The Picture of Dorian Gray
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Oscar Wilde >> The Picture of Dorian Gray
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"I know that look. It always depresses me."
"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not
interest me."
"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean
about other people's tragedies."
"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she
came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is
absolutely and entirely divine. I go to see her act every night of
my life, and every night she is more marvellous."
"That is the reason, I suppose, that you will never dine with me now.
I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but
it is not quite what I expected."
"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have
been to the Opera with you several times."
"You always come dreadfully late."
"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play, even if it is only for
an act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the
wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am
filled with awe."
"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?"
He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and
tomorrow night she will be Juliet."
"When is she Sibyl Vane?"
"Never."
"I congratulate you."
"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in
one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she
has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know
all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me!
I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29]
world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our
passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes
into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and
down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks.
He was terribly excited.
Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How
different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil
Hallward's studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne
blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept
his Soul, and Desire had come to meet it on the way.
"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry, at last.
"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I
have not the slightest fear of the result. You won't be able to
refuse to recognize her genius. Then we must get her out of the
Jew's hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two
years and eight months--from the present time. I will have to pay
him something, of course. When all that is settled, I will take a
West-End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world
as mad as she has made me."
"Impossible, my dear boy!"
"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in
her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it
is personalities, not principles, that move the age."
"Well, what night shall we go?"
"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays
Juliet to-morrow."
"All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil."
"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before
the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she
meets Romeo."
"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea.
However, just as you wish. Shall you see Basil between this and
then? Or shall I write to him?"
"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather
horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful
frame, designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of it
for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I
delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don't want to
see him alone. He says things that annoy me."
Lord Henry smiled. "He gives you good advice, I suppose. People are
very fond of giving away what they need most themselves."
"You don't mean to say that Basil has got any passion or any romance
in him?"
"I don't know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has
romance," said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his eyes. "Has he
never let you know that?"
"Never. I must ask him about it. I am rather surprised to hear it.
He is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a
Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that."
"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into
[30] his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life
but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only
artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad
artists. Good artists give everything to their art, and consequently
are perfectly uninteresting in themselves. A great poet, a really
great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior
poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the
more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book
of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the
poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they
dare not realize."
"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting some
perfume on his handkerchief out of a large gold-topped bottle that
stood on the table. "It must be, if you say so. And now I must be
off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-
by."
As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he began
to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as
Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused
him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased
by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always
enthralled by the methods of science, but the ordinary subject-matter
of science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had
begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.
Human life,--that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.
There was nothing else of any value, compared to it. It was true
that as one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and
pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass, or keep
the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the
imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams.
There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to
sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass
through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet,
what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world
became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the
emotional colored life of the intellect,--to observe where they met,
and where they separated, at what point they became one, and at what
point they were at discord,--there was a delight in that! What
matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for
any sensation.
He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into
his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his,
musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul
had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a
large extent, the lad was his own creation. He had made him
premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life
disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the
mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away.
Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of
literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the
intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and
assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its [31] way, a real work
of art, Life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has,
or sculpture, or painting.
Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it
was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he
was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With
his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder
at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He
was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose
joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense
of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.
Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There was
animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.
The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could
say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?
How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists!
And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various
schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was
the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The
separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of
spirit with matter was a mystery also.
He began to wonder whether we should ever make psychology so absolute
a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us.
As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood
others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name
we gave to our mistakes. Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode
of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the
formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us
what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive
power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as
conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our
future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done
once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.
It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method
by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions;
and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed
to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl
Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was
no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the
desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very
complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous
instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the
imagination, changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to
be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more
dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived
ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives
were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that
when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really
experimenting on ourselves.
While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the
door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress
[32] for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The
sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses
opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky
above was like a faded rose. He thought of Dorian Gray's young
fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end.
When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a
telegram lying on the hall-table. He opened it and found it was from
Dorian. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to
Sibyl Vane.
CHAPTER IV
[...32] "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry
on the following evening, as Hallward was shown into a little private
room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three.
"No, Harry," answered Hallward, giving his hat and coat to the bowing
waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don't
interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons
worth painting; though many of them would be the better for a little
whitewashing."
"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him
as he spoke.
Hallward turned perfectly pale, and a curious look flashed for a
moment into his eyes, and then passed away, leaving them dull.
"Dorian engaged to be married!" he cried. "Impossible!"
"It is perfectly true."
"To whom?"
"To some little actress or other."
"I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible."
"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my
dear Basil."
"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry,"
said Hallward, smiling.
