 DRAMATIS PERSONAI OF THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY by Oscar Wilde DRAMATIS PERSONAI Lord Henry Watten, read by David Goldfarb Dorian Gray, read by Algi Pagg The Part of Basil, read by Anthony Sybil Vane, read by Miss Averis James Vane, read by David Horace The Duchess of Monmouth, read by Avayee Víctor, read by Martin Gheeson Francis, read by Simon Pryde Cab Driver, read by Simon Pryde Lady Agatha, read by Sarah The Duchess of Harley, read by Hannah Harris Sir Thomas Burden, read by Terence Taylor The Role of Mr. Erskine, read by Frank Booker Mrs. Vandalor, read by Mary Beth Blackburn Lady Henry, read by Susanna Mrs. Vane, read by Arielle Lipshaw Mrs. Leif, read by Rebecca Harris Mr. Hubbard, read by Frank Booker Lady Narvara, read by Elizabeth Clett Lady Ruckston, read by Mary Beth Blackburn Adrian Singleton, recorded by Joseph Lawler Woman, read by Lucy Perry Sir Jeffrey Cluston, played by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina Gamekeeper, read by Martin Gheeson The Gardener, recorded by Joseph Lawler Young Man, read by Elizabeth Clett The Old Gentleman, played by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina The Constable, recorded by Joseph Lawler Narrated by Martin Gheeson End of Dramatis Personae The Preface of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde The Preface The artist is the creator of beautiful things To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming This is a fault Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated For these there is hope They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book Books are well written or badly written That is all The 19th century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium No artist desires to prove anything even things that are true can be proved The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist even things that are true can be proved No artist has ethical sympathies An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style No artist is ever morbid The artist can express everything Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art From the point of view of form the type of all the arts is the art of the musician From the point of view of feeling the actor's craft is the type All art is at once surface and symbol Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril Those who read the symbol do so at their peril It is the spectator and not life that art really mirrors Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely All art is quite useless Oscar Wilde End of the Preface Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey Chapter 1 of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter 1 The studio was filled with the rich odour 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 saddlebags on which he was lying smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes Lord Henry Watten could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a 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 tassoor silk curtains that was stretched in front of the huge window producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who through the medium of 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, unmoan grass or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine seemed to make the stillness more oppressive 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, Basil Hallwood whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused at the time such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures as the painter looked at the gracious and cumbly form he had so skillfully mirrored in his art a smile of pleasure passed across his face and seemed about to linger there but he suddenly started up and 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, Basil, the best thing you have ever done said Lord Henry languidly you must certainly send it next year to the grovener the academy is too large and too vulgar whenever I have gone there there have either been so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures which was dreadful so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people which was worse the grovener is really the only place I don't think I shall send it anywhere he answered, 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 to the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful halls from his heavy opium-tainted cigarette not send it anywhere? my dear fellow, why? 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 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 he replied but I really can't exhibit it I have put too much of myself into it Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed yes, I know you would, but it is quite true all the same too much of yourself in it upon my word, Basil, 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 cold black hair and this young Adonis who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose leaves well my dear Basil, he is a narcissist and you well of course you have an intellectual expression and all that but beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins intellect is in itself a mode of 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 well except of course in the church but then in the church they don't think a bishop keeps on saying at the age of 80 what he was told to say when he was a boy of 18 and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful your mysterious young friend whose name you have never told me but whose picture really fascinates me never thinks, I feel quite sure of that he is some brainless beautiful creature 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 Harry answered the artist of course I am not like him I know that perfectly well indeed I should be sorry to look like him you shrug your shoulders I'm 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 at their ease 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 undisturbed and different and without disquiet they neither bring ruin upon others nor ever receive it from alien hands your rank and wealth Harry my brains, such as they are my art whatever it may be worth, Dorian Grey's good looks we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us suffer terribly Dorian Grey, is that his name? asked Lord Henry, walking across the studio towards Basil Hallward yes, that is his name I didn't intend to tell it to you but why not? oh, I can't explain when I like people immensely I never tell their names to anyone it is like surrendering a part of them I've grown to love secrecy it seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvelous to us the commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it when I leave town now I never tell people where I'm 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 not at all my dear Basil you seem to forget that I am married one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties I never know where my wife is and my wife never knows what I am doing when we meet, oh we do meet occasionally when we dine out together or go down to the dukes we tell each other the most absurd stories with the most serious faces my wife is very good at it much better in fact 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, Harry said Basil Hallward 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 laughing and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush the sunlight slipped over the polished leaves in the grass white daisies were tremulous after a pause Lord Henry pulled out his watch I am afraid I must be going Basil he murmured and before I go I insist on your answering a question I put to you some time ago what is that? said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground you know quite well I do not, Harry well 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 reason no you did not you said it was because there was too much of yourself in it now that is childish Harry said Basil Hallward looking him straight in the face every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist not the sitter the sitter is merely the accident the occasion it is not he who is revealed by the painter it is rather the painter who on coloured canvas reveals himself the reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul Lord Henry laughed what is that? he asked I will tell you said Hallward but an expression of perplexity came over his face I am all expectation Basil continued his companion glancing at him oh, there is really very little to tell Harry answered the painter and I am afraid you will hardly understand it perhaps you will hardly believe it Lord Henry smiled and leaning down plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it I am quite sure I shall understand it he replied gazing intently at the little golden white feathered disc and as for believing things I can believe anything provided that it is quite 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 grass-hover began to chirrup by the wall and like a blue thread a long thin dragonfly floated past on its brown gore's wings Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating and wondered what was coming the story is simply this said the painter after some time two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's you know we poor artists 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 anybody, even a stockbroker can gain a reputation for being civilized well, after I'd been in the room about ten minutes talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians I suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me I turned halfway around and saw Dorian Gray for the first time when our eyes met I felt that I was growing pale a curious sensation of terror came over me I knew that I had come face to face with someone 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 Harry how independent I am by nature I've always been my own master I 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 grew afraid and turned to quit the room it was not conscience that made me do so it was sort of a cowardice I take no credit to myself for trying to escape conscience and cowardice are really the same things Basil conscience is the trade name of the firm that is all I don't believe that Harry and I don't believe you do either however, whatever was my motive and it may have been pride for I used to be very proud I certainly struggled to the door there of course I stumbled against Lady Brandon you are not going to run away so soon Mr. Hallwood she screamed out you know her curiously shrill voice yes, she is a peacock in everything but beauty said Lord Henry pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers 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 parrot 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 19th century standard of immortality suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man his personality had so strangely stirred me we were quite close, almost touching our eyes met again it was reckless of me but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him perhaps it was not so reckless after all it was simply inevitable we would have spoken to each other without any introduction I am sure of that Dorian told me so afterwards he too felt we were destined to know each other and how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man? asked his companion I know she goes in for giving a rapid praise of all her guests I remember her bringing me up to a 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 the most astounding details I simply fled I like to find out people for myself but 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 poor Lady Brandon you are hard on her Harry said Hallward listlessly my dear fellow she tried to found a salon and only succeeded in opening a restaurant how could I admire her? but tell me what did she say about Mr. Dorian Gray? oh something like charming boy poor dear mother and I absolutely inseparable quite forget what he does afraid he doesn't do anything yes, place the piano or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray? neither of us could help laughing and we became friends at once laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship and it is far the best ending for one said the young Lord plucking another daisy Hallward shook his hedge you don't understand what friendship is, Harry he murmured oh what enmity is for that matter you like everyone that is to say you are indifferent to everyone how horribly unjust of you cried Lord Henry tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky yes, horribly unjust of you I make a great difference between people I choose my friends for their good looks my acquaintances for their good characters and my enemies for their good intellects a man cannot 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 oh I think it is rather vain I should think it was Harry but according to your category I must merely be in acquaintance my dear old basil you are much more than an acquaintance and much less than a friend a sort of brother I suppose oh brothers, I don't care for brothers my elder brother won't die and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else Harry exclaimed Hallward frowning my dear fellow, I'm not quite serious but I can't help detesting my relations