English
AstheyenteredtheysawDorianGray.Hewasseatedatthepiano,withhisbacktothem,turningoverthepagesofavolumeofSchumann’s“ForestScenes.”
“Youmustlendmethese,Basil,”hecried.“Iwanttolearnthem.Theyareperfectlycharming.”
“Thatentirelydependsonhowyousitto-day,Dorian.”
“Oh,Iamtiredofsitting,andIdon’twantalife-sizedportraitofmyself,”answeredthelad,swingingroundonthemusic-stoolinawilful,petulantmanner.
WhenhecaughtsightofLordHenry,afaintblushcolouredhischeeksforamoment,andhestartedup.
“Ibegyourpardon,Basil,butIdidn’tknowyouhadanyonewithyou.”
“ThisisLordHenryWotton,Dorian,anoldOxfordfriendofmine.Ihavejustbeentellinghimwhatacapitalsitteryouwere,andnowyouhavespoiledeverything.”
“Youhavenotspoiledmypleasureinmeetingyou,Mr.Gray,”saidLordHenry,steppingforwardandextendinghishand.
“Myaunthasoftenspokentomeaboutyou.
Youareoneofherfavourites,and,Iamafraid,oneofhervictimsalso.”
“IaminLadyAgatha’sblackbooksatpresent,”answeredDorianwithafunnylookofpenitence.
“IpromisedtogotoaclubinWhitechapelwithherlastTuesday,andIreallyforgotallaboutit.
Weweretohaveplayedaduettogether—threeduets,Ibelieve.Idon’tknowwhatshewillsaytome.Iamfartoofrightenedtocall.”
“Oh,Iwillmakeyourpeacewithmyaunt.Sheisquitedevotedtoyou.
AndIdon’tthinkitreallymattersaboutyournotbeingthere.
Theaudienceprobablythoughtitwasaduet.
WhenAuntAgathasitsdowntothepiano,shemakesquiteenoughnoisefortwopeople.”
“Thatisveryhorridtoher,andnotverynicetome,”answeredDorian,laughing.
LordHenrylookedathim.Yes,hewascertainlywonderfullyhandsome,withhisfinelycurvedscarletlips,hisfrankblueeyes,hiscrispgoldhair.
Therewassomethinginhisfacethatmadeonetrusthimatonce.
Allthecandourofyouthwasthere,aswellasallyouth’spassionatepurity.
Onefeltthathehadkepthimselfunspottedfromtheworld.
NowonderBasilHallwardworshippedhim.
“Youaretoocharmingtogoinforphilanthropy,Mr.Gray—fartoocharming.”AndLordHenryflunghimselfdownonthedivanandopenedhiscigarette-case.
Thepainterhadbeenbusymixinghiscoloursandgettinghisbrushesready.
Hewaslookingworried,andwhenheheardLordHenry’slastremark,heglancedathim,hesitatedforamoment,andthensaid,“Harry,Iwanttofinishthispictureto-day.
WouldyouthinkitawfullyrudeofmeifIaskedyoutogoaway?”
LordHenrysmiledandlookedatDorianGray.“AmItogo,Mr.Gray?”heasked.
“Oh,pleasedon’t,LordHenry.IseethatBasilisinoneofhissulkymoods,andIcan’tbearhimwhenhesulks.Besides,IwantyoutotellmewhyIshouldnotgoinforphilanthropy.”
“Idon’tknowthatIshalltellyouthat,Mr.Gray.
Itissotediousasubjectthatonewouldhavetotalkseriouslyaboutit.
ButIcertainlyshallnotrunaway,nowthatyouhaveaskedmetostop.Youdon’treallymind,Basil,doyou?
Youhaveoftentoldmethatyoulikedyoursitterstohavesomeonetochatto.”
Hallwardbithislip.“IfDorianwishesit,ofcourseyoumuststay.Dorian’swhimsarelawstoeverybody,excepthimself.”
LordHenrytookuphishatandgloves.“Youareverypressing,Basil,butIamafraidImustgo.
IhavepromisedtomeetamanattheOrleans.Good-bye,Mr.Gray.
ComeandseemesomeafternooninCurzonStreet.
Iamnearlyalwaysathomeatfiveo’clock.Writetomewhenyouarecoming.Ishouldbesorrytomissyou.”
