English
“Thereisnouseyourtellingmethatyouaregoingtobegood,”criedLordHenry,dippinghiswhitefingersintoaredcopperbowlfilledwithrose-water.“Youarequiteperfect.Pray,don’tchange.”
DorianGrayshookhishead.“No,Harry,Ihavedonetoomanydreadfulthingsinmylife.Iamnotgoingtodoanymore.Ibeganmygoodactionsyesterday.”
“Wherewereyouyesterday?”
“Inthecountry,Harry.Iwasstayingatalittleinnbymyself.”
“Mydearboy,”saidLordHenry,smiling,“anybodycanbegoodinthecountry.Therearenotemptationsthere.
Thatisthereasonwhypeoplewholiveoutoftownaresoabsolutelyuncivilized.
Civilizationisnotbyanymeansaneasythingtoattainto.
Thereareonlytwowaysbywhichmancanreachit.
Oneisbybeingcultured,theotherbybeingcorrupt.
Countrypeoplehavenoopportunityofbeingeither,sotheystagnate.”
“Cultureandcorruption,”echoedDorian.“Ihaveknownsomethingofboth.
Itseemsterribletomenowthattheyshouldeverbefoundtogether.ForIhaveanewideal,Harry.Iamgoingtoalter.IthinkIhavealtered.”
“Youhavenotyettoldmewhatyourgoodactionwas.
Ordidyousayyouhaddonemorethanone?”
askedhiscompanionashespilledintohisplatealittlecrimsonpyramidofseededstrawberriesand,throughaperforated,shell-shapedspoon,snowedwhitesugaruponthem.
“Icantellyou,Harry.ItisnotastoryIcouldtelltoanyoneelse.Isparedsomebody.
Itsoundsvain,butyouunderstandwhatImean.
ShewasquitebeautifulandwonderfullylikeSibylVane.
Ithinkitwasthatwhichfirstattractedmetoher.YourememberSibyl,don’tyou?Howlongagothatseems!
Well,Hettywasnotoneofourownclass,ofcourse.Shewassimplyagirlinavillage.ButIreallylovedher.IamquitesurethatIlovedher.
AllduringthiswonderfulMaythatwehavebeenhaving,Iusedtorundownandseehertwoorthreetimesaweek.
Yesterdayshemetmeinalittleorchard.
Theapple-blossomskepttumblingdownonherhair,andshewaslaughing.
Weweretohavegoneawaytogetherthismorningatdawn.
SuddenlyIdeterminedtoleaveherasflowerlikeasIhadfoundher.”
“Ishouldthinkthenoveltyoftheemotionmusthavegivenyouathrillofrealpleasure,Dorian,”interruptedLordHenry.“ButIcanfinishyouridyllforyou.
Yougavehergoodadviceandbrokeherheart.
Thatwasthebeginningofyourreformation.”
“Harry,youarehorrible!Youmustn’tsaythesedreadfulthings.Hetty’sheartisnotbroken.Ofcourse,shecriedandallthat.Butthereisnodisgraceuponher.
Shecanlive,likePerdita,inhergardenofmintandmarigold.”
“AndweepoverafaithlessFlorizel,”saidLordHenry,laughing,asheleanedbackinhischair.
“MydearDorian,youhavethemostcuriouslyboyishmoods.
Doyouthinkthisgirlwilleverbereallycontentnowwithanyoneofherownrank?
Isupposeshewillbemarriedsomedaytoaroughcarteroragrinningploughman.
Well,thefactofhavingmetyou,andlovedyou,willteachhertodespiseherhusband,andshewillbewretched.
Fromamoralpointofview,IcannotsaythatIthinkmuchofyourgreatrenunciation.Evenasabeginning,itispoor.
Besides,howdoyouknowthatHettyisn’tfloatingatthepresentmomentinsomestarlitmill-pond,withlovelywater-liliesroundher,likeOphelia?”
“Ican’tbearthis,Harry!Youmockateverything,andthensuggestthemostserioustragedies.IamsorryItoldyounow.Idon’tcarewhatyousaytome.IknowIwasrightinactingasIdid.PoorHetty!
AsIrodepastthefarmthismorning,Isawherwhitefaceatthewindow,likeasprayofjasmine.
