaned Indians squatted on scarlet mats, blowing on long reeds or brass pipes , seemingly summoning or conjuring large spectacled cobras or terrifying horned vipers . The screeching intervals and shrill dissonances of barbaric music sometimes irritated him, as did the powerful resonance of Schubert’s loveliness, Chopin’s sweet yearning, and the mighty harmonies of the great Beethoven. From all corners of the world he collected the strangest instruments he could find , either in the graves of dead peoples or among the few wild tribes who had survived contact with Western culture , and he loved to handle and manipulate them. He owned the mysterious Juruparis of the Rio Black Indians, which women are forbidden to look at and even young men may only see after fasting and self-flagellation; he owned the earthen rattles of the Peruvians, which reproduce the shrill sound of a bird’s cry; flutes made of human bone, like those Alfonso de Ovalle had heard in Chile; and the melodious green jasper stones found near Cuzco, which produce a tone of peculiar sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when shaken; he had the long prongs of the Mexicans, into which the player does not blow but through which he breathes the air; the rough tur of the Amozon tribes, which the guards sound when they sit all day in high trees, and which, it is said, can be heard at a distance of three nautical miles; the teponaztli, which has two trembling wooden tongues and which are struck with sticks anointed with a kind of elastic rubber obtained from the milky sap of plants; he had the yotl bells of the Aztecs, which hang in bunches like grapes; and a large cylindrical drum, stretched with the skins of large snakes, like the one Bernal Diaz saw when he entered the Mexican temple with Cortez , and of whose plaintive sound he left us such a vivid description. The fantastic nature of these instruments captivated him, and he felt a strange pleasure in the thought that art, like nature , has its monsters, things of animal form and with hideous sounds. But after a while, he grew weary of them and would sit again in his box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening raptly to Tannhäuser and recognizing in the prelude to this great work of art an embodiment of the tragedy of his own soul. On another occasion, he threw himself into the study of precious stones and appeared at a masquerade as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a gown embroidered with 560 pearls . This taste held him captive for years; indeed, one could say that it never left him. He often spent an entire day taking the various stones he had collected out of their boxes and rearranging them, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl, which turns red in the lamplight; the cymophane with its hair-thin silver lines; the pistachio-colored peridot; rose-colored and wine-yellow topazes; scarlet-fiery carbuncles with trembling, quadruple-radiating stars; and flame-red cinnamon stones. Orange and violet spinels and amethysts with their regularly alternating layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, the pearly white of the moonstone, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He purchased three emeralds of extraordinary size and wonderful richness of color from Amsterdam and owned a turquoise de la vieille roche, which all connoisseurs envied. He also discovered wonderful stories about gemstones. In Alfonso’s Clericalis disciplina, a snake with eyes made of real hyacinth stones was mentioned , and in the romantic Alexander legend , it was said of the conqueror Emathias that he found snakes in the Jordan Valley with necklaces of real emeralds that had grown on their backs. According to Philostratus, there was a gemstone in the dragon’s brain, and by holding up golden letters and a scarlet robe, the monster could be put into a magical sleep and killed. According to the great alchemist Pierre de Boniface, diamonds could make people invisible, and Indian agate eloquent. Carnelian calmed anger, hyacinth induced sleep, and amethyst dispelled the fumes of wine. Garnet cast out devils, and hydrophyte robbed the moon of its color. Selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and Meloceus, which detected thieves, lost its power only when sprinkled with the blood of young goats. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a freshly killed toad, which was a sure antidote to poison. The bezoar found in the heart of the Arabian deer was a charm capable of curing the plague. Aspilates, found in the nests of Arabian birds, protected its wearer from all dangers of fire, according to Democritus . The King of Seilan rode through his city at his coronation, carrying a large ruby. The gates to the palace of John the Priest were made of sard, inlaid with the horn of the horned viper, so that no one could bring poison into the house . Above the gable were two golden apples, each containing two carbuncles, so that by day the gold would shine and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge’s strange novel *An American Pearl*, it is said that in the Queen’s chamber, one could see all the chaste women of the world, as if hammered in silver, when looking through spotless mirrors of chrysolite, carbuncles, sapphires, and green emeralds. Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-colored pearls in the mouths of the dead . A sea monster fell in love with the pearl that a diver brought to King Perozes, and it killed the thief and mourned the loss for seven months. When the Huns lured the king into the great ambush, he threw away the pearl—Procopius tells the story—and it was never found again, even though Emperor Anastasius offered five hundredweight of gold for its return. The King of Malabar once showed a Venetian a rosary of 304 beads, one for each god he worshipped. When the Duke of Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of France, according to Brantôme, his horse was covered with gold leaves, and a beret bore a double row of rubies that shone with a powerful light. Charles of England rode in stirrups studded with 421 diamonds. Richard II had a robe studded with Balas rubies, valued at 30,000 marks. Hall described Henry VIII on his way to the Tower for his coronation as follows: he wore a coat of armor made of magnificent gold, his breast was embroidered with diamonds and other precious stones, and around his neck hung a mighty chain of heavy balas rubies. The favorites of James I wore earrings of emeralds set in gold filigree. Edward II presented Piers Gaveston with a full suit of armor of red gold studded with hyacinth stones, a gorget of golden roses inlaid with turquoise, and a helmet strewn with pearls. Henry II wore elbow-high gloves studded with precious stones, and he had a falconer’s gauntlet adorned with twelve rubies and fifty-two large pearls . The ducal hat of Charles the Bold, the last Burgundian duke of his line, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and scattered with sapphires. How sumptuous life once was! How lavish in its pomp and splendor! Even to read of the riches of the dead was marvelous. Then he turned his attention again to the embroideries and tapestries that, in the frosty rooms of the northern peoples of Europe, took the place of frescoes. As he immersed himself in this field—and he always possessed an extraordinary capacity to become absorbed, for the moment, by whatever he undertook —he grew quite sad at the thought of the destruction that time inflicted on beautiful and wondrous things. He, at least, had escaped it. Summer followed summer, the yellow jonquils had bloomed and withered many times, and terrible nights repeated the story of their disgrace, but he remained unchanged. No winter disfigured his countenance or damaged his flower-like splendor. How different it was with material things! Where had they vanished to? Where was the great crocus-colored robe on which the gods had fought the giants, embroidered by brown-skinned maidens for Athena’s delight? Where was the great velarium that Nero had stretched over the Colosseum in Rome, that gigantic purple sail depicting the starry sky and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by white warhorses tamed by golden reins? He longed to see the strange tablecloths woven for the Priest of the Sun, into which were woven all the delicacies and foods one could wish for at a feast; the burial shroud of King Hilperich with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic garments that aroused the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus, on which were depicted lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters—in short , everything a painter can glean from nature; and the coat that Charles of Orléans had once worn, on whose sleeve were embroidered the verses of a poem that began: Madame, je suis tout joyeux, while the musical notes were embroidered with gold thread, and each notehead, then still square, was formed from four pearls. He read of the room that had been prepared in the palace at Reims for the use of Queen Joanna of Burgundy, and which was decorated with 1321 embroidered parrots bearing the king’s coat of arms, and with 561 butterflies whose wings were similarly adorned with the queen’s coat of arms, all worked in gold. Catherine de’ Medici had a mourning bed made of black velvet embroidered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, and on a ground of gold and silver were embroidered branches and garlands , and the borders were fringed with pearls. It stood in a room covered with a silver cloth, on which the queen’s mottoes were appliquéd in rows in black sheared velvet. Louis XIV had in his chamber gold-embroidered caryatids fifteen feet high. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade, and verses from the Quran were embroidered into it in turquoise. Its feet were made of gilded silver, beautifully chased and lavishly decorated with medallions . It was made of enamel and precious stones. It had been captured from the Turkish camp during the siege of Vienna , and the banner of Muhammad was placed beneath the shimmering gold of its canopy. And so, for a whole year, he gathered the most exquisite samples of weaving and embroidery he could find. He acquired the airy Delhi muslins, delicately embroidered with golden palm leaves and iridescent beetle wings; the gauze fabrics from Dhaka, which in the Orient are called woven air, trickling water, and evening dew because of their transparency; Javanese cloths with strange figures; fine, yellow Chinese curtains; books bound in tan satin or light blue silk, imprinted with heraldic lilies, birds, and paintings; Hungarian point-lace veils; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian works with their golden coins; and Japanese fukusas with their green-gold tones and feathered birds of the most wonderful workmanship. He then developed a particular passion for ecclesiastical vestments and everything connected with religious ritual. In the long cedar chests that stood on the west gallery of his house , he had amassed many rare and beautiful examples of the true garment of the Bride of Christ, who must clothe herself in purple, precious stones, and fine linen to veil her pale, emaciated body , exhausted by the afflictions she seeks and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He possessed a magnificent surplice of crimson silk and gold-embroidered damask, decorated with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates sitting upon six-petaled, regular blossoms, beneath which, on each side, was a pine cone embroidered with pearls of dust. The gold embroidery was divided into panels depicting scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the Coronation of the Virgin was embroidered in colored silk at the top of the accompanying cap. It was Italian work from the fifteenth century. Another choir robe was made of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped bundles of acanthus leaves from which long-stemmed white flowers sprouted, delicately worked with silver thread and colored crystal beads. The head of a seraph was depicted in raised gold embroidery on the clasp. The borders were continuously woven on floral cloth in red and gold silk and adorned with medallion portraits of many saints and martyrs , among them Saint Sebastian. He also had vestments of amber silk, blue silk, and gold brocade, and of yellow silk damask and gold cloth, covered with depictions of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and embroidered with lions, peacocks, and other emblems; he had dalmatics of white satin and rose-colored silk damask, adorned with tulips, dolphins, and heraldic fleurs-de-lis; altar cloths of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many covers for liturgical vessels, chalice covers, and sudariume. There was something in the mystical services for which these things were intended that stimulated his imagination. For these treasures, and indeed everything he accumulated in his marvelous house, were for him means of forgetting, pastimes by which he could escape for a time the anxiety that often seemed too great for him to bear. On the wall of the deserted, locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood , he had hung with his own hands the dreadful portrait, whose features, in their altered state , revealed to him the true humiliation of his life, and above it, as a curtain, he had placed the shroud of gold and purple. For weeks he could not go there, wishing to forget the gruesome painting, and then he would regain his light heart, his wonderful cheerfulness, and his strength for passionate immersion in life. But then One night he suddenly slipped out of the house, visited eerie places near Blue Gate Fields, and stayed there day after day until the urge to leave again drew him away. Upon his return, he would sit before the image, sometimes filled with hatred for it and for himself, but at other times filled with the pride in his own being that constitutes half the allure of sin, and he would smile with secret pleasure at the disfigured image that had to bear the burden that was actually meant for him. After a few years, he could no longer bear to be away from England for long and gave up the country house he had shared with Lord Henry in Trouville, and also the small, white- walled house in Algiers, where they had spent more than one winter . He couldn’t bear to be separated from the portrait, which had now become, in a way, a part of his life, and he also feared that someone might gain access in his absence despite the carefully crafted security locks he had installed on the door. He was fully aware that no one could betray him. Admittedly, beneath all the vileness and ugliness of its face, the picture still retained a striking resemblance to him, but what could that possibly tell people? He would laugh at anyone who tried to slander him. He hadn’t painted it, after all. What business was it of his how hideous and shameful it looked? Even if he told someone the truth, would anyone believe him? And yet, he was afraid. When he was sometimes at his large house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the elegant young people who usually made up his company, and astonishing the people of the county with the extravagant luxury and lavish splendor of his life , he would suddenly leave his guests and hurry back to the city to check that no one had tampered with the door and that the portrait was still there. What if someone had stolen it? The mere thought filled him with cold horror. Surely the world would then learn his secret. Perhaps it had already become suspicious. For just as he captivated many, there were also not a few who distrusted him. He had almost been blacklisted in a West End club, to which his social standing and birth fully entitled him, and it was said that once, when a friend had brought him to the smoking room of the Churchill Club, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman had conspicuously risen and left. Strange stories circulated about him when he turned twenty-fifth. It was whispered that he had been seen drinking with foreign sailors in a wretched dive in a remote corner of Whitechapel, and that he associated with thieves and counterfeiters and knew the secrets of their trade . His conspicuous habit of disappearing at certain times was well known, and when he reappeared in public , people whispered remarks in the corners or passed him with unambiguous smiles or cool, probing glances, as if determined to uncover his secret. He naturally took no notice of these insolences and attempted insults , and in the eyes of most people, his open, friendly nature, his charming boyish smile, and the endless grace of wonderful youth, which never seemed to leave him , were in themselves sufficient answer to the slander—for that was what they called it—that circulated about him. Meanwhile, it was noticed that some of those who had previously been very close to him began to avoid him after a while. Women who had loved him passionately and, for his sake, had defied all social censure and despised convention, could be seen turning pale with shame or horror when Dorian Gray entered the room. But this whisper of scandal only increased his strange and dangerous allure in the eyes of many . His great wealth also offered a certain guarantee of security. Society, at least civilized society, is never quick to believe anything bad about those who are both rich and interesting. It instinctively understands that manners are more important than morals, and in its opinion, the highest honor is worth less than having a good chef. And finally, it is also very poor consolation to be told that the man who hosted a bad dinner or served a wretched wine is untouchable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot compensate for cold entrées, Lord Henry once remarked when the subject was being discussed; and there is probably much to be said for his view . For the laws of good society are, or at least should be, the same as the rules of art. Form is absolutely essential to it . It should possess the dignity as well as the unreality of a ceremony, and should combine the insincere semblance of a romantic drama with the wit and beauty that give us the delight of such games. Is insincerity really such a terrible thing? I don’t think so. It is merely a means by which we can multiply our personality. At least, that was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He used to marvel at the shallow psychology of those who imagine a person’s self as something simple, constant, reliable, and uniform . For him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad feelings, a complicated, multifaceted creature who carried strange legacies in his thoughts and passions , and whose flesh was infected by the monstrous diseases of the deceased. He loved to wander through the bare, cold picture gallery at his country estate and look at the various portraits of the people whose blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, whom Francis Osborne, in his memoirs on the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James, described as someone the court loved for his handsome face, but whose beauty did not last long. Was it the life of the young Herbert that he sometimes led? Had some strange, poisonous germ spread from body to body until it reached his own? Was it a dull memory of that faded charm that had so suddenly and almost without cause overwhelmed him in Basil Hallward’s studio, forcing him to utter that mad prayer which had so profoundly changed his life? Here, in a gold-embroidered red doublet, a jeweled overcoat , and gold-rimmed collars and cuffs, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, his legs armored with silver and black greaves. What had been this man’s legacy ? Had Giovanna of Naples’ lover left him an inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from a faded canvas, Lady Elisabeth Devereux smiled in her gauze cap, pearl-embroidered breast ornament, and red slit sleeves. She held a flower in her right hand, and her left grasped an enameled necklace of white and Damask roses. On a table beside her lay a mandolin and an apple. Large green rosettes adorned her small, pointed shoes. He knew her life and the strange stories told of her lovers . Did he possess some of her temperament? Those oval eyes with their heavy lids seemed to gaze at him so peculiarly. What about George Willoughby with his powdered hair and fantastical beauty patches? How wicked he looked! His face was melancholic and brownish, and his sensual lips seemed His hands were pinched in contempt. Precious lace cuffs trickled down his thin, yellow hands, so laden with rings. He had been a dandy in the eighteenth century and, in his youth, a friend of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Beckenham, the Prince Regent’s companion in his wildest days and one of the witnesses at his clandestine marriage to Lady Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he had been, with his chestnut-brown curls and defiant bearing! What passions had he inherited? The world had considered him dishonorable. He had presided over the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Order of the Garter shone on his chest. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pale, thin-lipped woman in a black dress. Her blood, too, flowed through him. How strange it all seemed! And his mother, with her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine- drenched lips—he knew what he had inherited from her. From her he had inherited his beauty and his passion for the beauty of others. She smiled at him in her loose Bacchante dress. Vine leaves hung in her hair. The crimson foamed over the goblet she held . The flesh tones of the painting had faded, but the eyes were still marvelous in their depth and brilliance. They seemed to follow him everywhere he went. But one had ancestors in literature as well as in one’s own lineage, and many of them were perhaps closer to one’s own humanity and temperament, and certainly had an influence of which one could make a more precise account. There were times when Dorian Gray had the impression that all of world history was merely an account of his own life, not as he had lived it according to his deeds and circumstances, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it existed in his mind and his senses. He felt that he had known them all, these strange, terrible figures who had strode across the world’s stage , making sin so dazzling and evil so deep and subtle. It seemed to him that, in some mysterious way, their lives had also been his own. The hero of the wonderful novel that had so profoundly influenced his life had also been seized by this strange notion. In