I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves I quite sympathise with the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders the masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity 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 10% of the proletariat live correctly I don't agree with a single word you have said and what is more Harry I feel sure you don't either Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his patent leather boot with a tassled ebony cane oh English you are Basil that is the second time you have made that observation if one puts forward an idea to a true 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 oneself now the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it indeed 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 coloured by either his once his desires or his prejudices however I don't propose to discuss politics, sociology or metaphysics with you I like persons better than principles and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world tell me more about Mr. Dorian Gray how often do you see him every day I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day he is absolutely necessary to me how extraordinary I thought you would never care for anything but your art he is all my art to me now set the painter gravely I sometimes think Harry that there are only two errors of any importance in the world's history 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 Antonius was to the late Greek sculpture and the face of Dorian Gray will someday be to me it is not merely that I paint from him draw from him, sketch from him of course I have done all that but he is much more to me than a model or a sitter 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 this 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 recreate in life in a way that was hidden from me before a dream of form and days of thought who is it who said that I forget 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 ugh I wonder can you realize all that means unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school a school that is to have in it 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 that have invented a realism that is vulgar an ideality that is void Harry 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 because while I was painting it Dorian Gray sat beside me some subtle influence passed from him to me and for the first time in my life I saw on the plane Woodland the wonder I had always looked for I had always missed Basil this is extraordinary I must see Dorian Gray Woolwood got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden after some time he came back Harry he said Dorian Gray is to me simply a motive in art you might see nothing in him I see everything in him he is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there he is a suggestion as I have said of a new manner I find in him the curves of certain lines in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colors that is all then why won't you exhibit his portrait asked Lord Henry because without intending it I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry of which of course I have never cared to speak to him he knows nothing about it he shall never know anything about it but the world might guess it and I will not bear my soul to their shallow crying eyes my heart shall never be put under their microscope there is too much of myself in the thing Harry 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 Cried Woolwood an artist should create beautiful things but should put nothing of his own life into them we live in an age when men treat artists if it were meant to be a form of autobiography we have lost the abstract sense of beauty someday 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 Basil but I won't argue with you it is only intellectually lost whoever argue tell me is Dorian Gray very fond of you the painter considered for a few moments he likes me he answered 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 as a rule he is charming to me and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things now and then however he is horribly thoughtless and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain then I feel Harry that I have given away my whole soul to someone 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 summer's day days in summer basil are apt to linger murmured lord Henry 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 overeducate ourselves in the wild struggle for existence we want to have something that endures and so we fill our mind with rubbish and facts in the silly hope of keeping our place the thoroughly well informed man now that is the modern ideal and the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing it is like a brick-a-brack shop all monsters and dust with everything priced above its proper value I think you will tire first all the same someday you will look at your friend and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing or you won't like his tone of colour or something 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 what you have told me is quite a romance a romance of art one might call it and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic Harry don't talk like that as long as I live the personality of Dorian Grey will dominate me you can't feel what I feel you change too often oh my dear Basil that is exactly why I can feel it those who are faithful know only the trivial side 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 satisfied air as if he had summed up the world in a phrase there was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of 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 pictured to himself with silent amusement 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 have met Lord Goodbody there and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses each class would have preached the importance of those virtues for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives the rich would have spoken on the value of thrift and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour it was charming to have escaped all that as he thought of his aunt an idea seemed to strike him he turned to Hallward and said my dear fellow I have just remembered remember what Harry? where I heard the name of Dorian Gray where was it? asked Hallward with a slight frown don't look so angry Basil it was at my aunt Lady Agatha'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 at least good women have not she said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature I had once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair horribly freckled and tramping about on huge feet I wish I had known it was your friend I am very glad you didn't Harry why? I don't want you to meet him you don't want me to meet him? no Mr Dorian Gray is in the studio sir said the butler coming into the garden you must introduce me now cried Lord Henry laughing the painter said to his servant who stood blinking in the sunlight asked Mr Gray to wait Parker I shall 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 said he has a simple and beautiful nature your aunt was quite right in what she said of him don't spoil him don't try to influence him your influence would be bad the world is wide and has many marvelous people in it don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses my life as an artist depends on him mind Harry I trust you he spoke very slowly and the words seemed rung out of him almost against his will what nonsense you talk said Lord Henry smiling and taking Hallward by the arm he almost led him into the house end of chapter one chapter two of the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde chapter two 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 he must lend me these basil he cried I want to learn them they are perfectly charming that entirely depends on how you sit today Dorian I'm 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 willful, petulant manner when he caught sight of Lord Henry a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment and he started up it would be your pardon battle but I didn't know you had anyone with you this is Lord Henry Wooten Dorian an old Oxford friend of mine I've just been telling him what a capital city you were and now you have spoiled everything you have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you Mr. Gray said Lord Henry stepping forward and extending his hand my aunt has often spoken to me about you you are one of her favourites and I'm afraid one of her victims also I'm in Lady Agatha's black books at present answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday and I really forgot all about it we were to have played a duet together three duets I believe I don't know what she will say to me I am far too frightened to call oh I will make your peace with my aunt she is quite devoted to you oh 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 answered Dorian laughing Lord Henry looked at him yes 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 candour 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 you are too charming to go in for philanthropy Mr Gray far too charming and Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette case the painter had been busy mixing his colours 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 Harry I want to finish this picture today 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 Mr Gray? he asked oh please don't Lord Henry I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods and I can't bear him when he sulks besides I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy I don't know that I shall tell you that Mr Gray it is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it but I certainly shall not run away now that you have asked me to stop you don't really mind Basil do you you have often told me that you liked your sitters to have someone to chat to Hallward bit his lip if Dorian wishes it of course you must stay Dorian swims her laws to everybody except himself Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves you are very pressing Basil but I am afraid I must go I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans goodbye Mr Gray come and see me some afternoon in Curson 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 Basil cried Dorian Gray if Lord Henry Watton goes I shall go too you never open your lips while you were painting and it is horribly dull to stand on a platform and trying to look pleasant ask him to stay I insist upon it stay Harry to oblige Dorian and to oblige me said Hallward 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 the painter laughed I don't think there will be any difficulty about that sit down again Harry and now Dorian get up on the platform and don't move about too much or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says he is a very bad influence over all his friends with a single exception of myself Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr and made a little moo of discontent to Lord Henry to whom he had rather taken a fancy he was so unlike Basil 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 Lord Henry as bad as Basil said there is no such thing as a good influence Mr. Gray all influences immoral immoral from the scientific point of view why? 