“Basil,”criedDorianGray,“ifLordHenryWottongoes,Ishallgo,too.
Youneveropenyourlipswhileyouarepainting,anditishorriblydullstandingonaplatformandtryingtolookpleasant.Askhimtostay.Iinsistuponit.”
“Stay,Harry,toobligeDorian,andtoobligeme,”saidHallward,gazingintentlyathispicture.
“Itisquitetrue,InevertalkwhenIamworking,andneverlisteneither,anditmustbedreadfullytediousformyunfortunatesitters.Ibegyoutostay.”
“ButwhataboutmymanattheOrleans?”
Thepainterlaughed.“Idon’tthinktherewillbeanydifficultyaboutthat.Sitdownagain,Harry.
Andnow,Dorian,getupontheplatform,anddon’tmoveabouttoomuch,orpayanyattentiontowhatLordHenrysays.
Hehasaverybadinfluenceoverallhisfriends,withthesingleexceptionofmyself.”
DorianGraysteppeduponthedaiswiththeairofayoungGreekmartyr,andmadealittlemoueofdiscontenttoLordHenry,towhomhehadrathertakenafancy.HewassounlikeBasil.Theymadeadelightfulcontrast.Andhehadsuchabeautifulvoice.
Afterafewmomentshesaidtohim,“Haveyoureallyaverybadinfluence,LordHenry?AsbadasBasilsays?”
“Thereisnosuchthingasagoodinfluence,Mr.Gray.Allinfluenceisimmoral—immoralfromthescientificpointofview.”
“Why?”
“Becausetoinfluenceapersonistogivehimone’sownsoul.
Hedoesnotthinkhisnaturalthoughts,orburnwithhisnaturalpassions.Hisvirtuesarenotrealtohim.
Hissins,iftherearesuchthingsassins,areborrowed.
Hebecomesanechoofsomeoneelse’smusic,anactorofapartthathasnotbeenwrittenforhim.Theaimoflifeisself-development.
Torealizeone’snatureperfectly—thatiswhateachofusisherefor.
Peopleareafraidofthemselves,nowadays.
Theyhaveforgottenthehighestofallduties,thedutythatoneowestoone’sself.Ofcourse,theyarecharitable.
Theyfeedthehungryandclothethebeggar.
Buttheirownsoulsstarve,andarenaked.Couragehasgoneoutofourrace.Perhapsweneverreallyhadit.
Theterrorofsociety,whichisthebasisofmorals,theterrorofGod,whichisthesecretofreligion—thesearethetwothingsthatgovernus.Andyet—”
“Justturnyourheadalittlemoretotheright,Dorian,likeagoodboy,”saidthepainter,deepinhisworkandconsciousonlythatalookhadcomeintothelad’sfacethathehadneverseentherebefore.
“Andyet,”continuedLordHenry,inhislow,musicalvoice,andwiththatgracefulwaveofthehandthatwasalwayssocharacteristicofhim,andthathehadeveninhisEtondays,“Ibelievethatifonemanweretoliveouthislifefullyandcompletely,weretogiveformtoeveryfeeling,expressiontoeverythought,realitytoeverydream—Ibelievethattheworldwouldgainsuchafreshimpulseofjoythatwewouldforgetallthemaladiesofmediaevalism,andreturntotheHellenicideal—tosomethingfiner,richerthantheHellenicideal,itmaybe.
Butthebravestmanamongstusisafraidofhimself.
Themutilationofthesavagehasitstragicsurvivalintheself-denialthatmarsourlives.Wearepunishedforourrefusals.
Everyimpulsethatwestrivetostranglebroodsinthemindandpoisonsus.
Thebodysinsonce,andhasdonewithitssin,foractionisamodeofpurification.
Nothingremainsthenbuttherecollectionofapleasure,ortheluxuryofaregret.
Theonlywaytogetridofatemptationistoyieldtoit.
Resistit,andyoursoulgrowssickwithlongingforthethingsithasforbiddentoitself,withdesireforwhatitsmonstrouslawshavemademonstrousandunlawful.
Ithasbeensaidthatthegreateventsoftheworldtakeplaceinthebrain.
Itisinthebrain,andthebrainonly,thatthegreatsinsoftheworldtakeplacealso.