the seventh chapter he recounts how, crowned with laurel to protect him from lightning, he sat as Tiberius in a garden on Capri, reading the shameful books of Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted around him and the flute player mocked the incense-giver; how, as Caligula, he caroused with the green-aproned stable boys in their stalls and ate a meal from an ivory manger with a horse that wore a jeweled headband; and how, as Domitian, he wandered through a corridor whose walls were covered with marble mirrors, searching with disturbed eyes for the reflection of the dagger that would end his days, afflicted by boredom, the terrible taedium vitae that befalls all those whom life denies nothing; and how, through a bright emerald, he watched the bloodthirsty slaughter scenes in the circus. and then, in a carriage of pearls and purple, drawn by silver-speckled mules , he rode through a street lined with pomegranate trees to a golden house and heard the crowd shout to him: “Emperor Nero!” as he passed, and how he had painted his face like Heliogabalus, woven with the women at the spinning wheel, and brought the moon from Carthage to wed it in a mystical marriage with the sun . Again and again, Dorian read this fantastic chapter and the two immediately following it, in which, as if on wondrous tapestries or intricately crafted enamels, the horribly beautiful figures of those who had transformed vice, blood, and excess into monsters were depicted. or had made fools of: Filippo, the Duke of Milan, who had killed his wife and dyed her lips with scarlet poison so that her lover might suck death from the corpse when he caressed it ; the Venetian Pietro Barbi, known as Paul II, who in his vanity wanted to adopt the epithet Formosus and whose tiara, worth two hundred thousand florins, had been bought with a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used dogs to hunt living people, and whose body, after his murder, was covered with roses by a prostitute who had loved him ; the Borgia on his white horse, beside whom the fratricide sat mounted on horseback , and whose cloak was stained with Perotto’s blood; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence; the child and favorite of Sixtus VI, whose beauty was surpassed only by his depravity; and who received Leonora of Aragon in a tent of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and who gilded a boy to appear at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Etzelin, whose melancholy could only be cured by the spectacle of death , and who had a passion for red blood as other people have for red wine— who was called the son of Satan and who cheated his father at dice when he gambled with him for his soul; Giambattista Cibo, who mockingly adopted the name Innocentius, and into whose dulled veins a Jewish physician pumped the blood of three youths; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, who was burned in Rome in an image as an enemy of God and man , and who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and who gave Ginevra d’Este poison to drink from an emerald cup, and, in order to To honor shameful passion, he built a pagan temple for the worship of Christians: Charles VI, who burned so fiercely for his brother’s wife that a leper prophesied the madness that would befall him, and who, when his mind had grown sick and confused, was only soothed by Saracen playing cards depicting love, death, and madness: and in his ornate waistcoat and jeweled beret and acanthus-like curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre at his bride’s side and Simonetto at his page’s, and whose grace was so great that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza in Perugia, even his haters could not suppress their sobs, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. A horrifying spell was in all this. He saw them at night, and during the day they confused his imagination. The Renaissance knew strange ways of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lit torch, an embroidered glove and a jeweled fan, a gilt smelling box and an amber necklace. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he considered sin solely as a means of realizing his concept of beauty. Chapter 12. It was the ninth of November, the eve of his thirty-eighth birthday, as he often recalled later. He was walking home from Lord Henry’s apartment, where he had dined, around eleven o’clock, wrapped in a heavy fur, for the night was cold and foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man walked past him in great haste in the mist, the collar of his gray Ulster turned up. He was carrying a travel bag. Dorian recognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange feeling of anxiety, for which he could not account, seized him. He did n’t let on that he had recognized him and quickly continued on his way toward his house. But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him stop first on the sidewalk and then hurry after him. In a few moments A hand lay on his arm. Dorian! What a particularly happy coincidence! I’ve been waiting for you in your library since nine o’clock. Finally, I felt sorry for your weary servant, and when he let me down, I told him he wished to go to bed. I’m taking the midnight train to Paris, and I had a burning desire to see you before I leave. I thought that must be you, or at least your fur coat, as you passed by. But I wasn’t quite sure. Did n’t you recognize me? In this fog, dear Basil? I can’t even make out Grosvenor Square. I suppose my house is somewhere around here, but I’m not entirely certain. I’m sorry you’re leaving, for I haven’t seen you for ages. But I suppose you ‘ll be back soon? No; I’m staying away from England for six months. I intend to rent a studio in Paris and lock myself in it until a large painting I have in mind is finished. But I didn’t want to talk about myself. Here we are at your door. Let me in for a moment. I have something to say to you. It will be a great pleasure. But won’t you miss your train? said Dorian Gray in a tired voice as he climbed the stairs and opened the door with his handle. The lamplight struggled with the fog, and Hallward looked at his watch. I have plenty of time, he answered. The train leaves at 12:15 , and it is just 11:00. Frankly, I was on my way to the club to look for you when I met you. My luggage , as you can see, won’t slow me down much, because I sent the heavy things ahead. Everything I’m taking is here in this bag, and I can easily reach Victoria Station in 20 minutes! Dorian looked at him, smiling. A curious way for a famous painter to travel! A handbag and an Ulster! Come in, or the fog will get into the house! And please, don’t talk to me about anything serious . Nothing is serious these days. At least, nothing should be. Hallward shook his head as he entered and followed Dorian into the library. A bright wood fire burned in the open fireplace . The lamps were lit, and an open silver Dutch liqueur case, along with a few soda siphons and large cut-glass glasses, sat on an inlaid side table. ” You see, your servant has made me comfortable, Dorian. He’s given me everything I need, even your best cigarettes with the gold mouthpieces. He’s quite a hospitable man. I like him much better than the Frenchman you had before him. What became of the Frenchman, by the way? ” Dorian shrugged. “I think he married Lady Radley’s lady’s maid and established her in Paris as an English dressmaker . I hear Anglomania is very fashionable over there these days. Seems rather foolish of the French, don’t you think? But—do you remember?—he really wasn’t a bad servant.” I never really liked him either, but he gave me no reason to complain. One often imagines things that are quite pointless. He was truly very devoted to me and seemed quite sad when he left. Would you like another cognac and soda? Or perhaps wine with sparkling water? I always have wine with sparkling water. There’s surely something in the next room. Thank you, I won’t have anything more, said the painter, taking off his cap and overcoat and throwing them onto the travel bag he had placed in the corner of the room. And now, my dear friend, I’d like to have a serious talk with you . You don’t have to look so angry. You’re only making it harder for me. What’s all this about? cried Dorian, openly displaying his displeasure , and threw himself onto the sofa. I hope it’s not about me. I’ve had enough of myself tonight. I wish I were someone else. It’s about you, answered Hallward in his grave, deep voice, and I must tell you. I’ll hardly live to see you for half a year. “Take an hour.” Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. “Half an hour,” he whispered. ” That’s not much to ask, Dorian, and I’m really only speaking for your own good. I think it’s appropriate that you finally learn the dreadful things that are being said about you in London. I don’t want to know the slightest bit about it. I quite enjoy gossip about other people, but gossip about me doesn’t interest me at all . It doesn’t even have the appeal of novelty.” ” It must interest you, Dorian. Every decent person is interested in their reputation. You mustn’t let people talk about you as if you were a sunken and utterly depraved person. Of course, you have your position, your wealth, and all that. But position and wealth aren’t everything. On my word, I don’t believe a word of these rumors. At least, I can’t believe them when I see you. Sin is written on everyone’s forehead. You can’t hide it.” People sometimes gossip about secret vices. There’s no such thing. If a wretched person has a vice, it shows in the lines of their mouth, in their drooping eyelids, even in the shape of their hands. Someone—I won’t mention his name, but you know him —came to me last year wanting to have his portrait painted. I’d never seen him before, and at the time I’d never heard of him, but since then I’ve been told a great deal about him. He offered me a fabulous price . I refused. There was something about the shape of his fingers that disgusted me. Now I know I was quite right in my suspicions about him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, radiant, innocent face and your wonderful, untouched youth—I cannot believe the ugliness that is said against you. And yet, I see you so rarely now, and you never come to my studio anymore, and when I’m not with you and hear all the odious things people whisper about you, I don’t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick rises and leaves the clubroom when you enter? Why do so many men in London refuse to come to you and never invite you to their homes? You were a friend of Lord Staveley, weren’t you? I met him at a dinner last week. Your name came up by chance in conversation in connection with the miniatures you lent to the Dudley exhibition. Staveley curled his lip and said that while you may have extremely artistic taste, you were a man no pure girl should know and no respectable woman should share a room with . I indicated that I was your friend and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me straight out in front of everyone. It was dreadful! Why is your friendship such a misfortune for young men? There was that wretched fellow in the bodyguard who committed suicide. You were his best friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a disgraced name. You and he, the two of you, were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What became of Lord Kent’s only son and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and heartache. What was your relationship with the young Duke of Perth? What kind of life does he lead now? What gentleman would want to associate with him? “Stop, Basil, you speak of things you know nothing about,” said Dorian Gray, biting his lip and putting a note of unspeakable contempt into his voice. “You ask me why Berwick leaves the room when I enter.” He does this because I know his life inside and out, not because he knows anything about me. With blood coursing through his veins, how could he not have a lot on his conscience? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach one his vices, the other his debauchery? If Kent’s dim-witted son takes his wife off the street, what’s it to me? If Adrian Singleton puts his friend’s name on a bill of exchange, am I his custodian? I know how people gossip in England. The middle classes strut around at their endless dinners with their moral prejudices, whispering about what they call the excesses of the better-off, and boasting that they move in high society and are intimate with the people they snoop on. In our country, it’s enough for someone to have nobility and wit for every vulgar tongue to sharpen itself on. And what kind of lives do these people themselves lead, who strut so about morality? My dear boy, you forget that we live in the land of hypocrisy. “Dorian,” Hallward cried, “that’s not the point. I know how bad things are in England, and how rotten English society is. That’s precisely why I want you to remain good. You have n’t remained good. One has a right to judge a person by the effect they have on their friends. Your friends seem to be losing all sense of honor, of decency, of purity. You have filled them with a mad hedonism. They have sunk low. Yes, and you led them down there, and yet you can smile, and you still smile now. And there are far worse things. I know you and Harry are inseparable. For that reason alone, if no other, you should not have made a mockery of his sister’s name ! Beware, Basil. You are going too far. I must speak, and you must hear me. When you first met Lady Gwendolen, she had not been touched by the slightest hint of slander. ” Is there a single decent woman in London now who would go for a ride in the park with her? Yes, not even her children are allowed to live with her. Then there are other stories—stories that you’ve been seen sneaking out of dreadful houses at dusk , that you’re disguised and roaming the most disreputable pubs in London. Is that true? Can that be true? When I first heard such things, I laughed. Now I hear them with a shudder. What about your country house and the life that is lived there? Dorian, you don’t know what people are saying about you. I don’t want to hold it against you, I don’t want to give you a lecture. I remember Harry once saying that every person who wants to try their hand at being a moralist starts by saying they don’t want to preach and then breaks their word. So I do want to give you a lecture . I want to see you live such a life that the world will respect you. I want you to have a clear name and a good reputation. I want you to break free from the horrible people you now associate with. Don’t shrug your shoulders. Don’t be so indifferent. You have a powerful influence. Let it be used for good, not evil. They say you corrupt everyone you become intimate with, and that it is quite enough for you to enter a house for some kind of disgrace to follow you in the foot. I don’t know whether this is true or not. How could I know? But they said so of you. They told me things I can no longer possibly doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my dearest friends in Oxford. He showed me the letter his wife wrote him when she lay on her deathbed alone in her villa in Menton. Your name was implicated in the most dreadful confession I have ever read. I told him it was madness for me to think I knew you completely, and that you were incapable of anything of the sort. Do I know you? I wonder, do I know you? Before I can answer that, I would have to see your soul. “To see my soul,” Dorian Gray murmured, rising from the sofa, nearly turning white with fear. ” Yes,” Hallward answered gravely, a deep, sorrowful note trembling in his voice, “to see your soul. But only God can do that.” A bitter, mocking laugh burst from the younger man’s mouth. “You shall see it yourself, tonight!” he exclaimed, taking a lamp from the table. “Come: it is the work of your own hand. Why shouldn’t you see it? You can tell the whole world about it afterward, if you like. No one would believe you. If they did, they’ll only love me all the more for it. I know our times better than you, though you can babble on about them so boringly. Come, I tell you. You ‘ve talked enough about corruption. Now you shall see it face to face. ” In every word he spoke, the madness of pride shone. He stamped his foot on the floorboards in his boyish, brazen manner. He felt a terrible pleasure at the thought that another should now share his secret, and that the man who had painted his portrait, the source of all his shame, should have to carry the burden of the horrible memory of his deed for the rest of his life . “Yes,” he continued, stepping closer and looking firmly into his grave eyes, “I will show you my soul. You shall see the work you believe only God can see.” Hallward recoiled. “That is blasphemy, Dorian. You must not say such things. They are terrible and senseless. Do you think so?” He laughed again. ” I know it. What I told you tonight, I said for your own good. You know I have always been a good friend to you. Don’t get sentimental. Finish what you have to say . ” A pained shudder passed over the painter’s face. He was silent for a moment, and a sharp pang of pity came over him. What right, after all, did he have to peer into Dorian Gray’s life? If he had done only a tenth of what the rumors said he had done, how agonizingly he must have suffered! Then he straightened up, went over to the hearth, and stood there, absorbed in the sight of the burning logs, which, with their white ash, looked as if frosted , and stared at their throbbing, fiery hearts. ” I’m waiting, Basil,” said the young man in a hard, sharp voice. He turned around. “What I have to say is this,” he cried. “You must give me an answer to these terrible accusations that are being made against you. If you tell me that they are untrue from beginning to end , I will believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them ! Can you not see what I am going through?” My God, don’t tell me you’re wicked and depraved and shameful! Dorian Gray smiled. His lips curled in contempt. Come upstairs, Basil, he said calmly. I keep a diary of my life, day by day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I’ll show it to you if you come with me. I’ll come, Dorian, if you want it. I see I ‘ve missed my train. That doesn’t matter. I can go tomorrow. But don’t ask me to read anything tonight. What I want is a clear answer to my question. You’ll get it upstairs. I can’t give it to you here. You won’t have much to read. Chapter 13. He left the room and began to go upstairs, Basil Hallward following close behind. They walked quietly, as one instinctively does at night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and the stairs. In the wind that had risen, some windows rattled. When they reached the top landing, Dorian placed the lamp on the floor, took out the key, and unlocked it. “You insist on an answer, Basil?” he asked in a hushed voice. ” Yes. I’m glad to hear that,” he replied with a smile. Then he added, rather sharply… He added: “You are the only person in the world who is allowed to know everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you realize.” With that, he picked up the lamp, opened the door, and stepped inside. A cold draft passed by, and the light flickered for a moment in a gloomy orange hue. He shuddered. ” Close the door behind you,” he whispered, setting the lamp down on the table. Hallward looked around in astonishment. The room looked as if it had been uninhabited for many years. A threadbare Flemish tapestry, a covered picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost empty bookcase—that, apart from a chair and a table, was all that seemed to be in it. When Dorian Gray lit a half-burned candle that stood on the hearth, the painter saw that the whole room was covered with dust and the carpet was torn and full of holes. A mouse scurried in alarm behind the wainscoting. A musty, musty smell wafted through the air. ” So you believe that God alone sees the soul, Basil? Draw back the curtain, and you will see mine.” The voice that spoke these words was cold and cruel. ” You’re mad, Dorian, or putting on an act,” said Hallward, frowning. ” You won’t? Then I must do it myself,” said the young man, and he tore the curtain from its pole and flung it to the floor. A cry of horror escaped the painter’s lips when, in the dim light, he caught sight of the hideous face grinning back at him from the canvas. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. God in heaven! It was Dorian Gray’s own face he was seeing! The horrible thing, whatever it might be, had not yet completely destroyed the wondrous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some purple on the sensual mouth. The dull eyes still retained some of their lovely blue , the elegant curve of the lines around the delicately curved nostrils and the sculpted neck had not yet entirely vanished. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had painted it? He thought he recognized the work of his own brush, and the frame was drawn by himself . The idea was monstrous, and yet he was afraid . He took the burning candle and held it close to the picture. In the left corner was a name in long, pale red letters. It was some infamous parody, a vile, wretched satire. He had never painted it. And yet, it was his own picture. He knew it, and it was as if his blood had turned from fire to rigid ice in an instant. His own picture! What did that mean? Why had it changed? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with sickly eyes. His mouth twitched, his dry tongue seemed utterly incapable of any sound. He ran his hand over his forehead. Cool beads of sweat stood on it. The young man leaned against the fireplace and watched him with that strange expression seen on the faces of people captivated by the performance of a great actor. There was neither real pain nor real joy in his face. There was only the passion of the spectator, and at most a flicker of triumphant gleam in his eyes . He had taken the flower from his buttonhole and was smelling it, or at least pretending to. ” What does this mean?” Hallward cried at last. His own voice sounded shrill and strange to his ears. “Many years ago, when I was still a boy,” said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, “you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain about my beauty. One day you introduced me to one of your friends, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and it was then that you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty . In a moment of madness, and I remember it even now.” Whether I regretted it or not, I expressed a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer. I remember! Oh, how well I remember! No! Such a thing is impossible. The room is damp. The canvas has gone moldy. There was some kind of mineral poison in the paints I used . I tell you, such a thing is impossible. Pah, what is impossible? muttered the young man, going to the window and pressing his forehead against the cold, misty pane. You told me you had destroyed it. I was mistaken. It destroyed me. I can’t believe it’s my painting. Can’t you see your ideal in it? Dorian asked bitterly. My ideal, as you call it… As you called it. There was nothing bad in it, nothing shameful. You were an ideal to me such as I will never encounter again. This is the face of a faun. It is the face of my soul. Jesus, mine! What a thing I worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil. Each of us has heaven and hell within us, Basil! Dorian cried with a wild, desperate gesture. Hallward turned back to the painting and stared at it. My God! It’s true! he exclaimed, and this is what you’ve made of your life! So you must be even worse than those who speak against you suspect . He held the light close to the canvas again and examined it sharply. The surface seemed completely undamaged, just as it had come from his hand. So the decay and the horrific had sprung up from within. Through some strange internal process of procreation, the leprosy of sin was slowly devouring the entire image. The decomposition of a corpse in a damp grave could not be so gruesome. His hand trembled, and the candle fell from the candlestick to the floor , lying there smoking. He stepped on it and smothered it. Then he threw himself into the rickety chair before the table and buried his face in his hands. Great God, Dorian, what a lesson! What a terrible lesson! There was no reply, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. Pray, Dorian, pray, he said softly. What was it we were taught to recite in our childhood? Lead us not into temptation! Forgive us our sins! Take our iniquity from us! Let us say this together. The prayer of your pride has been heard . The prayer of your repentance will be heard too. I loved you too much. I have been punished for it. You loved yourself too much. We have both received our punishment. Dorian Gray turned slowly and looked at him with tear-filled eyes. It is too late, Basil, he whispered. It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel and see if we can remember a prayer. Isn’t there a verse somewhere: “Though your sins be like scarlet, I will make them as white as snow”? Such words mean nothing to me anymore. Hush! Don’t say such things. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don’t you see how that dreadful thing is staring at us? Dorian Gray looked at the picture, and suddenly an unconquerable hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as if it had been instilled in him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The wild fury of a hunted animal boiled within him, and he hated the man sitting at the table more than he had ever hated anything in his entire life. He peered wildly around him. Something glittered on the top of the painted chest opposite him. His gaze fell upon it. He recognized what it was. It was a knife he had taken upstairs a few days ago to cut a piece of string, and which he had forgotten to take back down. He walked slowly towards it, having to pass Hallward. As soon as he was behind him, he grabbed the knife and turned around. Hallward stirred in his chair, as if he were about to He stood up. He lunged at him and plunged the knife deep into the carotid artery behind the ear, slamming the man’s head down onto the table and thrusting again and again. There was a muffled gurgling sound and the terrible noise of someone choking in their own blood. Three times the man’s outstretched arms flailed convulsively, his hands flying through the air with peculiarly stiff fingers. He thrust twice more, but the man didn’t move. Something began to trickle onto the floor. He waited a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife onto the table and listened. He could hear nothing but the dripping onto the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went to the landing. The house was completely silent. No one was awake. Leaning over the banister, he stood there for a few moments, peering down into the black, seething shaft of darkness. Then he removed the key, went back into the room, and locked himself in. The creature was still sitting in the chair, slumped over the table with its head bowed, back bent, and long, fantastical arms outstretched. If it weren’t for the gaping, red gash in its neck and the dark, congealed pool that was gradually growing larger on the table, one might have thought the man was merely asleep. How quickly it had all happened! He felt strangely calm, went to the balcony door, opened it, and stepped out. The wind had blown the veils of mist apart, and the sky looked like the tail of a gigantic peacock, studded with myriad golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman making his rounds, letting the long, sweeping beam of his lantern glide over the doors of the silent houses . The reddish-yellow light of a passing carriage glimmered on at the street corner and disappeared again. A woman in a fluttering headscarf shuffled slowly past the railing of the square, staggering as she walked. Now and then she stopped and looked back. Suddenly she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled across the embankment and said something to her. She limped on, laughing. A sharp gust of wind swept across the square. The gas flames flickered and turned blue, and the leafless trees shook their blackened branches, which looked like iron mesh. He shivered and, closing the window, stepped back. When he reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He never looked at the murdered man again. He felt that the secret of the whole affair lay in not dwelling on the situation. The friend who had painted the fateful picture from which all his misery stemmed had vanished from his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather peculiar Moorish piece, matte silver with inlaid arabesques of dark-polished steel and set with uncut turquoise. It might be missed by his servant, and he could inquire about it. He hesitated for a moment, then went back and took it from the table. As he did so, he must have seen the lifeless figure. How still it was! How dreadfully white those long hands looked! It seemed to be a ghastly wax figure . He closed the door behind him and crept slowly down the stairs. The wood creaked and seemed to groan in pain. He paused several times and waited. No, all was silent. He heard only the echo of his own footsteps. When he reached his library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden somewhere. He opened a secret cupboard in the wood paneling where he kept his own disguises and shoved the items inside. He could easily burn them later. Then he took out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. He sat down and began to think. Year after year—almost every month—people in England are hanged for things like what he had just witnessed. had done. Some kind of insane murderous rage had been in the air. Some blood-red star had come too close to Earth… And yet, how could one prove it to him? Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven o’clock. No one had seen him return. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal. His own servant had gone to bed… Paris! Yes. Basil had gone to Paris, on the midnight train, as he had intended. Given his peculiar habit of retiring, months would pass before any suspicion arose. Months! All traces could be erased long before then. A sudden idea struck him. He put on his fur coat, placed his hat on his head, and went out into the vestibule. He paused there, hearing the slow, heavy footsteps of the constable outside on the cobblestones and seeing the dancing reflection of his lantern in the door window. He waited, holding his breath. After a few moments, he slid back the bolt and slipped out, closing the gate very quietly behind him. Then he pulled the bell. After about five minutes, his servant appeared, half-dressed and very sleepy. “I’m sorry I had to wake you, Francis,” he said , entering and going up the steps; “but I’ve forgotten my house key. What time is it?” “Ten minutes past two, sir,” said the man, blinking at his watch. ” Ten minutes past two? How dreadfully late! You must wake me at nine o’clock tomorrow. I have business.” ” At your service, sir. Has anyone been here this evening?” ” Mr. Hallward, sir. He waited here until eleven and then left so as not to miss his train. I’m sorry I didn’t meet him. Is there anything you’d like me to take away? ” “No, sir, only that he should write from Paris if he doesn’t meet you at the club.” “That’s all right, Francis. Don’t forget to wake me at nine tomorrow. ” “No, sir!” The man shuffled in his slippers through the gateway and down the servants’ stairs. Dorian Gray threw his hat and walking stick onto the table and entered the study. For a quarter of an hour he paced, biting his lip and brooding. Then he took the blue address book from a shelf and began to leaf through it. Alan Campbell, 152 Hertford Street, Mayfair. Yes, that was the man he needed. Chapter 14. The next morning at nine o’clock, his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a serving tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was lying on his right side, one hand under his cheek, sleeping quite peacefully. He looked like a boy who had grown tired from playing or studying. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he awoke, and when he opened his eyes, a faint smile crossed his lips, as if he had been caught up in a delightful dream. But he had not been dreaming at all. His night had been undisturbed by images of either joy or horror. But youth smiles for no reason. That is one of its particular charms. He turned, propped himself up on his elbow, and began to sip his chocolate. The dull November sun streamed into the room. The sky was cloudless, a cheerful warmth filled the air. It was almost like a May morning. Gradually, the events of the previous night crept into his brain on silent, bloodstained soles and rebuilt themselves there with terrible clarity. He shuddered at the memory of all he had suffered, and for a moment the same strange hatred for Basil Hallward returned to him, the hatred that had driven him to kill him while he sat in the chair; he grew cold with rage. The dead man was still sitting up there, and now in the sunlight. How horrible that was! Such ghastly things belonged in darkness, not in the daylight. He felt that he would become ill or insane if he brooded over it. what he had left behind. There are sins whose allure lies more in the memory than in the commission, strange victories that satisfy pride more than passion, and that give the mind a pleasure stronger than any delight they provide or ever could provide to the senses. But this time it was none of those. This was one that had to be banished from the mind, poisoned with an opiate, smothered, for otherwise it would smother him. As the clock struck half past twelve, he ran his hand over his brow, then rose quickly and dressed with even greater care than usual, paying the utmost attention to the choice of his cravat and pin, and changing his rings more than once. He also spent a long time at breakfast, sampling the various dishes, discussing with his servant new liveries he intended to have made for the staff at Selby, and looking through his correspondence. He smiled at some of the letters. Three bored him. He read one letter several times and then tore it up with a slight annoyance in his expression. “What a dreadful thing a woman’s memory is,” Lord Henry had once said. When he had finished his cup of black coffee, he slowly dried his lips on his napkin, signaled to the servant to wait, went over to the desk, sat down, and wrote two letters. He put one in his pocket and handed the other to the servant. “Take this one to 152 Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address.” As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began to sketch on a piece of paper, drawing flowers first, then architectural details, and then human faces. Suddenly he noticed that every face he sketched seemed to bear a fantastic resemblance to Basil Hallward. He frowned, stood up, went to the bookcase, and took out a volume on a whim. He was determined not to think about what had happened until absolutely necessary. Stretching out on the sofa, he looked at the book’s title. It was Gautier’s Emaux et Camées, Charpentier’s edition on Japanese paper, with etchings by Jacquemart. The binding was lemon-yellow leather with a blind-printed pattern of golden foliage and pomegranates in dotwork. It was a gift from Adrian Singleton. As he leafed through it, his eye fell upon the poem about Lacenaire’s hand, the cold yellow hand of the supplicant, still badly washed, with its reddish down and its faune fingers. He looked at his own white, pointed fingers, shuddered involuntarily , then continued reading until he came to the lovely verses about Venice. On a chromatic palette, The beak of shimmering pearls, The Venus of the Adriatic lifts her pink and white body from the water. The domes, on the azure of the waves , Following the phrase with its pure contour, Fill like rounded throats That stir a sigh of love. The gondola greets and lays me down, Jetting its love at the pillar, Before a pink façade, On the marble of a staircase. How delightful the verses were! Reading them, one had the sensation of gliding through the green waterways of this red and pearl-colored city, in a black gondola with a silver prow and trailing curtains. Even the lines looked like the straight, turquoise keel lines that followed when rowing out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of color reminded him of the shimmer of those birds with opalescent and rainbow-colored necks that flutter around the slender, honeycomb-perforated campanile or tiptoe with magnificent grace through the dark, dusty arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he repeated to himself over and over again: — Before a rose-colored facade, on the marble of a staircase. All of Venice was contained in those two verses. He thought of the autumn he had spent there and a heavenly love affair that had driven him to mad, delightful follies. There was romance in every corner of the earth. But Venice, like Oxford, had still preserved the backdrop for romance, and for the true romantic, the backdrop is everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him for a time and was quite wild with admiration for Tintoretto. Poor Basil! What a terrible way to die! He sighed, picked up the book again, and tried to forget. He read about the swallows flying in and out of the small café in Smyrna, where the Hajis sit and let their amber beads run through their hands, and where the merchants in turbans smoke their long, tasselled pipes and talk earnestly to one another: he read about the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde, which in its lonely, sunless exile weeps granite tears and longs for the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where the sphinxes are, and rose-red ibises and white vultures with golden talons and crocodiles with small beryl eyes, creeping through the green, steaming mud: he began to ponder the verses that lure their music from marble stained with kisses, and that tell us about the strange statue that Gautier compares to an alto voice, the charming monster that stands in the porphyry hall of the Louvre. But after a while, the book slipped from his hands. He grew nervous, and a terrible fit of anxiety shook him. What to do if Alan Campbell wasn’t in England? Days might pass before he returned. Perhaps he refused to come. What should he do then? Every moment was of deadly importance. They had once been very close friends, five years ago—almost inseparable, in fact. Then the intimacy had abruptly ended. When they met in company now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled, never Alan Campbell. He was an extraordinarily gifted young man, though he had no real affinity for the visible arts, and the slight sense of poetry he possessed was entirely from Dorian. The intellectual passion that controlled him extended only to science. At Cambridge, he had spent much of his time working in the laboratory and had passed his examination in natural sciences with distinction. Even now he was devoted to the study of chemistry and had his own laboratory, in which he often locked himself for the entire day, much to the dismay of his mother, who was determined that he should stand for Parliament and who had a vague notion that a chemist was someone who wrote prescriptions. Meanwhile, he was an excellent musician and played the violin and piano better than most amateurs. Indeed, it was music that had brought Dorian Gray and him together—music and the inexplicable attraction that Dorian could exert when he wished, and often did, without realizing it. They had met at Lady Berkshire’s on the evening Rubinstein was playing there, and from then on they were always seen together at the opera and wherever there was good music. This friendship lasted eighteen months. Campbell was a regular visitor to either Selby Royal or Grosvenor Square. For him, as for many others, Dorian Gray was the embodiment of everything wonderful and enchanting in life. No one knew whether they had argued or not. But suddenly people noticed that they hardly spoke to each other when they met, and that Campbell left early any gathering where Dorian was present. He, too, had changed—sometimes strangely melancholic, seemed barely able to listen to music anymore, and never played it again. He himself, and when questioned, would excuse himself by saying that science consumed him so much that he had no time left to practice. And that was indeed the case. He seemed to gain more interest in biological studies every day, and his name appeared once or twice in scientific journals in connection with certain extraordinary experiments. This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he looked at the clock. As minute after minute passed, he became terribly agitated. Finally, he got up and began pacing back and forth in the room like some beautiful beast in a cage. He took long strides, almost leaping, and stepped softly. His hands were peculiarly cold. The waiting became unbearable. Time seemed to creep past him with leaden feet, while he was swept by immense whirlwinds toward the jagged edge of a black chasm or abyss. He knew what