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 his sins if there are such things as sins are borrowed he becomes an echo of someone 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 nowadays they have forgotten the highest of all duties the duty that one owes to oneself 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 Dorian like a good boy said the painter deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lads face that he had never seen there before and yet continued Lord Henry in his low musical voice and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him and that he had even in his eaten days I believe that if one man were to live out his life 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 medievalism and return to the Hellenic ideal to something finer richer 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 marrs our lives we are punished for our refusals every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mines 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 resist 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 you, Mr. Gray, you yourself 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 daydreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame stop falter to Dorian Gray stop, you bewilder me I don't know what to say there is some answer to you but I cannot find it don't speak let me think or rather 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 influences were at work within him yet 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 no doubt and with willful paradox in them had touched some secret cord 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 another chaos that it created in us words, mere words, how terrible they were how clear and vivid and cruel 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 vile or of loot mere words was there anything so real as words yes there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood he understood them now life suddenly became fire recoloured to him it seemed to him that he had been walking in fire why had he not known it with his subtle smile Lord Henry watched him 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 and remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar 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 in art at any rate comes only from strength he was unconscious of the silence Basil, I'm tired of standing cried Dorian Gray suddenly 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's certainly not been paying me compliments perhaps that is the reason that I don't believe anything he has told me you know you believe it all said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy, languorous eyes I will go out to the garden with you it is horribly hot in the studio Basil, let us have something iced to drink something with strawberries in it certainly Harry, just touch the bell and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want I've 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 today 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 he murmured 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 chiseled nostrils quivered and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling yes 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 creation you know more than you think 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-coloured face and worn expression interested him there was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating his cool white flower-like hands even had a curious charm they moved as he spoke like music 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 them had never altered him suddenly there had come someone across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery and yet what was there to be afraid of? he was not a schoolboy or a girl he 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 allow yourself to become sunburnt it would be unbecoming what could it matter? it is the man Grey laughing as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden it should matter everything to you Mr. Grey why? because you have the most marvellous youth and youth is the one thing worth having I don't feel that Lord Henry no you don't feel it now some day 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 now wherever you go you charm the world will it always be so? you have a wonderfully beautiful face Mr. Grey don't frown you have and beauty is a form of genius is higher indeed than genius as it needs no explanation it is of the great facts of the world like sunlight or springtime 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 you smile? 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 is to me 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 yes Mr. Grey the gods have been good to you but what the gods give they quickly take away you have only a few years in which to live really perfectly and fully 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 if time is jealous of you and wars against your lilies and your roses you will become sallow and hollow cheat and dull-eyed you will suffer horribly ah, realise 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 the common and the vulgar these are the sickly aims the false ideals of our age live! 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 in 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 hillflowers wither but they blossom again the laburnum will be as yellow 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 hold its purple stars but we never get back our youth the pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish 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 had not the courage to yield to youth, youth 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 oval-stellated globe 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 the bee flew away he saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrion convolvulus the flower seemed to quiver and then swayed gently to and fro suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to come in they turned to each other and smiled I am waiting he cried 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 corner of the garden a thrush began to sing you are glad you have met me Mr. Gray said Lord Henry looking at him yes I'm glad now I wonder shall I always be glad always 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 too the only difference between a capris and a lifelong passion is that the capris lasts a little longer as they entered the studio Laurie and Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry's arm in that case but our friendship be a capris he murmured flushing at his own boldness then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker armchair and watched him the sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness except when now and then Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance in the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway 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 fighting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning it is quite finished he cried at last and snooping down he wrote his name in long vermillion 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 it is the finest portrait of modern times Mr. Gray come over and look at yourself the lad started as if awakened from some dream is it really finished? he murmured stepping down from the platform quite finished said the painter and you have sat splendidly today I am awfully obliged to you that is entirely due to me broken Lord Henry isn't it Mr. Gray? it is the 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 as all Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship he had listened to them laughed at them forgotten them they had not influenced his nature then had come Lord Henry Watton with his strange panegyric on youth his terrible warning of its brevity that had stirred him at the time and now as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness the full reality of the description flashed across him yes there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and whizzen his eyes dim and colorless the grace of his figure broken and deformed the scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steel from his hair the life that was to make his soul would mar his body he would become dreadful, hideous and uncouth as he thought of it a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fiber of his nature quiver his eyes deepened into amethyst and across them came a mist of tears 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 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 Harry whose property is it? Dorian's, of course answered the painter 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 and horrible and dreadful but this picture will remain always young it will never be older than this particular day of June if it were only the other way if it were I who was to be always young and the picture that was to grow old for that for that I would give everything yes there is nothing in the whole world I would not give I would give my soul for that you would hardly care for such an arrangement Basil cried Lord Henry laughing it would be rather hard lines on your work I should object very strongly Harry said Hallward Dorian Gray turned and looked at him I believe you would Basil 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 the painter stared in amazement it was so unlike Dorian to speak like that what had happened he seemed quite angry his face was flushed and his cheeks burning yes he continued I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver form you will like them always how long will you like me till I have my first wrinkle I suppose I know now that when one loses one's good looks whatever they may be one loses everything your picture has taught me that Lord Henry Watten is perfectly right youth is the only thing worth having when I find that I am growing old I shall kill myself Hallward turned pale and caught his hand Dorian Dorian he cried 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 are you you who are finer than any of them 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 day that passes take something from me and give something to it oh if it were 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 and flinging himself on the divan he buried his face in the cushions as though he was praying this is your doing Harry said the painter Bitterly 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 he muttered I stayed when you asked me was Lord Henry's answer Harry 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 with pallid face and tear stained eyes looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting table that was set beneath the high curtained window what was he doing there his fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes seeking for something yes it was for the long pallet 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 the lad leaped from the couch and rushing over to Hallward tore the knife out of his hand and flung it to the end of the studio don't bezel don't he cried it would be murder I am glad you appreciate my work at last Dorian said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise I never thought you would appreciate it I am in love with it bezel I am just part of myself I feel that well as soon as you are dry you shall be varnished and framed 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 of course Dorian and so will you Harry or do you object to such simple pleasures I adore simple pleasures said Lord Henry they are the last refuge of the complex but I don't like scenes except on the stage you 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'd much better let me have it Basil this silly boy doesn't really want it and I really do if you let anyone have it but me Basil I shall never forgive you cried Dorian Gray and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy you know the picture is yours Dorian I gave it to you before it existed and you know you have been a little silly Mr. Gray and that you don't really object to being reminded that you were extremely young I should have objected very strongly this morning Lord Henry ah this morning you have lived since then there came a knock at the door and the butler entered with a laden 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 out the tea the two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers let us go to the theatre tonight said Lord Henry there is sure to be something on somewhere I have promised to Dine at White's but it is only with an old friend so I can send him a wire to 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 all the surprise of candor it is such a bore putting on one's dress clothes muttered Hallward and when one has them on they are so horrid yes answered Lord Henry dreamily the costume of the 19th century is detestable it is so sombre so depressing sin is the only real color element left in modern life you really must not say things like that before Dorian Harry before which Dorian the one who was pouring out tea for us or the one in the picture before either I should like to come to the theatre with you Lord Henry said the lad then you shall come and you will come too Basil won't you I can't really I would sooner or not I have a lot of work to do well then you and I will go alone Mr. Gray I should like that warfully the painter bit his lip and walked over cup in hand to the picture I shall stay with a real Dorian he said sadly this is the real Dorian cried the original of the portrait strolling across to him am I really like that yes you are just like that how wonderful Basil at least you are like it in appearance but it will never alter sighed Hallward that is something what a fuss people make about fidelity exclaimed Lord Henry why even in love it is purely a question for physiology it has nothing to do with our own will 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 tonight Dorian said Hallward stop and dine with me I can't Basil why because I have promised Lord Henry Watten to go with him he won't like you any 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 Basil he answered very well said Hallward and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray it is rather late and as you have to dress you had better lose no time goodbye Harry goodbye Dorian come and see me soon come tomorrow certainly you won't forget no of course not cried Dorian and Harry yes Basil remember what I asked you when we were in the garden this morning I have forgotten it I trust you I wish I could trust myself said Lord Henry laughing come Mr. Gray my handsome is outside and I can drop you at your own place goodbye Basil it has been a most interesting afternoon as the door closed behind them the painter flung himself down on a sofa and a look of pain came into his face end of chapter 2 chapter 3 of the picture of Dorian Gray this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde chapter 3 at half past 12 next day Lord Henry Watton strolled from Curson Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle Lord Fermor a genial if somewhat rough mannered old bachelor whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him but who was considered generous by society