You,Mr.Gray,youyourself,withyourrose-redyouthandyourrose-whiteboyhood,youhavehadpassionsthathavemadeyouafraid,thoughtsthathavefilledyouwithterror,day-dreamsandsleepingdreamswhosemerememorymightstainyourcheekwithshame—”
“Stop!”falteredDorianGray,“stop!youbewilderme.Idon’tknowwhattosay.Thereissomeanswertoyou,butIcannotfindit.Don’tspeak.Letmethink.Or,rather,letmetrynottothink.”
Fornearlytenminuteshestoodthere,motionless,withpartedlipsandeyesstrangelybright.
Hewasdimlyconsciousthatentirelyfreshinfluenceswereatworkwithinhim.
Yettheyseemedtohimtohavecomereallyfromhimself.
ThefewwordsthatBasil’sfriendhadsaidtohim—wordsspokenbychance,nodoubt,andwithwilfulparadoxinthem—hadtouchedsomesecretchordthathadneverbeentouchedbefore,butthathefeltwasnowvibratingandthrobbingtocuriouspulses.
Musichadstirredhimlikethat.Musichadtroubledhimmanytimes.Butmusicwasnotarticulate.
Itwasnotanewworld,butratheranotherchaos,thatitcreatedinus.Words!Merewords!Howterribletheywere!Howclear,andvivid,andcruel!Onecouldnotescapefromthem.
Andyetwhatasubtlemagictherewasinthem!
Theyseemedtobeabletogiveaplasticformtoformlessthings,andtohaveamusicoftheirownassweetasthatofvioloroflute.Merewords!Wasthereanythingsorealaswords?
Yes;therehadbeenthingsinhisboyhoodthathehadnotunderstood.Heunderstoodthemnow.
Lifesuddenlybecamefiery-colouredtohim.
Itseemedtohimthathehadbeenwalkinginfire.Whyhadhenotknownit?
Withhissubtlesmile,LordHenrywatchedhim.
Heknewtheprecisepsychologicalmomentwhentosaynothing.Hefeltintenselyinterested.
Hewasamazedatthesuddenimpressionthathiswordshadproduced,and,rememberingabookthathehadreadwhenhewassixteen,abookwhichhadrevealedtohimmuchthathehadnotknownbefore,hewonderedwhetherDorianGraywaspassingthroughasimilarexperience.
Hehadmerelyshotanarrowintotheair.Hadithitthemark?Howfascinatingtheladwas!
Hallwardpaintedawaywiththatmarvellousboldtouchofhis,thathadthetruerefinementandperfectdelicacythatinart,atanyratecomesonlyfromstrength.Hewasunconsciousofthesilence.
“Basil,Iamtiredofstanding,”criedDorianGraysuddenly.“Imustgooutandsitinthegarden.Theairisstiflinghere.”
“Mydearfellow,Iamsosorry.WhenIampainting,Ican’tthinkofanythingelse.Butyouneversatbetter.Youwereperfectlystill.
AndIhavecaughttheeffectIwanted—thehalf-partedlipsandthebrightlookintheeyes.
Idon’tknowwhatHarryhasbeensayingtoyou,buthehascertainlymadeyouhavethemostwonderfulexpression.
Isupposehehasbeenpayingyoucompliments.
Youmustn’tbelieveawordthathesays.”
“Hehascertainlynotbeenpayingmecompliments.PerhapsthatisthereasonthatIdon’tbelieveanythinghehastoldme.”
“Youknowyoubelieveitall,”saidLordHenry,lookingathimwithhisdreamylanguorouseyes.“Iwillgoouttothegardenwithyou.Itishorriblyhotinthestudio.
Basil,letushavesomethingicedtodrink,somethingwithstrawberriesinit.”
“Certainly,Harry.Justtouchthebell,andwhenParkercomesIwilltellhimwhatyouwant.
Ihavegottoworkupthisbackground,soIwilljoinyoulateron.Don’tkeepDoriantoolong.
IhaveneverbeeninbetterformforpaintingthanIamto-day.Thisisgoingtobemymasterpiece.Itismymasterpieceasitstands.”
LordHenrywentouttothegardenandfoundDorianGrayburyinghisfaceinthegreatcoollilac-blossoms,feverishlydrinkingintheirperfumeasifithadbeenwine.
Hecameclosetohimandputhishanduponhisshoulder.
“Youarequiterighttodothat,”hemurmured.
