THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
 The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses,
and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac,
or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying,
Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum,
whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs;
and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,
producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect,
and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters who,
in an art that is necessarily immobile,
seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.
The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass,
or circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive,
and the dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room,
clamped to an upright easel,
stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,
and in front of it,
some little distance away,
was sitting the artist himself,
whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused,
at the time,
such public excitement,
and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
As he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art,
a smile of pleasure passed across his face,
and seemed about to linger there.
But he suddenly started up,
closing  his eyes,
placed his fingers upon the lids,
as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
"It is your best work,
the best thing you have ever done,"
said Lord Henry,
"You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor.
The Academy is too large and too vulgar.
The Grosvenor is the only place."
"I don't think I will send it anywhere,"
tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford.
"No: I won't send it anywhere."
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows,
and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette.
"Not send it anywhere?
My dear fellow,
Have you any reason?
What odd chaps you painters are!
You do anything in the world to gain a reputation.
As soon as you have one,
you seem to want to throw it away.
It is silly of you,
for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about,
and that is not being talked about.
A portrait like this would set you far above all the young men in England,
and make the old men quite jealous,
if old men are ever capable of any emotion."
"I know you will laugh at me,"
"but I really can't exhibit it.
I have put too much of myself into it."
Lord Henry stretched his long legs out on the divan and shook with laughter.
I knew you would laugh;
but it is quite true,
all the same."
"Too much of yourself in it!
Upon my word,
I didn't know you were so vain;
and I really can't see any resemblance between you,
with your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair,
and this young Adonis,
who looks as if he was made of ivory and rose-leaves.
my dear Basil,
he is a Narcissus,
and you --well,
of course you have an intellectual expression,
and all that.
ends where an intellectual expression begins.
Intellect is in itself an exaggeration,
and destroys the harmony of any face.
The moment one sits down to think,
one becomes all nose,
or all forehead,
or something horrid.
Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.
How perfectly hideous they are!
in the Church.
But then in the Church they don't think.
A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen,
and consequently he always looks absolutely delightful.
Your mysterious young friend,
whose name you have never told me,
but whose picture really fascinates me,
I feel quite sure of that.
He is a brainless,
who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at,
and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence.
Don't flatter yourself,
Basil: you are not in the least like him."
"You don't understand me,
Of course I am not like him.
I know that perfectly well.
I should be sorry to look like him.
You shrug your shoulders?
I am telling you the truth.
There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,
the sort of fatality that  seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings.
It is better not to be different from one's fellows.
The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world.
They can sit quietly and gape at the play.
If they know nothing of victory,
they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat.
They live as we all should live,
and without disquiet.
They neither bring ruin upon others nor ever receive it from alien hands.
Your rank and wealth,
such as they are,
whatever it may be worth;
Dorian Gray's good looks,
--we will all suffer for what the gods have given us,
is that his name?"
said Lord Henry,
walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward.
that is his name.
I didn't intend to tell it to you."
"But why not?"
I can't explain.
When I like people immensely I never tell their names to any one.
It seems like surrendering a part of them.
You know how I love secrecy.
It is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us.
The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.
When I leave town I never tell my people where I am going.
If I did,
I would lose all my pleasure.
It is a silly habit,
I dare say,
but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life.
I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?"
"Not at all,"
answered Lord Henry,
laying his hand upon his shoulder;
"not at all,
my dear Basil.
You seem to forget that I am married,
and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception necessary for both parties.
I never know where my wife is,
and my wife never knows what I am doing.
When we meet,
--we do meet occasionally,
when we dine out together,
or go down to the duke's,
--we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces.
My wife is very good at it,
than I am.
She never gets confused over her dates,
and I always do.
But when she does find me out,
she makes no row at all.
I sometimes wish she would;
but she merely laughs at me."
"I hate the way you talk about your married life,
said Basil Hallward,
shaking his hand off,
and strolling towards the door that led into the garden.
"I believe that you are really a very good husband,
but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues.
You are an extraordinary fellow.
You never say a moral thing,
and you never do a wrong thing.
Your cynicism is simply a pose."
"Being natural is simply a pose,
and the most irritating pose I know,"
cried Lord Henry,
and the two young men went out into the garden together,
and for a time they did not speak.
After a long pause Lord Henry pulled out his watch.
"I am afraid I must be going,
"and before I go I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago."
"What is that?"
asked Basil Hallward,
keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"You know quite well."
"I do not,
I will tell you what it is."
I want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture.
I want the real reason."
"I told you the real reason."
you did not.
You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it.
that is childish."
said Basil Hallward,
looking him straight in the face,
"every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist,
not of the sitter.
The sitter is merely the accident,
It is not he who is revealed by the painter;
it is rather the painter who,
on the colored canvas,
The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown with it the secret of my own soul."
Lord Harry laughed.
"And what is that?"
"I will tell you,"
and an expression of perplexity came over his face.
"I am all expectation,
murmured his companion,
looking at him.
there is really very little to tell,
answered the young painter;
"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it.
Perhaps you will hardly believe it."
Lord Henry smiled,
plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass,
and examined it.
"I am quite sure I shall understand it,"
gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk,
"and I can believe anything,
provided that it is incredible."
The wind shook some blossoms from the trees,
and the heavy lilac blooms,
with their clustering stars,
moved to and fro in the languid air.
A grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass,
and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings.
Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating,
and he wondered what was coming.
this is incredible,"
--"incredible to me at times.
I don't know what it means.
The story is simply this.
Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's.
You know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from time to time,
just to remind the public that we are not savages.
With an evening coat and a white tie,
as you told me once,
even a stock-broker,
can gain a reputation for being civilized.
after I had been in the room about ten minutes,
talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious Academicians,
I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me.
I turned half-way round,
and saw Dorian Gray for the first time.
When our eyes met,
I felt that I was growing pale.
A curious instinct of terror came over me.
I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that,
if I allowed it to do so,
it would absorb my whole nature,
my whole soul,
my very art itself.
I did not want any external influence in my life.
You know yourself,
how independent I am by nature.
My father destined me for the army.
I insisted on  going to Oxford.
Then he made me enter my name at the Middle Temple.
Before I had eaten half a dozen dinners I gave up the Bar,
and announced my intention of becoming a painter.
I have always been my own master;
had at least always been so,
till I met Dorian Gray.
Then --But I don't know how to explain it to you.
Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life.
I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.
I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him,
and that I ought not to speak to him.
I grew afraid,
and turned to quit the room.
It was not conscience that made me do so: it was cowardice.
I take no credit to myself for trying to escape."
"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things,
Conscience is the trade-name of the firm.
That is all."
"I don't believe that,
whatever was my motive,
--and it may have been pride,
for I used to be very proud,
--I certainly struggled to the door.
I stumbled against Lady Brandon.
'You are not going to run away so soon,
she screamed out.
You know her shrill horrid voice?"
she is a peacock in everything but beauty,"
said Lord Henry,
pulling the daisy to bits with his long,
"I could not get rid of her.
She brought me up to Royalties,
and people with Stars and Garters,
and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and hooked noses.
She spoke of me as her dearest friend.
I had only met her once before,
but she took it into her head to lionize me.
I believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time,
at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers,
which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality.
Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me.
We were quite close,
Our eyes met again.
It was mad of me,
but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.
Perhaps it was not so mad,
It was simply inevitable.
We would have spoken to each other without any introduction.
I am sure of that.
Dorian told me so afterwards.
felt that we were destined to know each other."
"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?
I know she goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests.