as he fed the people who amused him his father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and prime unthought of but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence the good English of his dispatches and his inordinate passion for pleasure the son who had been his father's secretary had resigned along with his chief somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time and on succeeding some months later to the title had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing he had two large townhouses but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble and took most of his meals at his club he paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth in politics he was a Tory except when the Tories were in office during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of radicals he was a hero to his valet who bullied him and a terror to most of his relations whom he bullied in turn only England could have produced him and he always said that the country was going to the docks his principles were out of date but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices when Lord Henry entered the room he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat smoking a sheroot and grumbling over the times well Harry said the old gentleman what brings you out so early I thought you dandies never got up till two and were not visible till five your family affection I assure you uncle George I want to get something out of you money I suppose said Lord Fermor making a rye face well sit down tell me about it young people nowadays imagine that money is everything yes mum at Lord Henry settling his buttonhole in his coat and when they grow older they know it but I don't want money it is only people who pay their bills who want that uncle George and I never pay mine credit is the capital of a younger son and one lives charmingly upon it besides I always deal with Dartmoors tradesmen and consequently they never bother me what I want is information not useful information of course useless information well I can tell you anything that is in the English blue book Harry although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense when I was in the diplomatic things were much better but I hear they let them in by examination what can you expect examination sir a pure humbug from beginning to end if a man is a gentleman he knows it quite enough and if he's not a gentleman whatever he knows is bad for him Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to blue books Uncle George said Lord Henry languidly Mr. Dorian Gray who is he asked Lord Fermor knitting his bushy white eyebrows that is what I've come to learn Uncle George or rather I know who he is he is the last Lord Kelso's grandson his mother was a devourer Lady Margaret Devourer I want you to tell me about his mother what was she like whom did she marry you have known nearly everybody in your time so you might have known her I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present I've only just met him Kelso's grandson echoed the old gentleman Kelso's grandson of course I knew his mother intimately I believe I was at her christening she was an extraordinary beautiful girl Margaret Devourer they made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow I mean nobody sir a subaltern and a foot regimen or something of that kind certainly I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday the poor chap was killed in a duel at the spa few months after the marriage there was an ugly story about it they said Kelso got some rascally adventurer some bilge and brute to insult his son-in-law in public paid him sir to do it paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon the thing was hushed up buddy Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards he brought his daughter back with him I was told and she never spoke to him again oh yes it was a bad business the girl died too died within a year so she left a son did she I'd forgotten that what sort of boy is he if he is like his mother he must be a good looking chap he is very good looking assented lord Henry I hope he will fall into proper hands continued the old man he should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him his mother had money too all the sobie property came to her through her grandfather her grandfather hated Kelso thought of my mean dog he was too came to Madrid once when I was there he got I was ashamed of him the queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarreling with the cat man about their fares they made quite a story of it I didn't dare show my face at court for a month I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the Jarvis I don't know answered lord Henry I fancy that the boy will be well off he's not of age yet he has selby I know he told me so and his mother was very beautiful Margaret Devereaux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw Harry what on earth induced her to behave as she did I never could understand she could have married anybody she chose carlington was mad after her she was a romantic though all the women of the family were a poor lot but he got the women were wonderful carlington went on his knees to her told me so himself she laughed at him and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after him and by the way Harry talking about silly marriages what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American ain't English girls good enough for him it is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now uncle George I'll back English woman against the world Harry said Lord Farmore striking the table with his fist the betting is on the Americans they don't last I'm told muttered his uncle a long engagement exhausts them but they are capital of the steeplechase they take things flying I don't think Dartmoor has a chance who are her people grumble to the old gentleman has she got any Lord Henry shook his head American girls are as clever at concealing their parents as English women are at concealing their past they are porkpackers I suppose I hope so uncle George for Dartmoor's sake I am told that porkpacking is the most lucrative profession in America after politics is she pretty she behaves as if she was beautiful most American women do it is the secret of their charm why can't these American women stay in their own country they were always telling us that is the paradise for women it is that is the reason why like Eve they're so excessively anxious to get out of it said Lord Henry good-bye uncle George I shall be late for lunch if I stop any longer thanks for giving me the information I wanted I always like to know everything about my new friends and nothing about my old ones where are you lunching Harry at Aunt Agatha's I have asked myself and Mr. Gray he is her latest protégé tell your Aunt Agatha Harry not to bother me anymore with her charity appeals I'm sick of them why the good woman thinks I have nothing to do by right checks for her silly fads all right uncle George I'll tell her but it won't have any effect philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity it is their distinguishing characteristic the old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and turned his steps in the direction of Barkley Square so that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage crudely as it had been told to him it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange almost modern romance a beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion a few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous treacherous crime months of voiceless agony and then a child born in pain the mother snatched away by death the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man yes it was an interesting background it posed the lad made him more perfect as it were behind every exquisite thing that existed there was something tragic worlds had to be in travail that the meanest flower might blow and how charming he had been at dinner the night before as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club the red candle shade staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin he answered to every touch and thrill of the bow there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence no other activity was like it to project one's soul into some gracious form and let it tarry there for a moment to hear one's intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth to convey one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume there was a real joy in that perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own an age grossly carnal in its pleasures and grossly common in its aims he was a marvellous type too this lad whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio or could be fashioned into a marvellous type at any rate Grace was his and the white purity of boyhood and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us there was nothing that one could not do with him he could be made a titan or a toy what a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade and Basil from a psychological point of view how interesting he was in a new manner in art the fresh mode of looking at life suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland and walked unseen in open field suddenly showing herself dryad-like and not afraid because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone our wonderful things revealed the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming as it were refined and gaining a kind of symbolical value as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real how strange it all was he remembered something like it in history was it not Plato that artist in thought who had first analyzed it was it not Buonarrotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet sequence but in our own century it was strange yes he would try to be to Dorian Grey what without knowing it the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait he would seek to dominate him had already indeed half done so he would make that wonderful spirit his own there was something fascinating in this son of love and death suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses he found that he had passed his aunt some distance and smiling to himself turned back when he entered the somewhat somber hall the butler told him that they had gone into lunch he gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining room late as usual Harry cried his aunt shaking her head at him he invented a facile excuse and having taken the vacant seat next to her looked round to see who was there Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek opposite was the Duchess of Harley a lady of admirable good nature and good temper much liked by everyone who knew her and of those ample architectural proportions but in women who are not Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness next to her sat on her right Sir Thomas Burden a radical member of parliament who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals in accordance with a wise and well-known rule the post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture who had fallen however into bad habits of silence having as he explained once to Lady Agatha said everything that he had to say before he was 30 his own neighbour was Mrs. Vandelaar one of his aunt's oldest friends a perfect saint amongst women but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Fordle a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity as bored as a ministerial statement in the House of Commons with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error as he remarked once himself that all really good people fall into and from which none of them ever quite escape you're talking about poor Dharma Lord Henry cried to the Duchess nodding pleasantly to him across the table do you think you will really marry this fascinating young person I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him Duchess how dreadful exclaimed Lady Agatha really someone should interfere I'm told on excellent authority that her father keeps an American dry good store said Sir Thomas Burden looking supercilious my uncle has already suggested porkpacking Sir Thomas dry goods what are American dry goods asked the Duchess raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb American novels answered Lord Henry helping himself to some quail the Duchess looked puzzled don't mind him my dear whispered Lady Agatha he never means anything that he says when America was discovered said the radical member and he began to give some weary some facts like all people who try to exhaust a subject he exhausted his listeners the Duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption I wish to goodness had never been discovered at all she exclaimed really our girls have no chance nowadays it is most unfair perhaps after all America never has been discovered said Mr. Erskine I myself would say that it had merely been detected oh but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants answered the Duchess vaguely I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty and they dress well too they get all their dresses in Paris I wish I could afford to do the same they say that when good Americans die they go to Paris chuckled Sir Thomas who had a large wardrobe