“Nothingcancurethesoulbutthesenses,justasnothingcancurethesensesbutthesoul.”
Theladstartedanddrewback.Hewasbareheaded,andtheleaveshadtossedhisrebelliouscurlsandtangledalltheirgildedthreads.
Therewasalookoffearinhiseyes,suchaspeoplehavewhentheyaresuddenlyawakened.
Hisfinelychisellednostrilsquivered,andsomehiddennerveshookthescarletofhislipsandleftthemtrembling.
“Yes,”continuedLordHenry,“thatisoneofthegreatsecretsoflife—tocurethesoulbymeansofthesenses,andthesensesbymeansofthesoul.Youareawonderfulcreation.
Youknowmorethanyouthinkyouknow,justasyouknowlessthanyouwanttoknow.”
DorianGrayfrownedandturnedhisheadaway.
Hecouldnothelplikingthetall,gracefulyoungmanwhowasstandingbyhim.
Hisromantic,olive-colouredfaceandwornexpressioninterestedhim.
Therewassomethinginhislowlanguidvoicethatwasabsolutelyfascinating.
Hiscool,white,flowerlikehands,even,hadacuriouscharm.
Theymoved,ashespoke,likemusic,andseemedtohavealanguageoftheirown.
Buthefeltafraidofhim,andashamedofbeingafraid.
Whyhaditbeenleftforastrangertorevealhimtohimself?
HehadknownBasilHallwardformonths,butthefriendshipbetweenthemhadneveralteredhim.
Suddenlytherehadcomesomeoneacrosshislifewhoseemedtohavedisclosedtohimlife’smystery.
And,yet,whatwastheretobeafraidof?Hewasnotaschoolboyoragirl.Itwasabsurdtobefrightened.
“Letusgoandsitintheshade,”saidLordHenry.
“Parkerhasbroughtoutthedrinks,andifyoustayanylongerinthisglare,youwillbequitespoiled,andBasilwillneverpaintyouagain.
Youreallymustnotallowyourselftobecomesunburnt.Itwouldbeunbecoming.”
“Whatcanitmatter?”criedDorianGray,laughing,ashesatdownontheseatattheendofthegarden.
“Itshouldmattereverythingtoyou,Mr.Gray.”
“Why?”
“Becauseyouhavethemostmarvellousyouth,andyouthistheonethingworthhaving.”
“Idon’tfeelthat,LordHenry.”
“No,youdon’tfeelitnow.Someday,whenyouareoldandwrinkledandugly,whenthoughthassearedyourforeheadwithitslines,andpassionbrandedyourlipswithitshideousfires,youwillfeelit,youwillfeelitterribly.
Now,whereveryougo,youcharmtheworld.Willitalwaysbeso?
...Youhaveawonderfullybeautifulface,Mr.Gray.Don’tfrown.Youhave.
Andbeautyisaformofgenius—ishigher,indeed,thangenius,asitneedsnoexplanation.
Itisofthegreatfactsoftheworld,likesunlight,orspring-time,orthereflectionindarkwatersofthatsilvershellwecallthemoon.Itcannotbequestioned.Ithasitsdivinerightofsovereignty.Itmakesprincesofthosewhohaveit.Yousmile?Ah!
whenyouhavelostityouwon’tsmile....Peoplesaysometimesthatbeautyisonlysuperficial.
Thatmaybeso,butatleastitisnotsosuperficialasthoughtis.Tome,beautyisthewonderofwonders.
Itisonlyshallowpeoplewhodonotjudgebyappearances.
Thetruemysteryoftheworldisthevisible,nottheinvisible....Yes,Mr.Gray,thegodshavebeengoodtoyou.
Butwhatthegodsgivetheyquicklytakeaway.
Youhaveonlyafewyearsinwhichtolivereally,perfectly,andfully.
Whenyouryouthgoes,yourbeautywillgowithit,andthenyouwillsuddenlydiscoverthattherearenotriumphsleftforyou,orhavetocontentyourselfwiththosemeantriumphsthatthememoryofyourpastwillmakemorebitterthandefeats.
Everymonthasitwanesbringsyounearertosomethingdreadful.
Timeisjealousofyou,andwarsagainstyourliliesandyourroses.
Youwillbecomesallow,andhollow-cheeked,anddull-eyed.Youwillsufferhorribly....Ah!realizeyouryouthwhileyouhaveit.