awaited him there; He saw it and, shuddering, pressed his burning eyelids together with clammy hands, as if trying to rob his brain of sight and force his eyeballs back into their sockets. It was in vain. The brain had its own nourishment with which it fattened itself, and the imagination, grotesquely distorted by terror, writhed in pain like a living being, danced like a repulsive marionette in a sideshow, and grinned through movable masks . Then, all at once, time stood still for him. Yes, that blind, slow-breathing creature no longer crawled, and since it was dead, horrible thoughts rushed upon him with lightning speed and dragged a hideous future from its grave and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its horror petrified him. At last, the door opened, and his servant entered. He turned his glassy eyes toward him. ” Mr. Campbell, sir,” the man said. A sigh of relief escaped his dry lips, and color returned to his cheeks. ” Ask him in at once, Francis.” He felt himself again . The fit of cowardice had passed. The servant bowed and left. After a few moments, Alan Campbell entered, his face very stern and somewhat pale, his pallor made even more noticeable by his coal-black hair and dark brows. ” Alan! That is kind of you. Thank you for coming. I intended never to set foot in your house again, Gray. But you wrote that it was a matter of life and death.” His voice was hard and cold. He spoke slowly and deliberately. There was a hint of contempt in the firm, probing gaze he fixed on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his astrachan fur coat and seemed not to notice the movement with which the hand had been extended to him. ” Yes, it is a matter of life and death, and for more than one man, Alan. Sit down.” Campbell took a chair at the table, and Dorian sat opposite him. The two men’s eyes met. In Dorian’s was boundless pity. He knew what he was about to do was terrible. After a moment of awkward silence, he leaned forward and said very calmly, reading the effect of each word on the face of the man he had summoned: “Alan, in a locked attic room of this house, in a room to which no one but me has access, there sits a dead man at a table. He has been dead for ten hours now. Sit still and don’t look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are things of no concern to you. What you have to do is—” ” Stop, Gray! I don’t want to know anything more. Whether what you told me is true or not is none of my business. I categorically refuse to be drawn into your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself! I’m no longer interested in them.” Alan, you’ll have to be interested in this. This one secret will… You must be interested. I’m terribly sorry about you, Alan. But I can’t help you. You’re the only person who can save me. I’m forced to involve you in this. I have no choice. Alan, you’re a man of science. You understand chemistry and all that. You’ve done experiments. What you have to do is destroy that being up there, destroy it so completely that not a trace of it remains. No one saw this man come into my house. He’s presumed to be in Paris at the moment. He won’t be missed for months. When he is missed, no trace of him must be found here. Alan, you must turn him, him and everything belonging to him, into a handful of ashes that I can scatter in the air. You’re mad, Dorian. Ah! How I’ve been waiting for you to call me Dorian again. You’re insane, I tell you—insane to think I’d lift a finger to help you, insane to make this monstrous confession. I want nothing to do with it, whatever it is. Do you think I’d risk my honor for you ? What business is it of mine what devilry you’re involved in? It was suicide, Alan. I’m glad to hear it, but who drove him to it? You, I suspect. Are you still refusing to do it for me? Of course I’m refusing. I want absolutely nothing to do with it . I couldn’t care less what disgrace will befall you. You deserve it wholeheartedly. I wouldn’t feel sorry for you if I saw you dishonored, publicly disgraced. How dare you want to drag me, of all people in the world, into this abomination ? I would have thought you understood more about human nature. Your friend, Lord Henry Wotton, couldn’t have taught you much about psychology, what else he taught you. Nothing will enable me to take even a single step to help you. You’ve fallen for the wrong man. Go to one of your friends, not me. Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don’t know what I suffered because of him. My life, whatever it may be, he had more to do with creating and destroying it than poor Harry. He may not have meant to, but the effect is the same. Murder! Good God, Dorian, have you come to this? I wo n’t report you. That’s not my place. Besides, they’ll catch you even if I don’t get involved. No one commits a crime without doing something stupid. So I want nothing to do with it. You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to me. Just listen, Alan. All I ask of you is a specific scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and morgues, and the horrific things you do there don’t move you. If you saw this man lying on a crude table in some ghastly dissection room or foul-smelling laboratory, with red tubes drilled into him so that blood could flow through, you would simply regard him as an object of admiration. Not a hair on your head would bristle. You would n’t feel that you were doing anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably believe you were doing humanity a service, or increasing the sum of human knowledge, or satisfying the intellectual thirst for knowledge, or something of the sort. What I ask of you is nothing other than what you have often done before . Truly, it must be far less gruesome to dispose of a corpse than what you usually do. And remember, it ‘s the only evidence against me. If it’s discovered, I’m lost; and it surely must be discovered if you don’t help me. I have no desire to help you. You forget that. The whole thing is irrelevant to me. I have nothing to do with it. Alan, I implore you. Think of the situation I’m in. Just now , before you came, I almost fainted with fright. You might one day know fear yourself. No, don’t think about it! Look at this from a purely scientific point of view. You don’t usually investigate where the dead creatures you experiment on come from. Don’t investigate it now either. I’ve already told you too much. But please, do as I asked. We were friends once, Alan. Don’t speak of those days, Dorian; they’re dead. The dead sometimes linger. That man up there isn’t leaving. He’s sitting at the table with his head bowed and his arms outstretched. Alan! Alan! If you don’t come to my aid, I’m lost. Alan! They’ll hang me! Don’t you understand? They’ll hang me for what I’ve done . There’s no point in prolonging this scene any longer. I categorically refuse to have anything to do with it. It is foolish of you to ask me this. You refuse? Yes! I beg you, Alan! It is useless. The same pitying look came into Dorian Gray’s eyes. Then he reached out, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read it twice, folded it carefully, and slid it across the table. Having done this, he stood up and went to the window. Campbell looked at him in astonishment, then took the paper and unfolded it. When he had read it, his face went deathly pale, and he sank back in his chair. A terrible feeling of weakness overwhelmed him. He felt as if his heart were beating itself to death in an empty hollow. After two or three minutes of dreadful silence, Dorian turned , walked over to him, stood behind him, and placed his hand on his shoulder. “I am so sorry about you, Alan,” he whispered, “but you leave me no choice. I have already written the letter. Here it is.” You see the address. If you don’t help me, I’ll have to send it. You know what will happen. But you will help me. It’s impossible for you to say no now. I wanted to spare you this. You must give me the satisfaction of admitting it. You were bitter, harsh, insulting. You treated me as no human being has ever dared to treat me. At least, no living human being. I endured it all. Now it’s my turn to dictate terms. Campbell buried his face in his hands, a chill running through him. Yes, now it’s my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what I require. The matter is quite simple. Come on, don’t work yourself up into a frenzy. The thing must be done. Look it in the face and accomplish it. A groan escaped Campbell’s lips, and he trembled all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to shatter time into individual atoms of a death struggle, the smallest of which was already too horrible to bear. He felt as if an iron ring were being tightened around his forehead, as if the shame with which he was threatened was already upon him. The hand on his shoulder weighed him down like a lead weight. It was unbearable. It seemed to be crushing him. ” Come, Alan, you must decide at once.” ” I can’t do it,” he said mechanically, as if the words could change anything. ” You must. You have no choice. Don’t hesitate.” He wavered for a moment. “Is there a stove up there? ” “Yes, a gas stove with asbestos.” ” Then I must go home and get some things from the laboratory.” “No, Alan, you mustn’t leave the house. Write down what you need on a piece of paper, and my servant will take a cab and bring it to you.” Campbell scribbled a few lines, dried them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell and handed it to his servant with the The order was to return as soon as possible and bring the items specified in the letter. As the front door clicked shut, Campbell started nervously, rose from his chair, and went over to the fireplace. He shivered with a kind of cold fever. For nearly twenty minutes, neither man spoke . A fly buzzed through the room, and the tick-tock of the clock sounded like the fall of a hammer. When it struck one, Campbell turned, looked at Dorian Gray, and saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the pure, noble features of that sad face that seemed to enrage him . “You are infamous, utterly infamous,” he cried in a hushed voice. ” Calm down, Alan, you saved my life,” said Dorian. ” Your life? Good heavens! What kind of life is that! You have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have reached the pinnacle with murder.” When I do what I am going to do, what you force me to do, I truly am not thinking of your life. “Ah, Alan,” whispered Dorian with a sigh, “I wish you had one thousandth of the pity for me that I have for you.” As he spoke, he turned away and stood looking out into the garden. Campbell made no reply. After about ten minutes, there was a knock at the door, and the servant entered , carrying a large mahogany box of chemicals, a long coil of steel and platinum wire, and two oddly shaped iron clamps. “Shall I leave these things here, sir?” he asked Campbell. ” Yes,” answered Dorian. “And I’m sorry, Francis, but I have one more way for you. What is the name of the man in Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids? ” “Harden, sir.” “Correct—Harden. You must go to Richmond at once, speak to Harden himself, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I have ordered, and as few white ones as possible.” Actually, I don’t want any white ones at all. It’s a fine day, Francis, and Richmond a pretty place, otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering you with this. Nothing to say, sir. What time should I be back? Dorian looked at Campbell. How long will your experiment last, Alan? he asked in a calm, indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. Campbell frowned and bit his lip. It will take about five hours, he answered. Then it will be early enough if you’re back by seven, Francis. Or wait: lay out my clothes for me to change into, and you can have the evening to yourself. I don’t eat at home, so I don’t need you. Thank you, sir, said the man and left the room. Now, Alan, there’s not a moment to lose. How heavy the box is! I’ll carry it for you. You take the other things. He spoke hastily and in a commanding tone. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the room at the same time. When they reached the top of the stairs, Dorian took out the key and unlocked the door. Then he stopped, and an expression of unease came to his eyes. He shuddered. “I do n’t think I can go in, Alan,” he whispered. “I don’t care. I don’t need you,” Campbell said coldly. Dorian opened the door halfway. As he did, he looked directly into the face of his portrait, which hung in the bright sunlight. In front of it, the torn curtain lay on the floorboards. He remembered that last night, for the first time in his life, he had forgotten to cover the fateful canvas, and was about to lunge forward when he recoiled with a shudder. What was that disgusting red stain, wet and glistening, clinging to one of his hands, as if the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible that was! — More horrifying to him at that moment was the silent thing that, as he knew, was still sitting bent over the table, the thing whose grotesque, unfortunate shadow lay on the The stained carpet showed him that it hadn’t moved, but was still where he had left it. He breathed a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and quickly went in with half-closed eyes and his head averted, determined not to look once at the dead man. Then he bent down, picked up the gold and purple shimmering curtain, and threw it straight over the picture. Then he stopped, afraid to turn around, and his eyes fixed on the intricate patterns of the curtain. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy box, and the iron clamps and other equipment he had ordered for his horrific work. He began to wonder if Campbell and Basil Hallward had ever met, and if so, what they might have thought of each other. “Leave me alone now,” said a gruff voice behind him. He turned and ran out, just registering that the dead man had been leaned back in his chair and that Campbell was staring into a shimmering, yellow face. As he descended the steps, he heard the key turn in the lock. It was long after seven o’clock when Campbell re- entered the library. He was pale, but completely calm. ” I have done as you asked,” he said softly. “And now, farewell. We shall never see each other again.” “You saved me from ruin, Alan,” Dorian said simply . “I can never forget it.” As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a terrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. Chapter 15. That same evening at half past eight, Dorian Gray, in the most meticulous dressing, with a large bouquet of Parma violets in his buttonhole, was escorted by servile footmen into Lady Narborough’s drawing room. He had a terrible headache and frayed nerves, but his gesture as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as light and graceful as ever. Perhaps one never looks more serene than when playing a part. Certainly, no one who saw Dorian Gray that evening would have believed that he had just experienced a tragedy as terrible as any tragedy of our time. Surely those finely formed fingers could never have drawn a knife to commit a sin, those smiling lips never blasphemed God and God’s goodness. He himself must have marveled at the serenity of his demeanor , and for a moment he felt with full force the horrifying pleasure of a double life. It was a small party that Lady Narborough had hastily assembled, and the hostess was a very clever woman with considerable remnants of an undeniably outstanding ugliness, as Lord Henry liked to put it. She had proven herself an excellent wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors , and after burying her husband, as was fitting, in a marble mausoleum built according to her own designs , and since marrying off her daughters to some rich, somewhat aged gentlemen, she devoted herself to the pleasures of French novels, French cuisine, and French intellect, when she could find it. Dorian was one of her declared favorites, and she always told him she was extremely glad she hadn’t met him in earlier years . “I know, my dear fellow, ” she used to say, ” I would have fallen senselessly in love with you, and would have been capable of the greatest follies for your sake. It is a great stroke of luck that no one even thought of you back then. In my day, follies were such a rare commodity that I never even had a harmless flirtation with anyone. However, that was entirely Narborough’s fault.” He was terribly nearsighted, and it’s anything but pleasant to cheat on a husband who can never see. Their guests were rather dull that evening. The thing was, as she explained to Dorian from behind a rather shabby fan that one of her married daughters had suddenly come to visit, and, to make matters worse, had brought her husband along. “I find that very unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered to him. “Of course, I’m with them every summer when I come from Homburg, but an old woman like me needs some fresh air sometimes, and besides, I give them a bit of a shake-up. You have no idea what kind of life they lead back there. It’s pure, unadulterated country life. They get up early because they have so much to do , and go to bed early because they have so little to think about. There hasn’t been a scandal in the whole area since the time of Queen Elizabeth , and as a result, they all fall asleep after dinner. But you’re not supposed to sit next to any of them. You’re supposed to sit next to me and amuse me. ” Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked around the room. Yes, it really was a dreary society. Two of those present he had never seen before, and the others were Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so often encountered in London clubs, who has no enemies but whom none of her friends can stand; then Lady Ruxton, a fussy lady with a parrot nose, aged forty-seven, who was incessantly trying to compromise herself but was so ridiculously ugly that, to her great disappointment, no one ever believed anything bad about her; Mrs. Erlynne, an intrusive nothingness with a delightful lisp and Venetian red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, the landlady’s daughter, a badly dressed, insignificant woman with one of those characteristic English faces that, once seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a rosy-cheeked, white-bearded creature who, like so many of his caste, believed that unusual amiability could compensate for a complete lack of thought. He almost regretted coming until Lady Narborough glanced at the large gold pendulum clock, its tasteless ornaments splayed on the mauve-draped mantelpiece, and exclaimed, “How ugly of Henry Wotton to be late! I sent for him early this morning on the off chance he would come, and he has promised not to let me down. It was some consolation that Harry was to come, and when the door opened and he heard his soft, musical voice charmingly uttering some lame excuse, his displeasure subsided. But he still could not eat at the table. Platter after platter was carried away, untouched by him. Lady Narborough scolded him incessantly, seeing it as an insult to poor Adolphe, who had invented the whole menu especially for her, and now and then Lord Henry would look over at him, marveling at his silence and distracted demeanor.” From time to time, the servant refilled his glass with champagne. He drank hastily, and his thirst seemed to grow. ” Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the chaudfroid was passed around, “what’s the matter with you tonight? You’re so upset.” “I think he’s in love,” said Lady Narborough, “and he’s afraid to tell me, for fear that I’ll be jealous.” “He’s quite right, too. I certainly would be.” “Dear Lady Narborough,” whispered Dorian, smiling, “I have n’t been in love for a whole week—in fact, not since Madame de Ferrol left London. ” “That you men can fall in love with that woman!” cried the old lady. ” I really can’t understand it.” “It’s simply because she reminds you of the time when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. ” She’s the only link between us and your short skirts.” ” She certainly doesn’t remind me of my short skirts, Lord Henry.” But I remember her very well in Vienna thirty years ago, and how she low-cut then. She still low-cuts, he replied, taking an olive in his long fingers, and when she’s very elegantly dressed, she looks like the deluxe edition of a bad French novel. She’s truly wonderful and full of surprises. Her talent for family love is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned golden blonde with grief. How can you say such a thing, Harry! cried Dorian. That’s a most romantic explanation, laughed the hostess. But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say that Ferrol is the fourth, do you? Yes, Lady Narborough. I don’t believe a word of it. Very well, then ask Mr. Gray; he’s one of her closest friends. Is that true, Mr. Gray? She assures me, Lady Narborough, replied Dorian. I asked her if, like Margaret of Navarre, she had her hearts embalmed and wore them at her belt. She told me she wouldn’t do it because none of them had a heart at all. Four men! On my word, that’s trop de zele. Trop d’audace, I told her, replied Dorian. Oh! She’s brave enough to do anything, my dear fellow. And what about Ferrol? I don’t know him. The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal class, said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. Lady Narborough struck him with her fan. Lord Henry, I’m not in the least surprised that the whole world complains about your wickedness. But what whole world does that? asked Lord Henry, raising his eyebrows. It can only be posterity. For this world and I get along brilliantly. All my acquaintances say you’re very wicked! cried the old lady, shaking her head. Lord Henry looked serious for a few moments. It’s quite odious, he said at last, how people go around these days saying things behind your back that are entirely true . “Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. “I hope so,” said the landlady, laughing. “But if you all really adore Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, then I too must marry again to be fashionable.” “You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” interrupted Lord Henry. “You were far too happy. When a woman remarries, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man remarries, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men gamble theirs away.” “Narborough was not perfect!” cried the old lady. ” If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the reply. “Women love us for our faults. When we have had enough of them, they forgive us everything, even our minds. I am afraid you will never invite me to dinner again after I have said this, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true.” ” Of course it is true, Lord Henry.” If we women didn’t love you for all your faults, where would you all be? Not one of you would be married. And you’d be a sect of unhappy bachelors. But that wouldn’t change much about you. Nowadays, all husbands live like bachelors and all bachelors like husbands. Fin de siècle, whispered Lord Henry. Fin du globe, replied the hostess. I wish it were fin du globe, said Dorian with a sigh. Life is a great disappointment. Ah, my dear! cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, don’t tell me that you’ve exhausted life. When a man says that, you know that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is wicked to the highest degree, and I sometimes wish I had been too ; but you are made for good—you look so good . I must get you a pretty wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think Mr. Grey should marry? “I always tell him that, Lady Narborough,” Lord Henry replied with a bow. “Very well, then we shall look for a good match for him. I will go through the almanac carefully tonight and draw up a list of all the suitable young ladies.” “With their ages, Lady Narborough?” Dorian asked. “With their ages, of course, slightly altered. But one mustn’t rush things. I want it to be exactly what the Morning Post calls a suitable match, and you both shall be happy.” “What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” cried Lord Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he doesn’t love her. ” “Ugh! What a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and have dinner with me soon. You are a wonderful appetite stimulant, much better than what my doctor prescribes. You must tell me what kind of people you would like to meet.” It shall be a delightful gathering. “I love men who have a future and women who have a past,” he replied. “Or do you intend to bring about a women’s party?” ” I’m almost afraid,” she said, laughing as she rose. ” Oh, pardon me a thousand times, Lady Ruxton,” she continued, “I didn’t notice you hadn’t finished your cigarette.” “Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke far too much. I must curb myself in the future.” “Please, don’t do that, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is an unfortunate thing. Enough is no better than a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast.” Lady Ruxton looked at him curiously. “Lord Henry, you must visit me one afternoon and explain this to me.” “It sounds like a tantalizing theory,” she said, as she swept from the room. ” Now, please, don’t sit me too long with your politics and gossip!” Lady Narborough called from the doorway. If you do that, we’ll certainly quarrel with you when you get upstairs. The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman solemnly rose from the head of the table and sat at the head. Dorian Gray changed his seat and sat beside Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to speak loudly about the state of Parliament. He howled loudly at his adversaries. The word doctrinaire—a word full of terror to the British mind—appeared from time to time in his outbursts of fury . A doubled prefix served as an ornament to his speech, adding alliteration. He hoisted the Union Jack on the mast of thought. The race’s inherent stupidity—sound English common sense, he called it charitably—was set before the chief bulwark of society. A smile curled over Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned and looked at Dorian. “Are you feeling better now, dear boy?” he asked. “You did n’t seem at all well at the table.” I’m quite well. I’m tired. Nothing more. You were delightful last night. The little Duchess has taken you completely to her heart. She told me she’s coming to Selby. She promised to come on the twentieth. Will Monmouth be there too? Oh, certainly, Harry! He bores me terribly, almost as much as he bores her. She’s very sensible, too sensible for a woman. She lacks that indescribable charm of weakness. It’s the clay feet that make the gold of the statue truly valuable. Her feet are quite lovely, but they’re not clay feet. White porcelain feet, if you like. They ‘ve been in the fire, and what the fire doesn’t destroy, it hardens. She’s had her experiences. How long has she been married? asked Dorian. She says an eternity. According to the aristocratic calendar, I think it’s ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like an eternity , if you count the time. Who else is coming? Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our landlady, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual attire. I’ve also asked Lord Grotrian. I like him quite a bit, said Lord Henry. Many people ca n’t stand him, but I find him charming. His clothes are sometimes excessively elegant, but he makes up for them by always being excessively well-educated. He’s a very modern type. I don’t know if he can come, Harry. It’s possible he has to go to Monte Carlo with his father. Oh, what a nuisance family squabbles are! Try to get him to come. By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left us sitting there before eleven. What were you up to? Did you go straight home? Dorian looked at him quickly and frowned. No, Harry, he said at last, it was almost three when I got home. Were you at the club? Yes, he answered. Then he bit his lip. No, that’s not what I meant to say. I wasn’t at the club. I was just wandering around. I don’t remember what I was doing… The way you interrogate someone, Harry! You always want to know what one has done. I always want to forget what I’ve done. But if you want the exact time , I got home at 2:30. I’d forgotten my house key, and my servant had to let me in. If you ‘d like some testimony to prove my alibi, you can ask him. Lord Henry shrugged. But, dear boy, as if I cared about that? We’re going up to the drawing room. No sherry, no thanks, Mr. Chapman. Something’s happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You ‘re not yourself tonight. Don’t be angry, Harry. I’m irritable and in a bad mood. I’ll come to you tomorrow or the day after. Please excuse me to Lady Narborough. I’m not going up again. I’m going home. I must go home. Good, Dorian. I hope to see you for tea tomorrow. The Duchess is coming. I’ll try to be there, Harry, he said, and left the room. As he drove home, he realized that the feeling of anxiety he thought he had suppressed had returned. Lord Henry’s casual question had momentarily unsettled him and made him nervous, and he still needed his nerves. Things that could pose a danger had to be destroyed. He shuddered. The thought of even touching them was dreadful. And yet it had to be done. He was clear about that, and when he had locked the door to his library, he opened the secret cupboard in which he had placed Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A mighty fire was blazing. He added another piece of wood. The smell of the searing clothes and smoldering leather was dreadful. It took him three-quarters of an hour to burn everything. When it was over, he felt weak and ill, and after lighting some Algerian incense cones in a perforated copper pan, he washed his hands and forehead in cold, musky vinegar. Suddenly, he started. His eyes took on a strange gleam, and he nervously bit his lower lip. Between two windows stood a large Florentine ebony cabinet inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli. He stared at it as if it were something that could captivate and frighten, as if it contained something he longed for yet almost loathed. His breath quickened . A wild hunger seized him. He lit a cigarette and immediately threw it away. His eyelids drooped until his long lashes almost touched his cheeks. But he was still looking at the cabinet. Finally, he rose from the sofa where he had been lying, walked over to the wardrobe, unlocked it, and pressed a hidden spring. A triangular drawer slowly appeared. His fingers instinctively moved toward it, reached inside, and grasped something. It was a small Chinese box made of black, The box was made of gold-flecked lacquer, very carefully applied, its sides adorned with curved wavy lines, and from whose silken cords hung round crystals with tassels of braided metal thread. He opened the box. Inside lay a greenish, shiny, waxy mass with a strangely heavy and pungent odor. He hesitated for a few moments, a strangely unmoving smile on his face. Then he shuddered, although it was quite exceptionally hot in the room , roused himself, and looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes short of twelve. He put the box back, closed the doors of the wardrobe, and went into his bedroom. As midnight sent its metallic clangs through the dark air, Dorian Gray, dressed in ordinary clothes and with a handkerchief around his neck, crept quietly out of the house. On Bond Street, he met a cab with a good horse. He had it stop and, in a low voice, gave the driver an address. The man shook his head. “That’s too far for me,” he grumbled. ” Here’s a gold coin. You’ll get another if you drive quickly. ” “Very well, sir!” replied the man, “we’ll be there in an hour .” And after his passenger had gotten in, he turned the carriage and drove swiftly toward the Thames. Chapter 16. A cold rain began to fall, and the flickering lanterns looked ghostly in the creeping mist. The taverns were just closing, and men and women crowded in shadowy groups outside the doors. From some of the establishments came horrible laughter. In others, drunks were yelling and bellowing. Leaning back in the carriage, his hat pulled low over his brow, Dorian Gray looked with indifferent eyes at the misery and filth of the metropolis, and now and then he repeated to himself the words Lord Henry had spoken to him on the first day they had met : “To heal the soul through the senses and the senses through the soul .” Yes, that was the secret. He had tried it often and wanted to try again now. There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of iniquity where the memory of old sins could be erased by the madness of new ones. The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time, a thick, misshapen cloud stretched a long arm toward it and hid it. The gaslights grew sparser, and the streets narrower and darker. Once, the coachman lost his way and had to backtrack several hundred meters. The horse steamed as it splashed in the puddles. The side windows of the carriage were lined as if with gray flannel. To heal the soul through the senses and the senses through the soul—! How the words rang in his ears! His soul, at any rate, was mortally ill. Was it conceivable that the senses could heal it? Innocent blood had been shed. What atonement could there be for that? Alas! There was no atonement for that; But even if forgiveness was impossible, forgetting was, and he was determined to forget, to crush the matter, to destroy it like a snake that had bitten him. What right had Basil had to speak to him as he had? Who had appointed him judge over others? He had said things that were terrible, horrific, unbearable. On and on the carriage rolled, and it seemed to him that with every step it was moving slower. He threw open the sliding window and shouted to the driver behind him to go faster. The horrible hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned, and his delicate fingers fidgeted nervously. He beat the horse furiously with his walking stick. The driver laughed and cracked his whip. He laughed too, and the man on the box remained silent. The road seemed endless, and the streets stretched out like a black, tangled spiderweb. The monotony became unbearable, and as the fog thickened, he felt fear. Then they drove past lonely brickyards. The fog became more transparent here, and he could see the strange, gourd-shaped kilns with their orange, fan-like tongues of fire. A dog barked as they rattled past, and far away in the darkness, a sleepless seagull cried. The horse stumbled in some rut, shyed, and broke into a gallop. After a while, they left the dirt track and rattled again over bumpy cobblestones. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then, fantastic shadows could be seen like silhouettes behind a lit blind. He peered curiously at them. They moved like gigantic marionettes and gestured like living beings. A kind of hatred for them came over him. A dull anger boiled in his heart. As they turned a corner, a woman called out to them from an open doorway, and two men ran a few hundred meters behind the carriage. The coachman lashed out at them with his whip . They say passion whirls one’s thoughts around in circles. In any case, Dorian Gray’s gnawed lips endlessly repeated the finely chosen words of soul and senses, reshaping them again and again until he had found in them, so to speak, the fullest expression of his mood and, through the assent of reason, had justified passions that would have dominated his temperament even without such justification. From cell to cell of his brain, the single thought crept, and the wild lust for life, the most terrible of all human hungers, violently stirred every twitching nerve and muscle. The ugliness, which he had once hated because it gave reality to things, now became dear to him for the same reason. The ugly was the only reality. The raw shouting, the disgusting tavern, the vulgar violence of a dissolute life, the repulsive depravity of the thieves and criminals were, in the intense reality of their impressions , more full of life than all the graceful forms of art, the dreamy shadows of poetry. That was what he needed to forget. In three days he would be free. Suddenly, the man stopped abruptly at the end of a dark street . Above the low roofs and jagged chimneys of the houses rose the black masts of the ships. Wisps of white fog hung like ghostly sails over the shipyards. “Somewhere around here, isn’t it, sir?” the coachman’s gruff voice boomed through the sliding window. Dorian jumped up and looked around. “All right,” he replied, quickly getting out, giving the coachman the promised tip, and hurrying toward the quay. Here and there, a lantern flickered at the stern of a large merchant ship. The light flickered and shattered in the puddles. A red glint came from a steamer far offshore , loading coal. The slippery pavement looked like a rain-slicked rubber coat. He hurried on to the left, glancing back now and then to see if anyone was following him. After seven or eight minutes, he reached a small, wretched house squeezed between two large trading posts. A lamp burned in one of the gable windows. He stopped and knocked, as if by prior arrangement. After a short pause, he heard footsteps in the hallway and the unlocking of the door chain. The door opened cautiously, and he stepped inside without saying a word to the small, miserable figure who huddled in the shadows as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain, billowing in the strong draft he brought with him from the street. He pushed it aside and stepped into a long, low-ceilinged room that looked as if it had once been a third-rate dance hall. Brightly flickering gas flames, appearing dull and distorted in the fly-stained mirrors opposite, burned all around the walls. Greasy reflectors made of corrugated iron were mounted behind them, casting a glare. Dancing circles of light. The floor was strewn with ochre-colored sawdust , which in places had been trampled into clumps of dirt and on which black rings of spilled drinks were visible. A few Malaysians squatted with their legs crossed by a small coal stove, playing with bone dice and showing their whitish teeth as they spoke. In a corner, a sailor sprawled across the table, his head on his hands, and at the garishly painted sideboard that occupied an entire side of the room, two disheveled women stood sneering at an old man who, with an expression of disgust, was brushing the sleeves of his coat. “He thinks he ‘s got lice,” one of them laughed as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her, startled, and began to moan. At the far end of the room was a small staircase leading down to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up the three rickety steps, the heavy smell of opium hit him. He took a deep breath, his nostrils quivering with desire. Upon entering, a young man with neatly parted blond hair looked up at him, leaning over a lamp, lighting a long, thin pipe, and nodding hesitantly. “You here, Adrian?” Dorian whispered. ” Where else would I be?” he replied indifferently. ” Nobody wants to talk to me now. I thought you’d left England? Darlington won’t do anything to me. My brother paid the bill, after all. George doesn’t speak to me either… ” “I don’t care,” he added with a sigh. “As long as you ‘ve got the stuff, you don’t need friends. I think I’ve had too many friends .” Dorian flinched and looked around at the grotesque figures sprawled in such adventurous positions on the ragged mattresses. The crooked limbs, the open mouths, the staring, dull eyes exerted a powerful attraction on him. He knew the peculiar paradises in which they suffered, and the dull hells they were initiated into the secret of new pleasures. They were better off than he was. His thoughts held him prisoner. The memory gnawed at his soul like a terrible disease. From time to time, he thought he saw Basil Hallward’s eyes fixed upon him. But he felt he couldn’t stay here. Adrian Singleton’s presence bothered him. He wanted to be somewhere where no one knew him. He wanted to escape himself. ” I’m going to the other place,” he said after a pause. ” At the shipyard? ” “Yes. That crazy cat is sure to be there. They don’t want her here anymore.” Dorian shrugged. “I’m sick of women who love you. Women who hate you are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff is better there. Exactly the same.” I like it better there. Come on, let’s have a drink. I need something . “I don’t need anything,” the young man mumbled. ” Never mind.” Adrian Singleton got up sleepily and followed Dorian to the buffet. A