I remember her bringing me up to a most truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons,
and hissing into my ear,
in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room,
'Sir Humpty Dumpty --you know --Afghan frontier --Russian intrigues: very successful man --wife killed by an elephant --quite inconsolable --wants to marry a beautiful American widow --everybody does nowadays --hates Mr. Gladstone --but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of Schouvaloff.'
I simply fled.
I like to find out people for myself.
But poor Lady Brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods.
She either explains them entirely away,
or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know.
But what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray?"
'Charming boy --poor dear mother and I quite inseparable --engaged to be married to the same man --I mean married on the same day --how very silly of me!
Quite forget what he does --afraid he --doesn't do anything --oh,
plays the piano --or is it the violin,
dear Mr. Gray?'
We could neither of us help laughing,
and we became friends at once."
"Laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship,
and it is the best ending for one,"
said Lord Henry,
plucking another daisy.
Hallward buried his face in his hands.
"You don't understand what friendship is,
--"or what enmity is,
for that matter.
You like every one;
that is to say,
you are indifferent to every one."
"How horribly unjust of you!"
cried Lord Henry,
tilting his hat back,
and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky,
like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk.
horribly unjust of you.
I make a great difference between people.
I choose my friends for their good looks,
my acquaintances for their characters,
and my enemies for their brains.
A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
I have not got one who is a fool.
They are all men of some intellectual power,
and consequently they all appreciate me.
Is that very vain of me?
I think it is rather vain."
"I should think it was,
But according to your category I must be merely an acquaintance."
"My dear old Basil,
you are much more than an acquaintance."
"And much less than a friend.
A sort of brother,
I don't care for brothers.
My elder brother won't die,
and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else."
"My dear fellow,
I am not quite serious.
But I can't help detesting my relations.
I suppose it comes from the fact that we can't stand other people having the same faults as ourselves.
I quite sympathize with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes.
They feel that drunkenness,
and immorality should be their own special property,
and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves.
When poor Southwark got into the Divorce Court,
their indignation was quite magnificent.
And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly."
"I don't agree with a single word that you have said,
what is more,
I don't believe you do either."
Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard,
and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane.
"How English you are,
If one puts forward an idea to a real Englishman,
--always a rash thing to do,
--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong.
The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one's self.
the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it.
the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is,
the more purely intellectual will the idea be,
as in that case it  will not be colored by either his wants,
or his prejudices.
I don't propose to discuss politics,
or metaphysics with you.
I like persons better than principles.
Tell me more about Dorian Gray.
How often do you see him?"
I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day.
Of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes.
But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal."
"But you don't really worship him?"
I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,
I should say.
Art sounds better,
"He is all my art to me now.
I sometimes think,
that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world.
The first is the appearance of a new medium for art,
and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also.
What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians,
the face of Antinoüs was to late Greek sculpture,
and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.
It is not merely that I paint from him,
draw from him,
model from him.
Of course I have done all that.
He has stood as Paris in dainty armor,
and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear.
Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms,
he has sat on the prow of Adrian's barge,
looking into the green,
He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland,
and seen in the water's silent silver the wonder of his own beauty.
But he is much more to me than that.
I won't tell you that I am dissatisfied with what I have done of him,
or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it.
There is nothing that art cannot express,
and I know that the work I have done since I met Dorian Gray is good work,
is the best work of my life.
But in some curious way --I wonder will you understand me?
--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art,
an entirely new mode of style.
I see things differently,
I think of them differently.
I can now re-create life in a way that was hidden from me before.
'A dream of form in days of thought,'
--who is it who says that?
but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me.
The merely visible presence of this lad,
--for he seems to me little more than a lad,
though he is really over twenty,
--his merely visible presence,
I wonder can you realize all that that means?
Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school,
a school that is to have in itself all the passion of the romantic spirit,
all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek.
The harmony of soul and body,
--how much that is!
We in our madness have separated the two,
and have invented a realism that is bestial,
an ideality that is void.
if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me!
You remember that landscape of mine,
for which Agnew offered me such a huge price,
but which I would not part with?
It is one of the best things I have ever done.
And why is it so?
while I was painting it,
Dorian Gray sat beside me."
this is quite wonderful!
I must see Dorian Gray."
Hallward got up from the seat,
and walked up and down the  garden.
After some time he came back.
"You don't understand,
"Dorian Gray is merely to me a motive in art.
He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there.
He is simply a suggestion,
as I have said,
of a new manner.
I see him in the curves of certain lines,
in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain colors.
That is all."
"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?"
"Because I have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which,
I have never dared to speak to him.
He knows nothing about it.
He will never know anything about it.
But the world might guess it;
and I will not bare my soul to their shallow,
My heart shall never be put under their microscope.
There is too much of myself in the thing,
--too much of myself!"
"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are.
They know how useful passion is for publication.
Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions."
"I hate them for it.
An artist should create beautiful things,
but should put nothing of his own life into them.
We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography.
We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.
If I live,
I will show the world what it is;
and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of Dorian Gray."
"I think you are wrong,
but I won't argue with you.
It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue.
is Dorian Gray very fond of you?"
Hallward considered for a few moments.
"He likes me,"
after a pause;
"I know he likes me.
Of course I flatter him dreadfully.
I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said.
I give myself away.
As a rule,
he is charming to me,
and we walk home together from the club arm in arm,
or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things.
Now and then,
he is horribly thoughtless,
and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain.
Then I feel,
that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat,
a bit of decoration to charm his vanity,
an ornament for a summer's day."
"Days in summer,
are apt to linger.
Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will.
It is a sad thing to think of,
but there is no doubt that Genius lasts longer than Beauty.
That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves.
In the wild struggle for existence,
we want to have something that endures,
and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts,
in the silly hope of keeping our place.
The thoroughly well informed man,
--that is the modern ideal.
And the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing.
It is like a bric-à-brac shop,
all monsters and dust,
and everything priced above its proper value.
I think you will tire first,
all the same.
Some day you will look at Gray,
and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing,
or you won't like his tone of color,
You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart,
and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you.
The next time he calls,
you will be  perfectly cold and indifferent.
It will be a great pity,
for it will alter you.
The worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic."
don't talk like that.
As long as I live,
the personality of Dorian Gray will dominate me.
You can't feel what I feel.
You change too often."
my dear Basil,
that is exactly why I can feel it.
Those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies."
And Lord Henry struck a light on a dainty silver case,
and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air,
as if he had summed up life in a phrase.
There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy,
and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows.
How pleasant it was in the garden!
And how delightful other people's emotions were!
--much more delightful than their ideas,
it seemed to him.
One's own soul,
and the passions of one's friends,
--those were the fascinating things in life.
He thought with pleasure of the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with Basil Hallward.
Had he gone to his aunt's,
he would have been sure to meet Lord Goodbody there,
and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor,
and the necessity for model lodging-houses.
It was charming to have escaped all that!
As he thought of his aunt,
an idea seemed to strike him.
He turned to Hallward,
"My dear fellow,
I have just remembered."
"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray."
"Where was it?"
with a slight frown.
"Don't look so angry,
It was at my aunt's,
She told me she had discovered a wonderful young man,
who was going to help her in the East End,
and that his name was Dorian Gray.
I am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking.
Women have no appreciation of good looks.
good women have not.
She said that he was very earnest,
and had a beautiful nature.
I at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair,
and tramping about on huge feet.
I wish I had known it was your friend."
"I am very glad you didn't,
"I don't want you to meet him."
"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio,
said the butler,
coming into the garden.
"You must introduce me now,"
cried Lord Henry,
Basil Hallward turned to the servant,
who stood blinking in the sunlight.
"Ask Mr. Gray to wait,
Parker: I will be in in a few moments."