Don’tsquanderthegoldofyourdays,listeningtothetedious,tryingtoimprovethehopelessfailure,orgivingawayyourlifetotheignorant,thecommon,andthevulgar.
Thesearethesicklyaims,thefalseideals,ofourage.Live!Livethewonderfullifethatisinyou!Letnothingbelostuponyou.Bealwayssearchingfornewsensations.
Beafraidofnothing....AnewHedonism—thatiswhatourcenturywants.Youmightbeitsvisiblesymbol.
Withyourpersonalitythereisnothingyoucouldnotdo.
Theworldbelongstoyouforaseason....ThemomentImetyouIsawthatyouwerequiteunconsciousofwhatyoureallyare,ofwhatyoureallymightbe.
TherewassomuchinyouthatcharmedmethatIfeltImusttellyousomethingaboutyourself.
Ithoughthowtragicitwouldbeifyouwerewasted.
Forthereissuchalittletimethatyouryouthwilllast—suchalittletime.
Thecommonhill-flowerswither,buttheyblossomagain.
ThelaburnumwillbeasyellownextJuneasitisnow.
Inamonththerewillbepurplestarsontheclematis,andyearafteryearthegreennightofitsleaveswillholditspurplestars.Butwenevergetbackouryouth.
Thepulseofjoythatbeatsinusattwentybecomessluggish.Ourlimbsfail,oursensesrot.
Wedegenerateintohideouspuppets,hauntedbythememoryofthepassionsofwhichweweretoomuchafraid,andtheexquisitetemptationsthatwehadnotthecouragetoyieldto.Youth!Youth!
Thereisabsolutelynothingintheworldbutyouth!”
DorianGraylistened,open-eyedandwondering.
Thesprayoflilacfellfromhishanduponthegravel.
Afurrybeecameandbuzzedrounditforamoment.
Thenitbegantoscrambleallovertheovalstellatedglobeofthetinyblossoms.
Hewatcheditwiththatstrangeinterestintrivialthingsthatwetrytodevelopwhenthingsofhighimportmakeusafraid,orwhenwearestirredbysomenewemotionforwhichwecannotfindexpression,orwhensomethoughtthatterrifiesuslayssuddensiegetothebrainandcallsonustoyield.Afteratimethebeeflewaway.
HesawitcreepingintothestainedtrumpetofaTyrianconvolvulus.
Theflowerseemedtoquiver,andthenswayedgentlytoandfro.
Suddenlythepainterappearedatthedoorofthestudioandmadestaccatosignsforthemtocomein.Theyturnedtoeachotherandsmiled.
“Iamwaiting,”hecried.“Docomein.Thelightisquiteperfect,andyoucanbringyourdrinks.”
Theyroseupandsauntereddownthewalktogether.Twogreen-and-whitebutterfliesflutteredpastthem,andinthepear-treeatthecornerofthegardenathrushbegantosing.
“Youaregladyouhavemetme,Mr.Gray,”saidLordHenry,lookingathim.
“Yes,Iamgladnow.IwondershallIalwaysbeglad?”
“Always!Thatisadreadfulword.ItmakesmeshudderwhenIhearit.Womenaresofondofusingit.
Theyspoileveryromancebytryingtomakeitlastforever.Itisameaninglessword,too.
Theonlydifferencebetweenacapriceandalifelongpassionisthatthecapricelastsalittlelonger.”
Astheyenteredthestudio,DorianGrayputhishanduponLordHenry’sarm.
“Inthatcase,letourfriendshipbeacaprice,”hemurmured,flushingathisownboldness,thensteppedupontheplatformandresumedhispose.
LordHenryflunghimselfintoalargewickerarm-chairandwatchedhim.
Thesweepanddashofthebrushonthecanvasmadetheonlysoundthatbrokethestillness,exceptwhen,nowandthen,Hallwardsteppedbacktolookathisworkfromadistance.
Intheslantingbeamsthatstreamedthroughtheopendoorwaythedustdancedandwasgolden.
Theheavyscentoftherosesseemedtobroodovereverything.
AfteraboutaquarterofanhourHallwardstoppedpainting,lookedforalongtimeatDorianGray,andthenforalongtimeatthepicture,bitingtheendofoneofhishugebrushesandfrowning.