half-breed in a torn turban and shabby Ulster coat grinned a disgusting greeting at them as he placed two glasses and a bottle of brandy in front of them. The women staggered over and began to chatter. Dorian turned his back on them and said something quietly to Adrian Singleton. A grin like a crooked Malay dagger distorted the face of one of the women. “We’re very proud tonight,” she sneered, laughing. ” For God’s sake, don’t talk to me!” Dorian shouted, stamping his foot on the floor. “What do you want? Money? Here! But don’t say another word to me!” Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman’s watery eyes , then faded, leaving them dull and glassy. She threw her head back and greedily gathered the coins from the serving table. Her companion watched her enviously. “It’s no use,” Adrian Singleton sighed. “I don’t want to go back. What does it matter? I feel quite comfortable here. You’ll write to me if you need anything, won’t you?” Dorian asked after a while. “Maybe. Then good night! Good night!” the young man replied, striding up the steps and wiping his dry mouth with his handkerchief. Dorian strode to the door with a pained expression. As he drew back the curtain, a horrible laugh escaped the made-up lips of the woman who had taken his money. “There he goes, the soul-sweater!” she exclaimed in a hoarse, gurgling voice . “The devil take you!” he replied, “Don’t call me that!” She snapped her fingers. “What, you want to be called Prince Fairy-Tale-Stylish? That suited you, didn’t it?” she shrieked after him. At these words, the sleepy sailor jumped to his feet and looked wildly around. The sound of the front door slamming shut reached his ears. He rushed out as if to pursue him. Dorian Gray hurried along the quayside through the spray of rain. His encounter with Adrian Singleton had strangely affected him, and he pondered whether the demise of that young life was truly his doing, as Basil Hallward had so shamefully accused him of. He bit his lip, and for a few moments his eye grew sad. But ultimately, what did it matter to him? Life was too short to bear the sins of others. Everyone lived their own life and paid their own price. The only misfortune was that one had to pay so often for a single transgression. One had to pay again and again. In his bargain with man, fate never balanced his book of debts. Psychologists tell us that there are moments when the temptation to sin, or to what the world calls sin, so dominates a person’s nature that every fiber of the body, every cell of the brain, seems to be spurred by terrible forces. At such moments, men and women lose their free will. They move like automatons toward their dreadful end. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either dead or, if it still lives, it lives only to lend rebellion its allure and disobedience its particular charm . For all sins, as theologians never tire of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. When that lofty mind, the morning star of all evil, fell from heaven, he fell because he was a rebel. Insensitive, filled with only one thought of evil, with a darkened mind, with a soul yearning for rebellion, Dorian Gray hurried on, quickening his pace as he walked . But as he turned into a dark gateway, which had often enough served as a shortcut to the infamous place he now intended to visit, he suddenly felt himself grabbed from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrown against a wall and felt a brutal hand grip his throat . He fought like a madman for his life, and with a terrible effort, he managed to tear himself free from the constricting fingers. A moment later, he heard the crack of a revolver and saw the gleam of a polished barrel aimed directly at his head and the dark figure of a squat man before him. “What do you want?” he gasped. ” Be quiet,” said the man. “If you move, I’ll shoot you down! You’re crazy. What did I do to you?” ” You ruined Sibyl Vane’s life!” was the reply, ” and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is your fault.” I swore I’d kill you for this. I searched for you for years. But I had no leads, no trace. The two people who could have described you were… Dead. I knew nothing of you but the nickname she gave you. Tonight I overheard it by chance. Make your peace with God, for tonight you must die. Dorian Gray nearly fainted with fear. I never knew her , he stammered. I never heard of her. You’re mad. You’d better confess your sins, for as surely as my name is James Vane, so surely shall you die now. It was a dreadful moment. Dorian didn’t know what to say or do. On your knees! the man roared. I’ll give you one minute to make your peace— no more! I must board for India tonight, and I must have finished my work before then. One minute. No more! Dorian’s arms fell. Paralyzed with the fear of death, he didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, a fleeting hope flickered in his brain . Stop! he cried. How long has it been since your sister died? “Quickly, you say!” ” Eighteen years,” said the man. “Why do you ask? What do the years do?” “Eighteen years!” laughed Dorian, with a triumphant note in his voice. “Eighteen years! Take me under the lamppost and look at my face!” James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what he meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him out of the gateway. Dark and flickering as the windblown light was, it was enough to show him the terrible error into which he seemed to have fallen. For the face of the man he intended to kill displayed all the blossoming softness of youth, all the unblemished purity of youth. He seemed scarcely older than a youth of twenty, scarcely older than his sister had been when they had said goodbye to each other so many years before. It was clear that this was not the man who had ruined her life. He released his fist and staggered back. “My God, my God!” “He exclaimed, and I almost murdered you!” Dorian Gray took a deep breath. “You were close to committing a terrible crime, man,” he said, looking sternly at him. “Let this be a warning to you not to take revenge with your own hand . ” “Forgive me, sir!” stammered James Vane. “I was mistaken . A random word I overheard in that accursed tavern led me astray. You’d better go home and put your pistol away, or you’ll get yourself into trouble,” said Dorian, turning and walking slowly down the street. James Vane stood on the pavement, trembling from head to toe. After a short while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the rain-dampened wall moved out into the light and crept stealthily to his side. He felt a hand on his arm and turned around with a sudden jerk. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the buffet. “Why didn’t you kill him?” she hissed, bringing her weathered face close to his. “I knew you were following him when you ran out of Daly’s house. You fool! You should have killed him. He’s got a lot of money and he’s worse than anyone else. ” “He’s not the man I’m looking for,” he replied, “and I’m not looking for anyone’s money. I’m looking for a man’s life.” “The man whose life I’m looking for must be about forty now. That one was practically a boy. I thank God his blood isn’t on my hands.” The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Practically a boy!” she sneered. “Truly, man, it’s been almost eighteen years since Prince Fairy-Tale-Fair made me what I am today!” ” You’re lying!” cried James Vane. She raised her hands to heaven. “By God, I’m telling the truth!” she cried. ”
By God?” You can kill me if that’s not the case. He’s the worst of all who come here. They say he sold his soul to the devil for his handsome face. There are almost eighteen of them. Years since I first met him. He has changed little since then. I, all the more, she added with a sad blink. Do you swear to it? I swear it, came a hoarse echo from her disfigured mouth. But don’t betray me to him, she whimpered; I’m afraid of him. Give me a few pennies for lodging tonight. With a curse, he tore himself away from her and rushed to the street corner; but Dorian Gray had vanished. When he looked back, the woman was gone too. Chapter 17. A week later, Dorian Gray was sitting in the greenhouse at Selby Royal, chatting with the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who was among his guests with her husband, a weary-looking man of sixty . It was teatime, and the soft light from the large lamp, draped with a lace veil, that stood on the table illuminated the fine china and the chased silver service beside the Duchess. Her white hands busily busied themselves among the cups, and her full, red lips smiled at something Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry reclined in a silver silk-covered wicker chair and looked at them both. On a peach-colored divan, Lady Narborough sat pretending to listen to the Duke’s description of the latest Brazilian beetle he had added to his collection. Three young people in elegant evening dress offered the ladies teacakes. The party numbered twelve, and several more were expected the following day. “What are you two talking about?” asked Lord Henry, as he walked leisurely to the tea table and set down his cup. I hope Dorian told you about my plan to rename everything, Gladys. It’s a most lovely idea. But I don’t want to be renamed, Harry, replied the Duchess , looking at him with her lovely eyes. I’m quite happy with my name, and I think Mr. Gray can be happy with his, too. My dear Gladys, I wouldn’t change either name for anything in the world. They are both perfect. I’ve been thinking mostly about flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid for my buttonhole. It was a wonderfully speckled flower, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a fit of mental laziness, I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana, or some such dreadful name. It’s a sad truth, but we’ve lost the happy gift of giving things beautiful names. And names are everything. I never fight against deeds. My only fight is against words. That is why I detest vulgar realism in literature. The man who is capable of calling a spade a spade should be forced to pick one up himself. It is the only thing he would be good at. So what shall we call you, Harry? she asked. His name is Prince Paradox, said Dorian. That will be accepted at once! cried the Duchess. I don’t want to hear it, laughed Lord Henry, and sank down into an armchair. There is no escaping such a label . I reject the title. Princes cannot abdicate, fair lips warned him. So you want me to defend my throne? Yes. I speak the truths of tomorrow. I prefer the errors of today, she answered. You disarm me, Gladys! he cried, delighted by her boisterous mood. Your shield, Harry, not your spear. “I never fight against beauty,” he said, gesturing approvingly . “That’s your fault, Harry, believe me. You overestimate beauty.” “How can you say that?” “I admit I think it’s better to be beautiful than good. But then again, no one is more willing than I to admit that it’s better to be good than ugly.” So ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins? cried the Duchess. What about your orchid analogy? Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, a good Tory, mustn’t underestimate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues are what made England what it is today. So you don’t love your country? she asked. I live in it. So you can criticize it better. Would you prefer that I take on Europe’s opinion of our country? he asked. What do they say about us? That Tartuffe emigrated to England and opened a shop. Is that yours, Harry? I’ll give it to you. I can’t use it. It’s too true. You needn’t be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize themselves in their wanted posters. You’re so practical. More cunning than practical. When they close their accounts, they balance stupidity with wealth and vice with hypocrisy. And yet we have accomplished great things. Great things have been imposed upon us, Gladys. We have been able to bear their burden. Only as far as the stock exchange. She shook her head. I believe in our race! she cried. She represents the surviving scrawny overachiever. She has the makings of evolution. Decay excites me more. And art? she asked. A disease. Love? Imagination. Religion? A fashionable substitute for faith. You are a skeptic! Never! Skepticism is the beginning of faith. What are you? To define is to limit. Pass me the thread of Ariadne! Threads break. You would lose your way in the labyrinth. You make me confused. Let us speak of another. Our host is a delightful subject. Many years ago he was called the Prince Fairy-Tale-Fair. Ah! Don’t remind me of that! cried Dorian Gray. “Our landlord is quite dreadful tonight,” replied the Duchess, blushing. “He probably thinks Monmouth only married me for scientific reasons, because I’m the best specimen of a modern butterfly. ” “I hope he won’t pin you on pins, though, Duchess ,” laughed Dorian. ” Oh! My lady-in-waiting takes care of that, Mr. Gray, when she gets angry with me.” “And what does she get angry about, Duchess?” “The slightest things, Mr. Gray, you’ll believe it! Usually, when I get home ten minutes to nine and tell her I have to be dressed by eight-thirty. How unreasonable of her! You should give her the boot!” “I dare not, Mr. Gray. She invents my hats , you see. You don’t remember the hat I wore to Lady Hilstone’s garden party?” “Of course not, but it’s nice of you to pretend otherwise . Well, that one was made of nothing at all. All good hats are made of nothing.” “Like any good reputation, Gladys!” interrupted Lord Henry. “Every effect one achieves creates an enemy. One must be mediocre to be popular.” “Not among women,” said the Duchess, shaking her head; “and women rule the world. I maintain firmly that we cannot tolerate mediocrity. We women,” someone once said, ” love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you love at all.” ” It seems to me that we never do anything else,” whispered Dorian. “Ah! Mr. Gray, then you never truly love,” replied the Duchess, as if in mocking grief. “My dear Gladys!” cried Lord Henry. “How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition transforms every stimulus into art. Besides, every time one loves, it is the first time one has loved. The difference of the object does not alter the uniqueness of passion. It only makes it so.” stronger. We can only have one great experience in life at best, and the secret of life is to repeat that experience as often as possible. Even if it has wounded you, Harry? the Duchess asked after a pause. Especially if it has wounded you, Lord Henry replied. The Duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a strange look in her eyes. What do you say to that, Mr. Gray? she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. I always agree with Harry, Duchess. Even when he is wrong? Harry is never wrong, Duchess. And does his philosophy make you happy? I have never sought happiness. Who needs happiness? I have sought pleasure. And found it, Mr. Gray? Often. Too often. The Duchess sighed. I seek peace, she said, and if I don’t go and dress now, I won’t have it tonight. Let me get you some orchids, Duchess! Dorian shouted , jumped up, and went down into the greenhouse. ” You’re flirting with him quite shamefully,” Lord Henry said to his cousin. “You’d better watch yourself. He can be very captivating. If he couldn’t, there’d be no fighting.” “So Greeks fighting Greeks?” ” I’m on the side of the Trojans.” ” They fought for a woman. They were defeated. ” “There are worse things than captivity,” she replied. ” You’re galloping with a loose rein.” “Pace makes life,” was the answer. ” I’ll write that in my diary tonight.” ” What? ” “That once burned, always burned.” ” I’m not even singed. My wings are untouched.” ” You use them for everything but escape.” ” Courage has migrated from the men to the women.” “That’s a new experience for us.” “You have a rival.” “Who? ” He laughed. “Lady Narborough,” he whispered. “She worships him.” ” You frighten me.” The invocation of antiquity is always dangerous for us Romantics. Romantics! You have all the methods of science. Men have educated us. But not explained us. Give us a definition of our sex, she challenged him. Sphinxes without secrets. She looked at him, smiling. How long will Mr. Gray be gone, she said. We want to help him. I haven’t even told him the color of my dress yet. Pah! You must match your dress to his flowers, Gladys. That would be surrendering too soon. Romantic art begins with the climax. I must keep the possibility of retreat open. Like the Parthians? They found refuge in the desert. That wouldn’t be possible for me. Women aren’t always given a choice, he replied; but scarcely had he finished speaking when a suppressed groan came from the farthest corner of the greenhouse, followed by the dull thud of a heavy fall. Everyone jumped to their feet. The Duchess stood motionless with fright. With fearful eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the swaying palm fronds and found Dorian Gray lying on the floor in a deathlike faint, his face on the cool tiles. He was immediately taken to the blue drawing room and laid on a sofa. After a short while, he came to and looked around bewildered. ” What’s happened?” he asked. “Ah! Now I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?” He began to tremble. ” My dear Dorian,” replied Lord Henry, “it was a fainting spell. Nothing more. You must have overexerted yourself. You’d better not come down to dinner. I’ll stand in for you. ” “No, I want to come down,” he said, struggling to his feet . “I’d better come down! I mustn’t be alone.” He went to his room and changed his clothes. When he sat at the table, there was a wild, boisterous gaiety in his demeanor, but now and then A shiver of fear ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the greenhouse windows, he had glimpsed the lurking face of James Vane like a white sheet. Chapter 18. The next day he did not leave the house and spent most of the time in his room, shaken by a wild fear of death yet indifferent to life. The awareness of being hunted, surrounded, and tracked down began to completely control him. He jumped at the mere rustle of the curtains in the wind . The dead leaves swept against the leaded panes seemed to him to be his own wasted resolutions and impetuous pangs of conscience. When he closed his eyes, he saw the sailor’s face again, staring through the misted glass , and the terror seemed to lay its hand on his heart once more . But perhaps it was only his imagination that had conjured revenge from the night and conjured up the ghastly form of punishment . Real life was chaos, but there was a terrible logic in the imagination. Imagination chased pangs of conscience after the fleeting soles of sin. Imagination made every crime bear its deformed offspring within it. In the ordinary world of facts, the wicked were punished no more than the good were rewarded. Success belonged to the strong, misfortune made the weak succumb. That was all. Moreover, if a stranger had been prowling around the house, the servants or guards would have discovered him. If any footprints had been noticed in the flowerbeds, the gardeners would have reported them. Yes, it was all mere imagination. Sybil Vane’s brother had not returned to murder him. He had sailed away in his ship to drown in some Arctic sea. So he was safe from him. The man didn’t even know who he was, and couldn’t know. The mask of youth had saved him. And yet, if it had been a mere figment of his imagination, how terrible was the thought that conscience could conjure such horrific figments of the imagination and give them visible form and movement! What kind of life would he lead if, day and night, the shadows of his crime spied on him from dark corners, teased him from secret places, whispered in his ear when he sat at meals, and woke him with icy fingers when he slept! As this thought crept through his mind, he turned pale with terror, and the air suddenly seemed colder. Oh! In what a wild, mad hour had he murdered his friend! How blood-curdling was the memory of that scene! He saw it all again. Every gruesome detail came back to him with heightened horror . From the black dungeon of time , the image of his sin rose up, horrific and shrouded in scarlet. When Lord Henry entered at six o’clock, he found him sobbing, as if his heart were breaking. Only on the third day did he dare to go out. There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to restore his cheerfulness and zest for life. But it was not only the physical conditions of his surroundings that had brought about this change. His own nature had rebelled against the excess of fear that had sought to disturb and destroy his perfect peace. It is always like this with fine and subtly organized temperaments. Their violent passions can only be hammer or anvil. They either kill the person or they themselves perish. Superficial worries, superficial feelings of love can live on. Deep feelings of love and great worries perish from their own excess. Moreover, he was now convinced that he had been the victim of a frightened imagination, and looked back on his fears with a kind of pity and not insignificant contempt. After breakfast, he went for an hour’s walk in the garden with the Duchess . He went for a walk and then drove through the park to meet the hunting party. The fine, pearly frost lay like salt on the grass. The sky looked like an upturned goblet of blue metal. A thin layer of jelly fringed the shallow, reed-fringed pond. At the entrance to the pine wood, he spotted Sir Geoffrey Clouston, the Duchess’s brother, who was just ejecting two spent cartridges from his rifle. Dorian jumped out of the carriage, told the groom to take the team home, and walked through the withered bracken and scrubby undergrowth toward his guest. ” Good hunting, Geoffrey?” he asked. “Not great, Dorian. Most of the birds, I think, have fled to the fields. Perhaps it will be better this afternoon when we get to fresh ground.” Dorian strolled on beside him. The strong, aromatic air, the brown and red lights that shimmered through the woods, the rough shouts of the beaters that rang out from time to time, and the sharp crack of the rifles that followed—all this captivated him and filled him with a feeling of delightful freedom. He was ruled by a carefree happiness, by a magnificent indifference of joy. Suddenly, out of a thick clump of old grass, perhaps twenty meters in front of them, a hare burst forth, its black-speckled ears stiffly erect and its long hind legs flung forward. It darted toward a thicket of alders. Sir Geoffrey slammed his rifle to his shoulder, but there was something in the graceful movement of the animal that strangely delighted Dorian Gray, and he cried hastily, “Don’t shoot, Geoffrey! Let him go! ” “Nonsense, Dorian,” said his companion, laughing, and before the hare had even entered the thicket, he fired. Two cries were heard: the cry of a wounded hare, which is terrible, and the cry of a dying man, which is even more terrible. “God in heaven, I’ve hit a beater!” cried Sir Geoffrey . “What an ass that man is, running right into the line of fire!” ” Stop shooting!” he shouted in his loudest voice. “A man has been hit!” The gamekeeper came running up, a stick in his hand. “Where, sir? Where is he?” he cried. At that same instant, the shooting stopped all along the line. “Here!” answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, and ran towards the thicket . “Why in the world don’t you hold your men back any longer? I’ve had my fill of the hunt today.” Dorian watched them as they pushed into the alder bushes and bent the pliable branches aside. After a few moments, they reappeared and dragged a body into the daylight. He turned away in horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed him everywhere. He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was truly dead, and heard the head gamekeeper’s affirmative reply. It seemed to him as if the woods were suddenly teeming with faces. He heard the patter of countless feet and the muffled whispers of voices. A large pheasant with a copper-colored breast swooped through the branches overhead. After a few moments, which in his stunned silence seemed like endless, agonizing hours, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and turned. “Dorian,” said Lord Henry, “I think it best to call off the hunt for today. It wouldn’t look good to continue it. ” “I wish it were over for good, Harry,” he replied bitterly. ” The whole story is dreadful, and cruel is the man…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. ” Yes, alas,” replied Lord Henry. “He took the whole load to the chest. He must have died instantly. Come, let’s go home. ” They walked side by side towards the avenue and didn’t speak a word for about fifty meters. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry and said with a deep sigh, “This is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen. ” “What is it?” asked Lord Henry. “Oh! You mean this misfortune.” Dear boy, there’s nothing to be done about it. The man only had himself to blame. Why did he run into the line of fire? Besides, it’s none of our business. It’s certainly not pleasant for Geoffrey! It’s not a pretty sight to shoot down beaters. People immediately think you’re a Sunday hunter. And Geoffrey isn’t; in fact, he’s a brilliant shot. But there’s no point in discussing the accident any further. Dorian shook his head. It’s a bad omen, Harry. I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen to one of us. Perhaps to me, he added, and with a painful gesture, he covered his eyes with his hand. The older man laughed. The only terrible thing in the world is boredom, Dorian. That’s the only sin for which there is no forgiveness. But we’ll hardly suffer from it unless the company at the table makes a big fuss about it. I have to tell people that this subject is simply taboo. And omens— there’s no such thing as omens. Fate sends us no heralds. It is either too wise or too cruel. Besides, what on earth should happen to you, Dorian? You have everything a person could wish for here below. I know no one who wouldn’t gladly trade places with you. There’s no one I wouldn’t trade places with, Harry. Don’t laugh at that. I’m speaking the truth. That wretched peasant who died is better off than I am. I’m not afraid of death. It ‘s dying that frightens me. Its monstrous wings seem to encircle me in the leaden air. Lord of the sky, don’t you see a man lurking behind those trees, watching me? Lord Henry looked in the direction the gloved hand was trembling and pointing. Yes, he said, smiling, I see the gardener waiting for you. He’s probably going to ask you what kind of flowers you ‘d like on the table today. How ridiculously nervous you are today, dear boy! You must consult my doctor as soon as we get back to town. Dorian sighed with relief when he saw the gardener approaching. The man put his hand to his hat, glanced hesitantly at Lord Henry, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. “Her Grace has instructed me to await a reply,” he said under his breath. Dorian put the letter in his pocket. “Tell Her Grace I will come,” he said coolly. The man turned and strode briskly toward the house. “How women love to do dangerous things!” said Lord Henry, laughing. “That is one of their qualities I admire most . A woman is ready to flirt with anyone in the world, as long as other people are spectators.” ” How you like to say dangerous things, Harry! In this case, however, you are quite mistaken. I like the Duchess very much, but I do not love her. And the Duchess loves you very much, but she does not like you, so you two are a splendid match.” You’re gossiping, Harry, and this time there’s no reason for gossip at all. The basis of all gossip is an immoral reliability, said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. You’d expose any of us, Harry, just to make a joke. The world willingly lays itself on the altar, was the reply. I wish I could love! cried Dorian Gray, a deep, somber note in his voice. But it seems I’ve lost the embers of passion and forgotten the yearning of desire. I’m too self-absorbed. My own person has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It was foolish of me to come here at all. I think I’ll telegraph Harvey to repair the yacht. One is safe on a yacht. Safe from what, Dorian? You have restlessness. Why don’t you tell me what it is? You know I could help you. “I can’t tell you, Harry,” he replied sadly. “And it may all be in my imagination. The unfortunate incident has thrown me off balance. I have a terrible premonition that something similar will happen to me.” “What nonsense! I hope it is nonsense, but I can’t shake the feeling. Ah! Here comes the Duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see, we’re back, Madam Duchess. ” “I’ve heard all about it, Mr. Grey,” she replied. “Poor Geoffrey is in a terrible state. And they say you asked him not to shoot the hare.” “How strange!” ” Yes, it was very strange indeed. I can’t even say why I did it . A premonition, I suppose. He looked so cute, the little fellow. But I’m very sorry you were told about the man. It ‘s an embarrassing subject.” “It’s a boring subject,” Lord Henry interrupted. “It has no psychological value whatsoever.” If Geoffrey had done it deliberately , how interesting that would be! I’d like to meet someone who’s committed a real murder. How vile of you! cried the Duchess. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is feeling unwell again. He’s fainting. Dorian forcibly sat up and smiled. It’s nothing, Duchess , he murmured, my nerves are terribly frayed. Nothing more. I’m afraid I walked too much this morning. I didn’t hear what Harry said at all. Was it very good? You ‘ll have to tell me another time. I think it best to lie down for a while now. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? They had reached the grand staircase, whose steps led from the greenhouse up to the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the Duchess with his sleepy eyes. Are you very much in love with him? he asked. She didn’t answer for a while, but stood there gazing at the countryside. “I want to know for myself,” she said at last. He shook his head. “Knowing would be a disaster. Only uncertainty holds any allure for us. A fog makes things wonderful. You can lose your way in it. All roads end at the same point, my dear Gladys. What is it called? Disappointment. That was my debut in life,” she sighed. ” She came to you with a crown. I am tired of the strawberry leaves in our crown. It suits you well. Only in public. You would miss it,” said Lord Henry. ” I will not part with a single leaf.” Monmouth has ears. Old age is hard of hearing. Was he never jealous? I wish he were. And she laughed. Her teeth looked like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. Meanwhile, upstairs in his room, Dorian Gray lay on a sofa, terror in every twitching fiber of his body. Life had suddenly become such a heavy burden for him that he could no longer bear it. The gruesome death of the unfortunate driver, who had been gunned down in the thicket like a wild animal , seemed to foreshadow his own death. He had nearly fainted at the cynical joke Lord Henry had played in a moment of whimsy. At five o’clock he rang his servant and told him to pack his things for the night express to London and to order the carriage to the gate at eight-thirty . He was determined not to spend another night at Selby Royal . It was a place full of ill omens. Death stalked there in broad daylight. The grass of the wood was stained with blood. Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, informing him that he was going into town to consult the doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. As he placed the lines in an envelope, there was a knock at the door, and his servant announced that the Gamekeeper wished to speak with him. He frowned and bit his head. on his lips. Let him in, he murmured after some hesitation. As the man entered, Dorian took his checkbook from a drawer and placed it before him. You come, I presume, about this morning’s misfortune, Thornton, he said, picking up a quill. Yes, sir, answered the Gamekeeper. Was the poor fellow married? Did he have dependents to support? asked Dorian, his face weary. If so, I do not wish them to be left in need, and I will send them any sum you deem necessary. We do not know who it is, sir. That is why I took the liberty of coming. You do not know who it is? said Dorian distractedly. What do you mean ? Was it not one of your men? No, sir. I have never seen him in my life. He looks like a sailor, sir. The quill fell from Dorian Gray’s hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. A sailor! “He cried out. You said a sailor?” “Yes, sir. He looks like a sailor; tattooed on both arms and all that. Did they find anything on him?” Dorian asked, leaning forward and staring at the man with wide eyes. “Anything that might give his name? ” “Only money, sir—not much—and a six-barreled revolver. Nothing of a name. The man looks decent otherwise, but ordinary. We take him to be some kind of sailor.” Dorian jumped to his feet. A terrible hope flashed through his mind. He clung to it frantically. “Where is the body?” he cried . “Quickly, I must see it at once. It’s in an empty stable in the outbuilding, sir. People don’t want that sort of thing in their homes. They say a corpse brings bad luck.” ” In the outbuilding! Go ahead at once and wait for me there.” Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse. No. Better not. I want to go to the stables myself. It’ll be quicker. Barely a quarter of an hour later, Dorian was galloping down the long avenue as fast as he could. The trees seemed to fly past him in a ghostly parade , hurling wild shadows in his path. Once, the mare shied at a white post and almost threw him off. He cracked his riding crop around her neck. It sliced through the dark air like an arrow. Stones flew beneath her hooves. At last, he reached the farm building. Two men were loitering in the yard. He jumped out of the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. A light flickered in the last stable. Something seemed to tell him that the body lay there, and he quickly went to the door and put his hand on the handle. Then he paused for a moment and realized that he stood on the threshold of a discovery that would either give him a new life or destroy it. Then he pushed open the door and went in. On a pile of sacks in the far corner lay the dead body of a man, dressed in a rough blouse and blue trousers. A dirty handkerchief had been spread over his face. A cheap candle stuck in a bottle flickered ominously. Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt he couldn’t pull the handkerchief away with his own hand and called for one of the stable hands. ” Take that off your face. I want to see it,” he said, holding onto the doorpost. When the stable hand had done so, he took a step forward. A cry of joy escaped his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket was James Vane. He stood there for several minutes, staring at the dead body. When he rode home, his eyes were filled with tears, for he knew now that he was saved. Chapter 19. There’s no point in telling me you want to become good! Lord Henry called out and dipped his white fingers into a red one, with A copper bowl filled with rosewater. You are perfect. Please do n’t change. Dorian Gray shook his head. No, Harry, I have done too many horrible things in my life. I don’t want to do any more. I made a start yesterday with my good deeds. Where were you yesterday? In the country, Harry. I was all alone at a small inn. Dear boy, said Lord Henry, smiling, in the country anyone can be good. There are no temptations there. That is why people who don’t live in the city are so utterly uncivilized. Civilization is truly not easy to attain. There are only two ways to get to it. One is culture, the other corruption. The country folk have no opportunity for either , and so they remain stagnant in their development. Culture and corruption, repeated Dorian. I have known a bit of both . It seems terrible to me now that they are always found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I want to become different . I think I’ve changed. You haven’t told me yet what your good deed was. Or didn’t you say you did more than one? asked the friend, pouring a small pyramid of red strawberries onto his plate, which he sprinkled with white sugar from a shell-shaped sieve. I can tell you, Harry. It’s a story I couldn’t tell anyone else. I spared someone. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was very beautiful and bore a wonderful resemblance to Sibyl Vane. I think that was the first thing that attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you? How long ago that was! Well, Hetty wasn’t of our class, of course. She was a village beauty. But I really loved her. I know for certain that I loved her. All through this wonderful month of May we’ve had, I’ve gone there two or three times a week to see her. Yesterday she was waiting for me in a small orchard. Apple blossoms were snowing down on her hair, and she was laughing. This morning, at the crack of dawn, she was to come with me. Suddenly I decided to leave her just as I found her, like a flower. “I suppose the novelty of the sensation must have given you a veritable shiver of delight, Dorian,” Lord Henry interrupted. “But I can tell you the rest of your idyll. You gave her good lessons and broke her heart. That’s the beginning of your improvement.” “Harry, you’re dreadful! You mustn’t say such ugly things.” ” Hetty’s heart isn’t broken. Of course she cried and all that. But no shame has come upon her. She can go on living like Perdita in her garden among peppermint and marigolds. And pine for a faithless Florizel,” Lord Henry cried, laughing, and leaned back in his chair. “Dearest Dorian, you sometimes have the strangest boyish impulses.” Do you think that girl will ever be happy with someone of her own station? I suspect she’ll marry some crude carter or grinning peasant lout one fine day. Fair enough, then, that she has met and loved you will make her despise her husband, and she will be unhappy. From a moral point of view, then, I cannot find that your renunciation was of much value. Even as a beginning, it is pitiful. Besides, how can you know whether Hetty is not at this very moment swimming in a starlit millpond, encircled by lovely water lilies like Ophelia? I can’t stand it, Harry! You mock everything and then conjure up the most serious tragedies. I’m sorry now that I told you. Nor do I care what you say. I know I did the right thing. Poor Hetty! Riding past the homestead this morning, I saw her face as white as a A jasmine sprig by the window. We won’t talk about it any longer, and you won’t try to convince me that the first good deed I’ve done in years, the first small sacrifice I’ve ever made, is in fact some kind of sin. I want to mend my ways now. And I will. Tell me something about yourself. What’s going on in the city? I haven’t been to the club for days. People are still talking about poor Basil’s disappearance. I’d think they’d have had enough of it by now, said Dorian, pouring himself some wine and frowning slightly. My dear boy, they’ve only been talking about it for six weeks, and the English public really isn’t up to the mental effort of having more than one topic of conversation every three months. At least they’ve had some luck lately. They’ve had my own divorce proceedings and Alan Campbell’s suicide. Now they have the mysterious disappearance of an artist. At Scotland Yard they stubbornly maintain that the man in the gray Ulster who took the twelve o’clock train to Paris on the night of November 9th was poor Basil, while the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all. Presumably, in about two weeks, they’ll tell us that he was seen in San Francisco. It’s a difficult story, but of every person who disappears, it’s said that they were seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, possessing all the charms of the future world . “What do you think happened to Basil?” asked Dorian, holding his Burgundy up to the light and wondering how he could chat so calmly about the matter. “I haven’t the faintest idea. If Basil takes pleasure in playing hide-and-seek, that’s none of my business. If he ‘s dead, I don’t want to think about him anymore. Death is the only thing that frightens me. I hate it. ” “Why?” asked the younger man wearily. “Because,” said Lord Henry, bringing the gilded mesh opening of a smelling box to his nose, “because nowadays you can survive everything except death. Death and philistinism are the only two facts of the nineteenth century that cannot be explained away. We’ll have our coffee in the music room, Dorian. You must play Chopin for me. The man my wife ran off with played Chopin beautifully. Poor Victoria! I was quite fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course, married life is only a habit, a bad habit. But in the end, you regret losing even your worst habits. Perhaps you regret them most of all. They are such an essential part of our personality.” Dorian said nothing, but got up from the table, went into the next room, sat down at the piano, and let his fingers glide over the white and black ivory of the keys. When the coffee was brought, he stopped, looked over at Lord Henry, and said, “Harry, has it never occurred to you that Basil might have been murdered?” Lord Henry yawned. Basil was very popular and always wore only one Waterbury watch. Why would anyone have wanted to murder him? He wasn’t clever enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius as a painter. But a person can paint like Velázquez and yet be as dull as can be. In fact, Basil was quite dull. He only interested me once, and that was when, many years ago, he confessed to me that he adored you so impetuously and that you were the guiding principle of his art. ” I liked Basil very much,” said Dorian, a sad note in his voice. “But doesn’t the public claim he was murdered?” “Pah, it’s in some newspapers. It doesn’t seem the least likely to me. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil wasn’t the type of person to go there. He wasn’t curious.” That was his chief fault. What would you say, Harry, if I assured you that I murdered Basil? the younger one asked. He watched him closely after saying this. My dear friend, I would say that you are posing for a character that doesn’t suit you. Every crime is vulgar, just as everything vulgar is a crime. You don’t have the gift, Dorian, of committing murder. I should be sorry if I wounded your vanity with this opinion, but I assure you, it is true. Crime is the exclusive prerogative of the lower classes. I don’t mean to criticize them at all. I simply suspect that crime is to them what art is to us: simply a method of obtaining extraordinary sensations. A method of obtaining sensations? So you think that a person who has once committed murder would be capable of repeating the same crime? Don’t tell me that. Oh! “Everything becomes a pleasure if you do it too often!” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “That’s one of life’s most important secrets. After all, I believe that murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot discuss after dinner . But let’s leave poor Basil for now. I wish I could believe that he met such a romantic end as you suggest; but I cannot. I rather think he fell into the Seine from an omnibus, and the conductor covered up the scandal. Yes, I really think that’s how he ended up. I can see him now, lying on his back beneath the dark green water, with the heavy barges floating overhead, and long strands of seaweed entangled in his hair. You know, I don’t think he would have done much good. For the last ten years, his painting has n’t been famous.” Dorian sighed, and Lord Henry strolled across the room , amusing himself by preening the head of a curious Javanese parrot , a large, grey-feathered bird with a red crest and tail, balancing on a bamboo pole. When his pointed fingers touched it, the white nictitating membrane of its eyelids fell over its black, glassy eyes, and it began to sway. “Yes,” he continued, turning and taking his handkerchief from his pocket, “his painting hasn’t been very good lately. It seemed to me that it had lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you two ceased to be intimate friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What drove you apart? I suppose he bored you. If that was the case, then he never forgave you . That’s usually the case with boring people. What, by the way, became of that wonderful portrait he made of you ?” I don’t remember ever seeing it again since it was finished. Ah! Now I recall you telling me years ago that you’d sent it to Selby and it had somehow been stolen or lost along the way. Did you never get it back? What a pity! It was practically a masterpiece. I remember wanting to buy it. I wish I had it now. It was from Basil’s best period. Since then, all his work has been that peculiar mixture of bad painting and good intentions which entitles a man to be called a British artist of some importance. Is that why you didn’t advertise it? You ought to have. ” I don’t remember,” Dorian replied. ” I think I did. But honestly, I never liked the picture. I’m quite sorry I ever sat down to see it. The very memory of it is horrifying. Why are you talking about it?” It always reminded me of some strange lines from a play—Hamlet, I think—what are they called? —Like the image of a grief, A face without a heart. Yes, that’s what it looked like. Lord Henry laughed. “If a person treats life artistically, then their brain is their heart,” he replied, and sank down into an armchair. Dorian Gray shook his head and struck a few gentle chords on the piano. “Like the portrait of a sorrow, a face without a heart,” he repeated, “a face without a heart.” The older friend sat back and looked over at him with half-closed eyes. “By the way, Dorian,” he said after a pause, “what good is it for a man to gain the whole world and—what ‘s that passage again?