The man bowed,
and went up the walk.
Then he looked at Lord Henry.
"Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,"
"He has a simple and a beautiful nature.
Your aunt was quite right in what she said of him.
Don't spoil him for me.
Don't try to influence him.
Your influence would be bad.
The world is wide,
and has many marvellous people in it.
Don't take  away from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me,
and that gives to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses.
I trust you."
He spoke very slowly,
and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will.
"What nonsense you talk!"
said Lord Henry,
taking Hallward by the arm,
he almost led him into the house.
[ ...12] As they entered they saw Dorian Gray.
He was seated at the piano,
with his back to them,
turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's "Forest Scenes."
"You must lend me these,
"I want to learn them.
They are perfectly charming."
"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day,
I am tired of sitting,
and I don't want a life-sized portrait of myself,"
answered the lad,
swinging round on the music-stool,
in a wilful,
When he caught sight of Lord Henry,
a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment,
and he started up.
"I beg your pardon,
but I didn't know you had any one with you."
"This is Lord Henry Wotton,
an old Oxford friend of mine.
I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were,
and now you have spoiled everything."
"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you,
said Lord Henry,
stepping forward and shaking him by the hand.
"My aunt has often spoken to me about you.
You are one of her favorites,
I am afraid,
one of her victims also."
"I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present,"
with a funny look of penitence.
"I promised to go to her club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday,
and I really forgot all about it.
We were to have played a duet together,
I don't know what she will say to me.
I am far too frightened to call."
I will make your peace with my aunt.
She is quite devoted to you.
And I don't think it really matters about your not being there.
The audience probably thought it was a duet.
When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people."
"That is very horrid to her,
and not very nice to me,"
Lord Henry looked at him.
he was certainly wonderfully handsome,
with his finely-curved scarlet lips,
his frank blue eyes,
his crisp gold hair.
There was something in his face that made one trust him at once.
All the candor of youth was there,
as well as all youth's passionate purity.
One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world.
No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.
He was made to be worshipped.
"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy,
--far too charming."
And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan,
and opened his cigarette-case.
Hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready.
He was looking worried,
and when he heard Lord Henry's last  remark he glanced at him,
hesitated for a moment,
and then said,
I want to finish this picture to-day.
Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?"
Lord Henry smiled,
and looked at Dorian Gray.
"Am I to go,
I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods;
and I can't bear him when he sulks.
I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy."
"I don't know that I shall tell you that,
But I certainly will not run away,
now that you have asked me to stop.
You don't really mind,
You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to."
Hallward bit his lip.
"If Dorian wishes it,
of course you must stay.
Dorian's whims are laws to everybody,
Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves.
"You are very pressing,
but I am afraid I must go.
I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans.
Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street.
I am nearly always at home at five o'clock.
Write to me when you are coming.
I should be sorry to miss you."
cried Dorian Gray,
"if Lord Henry goes I shall go too.
You never open your lips while you are painting,
and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant.
Ask him to stay.
I insist upon it."
to oblige Dorian,
and to oblige me,"
gazing intently at his picture.
"It is quite true,
I never talk when I am working,
and never listen either,
and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters.
I beg you to stay."
"But what about my man at the Orleans?"
"I don't think there will be any difficulty about that.
Sit down again,
get up on the platform,
and don't move about too much,
or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says.
He has a very bad influence over all his friends,
with the exception of myself."
Dorian stepped up on the dais,
with the air of a young Greek martyr,
and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry,
to whom he had rather taken a fancy.
He was so unlike Hallward.
They made a delightful contrast.
And he had such a beautiful voice.
After a few moments he said to him,
"Have you really a very bad influence,
As bad as Basil says?"
"There is no such thing as a good influence,
All influence is immoral,
--immoral from the scientific point of view."
"Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul.
He does not think his natural thoughts,
or burn with his natural passions.
His virtues are not real to him.
if there are such things as sins,
He becomes an echo of some one else's music,
an actor of a part that has not been written for him.
The aim of life is self-development.
To realize one's nature perfectly,
--that is what each of us is here for.
People are afraid of themselves,
They have forgotten the highest of all duties,
the duty that one owes to one's  self.
Of course they are charitable.
They feed the hungry,
and clothe the beggar.
But their own souls starve,
and are naked.
Courage has gone out of our race.
Perhaps we never really had it.
The terror of society,
which is the basis of morals,
the terror of God,
which is the secret of religion,
--these are the two things that govern us.
And yet --"
"Just turn your head a little more to the right,
like a good boy,"
deep in his work,
and conscious only that a look had come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before.
continued Lord Henry,
in his low,
and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him,
and that he had even in his Eton days,
"I believe that if one man were to live his life out fully and completely,
were to give form to every feeling,
expression to every thought,
reality to every dream,
--I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism,
and return to the Hellenic ideal,
--to something finer,
than the Hellenic ideal,
it may be.
But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself.
The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives.
We are punished for our refusals.
Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind,
and poisons us.
The body sins once,
and has done with its sin,
for action is a mode of purification.
Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure,
or the luxury of a regret.
The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.
and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself,
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.
It is in the brain,
and the brain only,
that the great sins of the world take place also.
with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood,
you have had passions that have made you afraid,
thoughts that have filled you with terror,
day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame --"
murmured Dorian Gray,
you bewilder me.
I don't know what to say.
There is some answer to you,
but I cannot find it.
Let me think,
let me try not to think."
For nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless,
with parted lips,
and eyes strangely bright.
He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him,
and they seemed to him to have come really from himself.
The few words that Basil's friend had said to him --words spoken by chance,
and with wilful paradox in them --had yet touched some secret chord,
that had never been touched before,
but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.
Music had stirred him like that.
Music had troubled him many times.
But music was not articulate.
It was not a new world,
but rather a new chaos,
that it created in us.
How terrible they were!
One could not escape from them.
And yet what a subtle magic there was in them!
 They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things,
and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute.
Was there anything so real as words?
there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood.
He understood them now.
Life suddenly became fiery-colored to him.
It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire.
Why had he not known it?
Lord Henry watched him,
with his sad smile.
He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing.
He felt intensely interested.
He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced,
remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen,
which had revealed to him much that he had not known before,
he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through the same experience.
He had merely shot an arrow into the air.
Had it hit the mark?
How fascinating the lad was!
Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his,
that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength.
He was unconscious of the silence.
I am tired of standing,"
cried Dorian Gray,
"I must go out and sit in the garden.
The air is stifling here."
"My dear fellow,
I am so sorry.
When I am painting,
I can't think of anything else.
But you never sat better.
You were perfectly still.
And I have caught the effect I wanted,
--the half-parted lips,
and the bright look in the eyes.
I don't know what Harry has been saying to you,
but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression.
I suppose he has been paying you compliments.
You mustn't believe a word that he says."
"He has certainly not been paying me compliments.
Perhaps that is the reason I don't think I believe anything he has told me."
"You know you believe it all,"
said Lord Henry,
looking at him with his dreamy,
"I will go out to the garden with you.
It is horridly hot in the studio.
let us have something iced to drink,
something with strawberries in it."
Just touch the bell,
and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want.
I have got to work up this background,
so I will join you later on.
Don't keep Dorian too long.
I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day.
This is going to be my masterpiece.
It is my masterpiece as it stands."
Lord Henry went out to the garden,
and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms,
feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine.
He came close to him,
and put his hand upon his shoulder.
"You are quite right to do that,"
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses,
just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."
The lad started and drew back.
He was bareheaded,
and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads.
There was a look of fear in his eyes,
such as people have when they are suddenly awakened.