“Itisquitefinished,”hecriedatlast,andstoopingdownhewrotehisnameinlongvermilionlettersontheleft-handcornerofthecanvas.
LordHenrycameoverandexaminedthepicture.Itwascertainlyawonderfulworkofart,andawonderfullikenessaswell.
“Mydearfellow,Icongratulateyoumostwarmly,”hesaid.“Itisthefinestportraitofmoderntimes.Mr.Gray,comeoverandlookatyourself.”
Theladstarted,asifawakenedfromsomedream.
“Isitreallyfinished?”hemurmured,steppingdownfromtheplatform.
“Quitefinished,”saidthepainter.“Andyouhavesatsplendidlyto-day.Iamawfullyobligedtoyou.”
“Thatisentirelyduetome,”brokeinLordHenry.“Isn’tit,Mr.Gray?”
Dorianmadenoanswer,butpassedlistlesslyinfrontofhispictureandturnedtowardsit.
Whenhesawithedrewback,andhischeeksflushedforamomentwithpleasure.
Alookofjoycameintohiseyes,asifhehadrecognizedhimselfforthefirsttime.
Hestoodtheremotionlessandinwonder,dimlyconsciousthatHallwardwasspeakingtohim,butnotcatchingthemeaningofhiswords.
Thesenseofhisownbeautycameonhimlikearevelation.Hehadneverfeltitbefore.
BasilHallward’scomplimentshadseemedtohimtobemerelythecharmingexaggerationoffriendship.
Hehadlistenedtothem,laughedatthem,forgottenthem.Theyhadnotinfluencedhisnature.
ThenhadcomeLordHenryWottonwithhisstrangepanegyriconyouth,histerriblewarningofitsbrevity.
Thathadstirredhimatthetime,andnow,ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullrealityofthedescriptionflashedacrosshim.
Yes,therewouldbeadaywhenhisfacewouldbewrinkledandwizen,hiseyesdimandcolourless,thegraceofhisfigurebrokenanddeformed.
Thescarletwouldpassawayfromhislipsandthegoldstealfromhishair.
Thelifethatwastomakehissoulwouldmarhisbody.
Hewouldbecomedreadful,hideous,anduncouth.
Ashethoughtofit,asharppangofpainstruckthroughhimlikeaknifeandmadeeachdelicatefibreofhisnaturequiver.
Hiseyesdeepenedintoamethyst,andacrossthemcameamistoftears.
Hefeltasifahandoficehadbeenlaiduponhisheart.
“Don’tyoulikeit?”criedHallwardatlast,stungalittlebythelad’ssilence,notunderstandingwhatitmeant.
“Ofcoursehelikesit,”saidLordHenry.“Whowouldn’tlikeit?Itisoneofthegreatestthingsinmodernart.Iwillgiveyouanythingyouliketoaskforit.Imusthaveit.”
“Itisnotmyproperty,Harry.”
“Whosepropertyisit?”
“Dorian’s,ofcourse,”answeredthepainter.
“Heisaveryluckyfellow.”
“Howsaditis!”murmuredDorianGraywithhiseyesstillfixeduponhisownportrait.“Howsaditis!
Ishallgrowold,andhorrible,anddreadful.
Butthispicturewillremainalwaysyoung.
ItwillneverbeolderthanthisparticulardayofJune....Ifitwereonlytheotherway!
IfitwereIwhowastobealwaysyoung,andthepicturethatwastogrowold!
Forthat—forthat—Iwouldgiveeverything!
Yes,thereisnothinginthewholeworldIwouldnotgive!Iwouldgivemysoulforthat!”
“Youwouldhardlycareforsuchanarrangement,Basil,”criedLordHenry,laughing.“Itwouldberatherhardlinesonyourwork.”
“Ishouldobjectverystrongly,Harry,”saidHallward.
DorianGrayturnedandlookedathim.“Ibelieveyouwould,Basil.Youlikeyourartbetterthanyourfriends.Iamnomoretoyouthanagreenbronzefigure.Hardlyasmuch,Idaresay.”
Thepainterstaredinamazement.ItwassounlikeDoriantospeaklikethat.Whathadhappened?Heseemedquiteangry.Hisfacewasflushedandhischeeksburning.