Don’tletustalkaboutitanymore,anddon’ttrytopersuademethatthefirstgoodactionIhavedoneforyears,thefirstlittlebitofself-sacrificeIhaveeverknown,isreallyasortofsin.Iwanttobebetter.Iamgoingtobebetter.Tellmesomethingaboutyourself.Whatisgoingonintown?Ihavenotbeentotheclubfordays.”
“ThepeoplearestilldiscussingpoorBasil’sdisappearance.”
“Ishouldhavethoughttheyhadgottiredofthatbythistime,”saidDorian,pouringhimselfoutsomewineandfrowningslightly.
“Mydearboy,theyhaveonlybeentalkingaboutitforsixweeks,andtheBritishpublicarereallynotequaltothementalstrainofhavingmorethanonetopiceverythreemonths.
Theyhavebeenveryfortunatelately,however.
Theyhavehadmyowndivorce-caseandAlanCampbell’ssuicide.
Nowtheyhavegotthemysteriousdisappearanceofanartist.
ScotlandYardstillinsiststhatthemaninthegreyulsterwholeftforParisbythemidnighttrainontheninthofNovemberwaspoorBasil,andtheFrenchpolicedeclarethatBasilneverarrivedinParisatall.
IsupposeinaboutafortnightweshallbetoldthathehasbeenseeninSanFrancisco.
Itisanoddthing,buteveryonewhodisappearsissaidtobeseenatSanFrancisco.
Itmustbeadelightfulcity,andpossessalltheattractionsofthenextworld.”
“WhatdoyouthinkhashappenedtoBasil?”askedDorian,holdinguphisBurgundyagainstthelightandwonderinghowitwasthathecoulddiscussthemattersocalmly.
“Ihavenottheslightestidea.IfBasilchoosestohidehimself,itisnobusinessofmine.Ifheisdead,Idon’twanttothinkabouthim.Deathistheonlythingthateverterrifiesme.Ihateit.”
“Why?”saidtheyoungermanwearily.
“Because,”saidLordHenry,passingbeneathhisnostrilsthegilttrellisofanopenvinaigrettebox,“onecansurviveeverythingnowadaysexceptthat.
Deathandvulgarityaretheonlytwofactsinthenineteenthcenturythatonecannotexplainaway.
Letushaveourcoffeeinthemusic-room,Dorian.YoumustplayChopintome.
ThemanwithwhommywiferanawayplayedChopinexquisitely.PoorVictoria!Iwasveryfondofher.Thehouseisratherlonelywithouther.
Ofcourse,marriedlifeismerelyahabit,abadhabit.
Butthenoneregretsthelossevenofone’sworsthabits.Perhapsoneregretsthemthemost.
Theyaresuchanessentialpartofone’spersonality.”
Doriansaidnothing,butrosefromthetable,andpassingintothenextroom,satdowntothepianoandlethisfingersstrayacrossthewhiteandblackivoryofthekeys.
Afterthecoffeehadbeenbroughtin,hestopped,andlookingoveratLordHenry,said,“Harry,diditeveroccurtoyouthatBasilwasmurdered?”
LordHenryyawned.“Basilwasverypopular,andalwaysworeaWaterburywatch.Whyshouldhehavebeenmurdered?
Hewasnotcleverenoughtohaveenemies.
Ofcourse,hehadawonderfulgeniusforpainting.
ButamancanpaintlikeVelasquezandyetbeasdullaspossible.Basilwasreallyratherdull.
Heonlyinterestedmeonce,andthatwaswhenhetoldme,yearsago,thathehadawildadorationforyouandthatyouwerethedominantmotiveofhisart.”
“IwasveryfondofBasil,”saidDorianwithanoteofsadnessinhisvoice.“Butdon’tpeoplesaythathewasmurdered?”
“Oh,someofthepapersdo.Itdoesnotseemtometobeatallprobable.
IknowtherearedreadfulplacesinParis,butBasilwasnotthesortofmantohavegonetothem.Hehadnocuriosity.Itwashischiefdefect.”
“Whatwouldyousay,Harry,ifItoldyouthatIhadmurderedBasil?”saidtheyoungerman.Hewatchedhimintentlyafterhehadspoken.
“Iwouldsay,mydearfellow,thatyouwereposingforacharacterthatdoesn’tsuityou.
Allcrimeisvulgar,justasallvulgarityiscrime.
Itisnotinyou,Dorian,tocommitamurder.