His finely-chiselled nostrils quivered,
and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.
continued Lord Henry,
"that is one of the great secrets of life,
--to cure the soul by means of the senses,
and the senses by means of the soul.
You are a wonderful creature.
You know more than you think you know,
just as you know less than you want to know."
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away.
He could not help liking the tall,
graceful young man who was standing by him.
His romantic olive-colored face and worn expression interested him.
There was something in his low,
languid voice that was absolutely fascinating.
had a curious charm.
as he spoke,
and seemed to have a language of their own.
But he felt afraid of him,
and ashamed of being afraid.
Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself?
He had known Basil Hallward for months,
but the friendship between then had never altered him.
Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery.
what was there to be afraid of?
He was not a school-boy,
or a girl.
It was absurd to be frightened.
"Let us go and sit in the shade,"
said Lord Henry.
"Parker has brought out the drinks,
and if you stay any longer in this glare you will be quite spoiled,
and Basil will never paint you again.
You really must not let yourself become sunburnt.
It would be very unbecoming to you."
"What does it matter?"
as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.
"It should matter everything to you,
"Because you have now the most marvellous youth,
and youth is the one thing worth having."
"I don't feel that,
you don't feel it now.
when you are old and wrinkled and ugly,
when thought has seared your forehead with its lines,
and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires,
you will feel it,
you will feel it terribly.
wherever you go,
you charm the world.
Will it always be so?
"You have a wonderfully beautiful face,
And Beauty is a form of Genius,
as it needs no explanation.
It is one of the great facts of the world,
or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon.
It cannot be questioned.
It has its divine right of sovereignty.
It makes princes of those who have it.
when you have lost it you won't smile.
"People say sometimes that Beauty is only superficial.
That may be so.
But at least it is not so superficial as Thought.
Beauty is the wonder of wonders.
It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.
The true mystery of the world is the visible,
not the invisible.
the gods have been good to you.
But what the gods give they quickly take away.
You have only a few years in which really to live.
When your youth goes,
your beauty will go with it,
and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left  for you,
or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats.
Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful.
Time is jealous of you,
and wars against your lilies and your roses.
You will become sallow,
You will suffer horribly.
"Realize your youth while you have it.
Don't squander the gold of your days,
listening to the tedious,
trying to improve the hopeless failure,
or giving away your life to the ignorant,
and the vulgar,
which are the aims,
the false ideals,
of our age.
Live the wonderful life that is in you!
Let nothing be lost upon you.
Be always searching for new sensations.
Be afraid of nothing.
"A new hedonism,
--that is what our century wants.
You might be its visible symbol.
With your personality there is nothing you could not do.
The world belongs to you for a season.
"The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,
what you really might be.
There was so much about you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself.
I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted.
For there is such a little time that your youth will last,
--such a little time.
"The common hill-flowers wither,
but they blossom again.
The laburnum will be as golden next June as it is now.
In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis,
and year after year the green night of its leaves will have its purple stars.
But we never get back our youth.
The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty,
Our limbs fail,
our senses rot.
We degenerate into hideous puppets,
haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid,
and the exquisite temptations that we did not dare to yield to.
There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!"
Dorian Gray listened,
open-eyed and wondering.
The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel.
A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment.
Then it began to scramble all over the fretted purple of the tiny blossoms.
He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid,
or when we are stirred by some new emotion,
for which we cannot find expression,
or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield.
After a time it flew away.
He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus.
The flower seemed to quiver,
and then swayed gently to and fro.
Suddenly Hallward appeared at the door of the studio,
and made frantic signs for them to come in.
They turned to each other,
"I am waiting,"
"Do come in.
The light is quite perfect,
and you can bring your drinks."
They rose up,
and sauntered down the walk together.
Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them,
and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing.
"You are glad you have met me,
said Lord Henry,
looking at him.
I am glad now.
I wonder shall I always be glad?"
That is a dreadful word.
It makes me shudder when I hear it.
Women are so fond of using it.
They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever.
It is a meaningless word,
The only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer."
As they entered the studio,
Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm.
"In that case,
let our friendship be a caprice,"
flushing at his own boldness,
then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose.
Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair,
and watched him.
The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness,
except when Hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance.
In the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden.
The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.
After about a quarter of an hour,
Hallward stopped painting,
looked for a long time at Dorian Gray,
and then for a long time at the picture,
biting the end of one of his huge brushes,
"It is quite finished,"
and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture.
It was certainly a wonderful work of art,
and a wonderful likeness as well.
"My dear fellow,
I congratulate you most warmly,"
come and look at yourself."
The lad started,
as if awakened from some dream.
"Is it really finished?"
stepping down from the platform.
"And you have sat splendidly to-day.
I am awfully obliged to you."
"That is entirely due to me,"
broke in Lord Henry.
Dorian made no answer,
but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it.
When he saw it he drew back,
and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure.
A look of joy came into his eyes,
as if he had recognized himself for the first time.
He stood there motionless,
and in wonder,
dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him,
but not catching the meaning of his words.
The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation.
He had never felt it before.
Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship.
He had listened to them,
laughed at them,
They had not influenced his nature.
Then had come Lord Henry,
with his strange panegyric on youth,
his terrible warning of its brevity.
That had stirred him at the time,
as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness,
the full reality of the description flashed across him.
there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen,
his eyes dim and colorless,
the grace of his figure broken and deformed.
The scarlet would pass away from his lips,
and the gold steal from his hair.
The life that was to make his soul would mar his body.
He would become ignoble,
 As he thought of it,
a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him,
and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver.
His eyes deepened into amethyst,
and a mist of tears came across them.
He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.
"Don't you like it?"
cried Hallward at last,
stung a little by the lad's silence,
and not understanding what it meant.
"Of course he likes it,"
said Lord Henry.
"Who wouldn't like it?
It is one of the greatest things in modern art.
I will give you anything you like to ask for it.
I must have it."
"It is not my property,
"Whose property is it?"
"He is a very lucky fellow."
"How sad it is!"
murmured Dorian Gray,
with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait.
"How sad it is!
I shall grow old,
But this picture will remain always young.
It will never be older than this particular day of June.
...If it was only the other way!
If it was I who were to be always young,
and the picture that were to grow old!
For this --for this --I would give everything!
there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!"
"You would hardly care for that arrangement,
cried Lord Henry,
"It would be rather hard lines on you."
"I should object very strongly,
Dorian Gray turned and looked at him.
"I believe you would,
You like your art better than your friends.
I am no more to you than a green bronze figure.
Hardly as much,
I dare say."
Hallward stared in amazement.
It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that.
What had happened?
He seemed almost angry.
His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.
"I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun.
You will like them always.
How long will you like me?
Till I have my first wrinkle,
that when one loses one's good looks,
whatever they may be,
one loses everything.
Your picture has taught me that.
Lord Henry is perfectly right.
Youth is the only thing worth having.
When I find that I am growing old,
I will kill myself."
Hallward turned pale,
and caught his hand.
"don't talk like that.
I have never had such a friend as you,
and I shall never have such another.
You are not jealous of material things,
"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die.
I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me.
Why should it keep what I must lose?
Every moment that passes takes something from me,
and gives something to it.
if it was only the other way!
If the picture could change,
and I could be always what I am now!
Why did you paint it?
It will mock me some day,
--mock me horribly!"
The hot tears welled into his eyes;
he tore his hand away,
flinging himself on the divan,
he buried his face in the cushions,
as if he was praying.
"This is your doing,
 "My doing?"
and you know it."
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.
"It is the real Dorian Gray,
--that is all,"
"It is not."
"If it is not,
what have I to do with it?"
"You should have gone away when I asked you."