“Yes,”hecontinued,“IamlesstoyouthanyourivoryHermesoryoursilverFaun.Youwilllikethemalways.Howlongwillyoulikeme?
TillIhavemyfirstwrinkle,Isuppose.
Iknow,now,thatwhenonelosesone’sgoodlooks,whatevertheymaybe,oneloseseverything.Yourpicturehastaughtmethat.LordHenryWottonisperfectlyright.Youthistheonlythingworthhaving.
WhenIfindthatIamgrowingold,Ishallkillmyself.”
Hallwardturnedpaleandcaughthishand.“Dorian!Dorian!”hecried,“don’ttalklikethat.
Ihaveneverhadsuchafriendasyou,andIshallneverhavesuchanother.
Youarenotjealousofmaterialthings,areyou?—youwhoarefinerthananyofthem!”
“Iamjealousofeverythingwhosebeautydoesnotdie.
Iamjealousoftheportraityouhavepaintedofme.WhyshoulditkeepwhatImustlose?
Everymomentthatpassestakessomethingfrommeandgivessomethingtoit.Oh,ifitwereonlytheotherway!
Ifthepicturecouldchange,andIcouldbealwayswhatIamnow!Whydidyoupaintit?
Itwillmockmesomeday—mockmehorribly!”
Thehottearswelledintohiseyes;hetorehishandawayand,flinginghimselfonthedivan,heburiedhisfaceinthecushions,asthoughhewaspraying.
“Thisisyourdoing,Harry,”saidthepainterbitterly.
LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders.“ItistherealDorianGray—thatisall.”
“Itisnot.”
“Ifitisnot,whathaveItodowithit?”
“YoushouldhavegoneawaywhenIaskedyou,”hemuttered.
“Istayedwhenyouaskedme,”wasLordHenry’sanswer.
“Harry,Ican’tquarrelwithmytwobestfriendsatonce,butbetweenyoubothyouhavemademehatethefinestpieceofworkIhaveeverdone,andIwilldestroyit.Whatisitbutcanvasandcolour?
Iwillnotletitcomeacrossourthreelivesandmarthem.”
DorianGrayliftedhisgoldenheadfromthepillow,andwithpallidfaceandtear-stainedeyes,lookedathimashewalkedovertothedealpainting-tablethatwassetbeneaththehighcurtainedwindow.Whatwashedoingthere?
Hisfingerswerestrayingaboutamongthelitteroftintubesanddrybrushes,seekingforsomething.
Yes,itwasforthelongpalette-knife,withitsthinbladeoflithesteel.Hehadfounditatlast.Hewasgoingtoripupthecanvas.
Withastifledsobtheladleapedfromthecouch,and,rushingovertoHallward,toretheknifeoutofhishand,andflungittotheendofthestudio.“Don’t,Basil,don’t!”hecried.“Itwouldbemurder!”
“Iamgladyouappreciatemyworkatlast,Dorian,”saidthepaintercoldlywhenhehadrecoveredfromhissurprise.“Ineverthoughtyouwould.”
“Appreciateit?Iaminlovewithit,Basil.Itispartofmyself.Ifeelthat.”
“Well,assoonasyouaredry,youshallbevarnished,andframed,andsenthome.
Thenyoucandowhatyoulikewithyourself.”
Andhewalkedacrosstheroomandrangthebellfortea.“Youwillhavetea,ofcourse,Dorian?Andsowillyou,Harry?
Ordoyouobjecttosuchsimplepleasures?”
“Iadoresimplepleasures,”saidLordHenry.
“Theyarethelastrefugeofthecomplex.
ButIdon’tlikescenes,exceptonthestage.
Whatabsurdfellowsyouare,bothofyou!
Iwonderwhoitwasdefinedmanasarationalanimal.
Itwasthemostprematuredefinitionevergiven.
Manismanythings,butheisnotrational.
Iamgladheisnot,afterall—thoughIwishyouchapswouldnotsquabbleoverthepicture.
Youhadmuchbetterletmehaveit,Basil.
Thissillyboydoesn’treallywantit,andIreallydo.”
“Ifyouletanyonehaveitbutme,Basil,Ishallneverforgiveyou!”criedDorianGray;“andIdon’tallowpeopletocallmeasillyboy.”
“Youknowthepictureisyours,Dorian.Igaveittoyoubeforeitexisted.”