of humours cast off clothes really where do bad Americans go when they die inquired the Duchess they go to America murmured Lord Henry Sir Thomas frowned I'm afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country he said to Lady Agatha I have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors who in such matters are extremely civil I assure you it is an education to visit it but must we really see Chicago in order to be educated asked Mr. Erskine plaintively I don't feel up to the journey Sir Thomas waved his hand Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves we practical men like to see things not to read about them the Americans are an extremely interesting people they're absolutely reasonable I think that is their distinguishing characteristic yes Mr. Erskine an absolutely reasonable people I assure you there's no nonsense about the Americans how dreadful cried Lord Henry I can stand brute force but brute reason is quite unbearable there is something unfair about its use it is hitting below the intellect I do not understand you said Sir Thomas growing rather red I do Lord Henry murmured Mr. Erskine with a smile paradoxes are all very well in their way rejoined the baronet was that a paradox asked Mr. Erskine I did not think so perhaps it was well the way paradoxes is the way of truth to test reality we must see it on a tightrope when the velities become acrobats we can judge them yummy how you men argue said Lady Agatha I'm sure I never can make out what you're talking about oh Harry I'm quite vets with you why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Grey to give up this end I assure you he would be quite invaluable they would love his playing I want him to play to me cried Lord Henry smiling and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance but they are so unhappy in White Shepherd continued Lady Agatha I can sympathise with everything except suffering said Lord Henry shrugging his shoulders I cannot sympathise with that it is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing there is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain one should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life the less said about life sores the better still the east end is a very important problem remarked to Thomas with a grave shake of the head quite so answered the young Lord it is the problem of slavery I will solve it by amusing the slaves the politician looked at him keenly what change do you propose then? he asked Lord Henry laughed I don't desire to change anything in England except the weather he answered I am quite content with philosophic contemplation but as the 19th century has gone bankrupt through an over-expenditure of sympathy I would suggest that we should appeal to science to put us straight the advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray and the advantage of science is that it is not emotional but we have such grave responsibilities ventured Mrs. Vandela timidly carry me grief echoed Lady Agatha Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine humanity takes itself too seriously it is the world's original sin if the caveman had known how to laugh history would have been different you are really very comforting warbled the Duchess I have always felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt for I take no interest at all in the East End for the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush a blush is very becoming Duchess remarked Lord Henry only when one is young she answered when an old woman like myself blushes it is a very bad sign ah Lord Henry I wish you would tell me how to become young again he thought for a moment can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days Duchess he asked great many I fear she cried then commit them over again he said gravely to get back one's youth one has merely to repeat one's follies a delightful theory she exclaimed I was put into practice a dangerous theory came from Sir Thomas's tight lips Lady Agatha shook her head but could not help being amused Mr. Erskine listened yes he continued that is one of the great secrets of life nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes a laugh ran round the table he played with the idea and grew willful tossed it into the air and transformed it let it escape and recaptured it made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox the praise of folly as he went on soared into a philosophy and philosophy herself became young and catching the mad music of pleasure wearing one might fancy her wine stained robe and wreath of ivy danced like a vacante over the hills of life and mocked the slow sidelaness for being sober facts fled before her like frightened forest things her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits till the seething grape juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles or crawled in red foam over the vats black dripping sloping sides it was an extraordinary improvisation he felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit, keenness and to lend colour to his imagination he was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible he charmed his listeners out of themselves and they followed his pipe, laughing Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him but sat like one under a spell smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes at last, liveried in the costume of the age reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the Duchess that her carriage was waiting she wrung her hands in mock despair how annoying she cried I must go, I have to call for my husband at the club to take him to some absurd meeting at Willis's rooms where he is going to be in the chair if I am late he is sure to be furious and I couldn't have a scene in this bonnet this far too fragile, a harsh word would ruin it no I must go dear Agatha goodbye Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralising I'm sure I don't know what to say about your views you must come and die with us some night Tuesday, are you disengaged Tuesday? for you I would throw over anybody Duchess said Lord Henry with a bow ah that is very nice and very wrong of you she cried so mind you come and she swept out of the room followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies when Lord Henry had sat down again Mr. Erskine moved round and taking a chair close to him placed his hand upon his arm you talk books away he said why don't you write one I am too fond of reading books to care to write them Mr. Erskine I should like to write a novel certainly a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal but there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers and encyclopedias of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature I fear you are right answered Mr. Erskine I myself used to have literary ambitions but I gave them up long ago and now my dear young friend if you will allow me to call you so may I ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch I quite forget what I said smiles Lord Henry was it all very bad very bad indeed in fact I consider you extremely dangerous and if anything happens to our good duchess we should all look on you as being primarily responsible but I should like to talk to you about life the generation into which I was born was tedious some day when you are tired of London come down too treadly it's bound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable burgundy I am fortunate enough to possess I shall be charmed a visit to treadly would be a great privilege it has a perfect host and a perfect library you will complete it answer to the old gentleman with a courteous bow and now I must bid goodbye to your excellent aunt I am due at the Athenean it is the hour when we sleep there all of you Mr. Erskine 40 of us in 40 armchairs we are practicing for an English Academy of Letters Lord Henry laughed and rose I'm going to the park he cried as he was passing out of the door Dorian Gray touched him on the arm let me come with you he murmured but I thought you had promised Basil how word to go and see him answered Lord Henry I would sooner come with you yes I feel I must come with you do let me and you will promise to talk to me all the time no one talks so wonderfully as you do ah I have talked quite enough for today said Lord Henry smiling all I want now is to look at life you may come and look at it with me if you care to end of chapter 3 chapter 4 of the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde chapter 4 one afternoon a month later Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious armchair in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair it was in its way a very charming room with its high paneled wainscoting of olive-stained oak its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with silk-long-fringed Persian rugs on a tiny satin-wood table stood a statuette by Claudion and beside it lay a copy of Lissin-Nouvelle bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Ev and powdered with the gilt daisies that Queen had selected for her device some large blue china jars and parrot tulips were ranged on the mantel shelf and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in London Lord Henry had not yet come in 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 Manolesco that he had found in one of the book cases the formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Qatar's clock annoyed him once or twice he thought of going away at last he heard a step outside and the door opened How late you are, Harry? he murmured I am afraid it is not, Harry, Mr. Gray answered a shrill 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 he must let me introduce myself I know you quite well by your photographs I think my husband has got seventeen of them he has got seventeen, Lady Henry well, eighteen then 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 usually in love with somebody and 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 Lowengren, Lady Henry, I think yes, it was at Dear Lowengren I like Wagner's music better than anybody's it is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says that is a great advantage, don't you think so, Mr Gray? the same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips and her fingers began to play with a long tortoiseshell paper knife Dorian smiled and shook his head I'm afraid I don't think so, Lady Henry I never talk during music at least during good music if one hears bad music it is one's duty to drown it in conversation ah, that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr Gray? I always hear Harry's views from his friends it is the only way I get to know of them 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 too at a time, sometimes Harry tells me I don't know what it is about them perhaps it is that they are foreigners they all are, ain't they? even those that are born in England become foreigners at a time, don't they? it is so clever of them and such a compliment to art makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? you have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr Gray? you must come I can't afford orchids but I share no expense in foreigners they make one's rooms look so picturesque but here is Harry Harry, I came in to look for you to ask you something forget what it was and I found Mr Gray here we have had such a pleasant chat about music we have quite the same ideas no, I think our ideas are quite different but he has been most pleasant I am so glad I've seen him he has charmed my love, quite charmed said Lord Henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile so sorry I'm late Dorian I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Warder 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 breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh I have promised to drive with the Duchess goodbye Mr Gray, goodbye Harry you are dining out I suppose so am I perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury's I dare say my dear said Lord Henry shutting the door behind her as looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain she flitted out of the room leaving a faint odour of frangipane then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair Dorian he said after a few puffs why Harry because they are so sentimental but I like sentimental people never marry at all Dorian men marry because they are tired women because they are curious both are disappointed I don't think I'm likely to marry Harry I am too much in love that is one of your aphorisms I am putting it into practice as I do everything that you say who are you in love with asked Lord Henry after a pause with an actress said Dorian Gray blushing Lord Henry shrunked his shoulders that is a rather commonplace debut you would not say so if you saw her Harry who is she her name is Sibyl Vane never heard of her no one has people will some day however no woman 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 women represent the triumph of matter over mind just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals Harry how can you my dear Dorian it is quite true I am analysing women at present so I ought to know the subject is not so obstruous as I thought it was I find that ultimately there are only two kinds of women Sibyl Vane and the coloured 