—lose his own soul?” The music stopped sharply, and Dorian Gray jumped to his feet and stared at his friend. “Why do you ask me that, Harry?” ” But best boy,” said Lord Henry, raising his eyebrows in wonder, “I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer. That’s all.” I was walking through Hyde Park last Sunday, and near Marble Arch there was a small group of shabby-looking people listening to some common street preacher. As I passed, I heard the man shout this question to his listeners. It moved me quite dramatically. London is very rich in strange effects of this kind. A rainy Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a raincoat, a circle of sickly pale faces under the undulating canopy of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill, hysterical lips—it was really very good in its own way; there was a certain suggestive power to it. I thought at first of telling the prophet that art has a soul, but man does not, but I’m afraid he wouldn’t have understood me. No, Harry. The soul is a terrible certainty. It can be bought and sold and exchanged. It can be poisoned or perfected. There is a soul in each of us. I know it. Are you quite sure of that, Dorian? Quite sure. Pah! Then it must be imagination. The things we are quite certain of are never true. That is the peril of faith and the wisdom of romance. How solemn you are! Don’t be so earnest. What do you or I have to do with the superstitions of our time? No: we have given up our faith in the soul. Play me something . Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and while you play, tell me in a low voice how you have managed to preserve your youth. You must have some secret remedy. I am only ten years older than you, and I am wrinkled and withered and yellow. You are indeed wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more delightful than tonight. You remind me of the day I first saw you. You were rather snarky, very shy, and quite extraordinary. Since then, of course, you’ve changed, but not in appearance. I wish you’d tell me your secret. To get my youth back, I’d do anything in the world except do gymnastics, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! Nothing compares to it . It’s absurd to babble about the ignorance of youth. The only people whose opinions I listen to with any respect now are those much younger than I am. They seem to be far ahead of me. Life has revealed its last miracle to them. As for the older ones, I always disagree with them. I do it on principle. If you ask someone for their opinion on something that happened yesterday , they’ll give you a solemn account of the opinions that were in vogue in 1820, when people wore high cravats, believed everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely is the role you ‘re playing! I’d like to know if Chopin wrote it in Majorca , while the sea lapped against his villa and the salty foam splashed against the windowpanes. It’s delightfully romantic. What What a blessing it is that there is at least one art that isn’t made of imitation. Don’t stop. I need music tonight. It seems to me as if you are young Apollo and I am Marsyas listening to you. I have my own troubles, Dorian, of which not even you know. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I am sometimes quite alarmed by my own candor. Ah, Dorian, how fortunate you are! What a delicious life you have had! You have drunk deep from every spring! You have crushed the grapes on your palate. Nothing has escaped you. And all of it has been nothing more to you than a sound of music. It hasn’t harmed you. You are still the same today. I am not the same, Harry. Yes, you are the same. I am curious to see how your life will continue . Don’t spoil it by renunciation. Now you are a perfect type. Don’t make yourself feel imperfect. You are now completely without fault. You don’t need to shake your head: you know you are. And then, Dorian, don’t deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a matter of nerves and muscles and slowly built cells where thoughts dwell and passions pursue their dreams. You tell yourself you ‘re standing firm and strong. But a random shade of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular scent you once loved that awakens hidden memories, a line from a forgotten poem that suddenly comes back to you, a few rows of notes from a piece of music you haven’t played in ages—I tell you, Dorian, our lives depend on such things. Browning wrote about it somewhere, but our own senses tell us for sure anyway. There are moments when the scent of white lilac suddenly flashes through my mind, and I must relive the strangest month of my existence. I wish I could trade places with you, Dorian. The world has ranted about both of us, but it has always admired you. It always will. You are precisely the type of person our age is searching for and fears it has found . I am so glad you never did anything, never carved a statue or painted a picture or produced anything of yourself . Life was your art. You set yourself to music . Your days are your sonnets. Dorian got up from the piano and ran a hand through his hair. Yes, life has been heavenly, he muttered to himself, but I won’t be continuing this life, Harry. And you shouldn’t say such highfalutin things to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think if you did, even you would turn away from me. You’re laughing. Don’t laugh! Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back to the piano and play me that nocturne again. Look at the large honey-colored moon hanging in the dark air. It’s waiting for you to charm it, and if you play, it will draw closer to earth. You won’t? Then let’s go to the club. It’s been a delightful evening, and we must end it delightfully. At White’s, someone is eager to meet you —young Lord Pool, the eldest son of Bournemouth. He’s already copying your ties and has been begging me to introduce him. He ‘s quite charming and reminds me a bit of you. ” I hope not,” said Dorian, with a wistful look in his eyes. “But I’m tired tonight, Harry. I’m not going to the club again. It’s almost eleven, and I want to go to bed early.” ” Stay a while longer; you’ve never played so beautifully as tonight. There was something in your touch; it was quite wonderful. It had more expression than I’ve ever heard you play. ” “That’s because I want to become good now,” he answered, smiling. I am a bit different. You can’t become anyone else for me, Dorian, said Lord Henry. You And I, we’ll always be friends. But once you poisoned me with a book. I should n’t forgive that. Harry, promise me you ‘ll never lend that book to anyone again. It’s a bad habit. My dear boy, you’re really starting to preach. You
‘ll soon be running around like a convert and a revivalist preacher, warning people about all the sins you ‘ve grown tired of. But you’re far too delightful for that. Besides, it’s no use. You and I are what we are, and we’ll always be what we’ll be. And being poisoned by a book, there’s just no such thing. Art has no influence on action. It destroys the impulse to act. It is, in a glorious way, infertile. The books the world calls immoral are books that hold up to the world its own shame. Nothing more. But we won’t argue about literature. Come back tomorrow! I’m riding out at eleven. We can ride together, and afterwards I’ll take you to Lady Branksome’s for breakfast. She’s a delightful woman, and she wants your advice on some tapestries she’s planning to buy. Don’t forget to come. Or shall we have breakfast at our little duchess’s? She says she hardly ever sees you anymore. Perhaps you’ve had enough of Gladys? I thought so. Her quick tongue gets on your nerves. Anyway, you’ll be here at eleven. Must I really come, Harry? Absolutely. The park is glorious now. I don’t think there have been any lilacs like that since the year I met you. Good. I’ll be here at eleven then, said Dorian. Good night, Harry! When he was at the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and went. Chapter 20. It was a wonderful night, so warm that he hung his coat over his arm and didn’t even put on his silk scarf. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two gentlemen in formal attire passed him. He heard one whisper to the other: That’s Dorian Gray. He remembered how flattering it had once been to be pointed at, or stared at, or talked about. Now he was tired of hearing his own name. Half the charm of the small village where he had been so often recently was that no one there knew who he was. He had often told the girl he had lured to love that he was poor, and she had believed it. He had once told her that he was bad, and she had laughed at him and replied that bad people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had!—just like the song of a thrush. And how pretty she had looked in her calico dresses and large hats! She knew nothing, but she possessed everything he had lost. When he arrived home, his servant was waiting for him. He sent him to bed and threw himself down on the sofa in the library and began to ponder some of what Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a fierce longing for the spotless purity of his boyhood—his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew he had defiled himself, filled his mind with corruption, and burdened his conscience with horror; he had been a bad influence on others and had taken a terrible pleasure in it; and of the human lives that had crossed his, they were the purest and most promising that he had brought to disgrace. But was there nothing to make right? Was there no hope left for him? Ah! In what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the image might take upon itself the burden of his days and that he might preserve for himself the untarnished radiance of eternal youth ! That was the cause of his entire misguided life. It would have been It would have been better for him if every sin in his life had brought with it its certain and swift punishment. In punishment lay purification. Not “Forgive us our sins,” but “Chase us for our misdeeds” should be man’s prayer to an all-just God . The mirror, framed with curious carvings, which Lord Henry had given him so many years ago, stood on the table, and the white-limbed gods of love laughed all around it as they always had. He picked it up, as he had done on that dreadful night when he had first noticed the change in the fateful image, and gazed with despairing, tear-filled eyes at its smooth surface. Once, someone who had adored him had written him a mad letter, which ended: “The world has changed because you were made of ivory and gold. The curve of your lips rewrites world history.” These sentences came back to him, and he repeated them again and again. Then he hated his own beauty and hurled the mirror to the ground, shattering it into silver shards beneath his foot. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and youth for which he had longed. Had it not been for these two, he might well have kept his life spotless. Beauty had been nothing but a mask for him, youth nothing but a deception. What was youth at its best? A green, immature time, a time of shallow moods and sick ideas. Why had he donned its garb? Youth had ruined him. It was better not to dwell on the past. He had to think of himself and his future. James Vane lay in an unmarked grave in the churchyard at Selby. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that had been forced upon him. The excitement over Basil Hallward’s disappearance would soon subside. It had already begun to fade. Of that he was quite certain. It wasn’t, in fact, Basil Hallward’s death that weighed most heavily on his mind. It was the living death of his own soul that robbed him of his peace. Basil had painted the portrait that had destroyed his life. He could n’t forgive him for that. The portrait was to blame for everything. Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, things he had nevertheless endured patiently. The murder had been merely the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. It was his own free choice. That was none of his business. A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he had been waiting for. Surely he had already begun it. At least he had spared one innocent being. Never again would he tempt innocence . He wanted to be good. Thinking of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the picture in the locked room upstairs had changed. Surely it couldn’t be as ugly as it had been. Perhaps , if his life were now pure, he might be able to erase every trace of base passions from his face. Perhaps the traces of evil had already vanished. He wanted to go upstairs and see. He took the lamp from the table and crept up the stairs. As he unlocked the door, a cheerful smile flitted across his strangely youthful face and lingered on his lips for a moment. Yes, he wanted to be good, and the horrible thing he had hidden would then no longer be a terror to him. It seemed to him as if this burden had already been lifted from him. He went calmly inside, locked the door behind him as was his custom , and drew the purple curtain away from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation escaped his lips. He could see no change, except that there was a cunning look in his eyes and around his mouth the pinched expression of a hypocrite. The thing was still Still hideous, perhaps even more hideous than before—and the scarlet dew that stained his hand seemed to shine brighter, to look more like freshly spilled blood. He trembled. Had it been mere vanity that had driven him to do something good for once? Or the craving for a novel sensation, as Lord Henry had suggested with his mocking laugh? Or the desire to play a part, which sometimes makes us do things nobler than ourselves? Or perhaps all of these things together? And why was the red stain now larger than it had been before? It seemed to have spread like a dreadful leprosy across his wrinkled fingers . There was blood on the painted feet, as if it had dripped from his hands—blood even on the hand that had not wielded the knife . Confess? Did this mean that he should confess? Forsake himself and be executed? He laughed. He felt the idea was monstrous. Moreover, even if he confessed, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything that belonged to him was destroyed. He himself had burned what remained below . The world would simply say he was insane. They would lock him up somewhere if he persisted with his story… Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to do public penance. It was a God who called upon people to confess their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing else he could do would purify him until he had confessed his sin himself. His sin? He shrugged. Basil Hallward’s death seemed insignificant to him. He thought of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror. This mirror of his soul into which he gazed. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing else in his renunciations? There had been something else. He believed it, at least. But who could say for sure…? No. There had been nothing more to it. Out of vanity, he had spared her. Out of hypocrisy, he had worn the mask of kindness. Out of curiosity, he had attempted the act of self-denial. He realized that now. But this murder—was it to haunt him for the rest of his life? Was he to always have to bear the burden of his past? Was he truly to confess? Never. There was only one piece of evidence against him. The portrait itself—that was proof. He wanted to destroy it. Why had he kept it for so long? Once, it had been a pleasure for him to observe its changes, its aging. Lately, he hadn’t felt that pleasure anymore. It had given him sleepless nights. When he was out of the house, he was filled with a deathly fear that strangers might see the portrait. It
had seeped melancholy into his passions. The mere memory of it had spoiled many a moment of joy. It had taken on the role of his conscience. Yes, it had been his conscience. He wanted to destroy it. He looked around and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it often until there wasn’t a speck left on it. It was bright and glittering. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter’s work and all that it meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous inner life, and as soon as these horrible warnings were gone, he would have peace. He seized it and pierced the portrait with it. There was a scream and a fall. The scream, with its death rattle, was so terrible that the servants awoke in terror and rushed from their chambers. Two gentlemen passing by in the square below stopped and peered up at the stately house. They walked on until they met a policeman and then turned back with him. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the gable windows, the whole house was dark. Dark. After some time, he walked away, stood beneath a nearby gateway, and waited. “Whose house is this, Sergeant?” asked the elder of the two gentlemen. “Mr. Dorian Gray,” replied the constable. They looked at each other, continued walking, and smiled. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton’s uncle. Inside the servants’ quarters, the half-dressed attendants spoke to one another in low whispers. Old Mrs. Leaf wept and wrung her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour, he fetched the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs with them. They knocked, but there was no answer. They called out. All was silent. Finally, after unsuccessfully trying to force the door open, they climbed onto the roof and lowered themselves onto the balcony. The glass door gave way slightly; its bolts were old. As they entered, they saw on the wall a wonderful portrait of their master, just as they had last seen him, in all the splendor of his delightful youth and beauty. On the floor lay a dead man in a formal suit, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and ugly in face. Only when they examined the rings did they recognize his identity. You have just listened to Oscar Wilde’s “The Picture of Dorian Gray”—a novel that reveals with captivating elegance the susceptibility of humankind to temptation and the price of eternal youth. Beauty, intellect, and wit dazzle; yet conscience speaks in secret, like cracks in a canvas. Wilde’s aphorisms gleam, his characters wound, his London is a mirror and a masquerade ball. If you enjoyed this reading , please recommend it and share your thoughts: Which scene moved you the most? We look forward to your feedback and wish you continued memorable listening experiences with German audiobooks.
Tauche ein in Oscar Wildes zeitlosen Klassiker „Das Bildnis des Dorian Gray“ – eine düstere, elegante Reise durch Schönheit, Laster und moralischen Verfall. 🎧📖 Perfekt als hochwertiges Hörbuch auf Deutsch für alle, die psychologische Tiefe, scharfe Gesellschaftssatire und einen Hauch Übernatürliches lieben.
✨ Was dich erwartet:
• Fesselnde Lesung in klarer Audioqualität – ideal fürs Pendeln, Entspannen oder Einschlafen.
• Meisterhafte Sprache: Wilde verbindet Witz, Ironie und poetische Bilder.
• Themen: Narzissmus, Dekadenz, Kunst vs. Moral, Jugendkult, Doppelleben.
• Figuren: Dorian Gray, Lord Henry Wotton, Basil Hallward – ein zerstörerisches Dreieck aus Charme, Einfluss und Schuld.
• Zeitlos relevant: Ein Spiegel moderner Schönheitsideale, Social-Media-Perfektion und ethischer Grauzonen.
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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:41 Chapter 1.
00:34:36 Chapter 2.
01:14:31 Chapter 3.
01:47:40 Chapter 4.
02:26:47 Chapter 5.
02:58:39 Chapter 6.
03:18:53 Chapter 7.
03:50:03 Chapter 8.
04:27:46 Chapter 9.
04:55:16 Chapter 10.
05:17:39 Chapter 11.
06:07:02 Chapter 12.
06:26:18 Chapter 13.
06:43:59 Chapter 14.
07:15:24 Chapter 15.
07:38:22 Chapter 16.
08:00:43 Chapter 17.
08:14:56 Chapter 18.
08:38:14 Chapter 19.
09:04:26 Chapter 20.
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