“Andyouknowyouhavebeenalittlesilly,Mr.Gray,andthatyoudon’treallyobjecttobeingremindedthatyouareextremelyyoung.”
“Ishouldhaveobjectedverystronglythismorning,LordHenry.”
“Ah!thismorning!Youhavelivedsincethen.”
Therecameaknockatthedoor,andthebutlerenteredwithaladentea-trayandsetitdownuponasmallJapanesetable.
TherewasarattleofcupsandsaucersandthehissingofaflutedGeorgianurn.
Twoglobe-shapedchinadisheswerebroughtinbyapage.
DorianGraywentoverandpouredoutthetea.
Thetwomensaunteredlanguidlytothetableandexaminedwhatwasunderthecovers.
“Letusgotothetheatreto-night,”saidLordHenry.
“Thereissuretobesomethingon,somewhere.
IhavepromisedtodineatWhite’s,butitisonlywithanoldfriend,soIcansendhimawiretosaythatIamill,orthatIampreventedfromcominginconsequenceofasubsequentengagement.
Ithinkthatwouldbearatherniceexcuse:itwouldhaveallthesurpriseofcandour.”
“Itissuchaboreputtingonone’sdress-clothes,”mutteredHallward.“And,whenonehasthemon,theyaresohorrid.”
“Yes,”answeredLordHenrydreamily,“thecostumeofthenineteenthcenturyisdetestable.Itissosombre,sodepressing.Sinistheonlyrealcolour-elementleftinmodernlife.”
“YoureallymustnotsaythingslikethatbeforeDorian,Harry.”
“BeforewhichDorian?Theonewhoispouringoutteaforus,ortheoneinthepicture?”
“Beforeeither.”
“Ishouldliketocometothetheatrewithyou,LordHenry,”saidthelad.
“Thenyoushallcome;andyouwillcome,too,Basil,won’tyou?”
“Ican’t,really.Iwouldsoonernot.Ihavealotofworktodo.”
“Well,then,youandIwillgoalone,Mr.Gray.”
“Ishouldlikethatawfully.”
Thepainterbithislipandwalkedover,cupinhand,tothepicture.“IshallstaywiththerealDorian,”hesaid,sadly.
“IsittherealDorian?”criedtheoriginaloftheportrait,strollingacrosstohim.“AmIreallylikethat?”
“Yes;youarejustlikethat.”
“Howwonderful,Basil!”
“Atleastyouarelikeitinappearance.Butitwillneveralter,”sighedHallward.“Thatissomething.”
“Whatafusspeoplemakeaboutfidelity!”exclaimedLordHenry.
“Why,eveninloveitispurelyaquestionforphysiology.Ithasnothingtodowithourownwill.
Youngmenwanttobefaithful,andarenot;oldmenwanttobefaithless,andcannot:thatisallonecansay.”
“Don’tgotothetheatreto-night,Dorian,”saidHallward.“Stopanddinewithme.”
“Ican’t,Basil.”
“Why?”
“BecauseIhavepromisedLordHenryWottontogowithhim.”
“Hewon’tlikeyouthebetterforkeepingyourpromises.Healwaysbreakshisown.Ibegyounottogo.”
DorianGraylaughedandshookhishead.
“Ientreatyou.”
Theladhesitated,andlookedoveratLordHenry,whowaswatchingthemfromthetea-tablewithanamusedsmile.
“Imustgo,Basil,”heanswered.
“Verywell,”saidHallward,andhewentoverandlaiddownhiscuponthetray.
“Itisratherlate,and,asyouhavetodress,youhadbetterlosenotime.Good-bye,Harry.Good-bye,Dorian.Comeandseemesoon.Cometo-morrow.”
“Certainly.”
“Youwon’tforget?”
“No,ofcoursenot,”criedDorian.
“And...Harry!”
“Yes,Basil?”
“RememberwhatIaskedyou,whenwewereinthegardenthismorning.”
“Ihaveforgottenit.”
“Itrustyou.”
“IwishIcouldtrustmyself,”saidLordHenry,laughing.“Come,Mr.Gray,myhansomisoutside,andIcandropyouatyourownplace.Good-bye,Basil.Ithasbeenamostinterestingafternoon.”
Asthedoorclosedbehindthem,thepainterflunghimselfdownonasofa,andalookofpaincameintohisface.
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