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 however they paint in order to try and look young our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly rouge and esprit used to go together that is all over 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 those can't be admitted into decent society however tell me about your genius how long have you known her ah Harry your views terrify me never mind that how long have you known her about three weeks and where did you come across her I will tell you Harry but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it after all it never would have happened if I had not met you I knew the wild desire to know everything about life for days after I met you something seemed to throb in my vein as I lounged in the park or strolled down Piccadilly I used to look at everyone 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 well one evening about seven o'clock I determined to go out in search of some adventure I felt that this grey monstrous London of owls with its myriads of people its sordid sinners and its splendid sins as you once phrased it 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 evening when we first dined together about the search for beauty the real 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 grassless squares about half past eight I passed by an absurd little theatre with great flaring gas jets and gaudy playbills the 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 ever boxed my Lloyd? he said when he saw me and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous civility there was something about him, Harry, that amused me he was such a monster you will laugh at me, I know 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 should have missed the greatest romance of my life I see you are laughing it is horrid of you I am not laughing, Dorian 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 a grande passion is the privilege of people who have nothing to do that is the one use of the idle classes of a country don't be afraid there are exquisite things in store for you this is merely the beginning do you think my nature so shallow? try to Dorian Gray angrily no, I think your nature so deep how do you mean? my dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people what they call their loyalty and their fidelity I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect simply a confession of failure faithfulness I must analyze it some day the passion for property is in it there are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up oh but I don't want to interrupt you go on with your story I found myself seated in a hard little private box with a vulgar drop seen staring me in the face I looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the house it was a taudry affair all cupids and cornucerpias like a third rate wedding cake the gallery and pit were fairly full but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty and was hardly a person in what I supposed they called the dress circle women went about with oranges and ginger beer and it was a terrible consumption of nuts going on it must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama just like I should fancy and very depressing I began to wonder what on earth I should do when I caught sight of the playbill what do you think the play was, Hattie? I should think the idiot boy or dumb but innocent our fathers used to lack that sort of peace I believe the longer I lived Dorian the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us in art as in politics les grands-pères ont toujours tort this play was good enough for us, Hattie? it was Romeo and Juliet I must admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched whole of a place still I felt interested in a sort of way at any rate I determined to wait for the first act as a dreadful orchestra presided over by a young Hebrew 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 friendly terms with the pit they were both as grotesque as a scenery and that looked as if it had come out of a country boo but Juliet Harry, imagine a girl hardly 17 years of age with a little flower-like face a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark brown hair eyes with 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, mere beauty could fill your eyes with tears I tell you Harry 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 oboe in the garden scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing there were moments later on when it had the wild passion of violins you know how a voice can stir one your voice and the voice of Sybil Vane are two things that I shall never forget when I close my eyes I hear them and each of them says something different which to follow why should I not love her Harry 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 hoes and doublet and dainty cap and has come into the presence of a guilty king and given him root-aware and bitter herbs to taste of she has been innocent and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her red-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 any of them they ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea parties in the afternoon they have their stereotype smile and their fashionable manner they are quite obvious but an actress how different an actress is Harry why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress because I have loved so many of them Dorian oh yes with dyed hair and painted faces don't run down dyed hair and painted faces there is an extraordinary charm in them sometimes said Lord Henry I wish now I had not told you about Sybil Vane you could not have helped telling me Dorian all through your life you will tell me everything you do yes Harry I believe that is true I cannot help telling you things you have a curious influence over me if I ever did a crime and confess it to you you would understand me people like you the willful sunbeams of life don't commit crimes Dorian 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 actual relations with Sybil Vane Dorian Grey leaped to his feet with flushed cheeks and burning eyes Harry Sybil Vane is sacred it is only the sacred things that are worth touching Dorian said Lord Henry with a strange touch of pathos in his voice but why should you be annoyed I suppose she will belong to you some day when one is in love one always begins by deceiving oneself and one always ends by deceiving others that is what the world calls a romance you know her at any rate I suppose 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 take me behind the scenes and introduced 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 I think from his blank look of amazement that he was under the impression that I had taken too much champagne or something I am not surprised 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 every one of them to be bought I should not wonder if he was quite right there but on the other hand judging from their appearance most of them cannot be at all expensive well he seemed to think they were beyond his mean laughed Dorian by this time however the lights were being put out in the theatre and I had to go to the bar of cigars that he strongly recommended I declined the next night of course I arrived at the place again when he saw me he made a low bow and assured me that I was a munificent patron of art he was the most offensive brute though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare he told me once with an error of pride that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to the bard calling him he seemed to think it a distinction it was a distinction my dear Dorian a great distinction most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life to have ruined oneself over poetry as an honour but when did you first speak to Miss Sybil 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 persisted he seemed determined to take me behind so I consented it was curious my not wanting to know her wasn't it no I don't think so my dear Hattie why I will tell you some other time now I want to know about the girl Sybil, oh she was so shy and so gentle there's something of a child about her her eyes open 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 Jews stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty green room making elaborate speeches about us both while we stood looking at each other like children he would insist on calling me my lord so I had to assure Sybil that I was not anything of the kind she said quite simply to me you look more like Prince I must call you Prince Charming upon my word Dorian Miss Sybil knows how to pay compliments you don't understand her Hattie 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 a look since she had seen better day I know that look it depresses me murmured Lord Henry examining his rings I 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 Sybil 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 every night of my life I go to see her act and every night she is more marvellous and I suppose that you never dine with me now I thought you must have some curious romance on hand you have but it is not quite what I expected my dear Hattie we either lunch or supper together every day and I have been to the opera with you several times said Dorian opening his blue eyes in wonder you always come dreadfully late well I can't help going to see Sybil play he cried even if it is only for a single 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 tonight Dorian can't you he shook his head tonight she is Imogen he answered and tomorrow night she will be Juliet when is she Sybil Vane never I congratulate you how horrid you are she is more than an individual you laugh but I tell you she has genius I love her and I must make her love me you who know all the secrets of life tell me how to charm Sybil 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 my god Harry how I worship her he was walking up and down the room as he spoke hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks he was terribly excited Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure how different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward studio his nature had developed like a flower like blossoms of scarlet flame out of its secret hiding place had crept his soul and desire had come to meet it on the way and what do you propose to do said Lord Henry at last I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act I have not the slightest fear of the result you are certain to acknowledge her genius then we must get her out of the Jews hand she is bound to him for three years at least for two years and eight months from the present time I shall have to pay him something of course when all that is settled I shall take a West End theatre and bring her out properly she will make the world as mad as she has made me that would be impossible my dear boy yes she will she has not merely art consummate art instinct in her but she has personality also and you have often told me that it is personalities not principles that move the age well what night shall we go let me see today is Tuesday let us fix tomorrow she plays Juliet tomorrow all right the Bristol at eight o'clock and I will get Basil not eight Harry please half past six we must be there before the curtain rises you must see her in the first act where she meets Romeo half past six or it will be like having a meat tea or reading an English novel it must be seven no gentlemen dines before seven shall you see Basil between this and then or shall I write to him dear Basil I have not laid eyes on him for a week it is rather horrid of me as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame specially designed by himself and though I am a little jealous of the picture 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 he gives me good advice Lord Henry smiled people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves it is what I call the depth of generosity oh Basil is the best of fellows but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine since I have known you Harry I have discovered that Basil my dear boy I have noticed everything that is charming in him into his work the consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices his principles and his common sense the only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists good artists exist simply in what they make and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are a great poet, a really great poet is the most un-poetical of all creatures the worse their rhymes are the more picturesque they look the mere fact of having published a book of second rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible he lives the poetry that he cannot write the others write the poetry that they dare not realize I wonder is that really so Harry said Dorian Gray putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large gold topped bottle that stood on the table it must be if you say it and now I am off Imogen is waiting for me don't forget about tomorrow goodbye 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 lads mad adoration of someone 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 natural science but the ordinary subject matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import and so he