"Except in America. But I didn't say he was married. I said he was
engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a
distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at
all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was
engaged."
"But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would be
absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."
"If you want him to marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is
sure to do it then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing,
it is always from the noblest motives."
"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied to
some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his
intellect."
"Oh, she is more than good--she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry,
sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is
beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. [33]
Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal
appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, among
others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his
appointment."
"But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked Hallward, walking up and
down the room, and biting his lip. "You can't approve of it, really.
It is some silly infatuation."
"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd
attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air
our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people
say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a
personality fascinates me, whatever the personality chooses to do is
absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a
beautiful girl who acts Shakespeare, and proposes to marry her. Why
not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less interesting.
You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to
marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are
colorless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain
temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their
egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more
than one life. They become more highly organized. Besides, every
experience is of value, and, whatever one may say against marriage,
it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make
this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then
suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful
study."
"You don't mean all that, Harry; you know you don't. If Dorian
Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You
are much better than you pretend to be."
Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of
others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of
optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we
credit our neighbor with those virtues that are likely to benefit
ourselves. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account,
and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may
spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the
greatest contempt for optimism. And as for a spoiled life, no life
is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a
nature, you have merely to reform it. But here is Dorian himself.
He will tell you more than I can."
"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said
the boy, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings,
and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never
been so happy. Of course it is sudden: all really delightful things
are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking
for all my life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and
looked extraordinarily handsome.
"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I
don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your
engagement. You let Harry know."
"And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord
[34] Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder, and smiling as he
spoke. "Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is
like, and then you will tell us how it all came about."
"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian, as they took their
seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this.
After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I had some dinner at that
curious little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street, you introduced me
to, and went down afterwards to the theatre. Sibyl was playing
Rosalind. Of course the scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando
absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen her! When she came on in
her boy's dress she was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-colored
velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered hose,
a dainty little green cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel,
and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me
more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra
figurine that you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered
round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her
acting--well, you will see her to-night. She is simply a born
artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that
I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away with my
love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance
was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting
together, suddenly there came a look into her eyes that I had never
seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each
other. I can't describe to you what I felt at that moment. It
seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point
of rose-colored joy. She trembled all over, and shook like a white
narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands.
I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't help it. Of
course our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her
own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is
sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than a
year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil,
haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in
Shakespeare's plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have
whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind
around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth."
"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward, slowly.
"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry.
Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I
shall find her in an orchard in Verona."
Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? and what
did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it."
"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I
did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and
she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the
whole world is nothing to me compared to her."
"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry,--"much more
practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to
say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."
[35] Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have
annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring
misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that."
Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with
me," he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason
possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking
any question,--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always
the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women,
except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes
are not modern."
Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite
incorrigible, Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry
with you. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who
could wrong her would be a beast without a heart. I cannot
understand how any one can wish to shame what he loves. I love Sibyl
Vane. I wish to place her on a pedestal of gold, and to see the
world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An
irrevocable vow. And it is an irrevocable vow that I want to take.
Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am
with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different
from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch
of Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong,
fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories."
"You will always like me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "Will you have
some coffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne,
and some cigarettes. No: don't mind the cigarettes; I have some.--
Basil, I can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette.
A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is
exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can you want?--
Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all
the sins you have never had the courage to commit."
"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried Dorian Gray, lighting his
cigarette from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had
placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When you see
Sibyl you will have a new ideal of life. She will represent
something to you that you have never known."
"I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a sad look in his
eyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid that
there is no such thing, for me at any rate. Still, your wonderful
girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than
life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me.--I am so sorry,
Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must
follow us in a hansom."
They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing.
Hallward was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He
could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better
than many other things that might have happened. After a few
moments, they all passed down-stairs. He drove off by himself, as
had been arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little
brougham in front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him.
[36] He felt that Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he
had been in the past. His eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring
streets became blurred to him. When the cab drew up at the doors of
the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.
CHAPTER V
[...36] For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night,
and the fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear
to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box
with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and
talking at the top of his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than
ever. He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda and had been met
by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At
least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand,
and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a
real genius and gone bankrupt over Shakespeare. Hallward amused
himself with watching the faces in the pit. The heat was terribly
oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with
petals of fire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats
and waistcoats and hung them over the side. They talked to each
other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry
painted girls who sat by them. Some women were laughing in the pit;
their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the
popping of corks came from the bar.
"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry.
"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she is
divine beyond all living things. When she acts you will forget
everything. These common people here, with their coarse faces and
brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage.
They sit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills
them to do. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She
spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and
blood as one's self."
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