IamsorryifIhurtyourvanitybysayingso,butIassureyouitistrue.
Crimebelongsexclusivelytothelowerorders.
Idon’tblametheminthesmallestdegree.
Ishouldfancythatcrimewastothemwhatartistous,simplyamethodofprocuringextraordinarysensations.”
“Amethodofprocuringsensations?Doyouthink,then,thatamanwhohasoncecommittedamurdercouldpossiblydothesamecrimeagain?Don’ttellmethat.”
“Oh!anythingbecomesapleasureifonedoesittoooften,”criedLordHenry,laughing.
“Thatisoneofthemostimportantsecretsoflife.
Ishouldfancy,however,thatmurderisalwaysamistake.
Oneshouldneverdoanythingthatonecannottalkaboutafterdinner.ButletuspassfrompoorBasil.
IwishIcouldbelievethathehadcometosuchareallyromanticendasyousuggest,butIcan’t.
IdaresayhefellintotheSeineoffanomnibusandthattheconductorhushedupthescandal.Yes:Ishouldfancythatwashisend.
Iseehimlyingnowonhisbackunderthosedull-greenwaters,withtheheavybargesfloatingoverhimandlongweedscatchinginhishair.
Doyouknow,Idon’tthinkhewouldhavedonemuchmoregoodwork.
Duringthelasttenyearshispaintinghadgoneoffverymuch.”
Dorianheavedasigh,andLordHenrystrolledacrosstheroomandbegantostroketheheadofacuriousJavaparrot,alarge,grey-plumagedbirdwithpinkcrestandtail,thatwasbalancingitselfuponabambooperch.
Ashispointedfingerstouchedit,itdroppedthewhitescurfofcrinkledlidsoverblack,glasslikeeyesandbegantoswaybackwardsandforwards.
“Yes,”hecontinued,turningroundandtakinghishandkerchiefoutofhispocket;“hispaintinghadquitegoneoff.Itseemedtometohavelostsomething.Ithadlostanideal.
Whenyouandheceasedtobegreatfriends,heceasedtobeagreatartist.Whatwasitseparatedyou?Isupposeheboredyou.Ifso,heneverforgaveyou.It’sahabitboreshave.
Bytheway,whathasbecomeofthatwonderfulportraithedidofyou?
Idon’tthinkIhaveeverseenitsincehefinishedit.Oh!
IrememberyourtellingmeyearsagothatyouhadsentitdowntoSelby,andthatithadgotmislaidorstolenontheway.Younevergotitback?Whatapity!itwasreallyamasterpiece.IrememberIwantedtobuyit.IwishIhadnow.ItbelongedtoBasil’sbestperiod.
Sincethen,hisworkwasthatcuriousmixtureofbadpaintingandgoodintentionsthatalwaysentitlesamantobecalledarepresentativeBritishartist.Didyouadvertiseforit?Youshould.”
“Iforget,”saidDorian.“IsupposeIdid.ButIneverreallylikedit.IamsorryIsatforit.
Thememoryofthethingishatefultome.Whydoyoutalkofit?
Itusedtoremindmeofthosecuriouslinesinsomeplay—Hamlet,Ithink—howdotheyrun?—
“Likethepaintingofasorrow,
Afacewithoutaheart.”
Yes:thatiswhatitwaslike.”
LordHenrylaughed.“Ifamantreatslifeartistically,hisbrainishisheart,”heanswered,sinkingintoanarm-chair.
DorianGrayshookhisheadandstrucksomesoftchordsonthepiano.“‘Likethepaintingofasorrow,’”herepeated,“‘afacewithoutaheart.’”
Theeldermanlaybackandlookedathimwithhalf-closedeyes.
“Bytheway,Dorian,”hesaidafterapause,“’whatdoesitprofitamanifhegainthewholeworldandlose—howdoesthequotationrun?—hisownsoul’?”
Themusicjarred,andDorianGraystartedandstaredathisfriend.“Whydoyouaskmethat,Harry?”
“Mydearfellow,”saidLordHenry,elevatinghiseyebrowsinsurprise,“IaskedyoubecauseIthoughtyoumightbeabletogivemeananswer.Thatisall.
IwasgoingthroughtheparklastSunday,andclosebytheMarbleArchtherestoodalittlecrowdofshabby-lookingpeoplelisteningtosomevulgarstreet-preacher.