"I stayed when you asked me."
I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once,
but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done,
and I will destroy it.
What is it but canvas and color?
I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."
Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow,
and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes,
as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained window.
What was he doing there?
His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes,
seeking for something.
it was the long palette-knife,
with its thin blade of lithe steel.
He had found it at last.
He was going to rip up the canvas.
With a stifled sob he leaped from the couch,
rushing over to Hallward,
tore the knife out of his hand,
and flung it to the end of the studio.
"It would be murder!"
"I am glad you appreciate my work at last,
when he had recovered from his surprise.
"I never thought you would."
I am in love with it,
It is part of myself,
I feel that."
as soon as you are dry,
you shall be varnished,
and sent home.
Then you can do what you like with yourself."
And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea.
"You will have tea,
And so will you,
Tea is the only simple pleasure left to us."
"I don't like simple pleasures,"
said Lord Henry.
"And I don't like scenes,
except on the stage.
What absurd fellows you are,
both of you!
I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal.
It was the most premature definition ever given.
Man is many things,
but he is not rational.
I am glad he is not,
after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture.
You had much better let me have it,
This silly boy doesn't really want it,
and I do."
"If you let any one have it but me,
I will never forgive you!"
cried Dorian Gray.
"And I don't allow people to call me a silly boy."
"You know the picture is yours,
I gave it to you before it existed."
"And you know you have been a little silly,
and that you don't really mind being called a boy."
"I should have minded very much this morning,
You have lived since then."
There came a knock to the door,
and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table.
There was a  rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.
Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page.
Dorian Gray went over and poured the tea out.
The two men sauntered languidly to the table,
and examined what was under the covers.
"Let us go to the theatre to-night,"
said Lord Henry.
"There is sure to be something on,
I have promised to dine at White's,
but it is only with an old friend,
so I can send him a wire and say that I am ill,
or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement.
I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor."
"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes,"
when one has them on,
they are so horrid."
answered Lord Henry,
"the costume of our day is detestable.
It is so sombre,
Sin is the only color-element left in modern life."
"You really must not say things like that before Dorian,
"Before which Dorian?
The one who is pouring out tea for us,
or the one in the picture?"
"I should like to come to the theatre with you,
said the lad.
"Then you shall come;
and you will come too,
I would sooner not.
I have a lot of work to do."
you and I will go alone,
"I should like that awfully."
Basil Hallward bit his lip and walked over,
cup in hand,
to the picture.
"I will stay with the real Dorian,"
"Is it the real Dorian?"
cried the original of the portrait,
running across to him.
"Am I really like that?"
you are just like that."
"At least you are like it in appearance.
But it will never alter,"
"That is something."
"What a fuss people make about fidelity!"
murmured Lord Henry.
it is purely a question for physiology.
It has nothing to do with our own will.
It is either an unfortunate accident,
or an unpleasant result of temperament.
Young men want to be faithful,
and are not;
old men want to be faithless,
and cannot: that is all one can say."
"Don't go to the theatre to-night,
"Stop and dine with me."
"Because I have promised Lord Henry to go with him."
"He won't like you better for keeping your promises.
He always breaks his own.
I beg you not to go."
Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.
"I entreat you."
The lad hesitated,
and looked over at Lord Henry,
who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.
 "I must go,
and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray.
"It is rather late,
as you have to dress,
you had better lose no time.
Come and see me soon.
"You won't forget?"
of course not."
"Remember what I asked you,
when in the garden this morning."
"I have forgotten it."
"I trust you."
"I wish I could trust myself,"
said Lord Henry,
my hansom is outside,
and I can drop you at your own place.
It has been a most interesting afternoon."
As the door closed behind them,
Hallward flung himself down on a sofa,
and a look of pain came into his face.
[ ...22] One afternoon,
a month later,
Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair,
in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Curzon Street.
in its way,
a very charming room,
with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak,
its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work,
and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs.
On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion,
and beside it lay a copy of "Les Cent Nouvelles,"
bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve,
and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device.
Some large blue china jars,
filled with parrot-tulips,
were ranged on the mantel-shelf,
and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in London.
Lord Henry had not come in yet.
He was always late on principle,
his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.
So the lad was looking rather sulky,
as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "Manon Lescaut" that he had found in one of the bookcases.
The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him.
Once or twice he thought of going away.
At last he heard a light step outside,
and the door opened.
"How late you are,
"I am afraid it is not Harry,
said a woman's voice.
He glanced quickly round,
and rose to his feet.
"I beg your pardon.
I thought --"
"You thought it was my husband.
It is only his wife.
You must let me introduce myself.
I know you quite well by your photographs.
I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them."
 "Not twenty-seven,
And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera."
She laughed nervously,
as she spoke,
and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes.
She was a curious woman,
whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest.
She was always in love with somebody,
as her passion was never returned,
she had kept all her illusions.
She tried to look picturesque,
but only succeeded in being untidy.
Her name was Victoria,
and she had a perfect mania for going to church.
"That was at
it was at dear
I like Wagner's music better than any other music.
It is so loud that one can talk the whole time,
without people hearing what one says.
That is a great advantage: don't you think so,
The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips,
and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife.
and shook his head:
"I am afraid I don't think so,
I never talk during music,
--at least during good music.
If one hears bad music,
it is one's duty to drown it by conversation."
that is one of Harry's views,
But you must not think I don't like good music.
I adore it,
but I am afraid of it.
It makes me too romantic.
I have simply worshipped pianists,
--two at a time,
I don't know what it is about them.
Perhaps it is that they are foreigners.
They all are,
Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time,
It is so clever of them,
and such a compliment to art.
Makes it quite cosmopolitan,
You have never been to any of my parties,
You must come.
I can't afford orchids,
but I spare no expense in foreigners.
They make one's rooms look so picturesque.
But here is Harry!
I came in to look for you,
to ask you something,
--I forget what it was,
--and I found Mr. Gray here.
We have had such a pleasant chat about music.
We have quite the same views.
I think our views are quite different.
But he has been most pleasant.
I am so glad I've seen him."
"I am charmed,
said Lord Henry,
elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.
--"So sorry I am late,
I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street,
and had to bargain for hours for it.
Nowadays people know the price of everything,
and the value of nothing."
"I am afraid I must be going,"
exclaimed Lady Henry,
after an awkward silence,
with her silly sudden laugh.
"I have promised to drive with the duchess.
You are dining out,
So am I.
Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury's."
"I dare say,
said Lord Henry,
shutting the door behind her,
as she flitted out of the room,
looking like a bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain,
and leaving a faint odor of patchouli behind her.
Then he shook hands with Dorian Gray,
lit a cigarette,
and flung himself down on the sofa.
 "Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair,
after a few puffs.
"Because they are so sentimental."
"But I like sentimental people."
"Never marry at all,
Men marry because they are tired;
because they are curious: both are disappointed."
"I don't think I am likely to marry,
I am too much in love.
That is one of your aphorisms.
I am putting it into practice,
as I do everything you say."
"Whom are you in love with?"
said Lord Henry,
looking at him with a curious smile.
"With an actress,"
said Dorian Gray,
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.
"That is a rather common-place début,"
"You would not say so if you saw her,
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Sibyl Vane."
"Never heard of her."
"No one has.
People will some day,
She is a genius."
"My dear boy,
no woman is a genius: women are a decorative sex.
They never have anything to say,
but they say it charmingly.
They represent the triumph of matter over mind,
just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals.
There are only two kinds of women,
the plain and the colored.
The plain women are very useful.
If you want to gain a reputation for respectability,
you have merely to take them down to supper.
The other women are very charming.
They commit one mistake,
They paint in order to try to look young.