had begun by vivisecting himself as he had ended by vivisecting others human life that appeared to him one thing worth investigating compared to it there was nothing else of any value 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 nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams there were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them there were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature and yet what a great reward one received how wonderful the whole world became to one to note the curious hard logic of passion and the emotional colored life of the intellect to observe where they met and where they separated at what point they were in unison and at what point they were at discord there was a delight in that what matter what the cost was one could never pay too high a price for any sensation he was conscious and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes that it was through certain words of his musical words said with musical utterance that Dorian Gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her to a large extent the lad was his own creation he had made him premature that was something ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets but to the few to the elect the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away sometimes this was the effect of art and chiefly of the art of literature which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect but now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art was indeed in its way a real work of art life having its elaborate masterpieces just as poetry has or sculpture or painting yes the lad was premature he was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring the pulse and passion of youth were in him but he was becoming self-conscious it was delightful to watch him with his beautiful face and his beautiful soul he was a thing to wonder at it was no matter how it all ended or was destined to end he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play whose joys seem to be remote from one but whose sorrows stir a one 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 could 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 the men gave to their mistakes moralists had as a rule regarded it as a mode of warning had claimed for it a certain ethical 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 Grey 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 lad 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 motifs 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 that 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 his friend's young, fiery coloured 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 Gray it was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sybil Vane end of chapter four chapter five of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde chapter five mother mother I am so happy whispered the girl burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired looking woman who with back turned to the shrill, intrusive light was sitting in the one-armed chair that their dingy sitting-room contained I am so happy she repeated and you must be happy too Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth white and hands on her daughter's head happy I am only happy, Sybil, when I see you act you must not think of anything but you're acting Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us and we owe him money the girl looked up and pouted money, mother she cried what does money matter love is more than money Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James you must not forget that, Sybil fifty pounds is a very large sum Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate he is not a gentleman, mother said the girl rising to her feet and going over to the window I don't know how we could manage without him answered the elder woman querulously Sybil Vane tossed her head and laughed we don't want him anymore mother Prince Charming rules life for us now then she paused a rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks quick breath parted the petals of her lips they trembled some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress I love him she said simply foolish child foolish child was the parrot phrase flung in answer the waving of crooked false jeweled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words the girl laughed again the joy of a caged bird was in her voice her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance then closed for a moment as though to hide their secret when they opened the mist of a dream had passed across them thin lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair hinted at prudence quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of human sense she did not listen she was free in her prison of passion her prince, prince charming was with her she had called on memory to remake him she had sent her soul to search for him and it had brought him back his kiss burned again upon her mouth her eyelids were warm with his breath then wisdom altered the method and spoke of espile and discovery this young man might be rich if so marriage should be thought of against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning the arrows of craft shot by her she saw the thin lips moving and smiled suddenly she felt the need to speak the wordy silence troubled her mother, mother she cried why does he love me so much I know why I love him I love him because he is like what love himself should be but what does he see in me I am not worthy of him and yet why I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him I don't feel humble I feel proud, terribly proud mother did you love my father as I love prince charming the elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain Sibyl rushed to her flung her arms around her neck and kissed her forgive me mother I know it pains you to talk about our father but it only pains you because you loved him so much don't look sad I am as happy today as you were twenty years ago ah let me be happy forever you are far too young to think of falling in love besides what do you know of this young man you don't even know his name the whole thing is most inconvenient and really when James is going away to Australia and I have so much to think of I must say that you should have shown more consideration however as I said before if he is rich ah mother, mother let me be happy Mrs. Vane glanced at her and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage player clasped her in her arms at this moment the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room he was thick set of figure and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement he was not so finely bred as his sister one would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile she mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience she felt sure that the tableau was interesting you might keep some of your kisses for me Sybil I think said the lad with a good natured grumble ah but you don't like being kissed Jim she cried you are a dreadful old bear and she ran across the room and hugged him James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness I want you to come out with me for a walk Sybil I don't suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again I am sure I don't want to my son don't say such dreadful things murmured Mrs. Vane taking up a tawdry theatrical dress with a sigh and beginning to patch it she felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group it would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation why not mother I mean it you pain me my son our trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence I believe there is no society of any kind in the colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune you must come back and assert yourself in London I don't want to know anything about that I should like to make some money to take you and Sybil off the stage I hate it oh Jim said Sybil laughing how unkind of you but are you really going for a walk with me that will be nice I was afraid you were going to say goodbye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy who gave you that hideous pipe or Ned Langton who makes fun of you for smoking it it is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon where shall we go let us go to the park I am too shabby only swell people go to the park nonsense Jim she whispered stroking the sleeve of his coat he hesitated for a moment very well he said at last but don't be too long dressing she danced out of the door one could hear her singing as she ran upstairs her little feet pattered overhead he walked up and down the room two or three times then he turned to the still figure in the chair mother are my things ready he asked quite ready James she answered keeping her eyes on her work for some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met she used to wonder if he suspected anything the silence for he made no other observation became intolerable to her she began to complain women defend themselves by attacking just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders I hope you will be contented James with your seafaring life she said you must remember that it is your own choice you might have entered a solicitor's office solicitors are a very respectable class and in the country often dine with the best families I hate offices and I hate clerks he replied but you are quite right I have chosen my own life all I say is watch over Sibyl don't let her come to any harm mother you must watch over her James you really talk very strangely of course I watch over Sibyl I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to talk to her is that right? what about that? you are speaking about things you don't understand James in the profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying attention I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time that was when acting was really understood as for Sibyl I do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not but there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman he is always most polite to me besides he has the appearance of being rich and the flowers he sends are lovely you don't know his name though said the lad harshly no answered his mother with a placid expression in her face he has not yet revealed his real name I think it is quite romantic of him he is probably a member of the aristocracy James Vain bit his lip watch over Sibyl mother he cried watch over her my son you distress me very much Sibyl is always under my special care of course if this gentleman is wealthy there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him our trusty is one of the aristocracy he has all the appearance of it I must say it might be a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl they would make a charming couple his good looks are really quite remarkable everybody notices them the lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers he had just turned round to say something when the door opened and Sibyl ran in how serious you both are she cried what is the matter? nothing he answered I suppose one must be serious sometimes goodbye mother I will have my dinner at five o'clock everything is packed except my shirts goodbye my son she answered with a bow of strained statelyness she was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her and there was something in his look that made her feel afraid kiss me mother said the girl her flower-like lips touched the withered cheek and warmed its frost my child my child cried Mrs. Vane feeling in search of an imaginary gallery come Sibyl said her brother impatiently he hated his mother's affectations they went out into the flickering wind-blown sunlight and strolled down the dreary Euston road the passers-by glanced in wonder at the sullen heavy youth who in coarse ill-fitting clothes was in the company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl he was like a common gardener walking with a rose Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of some stranger he had that dislike of being stared at which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the common place Sibyl however was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing her love was trembling in laughter on her lips she was thinking of Prince Charming and that she might think of him all the more she did not talk of him but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail about the gold he was certain to find about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked red-shirted bush-rangers for he was not going to remain a sailor or a super cargo or whatever he was going to be oh no! a sailor's existence was dreadful fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship with the horse humpbacked waves trying to get in and a black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribbons he was to leave the vessel at Melbourne bid a polite goodbye to the captain and go off at once to the gold fields before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure gold the largest nugget that had ever been discovered and bring it down to the coast in a wagon guarded by six mounted policemen the bush-rangers were to attack them three times and be defeated with immense slaughter oh no! he was not to