AsIpassedby,Iheardthemanyellingoutthatquestiontohisaudience.Itstruckmeasbeingratherdramatic.
Londonisveryrichincuriouseffectsofthatkind.
AwetSunday,anuncouthChristianinamackintosh,aringofsicklywhitefacesunderabrokenroofofdrippingumbrellas,andawonderfulphraseflungintotheairbyshrillhystericallips—itwasreallyverygoodinitsway,quiteasuggestion.
Ithoughtoftellingtheprophetthatarthadasoul,butthatmanhadnot.
Iamafraid,however,hewouldnothaveunderstoodme.”
“Don’t,Harry.Thesoulisaterriblereality.Itcanbebought,andsold,andbarteredaway.Itcanbepoisoned,ormadeperfect.Thereisasoulineachoneofus.Iknowit.”
“Doyoufeelquitesureofthat,Dorian?”
“Quitesure.”
“Ah!thenitmustbeanillusion.
Thethingsonefeelsabsolutelycertainaboutarenevertrue.
Thatisthefatalityoffaith,andthelessonofromance.Howgraveyouare!Don’tbesoserious.
WhathaveyouorItodowiththesuperstitionsofourage?
No:wehavegivenupourbeliefinthesoul.Playmesomething.
Playmeanocturne,Dorian,and,asyouplay,tellme,inalowvoice,howyouhavekeptyouryouth.Youmusthavesomesecret.
Iamonlytenyearsolderthanyouare,andIamwrinkled,andworn,andyellow.Youarereallywonderful,Dorian.
Youhaveneverlookedmorecharmingthanyoudoto-night.
YouremindmeofthedayIsawyoufirst.
Youwererathercheeky,veryshy,andabsolutelyextraordinary.
Youhavechanged,ofcourse,butnotinappearance.Iwishyouwouldtellmeyoursecret.
TogetbackmyyouthIwoulddoanythingintheworld,excepttakeexercise,getupearly,orberespectable.Youth!Thereisnothinglikeit.
It’sabsurdtotalkoftheignoranceofyouth.
TheonlypeopletowhoseopinionsIlistennowwithanyrespectarepeoplemuchyoungerthanmyself.Theyseeminfrontofme.
Lifehasrevealedtothemherlatestwonder.
Asfortheaged,Ialwayscontradicttheaged.Idoitonprinciple.
Ifyouaskthemtheiropiniononsomethingthathappenedyesterday,theysolemnlygiveyoutheopinionscurrentin1820,whenpeopleworehighstocks,believedineverything,andknewabsolutelynothing.
Howlovelythatthingyouareplayingis!
Iwonder,didChopinwriteitatMajorca,withtheseaweepingroundthevillaandthesaltspraydashingagainstthepanes?Itismarvellouslyromantic.
Whatablessingitisthatthereisoneartlefttousthatisnotimitative!Don’tstop.Iwantmusicto-night.
ItseemstomethatyouaretheyoungApolloandthatIamMarsyaslisteningtoyou.
Ihavesorrows,Dorian,ofmyown,thatevenyouknownothingof.
Thetragedyofoldageisnotthatoneisold,butthatoneisyoung.
Iamamazedsometimesatmyownsincerity.Ah,Dorian,howhappyyouare!Whatanexquisitelifeyouhavehad!Youhavedrunkdeeplyofeverything.
Youhavecrushedthegrapesagainstyourpalate.Nothinghasbeenhiddenfromyou.
Andithasallbeentoyounomorethanthesoundofmusic.Ithasnotmarredyou.Youarestillthesame.”
“Iamnotthesame,Harry.”
“Yes,youarethesame.Iwonderwhattherestofyourlifewillbe.Don’tspoilitbyrenunciations.Atpresentyouareaperfecttype.Don’tmakeyourselfincomplete.Youarequiteflawlessnow.
Youneednotshakeyourhead:youknowyouare.
Besides,Dorian,don’tdeceiveyourself.
Lifeisnotgovernedbywillorintention.
Lifeisaquestionofnerves,andfibres,andslowlybuilt-upcellsinwhichthoughthidesitselfandpassionhasitsdreams.
Youmayfancyyourselfsafeandthinkyourselfstrong.