Our grandmothers painted in order to try to talk brilliantly.
Rouge and esprit used to go together.
That has all gone out now.
As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter,
she is perfectly satisfied.
As for conversation,
there are only five women in London worth talking to,
and two of these can't be admitted into decent society.
tell me about your genius.
How long have you known her?"
"About three weeks.
Not so much.
About two weeks and two days."
"How did you come across her?"
"I will tell you,
but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it.
it never would have happened if I had not met you.
You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life.
For days after I met you,
something seemed to throb in my veins.
As I lounged in the Park,
or strolled down Piccadilly,
I used to look at every one who passed me,
and wonder with a mad curiosity what sort of lives they led.
Some of them fascinated me.
Others filled me with terror.
There was an exquisite poison in the air.
I had a passion for sensations.
"One evening about seven o'clock I determined to go out in search of some adventure.
I felt that this gray,
monstrous London of ours,
with its myriads of people,
its splendid sinners,
and its sordid sins,
as  you once said,
must have something in store for me.
I fancied a thousand things.
"The mere danger gave me a sense of delight.
I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful night when we first dined together,
about the search for beauty being the poisonous secret of life.
I don't know what I expected,
but I went out,
and wandered eastward,
soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black,
About half-past eight I passed by a little third-rate theatre,
with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills.
A hideous Jew,
in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life,
was standing at the entrance,
smoking a vile cigar.
He had greasy ringlets,
and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt.
''Ave a box,
when he saw me,
and he took off his hat with an act of gorgeous servility.
There was something about him,
that amused me.
He was such a monster.
You will laugh at me,
but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box.
To the present day I can't make out why I did so;
and yet if I hadn't!
--my dear Harry,
if I hadn't,
I would have missed the greatest romance of my life.
I see you are laughing.
It is horrid of you!"
"I am not laughing,
at least I am not laughing at you.
But you should not say the greatest romance of your life.
You should say the first romance of your life.
You will always be loved,
and you will always be in love with love.
There are exquisite things in store for you.
This is merely the beginning."
"Do you think my nature so shallow?"
cried Dorian Gray,
I think your nature so deep."
"How do you mean?"
"My dear boy,
people who only love once in their lives are really shallow people.
What they call their loyalty,
and their fidelity,
I call either the lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination.
Faithlessness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,
--simply a confession of failure.
But I don't want to interrupt you.
Go on with your story."
I found myself seated in a horrid little private box,
with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face.
I looked out behind the curtain,
and surveyed the house.
It was a tawdry affair,
all Cupids and cornucopias,
like a third-rate wedding-cake.
The gallery and pit were fairly full,
but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty,
and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle.
Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer,
and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on."
"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British Drama."
I should fancy,
and very horrid.
I began to wonder what on earth I should do,
when I caught sight of the play-bill.
What do you think the play was,
"I should think
'The Idiot Boy,
or Dumb but Innocent.'
Our fathers used to like that sort of piece,
The longer I live,
the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us.
as in politics,
les grand pères ont toujours tort."
 "This play was good enough for us,
'Romeo and Juliet.'
I must admit I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place.
I felt interested,
in a sort of way.
At any rate,
I determined to wait for the first act.
There was a dreadful orchestra,
presided over by a young Jew who sat at a cracked piano,
that nearly drove me away,
but at last the drop-scene was drawn up,
and the play began.
Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman,
with corked eyebrows,
a husky tragedy voice,
and a figure like a beer-barrel.
Mercutio was almost as bad.
He was played by the low-comedian,
who had introduced gags of his own and was on most familiar terms with the pit.
They were as grotesque as the scenery,
and that looked as if it had come out of a pantomime of fifty years ago.
imagine a girl,
hardly seventeen years of age,
with a little flower-like face,
a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair,
eyes that were violet wells of passion,
lips that were like the petals of a rose.
She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life.
You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved,
but that beauty,
could fill your eyes with tears.
I tell you,
I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me.
And her voice,
--I never heard such a voice.
It was very low at first,
with deep mellow notes,
that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear.
Then it became a little louder,
and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois.
In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing.
There were moments,
when it had the wild passion of violins.
You know how a voice can stir one.
Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget.
When I close my eyes,
I hear them,
and each of them says something different.
I don't know which to follow.
Why should I not love her?
I do love her.
She is everything to me in life.
Night after night I go to see her play.
One evening she is Rosalind,
and the next evening she is Imogen.
I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb,
sucking the poison from her lover's lips.
I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden,
disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap.
She has been mad,
and has come into the presence of a guilty king,
and given him rue to wear,
and bitter herbs to taste of.
She has been innocent,
and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat.
I have seen her in every age and in every costume.
Ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination.
They are limited to their century.
No glamour ever transfigures them.
One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets.
One can always find them.
There is no mystery in one of them.
They ride in the Park in the morning,
and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon.
They have their stereotyped smile,
and their fashionable manner.
They are quite obvious.
But an actress!
How different an actress is!
Why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?"
"Because I have loved so many of them,
horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces."
"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces.
There is an extraordinary charm in them,
 "I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane."
"You could not have helped telling me,
All through your life you will tell me everything you do."
I believe that is true.
I cannot help telling you things.
You have a curious influence over me.
If I ever did a crime,
I would come and confide it to you.
You would understand me."
"People like you --the wilful sunbeams of life --don't commit crimes,
But I am much obliged for the compliment,
all the same.
And now tell me,
--reach me the matches,
like a good boy: thanks,
what are your relations with Sibyl Vane?"
Dorian Gray leaped to his feet,
with flushed cheeks and burning eyes.
Sibyl Vane is sacred!"
"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching,
said Lord Henry,
with a strange touch of pathos in his voice.
"But why should you be annoyed?
I suppose she will be yours some day.
When one is in love,
one always begins by deceiving one's self,
and one always ends by deceiving others.
That is what the world calls romance.
You know her,
at any rate,
"Of course I know her.
On the first night I was at the theatre,
the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over,
and offered to bring me behind the scenes and introduce me to her.
I was furious with him,
and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years,
and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona.
from his blank look of amazement,
that he thought I had taken too much champagne,
"I am not surprised."
"I was not surprised either.
Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers.
I told him I never even read them.
He seemed terribly disappointed at that,
and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him,
and that they were all to be bought."
"I believe he was quite right there.
on the other hand,
most of them are not at all expensive."
he seemed to think they were beyond his means.
By this time the lights were being put out in the theatre,
and I had to go.
He wanted me to try some cigars which he strongly recommended.
The next night,
I arrived at the theatre again.
When he saw me he made me a low bow,
and assured me that I was a patron of art.
He was a most offensive brute,
though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare.
He told me once,
with an air of pride,
that his three bankruptcies were entirely due to the poet,
whom he insisted on calling
He seemed to think it a distinction."
"It was a distinction,
my dear Dorian,
--a great distinction.
But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"
"The third night.
She had been playing Rosalind.
I could not help going round.
I had thrown her some flowers,
and she had looked at me;
at least I fancied that she had.
The old Jew was persistent.
He seemed determined to bring me behind,
so I consented.
It was curious my not wanting to know her,
I don't think so."
"My dear Harry,
"I will tell you some other time.
Now I want to know about the girl."
she was so shy,
and so gentle.
There is something of a child about her.
Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance,
and she seemed quite unconscious of her power.
I think we were both rather nervous.
The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom,
making elaborate speeches about us both,
while we stood looking at each other like children.
He would insist on calling me
so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind.
She said quite simply to me,
'You look more like a prince.'"
"Upon my word,
Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments."
"You don't understand her,
She regarded me merely as a person in a play.
She knows nothing of life.
She lives with her mother,
a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night,
and who looks as if she had seen better days."
"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,
that you will never dine with me now.
I thought you must have some curious romance on hand.
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."
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,
He shook his head.
"To-night she is Imogen,"
"and tomorrow night she will be Juliet."
"When is she Sibyl Vane?"
"I congratulate you."
"How horrid you are!
She is all the great heroines of the world in one.
She is more than an individual.
but I tell you she has genius.
I love her,
and I must make her love me.
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  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.
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,
"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,
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."
my dear boy!"
She has not merely art,
but she has personality also;
and you have often told me that it is personalities,
that move the age."
what night shall we go?"
"Let me see.
To-day is Tuesday.
Let us fix to-morrow.
She plays Juliet to-morrow."
The Bristol at eight o'clock;
and I will get Basil."
We must be there before the curtain rises.
You must see her in the first act,
where she meets Romeo."
What an hour!
It will be like having a meat-tea.
just as you wish.
Shall you see Basil between this and then?
Or shall I write to him?"
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,
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,
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?"
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,
I have discovered that."
my dear boy,
puts everything that is charming in him into  his work.
The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices,
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,
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.
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.
--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.
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,
in its  way,
a real work of art,
Life having its elaborate masterpieces,
just as poetry has,
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.
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  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.
[ ...32] "I suppose you have heard the news,
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.
giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter.
"What is it?
Nothing about politics,
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!"
"It is perfectly true."
"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,
"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,
It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."
"If you want him to marry this girl,
tell him that,
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,
I don't want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature,
who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect."
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.
 Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people.
It has had that excellent effect,
We are to see her to-night,
if that boy doesn't forget his appointment."
"But do you approve of it,
walking up and down the room,
and biting his lip.
"You can't approve of it,
It is some silly infatuation."
"I never approve,
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.
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.
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.
every experience is of value,
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,
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,
"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  Henry,
putting his hand on the lad's shoulder,
and smiling as he spoke.
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,"
as they took their seats at the small round table.
"What happened was simply this.
After I left you yesterday evening,
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.
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,
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,
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."
I suppose you were right,"
"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,
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.
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."
 Hallward laid his hand upon his arm.
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,"
"I asked the question for the best reason possible,
for the only reason,
that excuses one for asking any question,
I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us,
and not we who propose to the women,
in middle-class life.
But then the middle classes are not modern."
Dorian Gray laughed,
and tossed his head.
"You are quite incorrigible,
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,
"You will always like me,
said Lord Henry.
"Will you have some coffee,
and some cigarettes.
No: don't mind the cigarettes;
I have some.
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?
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,
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.
your wonderful girl may thrill me.
I love acting.
It is so much more real than life.
Let us go.
you will come with me.
--I am so sorry,
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.
 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.
[ ...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,
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.
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.
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."
I hope not!"
murmured Lord Henry,
who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass.
"Don't pay any attention to him,
"I understand what you mean,
and I believe in this girl.
Any one you love must be marvellous,
and any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble.
To spiritualize one's age,
--that is something worth doing.
If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one,
if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly,
if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own,
she is worthy of all your adoration,
worthy of the adoration of the world.
This marriage is quite right.
I did not think so at first,
but I admit it now.
God made Sibyl Vane for you.
Without her you would have been incomplete."
answered Dorian Gray,
pressing his hand.
"I  knew that you would understand me.
Harry is so cynical,
he terrifies me.
But here is the orchestra.
It is quite dreadful,
but it only lasts for about five minutes.
Then the curtain rises,
and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life,
to whom I have given everything that is good in me."
A quarter of an hour afterwards,
amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause,
Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage.
she was certainly lovely to look at,
--one of the loveliest creatures,
Lord Henry thought,
that he had ever seen.
There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes.
A faint blush,
like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver,
came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded,
She stepped back a few paces,
and her lips seemed to tremble.
Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud.
Dorian Gray sat motionless,
gazing on her,
like a man in a dream.
Lord Henry peered through his opera-glass,
The scene was the hall of Capulet's house,
and Romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with Mercutio and his friends.
such as it was,
struck up a few bars of music,
and the dance began.
Through the crowd of ungainly,
Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world.
Her body swayed,
as she danced,
as a plant sways in the water.
The curves of her throat were like the curves of a white lily.
Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory.
Yet she was curiously listless.
She showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo.
The few lines she had to speak,
you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,
with the brief dialogue that follows,
were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner.
The voice was exquisite,
but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false.
It was wrong in color.
It took away all the life from the verse.
It made the passion unreal.
Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her.
Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him.
She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent.
They were horribly disappointed.
Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act.
They waited for that.
If she failed there,
there was nothing in her.
She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight.
That could not be denied.
But the staginess of her acting was unbearable,
and grew worse as she went on.
Her gestures became absurdly artificial.
She over-emphasized everything that she had to say.
The beautiful passage,
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night,
 was declaimed with the painful precision of a school-girl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution.
When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines,
Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash,
Too like the lightning,
which doth cease to be Ere one can say,
This bud of love by summer's ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet,
she spoke the words as if they conveyed no meaning to her.
It was not nervousness.
so far from being nervous,
she seemed absolutely self-contained.
It was simply bad art.
She was a complete failure.
Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play.
They got restless,
and began to talk loudly and to whistle.
The Jew manager,
who was standing at the back of the dress-circle,
stamped and swore with rage.
The only person unmoved was the girl herself.
When the second act was over there came a storm of hisses,
and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat.
"She is quite beautiful,
"but she can't act.
Let us go."
"I am going to see the play through,"
answered the lad,
in a hard,
"I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening,
I apologize to both of you."
"My dear Dorian,
I should think Miss Vane was ill,"
"We will come some other night."
"I wish she was ill,"
"But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold.
She has entirely altered.
Last night she was a great artist.
To-night she is merely a commonplace,
"Don't talk like that about any one you love,
Love is a more wonderful thing than art."
"They are both simply forms of imitation,"
murmured Lord Henry.
"But do let us go.
you must not stay here any longer.
It is not good for one's morals to see bad acting.
I don't suppose you will want your wife to act.
So what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll?
She is very lovely,
and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting,
she will be a delightful experience.
There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating,
--people who know absolutely everything,
and people who know absolutely nothing.
my dear boy,
don't look so tragic!
The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming.
Come to the club with Basil and myself.
We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane.
She is beautiful.
What more can you want?"
"Please go away,
cried the lad.
"I really want to be alone.
you don't mind my asking you to go?
can't you see that my heart is breaking?"
The hot tears came to his eyes.
His  lips trembled,
rushing to the back of the box,
he leaned up against the wall,
hiding his face in his hands.
"Let us go,
said Lord Henry,
with a strange tenderness in his voice;
and the two young men passed out together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up,
and the curtain rose on the third act.
Dorian Gray went back to his seat.
He looked pale,
The play dragged on,
and seemed interminable.
Half of the audience went out,
tramping in heavy boots,
The whole thing was a fiasco.
The last act was played to almost empty benches.
As soon as it was over,
Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom.
The girl was standing alone there,
with a look of triumph on her face.
Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire.
There was a radiance about her.
Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own.
When he entered,
she looked at him,
and an expression of infinite joy came over her.
"How badly I acted to-night,
gazing at her in amazement,
It was dreadful.
Are you ill?
You have no idea what it was.
You have no idea what I suffered."
The girl smiled.
lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice,
as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,
you should have understood.
But you understand now,
"Why I was so bad to-night.
Why I shall always be bad.
Why I shall never act well again."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"You are ill,
When you are ill you shouldn't act.
You make yourself ridiculous.