Butachancetoneofcolourinaroomoramorningsky,aparticularperfumethatyouhadoncelovedandthatbringssubtlememorieswithit,alinefromaforgottenpoemthatyouhadcomeacrossagain,acadencefromapieceofmusicthatyouhadceasedtoplay—Itellyou,Dorian,thatitisonthingslikethesethatourlivesdepend.
Browningwritesaboutthatsomewhere;butourownsenseswillimaginethemforus.
Therearemomentswhentheodouroflilasblancpassessuddenlyacrossme,andIhavetolivethestrangestmonthofmylifeoveragain.
IwishIcouldchangeplaceswithyou,Dorian.
Theworldhascriedoutagainstusboth,butithasalwaysworshippedyou.Italwayswillworshipyou.
Youarethetypeofwhattheageissearchingfor,andwhatitisafraidithasfound.
Iamsogladthatyouhaveneverdoneanything,nevercarvedastatue,orpaintedapicture,orproducedanythingoutsideofyourself!Lifehasbeenyourart.Youhavesetyourselftomusic.Yourdaysareyoursonnets.”
Dorianroseupfromthepianoandpassedhishandthroughhishair.
“Yes,lifehasbeenexquisite,”hemurmured,“butIamnotgoingtohavethesamelife,Harry.
Andyoumustnotsaytheseextravagantthingstome.Youdon’tknoweverythingaboutme.
Ithinkthatifyoudid,evenyouwouldturnfromme.Youlaugh.Don’tlaugh.”
“Whyhaveyoustoppedplaying,Dorian?Gobackandgivemethenocturneoveragain.
Lookatthatgreat,honey-colouredmoonthathangsintheduskyair.
Sheiswaitingforyoutocharmher,andifyouplayshewillcomeclosertotheearth.Youwon’t?Letusgototheclub,then.
Ithasbeenacharmingevening,andwemustenditcharmingly.
ThereissomeoneatWhite’swhowantsimmenselytoknowyou—youngLordPoole,Bournemouth’seldestson.
Hehasalreadycopiedyourneckties,andhasbeggedmetointroducehimtoyou.
Heisquitedelightfulandratherremindsmeofyou.”
“Ihopenot,”saidDorianwithasadlookinhiseyes.“ButIamtiredto-night,Harry.Ishan’tgototheclub.Itisnearlyeleven,andIwanttogotobedearly.”
“Dostay.Youhaveneverplayedsowellasto-night.Therewassomethinginyourtouchthatwaswonderful.IthadmoreexpressionthanIhadeverheardfromitbefore.”
“ItisbecauseIamgoingtobegood,”heanswered,smiling.“Iamalittlechangedalready.”
“Youcannotchangetome,Dorian,”saidLordHenry.“YouandIwillalwaysbefriends.”
“Yetyoupoisonedmewithabookonce.Ishouldnotforgivethat.Harry,promisemethatyouwillneverlendthatbooktoanyone.Itdoesharm.”
“Mydearboy,youarereallybeginningtomoralize.
Youwillsoonbegoingaboutliketheconverted,andtherevivalist,warningpeopleagainstallthesinsofwhichyouhavegrowntired.Youaremuchtoodelightfultodothat.Besides,itisnouse.
YouandIarewhatweare,andwillbewhatwewillbe.
Asforbeingpoisonedbyabook,thereisnosuchthingasthat.Arthasnoinfluenceuponaction.Itannihilatesthedesiretoact.Itissuperblysterile.
Thebooksthattheworldcallsimmoralarebooksthatshowtheworlditsownshame.Thatisall.Butwewon’tdiscussliterature.Comeroundto-morrow.Iamgoingtorideateleven.
Wemightgotogether,andIwilltakeyoutolunchafterwardswithLadyBranksome.
Sheisacharmingwoman,andwantstoconsultyouaboutsometapestriessheisthinkingofbuying.Mindyoucome.
Orshallwelunchwithourlittleduchess?Shesayssheneverseesyounow.PerhapsyouaretiredofGladys?Ithoughtyouwouldbe.Herclevertonguegetsonone’snerves.Well,inanycase,behereateleven.”
“MustIreallycome,Harry?”
“Certainly.Theparkisquitelovelynow.Idon’tthinktherehavebeensuchlilacssincetheyearImetyou.”
“Verywell.Ishallbehereateleven,”saidDorian.“Goodnight,Harry.”Ashereachedthedoor,hehesitatedforamoment,asifhehadsomethingmoretosay.Thenhesighedandwentout.
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