My friends were bored.
I was bored."
She seemed not to listen to him.
She was transfigured with joy.
An ecstasy of happiness dominated her.
"before I knew you,
acting was the one reality of my life.
It was only in the theatre that I lived.
I thought that it was all true.
I was Rosalind one night,
and Portia the other.
The joy of Beatrice was my joy,
and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also.
I believed in everything.
The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike.
The painted scenes were my world.
I knew nothing but shadows,
and I thought them real.
my beautiful love!
--and you freed my soul from prison.
You taught me what reality really is.
for the first time in my life,
I saw through the hollowness,
of the empty pageant in which I had always played.
for the first time,
I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous,
that the moonlight in the orchard was false,
that the scenery was vulgar,
and that the words I had to speak were unreal,
were not my words,
not what I wanted to say.
You had brought me something higher,
something of which all art is but a reflection.
You have made me understand what love really is.
I am sick  of shadows.
You are more to me than all art can ever be.
What have I to do with the puppets of a play?
When I came on to-night,
I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me.
Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant.
The knowledge was exquisite to me.
I heard them hissing,
and I smiled.
What should they know of love?
Take me away,
Dorian --take me away with you,
where we can be quite alone.
I hate the stage.
I might mimic a passion that I do not feel,
but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire.
you understand now what it all means?
Even if I could do it,
it would be profanation for me to play at being in love.
You have made me see that."
He flung himself down on the sofa,
and turned away his face.
"You have killed my love,"
She looked at him in wonder,
He made no answer.
She came across to him,
and stroked his hair with her little fingers.
She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips.
He drew them away,
and a shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up,
and went to the door.
"you have killed my love.
You used to stir my imagination.
Now you don't even stir my curiosity.
You simply produce no effect.
I loved you because you were wonderful,
because you had genius and intellect,
because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art.
You have thrown it all away.
You are shallow and stupid.
how mad I was to love you!
What a fool I have been!
You are nothing to me now.
I will never see you again.
I will never think of you.
I will never mention your name.
You don't know what you were to me,
I can't bear to think of it!
I wish I had never laid eyes upon you!
You have spoiled the romance of my life.
How little you can know of love,
if you say it mars your art!
What are you without your art?
I would have made you famous,
The world would have worshipped you,
and you would have belonged to me.
What are you now?
A third-rate actress with a pretty face."
The girl grew white,
She clinched her hands together,
and her voice seemed to catch in her throat.
"You are not serious,
"You are acting."
I leave that to you.
You do it so well,"
She rose from her knees,
with a piteous expression of pain in her face,
came across the room to him.
She put her hand upon his arm,
and looked into his eyes.
He thrust her back.
"Don't touch me!"
A low moan broke from her,
and she flung herself at his feet,
and lay there like a trampled flower.
don't leave me!"
"I am so sorry I didn't act well.
I was thinking of you all the time.
But I will try,
I will try.
It came so suddenly across me,
my love for you.
I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me,
--if we had not kissed each other.
Kiss me again,
Don't go away from me.
I couldn't bear it.
Can't you forgive me for to-night?
I will work so hard,
and try to  improve.
Don't be cruel to me because I love you better than anything in the world.
it is only once that I have not pleased you.
But you are quite right,
I should have shown myself more of an artist.
It was foolish of me;
and yet I couldn't help it.
don't leave me,
don't leave me."
A fit of passionate sobbing choked her.
She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing,
and Dorian Gray,
with his beautiful eyes,
looked down at her,
and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain.
There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love.
Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic.
Her tears and sobs annoyed him.
"I am going,"
he said at last,
in his calm,
"I don't wish to be unkind,
but I can't see you again.
You have disappointed me."
She wept silently,
and made no answer,
but crept nearer to him.
Her little hands stretched blindly out,
and appeared to be seeking for him.
He turned on his heel,
and left the room.
In a few moments he was out of the theatre.
Where he went to,
he hardly knew.
He remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses.
Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him.
Drunkards had reeled by cursing,
and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes.
He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps,
and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.
When the dawn was just breaking he found himself at Covent Garden.
Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street.
The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers,
and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain.
He followed into the market,
and watched the men unloading their wagons.
A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries.
He thanked him,
wondered why he refused to accept any money for them,
and began to eat them listlessly.
They had been plucked at midnight,
and the coldness of the moon had entered into them.
A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips,
and of yellow and red roses,
defiled in front of him,
threading their way through the huge jade-green piles of vegetables.
Under the portico,
with its gray sun-bleached pillars,
loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls,
waiting for the auction to be over.
After some time he hailed a hansom and drove home.
The sky was pure opal now,
and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it.
As he was passing through the library towards the door of his bedroom,
his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him.
He started back in surprise,
and then went over to it and examined it.
In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds,
the face seemed to him to be a little changed.
The expression looked different.
One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth.
It was certainly curious.
He turned round,
walking to the window,
drew the blinds up.
The bright dawn flooded the room,
and swept the fantastic shadows  into dusky corners,
where they lay shuddering.
But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there,
to be more intensified even.
ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.
taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids,
that Lord Henry had given him,
he glanced hurriedly into it.
No line like that warped his red lips.
What did it mean?
He rubbed his eyes,
and came close to the picture,
and examined it again.
There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting,
and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered.
It was not a mere fancy of his own.
The thing was horribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair,
and began to think.
Suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished.
he remembered it perfectly.
He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young,
and the portrait grow old;
that his own beauty might be untarnished,
and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins;
that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought,
and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.
Surely his prayer had not been answered?
Such things were impossible.
It seemed monstrous even to think of them.
there was the picture before him,
with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Had he been cruel?
It was the girl's fault,
He had dreamed of her as a great artist,
had given his love to her because he had thought her great.
Then she had disappointed him.
She had been shallow and unworthy.
a feeling of infinite regret came over him,
as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child.
He remembered with what callousness he had watched her.
Why had he been made like that?
Why had such a soul been given to him?
But he had suffered also.
During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted,
he had lived centuries of pain,
aeon upon aeon of torture.
His life was well worth hers.
She had marred him for a moment,
if he had wounded her for an age.
women were better suited to bear sorrow than men.
They lived on their emotions.
They only thought of their emotions.
When they took lovers,
it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes.
Lord Henry had told him that,
and Lord Henry knew what women were.
Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane?
She was nothing to him now.
But the picture?
What was he to say of that?
It held the secret of his life,
and told his story.
It had taught him to love his own beauty.
Would it teach him to loathe his own soul?
Would he ever look at it again?
it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses.
The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it.
Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that  makes men mad.
The picture had not changed.
It was folly to think so.
Yet it was watching him,
with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile.
Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight.
Its blue eyes met his own.
A sense of infinite pity,
not for himself,
but for the painted image of himself,
came over him.
It had altered already,
and would alter more.
Its gold would wither into gray.
Its red and white roses would die.
For every sin that he committed,
a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness.
But he would not sin.
changed or unchanged,
would be to him the visible emblem of conscience.
He would resist temptation.
He would not see Lord Henry any more,
at any rate,
listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things.
He would go back to Sibyl Vane,
make her amends,
try to love her again.
it was his duty to do so.
She must have suffered more than he had.
He had been selfish and cruel to her.
The fascination that she had exercised over him would return.
They would be happy together.
His life with her would be beautiful and pure.
He got up from his chair,
and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait,
shuddering as he glanced at it.
he murmured to himself,
and he walked across to the window and opened it.
When he stepped out on the grass,
he drew a deep breath.
The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions.
He thought only of Sibyl Vane.
A faint echo of his love came back to him.
He repeated her name over and over again.
The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.