go to the gold fields at all in these places where men got intoxicated and shot each other in bar rooms and used bad language he was to be a nice sheep farmer and one evening as he was riding home he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse and give chase and rescue her of course she would fall in love with him and he with her and they would get married and live in an immense house in London yes they were delightful things in store for him but he must be very good and not lose his temper or spend his money foolishly she was only a year older than he was but she knew so much more of life he must be sure also to write to her by every mail and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep he would be good and would watch over him she would pray for him too and in a few years he would come back quite rich and happy the lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer he was heart sick at leaving home yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose inexperienced though he was he had still a strong sense of the danger of Sibyl's position this young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good he was a gentleman and he hated him for that hated him through some curious race instinct for which he could not account and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him he was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness children begin by loving their parents as they grow older they judge them sometimes they forgive them his mother he had something on his mind to ask of her something that he had brooded on for many months of silence a chance phrase that he had heard at the theatre a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage door had set loose a train of horrible thoughts he remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting crop across his face his brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip you are not listening to a word I am saying Jim cried Sibyl and I am making the most delightful plans for your future do say something what do you want me to say oh but you will be a good boy and not forget us she answered smiling at him he shrugged his shoulders you are more likely to forget me than I am to forget you Sibyl she flushed what do you mean Jim? she asked you have a new friend I hear why have you not told me about him he means you no good you must not say anything against him I love him why you don't even know his name answered the lad who is he I have a right to know he is called Prince Charming don't you like the name oh you silly boy you should never forget it if you only saw him you would think him the most wonderful person in the world someday you will meet him when you come back from Australia you will like him so much everybody likes him and I love him I wish you could come to the theater tonight he is going to be there and I am to play Juliet oh how I shall play it fancy Jim to be in love and play Juliet to have him sitting there to play for his delight I am afraid I may frighten the company frighten or enthrall them to be in love is to surpass oneself poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting genius to his loafers at the bar he has preached me as a dogma tonight he will announce me as a revelation I feel it and it is all his his only Prince Charming my wonderful lover my god of graces but I am poor beside him poor what does that matter when poverty creeps in at the door love flies in through the window a proverb's won't rewriting they were made in winter and it is summer now springtime for me I think a very dance of blossoms in blue skies he is a gentleman a prince she cried musically what more do you want he wants to enslave you I shudder at the thought of being free I want you to be aware of him to see him is to worship him to know him is to trust him Sybil you are mad about him she laughed and took his arm you dear old Jim you talk as if you were a hundred someday you will be in love yourself then you will know what it is don't look so sulky surely you should be glad to think that though you are going away you leave me happier than I have ever been before life has been hard for us both terribly hard and difficult but it will be different now you are going to a new world and I have found one here are two chairs let us sit down and see the smart people go by they took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers the tulip beds across the road and the wings of fire a white dust tremulous cloud of Oris root it seemed, hung in the panting air the brightly colored parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies she made her brother talk of himself his hopes his prospects he spoke slowly and with effort they passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters Sibyl felt oppressed she could not communicate her joy a faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win after some time she became silent suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips and in an open carriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past she started to her feet there he is she cried Prince Charming she answered looking after the Victoria he jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm show him to me which is he, point him out, I must see him he exclaimed but at that moment the Duke of Barracks four in hand came between and when it had left the space clear the courage had swept out of the park he is gone murmured Sibyl sadly I wish you had seen him I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever does you anything wrong I shall kill him she looked at him in horror he repeated his words they cut the air like a dagger the people round began to gape a lady standing close to her tittered come away Jim, come away she whispered, he followed her happily as she passed through the crowd he felt glad at what he had said when they reached the Achilles statue she turned round there was pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips she shook her head at him you are foolish Jim utterly foolish a bad tempered boy that is all how can you say such horrible things you don't know what you are talking about you are simply jealous and unkind I wish you would fall in love love makes people good and what you said was wicked I am sixteen and I know what I am about mother is no help to you she doesn't understand how to look after you I wish now that I was not going to Australia at all I have a great mind to chuck the whole thing up I would, if my articles hadn't been signed oh don't be so serious Jim you were like one of the heroes of the silly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in I am not going to quarrel with you I have seen him and oh to see him is perfect happiness we won't quarrel I know you would never harm anyone I love would you? not as long as you love him I suppose was the sullen answer I shall love him forever she cried and he forever too she shrunk from him then she laughed and put a hand on his arm he was merely a boy at the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus which left them close to their shabby home in the Euston Road it was after five o'clock and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting Jim insisted that she should do so he said that he would soon apart with her when their mother was not present she would be sure to make a scene and he detested scenes of every kind in Sibyl's own room they parted there was jealousy in the lad's heart and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who as it seemed to him had come between them yet when her arms were flung round his neck and her fingers straight through his hair he softened and kissed her with real affection there were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs his mother was waiting for him below she grumbled at his unpunctuality as he entered he made no answer but sat down to his meagre meal the flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth through the rumble of omnibuses and the clutter of street cabs he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him after some time he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands he felt that he had a right to know it should have been told to him before if it was as he suspected ledden with fear his mother watched him words dropped mechanically from her lips a tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers when the clock struck six he got up and went to the door then he turned back and looked at her their eyes met in hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy it enraged him mother, I have something to ask you he said her eyes wandered vaguely about the room she made no answer tell me the truth I have a right to know were you married to my father she heaved a deep sigh it was a sigh of relief a terrible moment the moment that night and day for weeks and months she had dreaded had come at last and yet she felt no terror indeed in some measure it was a disappointment to her the vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer the situation had not been gradually led up to it was crude it reminded her of a bad rehearsal she answered wondering at the harsh simplicity of life my father was a scoundrel then cried the lad clenching his fists she shook her head I knew he was not free we loved each other very much if he had lived he would have made provision for us don't speak against him my son he was your father and a gentleman indeed he was highly connected from his lips I don't care for myself he exclaimed but don't let Sibyl it is a gentleman isn't it who is in love with her or says he is highly connected too I suppose for a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman her head drooped she wiped her eyes with shaking hands Sibyl as a mother she murmured and stooping down he kissed her I am sorry if I have pained you to ask you about my father he said but I could not help it I must go now goodbye don't forget that you will have only one child now to look after and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister I will find out who he is track him down and kill him like a dog I swear it the exaggerated folly of the threat the passionate gesture that accompanied it the mad melodramatic words made life seem more vivid to her she was familiar with the atmosphere she breathed more freely and for the first time for many months she really admired her son she would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale but he cut her short trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for the lodging house drudge bustled in and out there was the bargaining with the cab man the moment was lost in vulgar details it was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window as her son drove away she was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted she consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate her life would be now that she had only one child to look after she remembered the phrase it had pleased her of the threat she said nothing it was vividly and dramatically expressed she felt that they would all laugh at it some day end of chapter 5 chapter 6 of the picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde I suppose you've heard the news, Basil said Lord Henry that evening as Hallwood was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three No, Harry answered the artist and he said that he had no idea what he was going to do and he said that he had no idea what he was going to do and he said No, Harry answered the artist giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter what is it? nothing about politics I hope there's hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting though many of them would be better for a little whitewashing Dorian Gray is engaged to be married said Lord Henry watching him as he spoke Dorian engaged to be married he cried impossible it is perfectly true 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 one can do now and then, Harry except in America rejoined Lord Henry languidly but I didn't say he was married I said he was engaged to be married there is a great difference I have a distinct remembrance of being married but I have no recollection at all of being engaged I am inclined to think that I never was engaged but think of Dorian's birth and position and wealth it would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him if you want to make him marry this girl tell him that Basil, he is sure to do it then whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing it is always from the noblest motives I hope the girl is good, Harry I don't want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect oh, she is better than good she is beautiful but do you remember 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 amongst others we are to see her tonight if that boy doesn't forget his appointment are you serious? quite serious Basil I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment what do you prove of it, Harry? asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip you can't approve of it possibly it is some silly infatuation I never approve or disapprove of anything now it is an absurd attitude to take towards life we are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices I never take any notice of what common people say and I never interfere with what charming people do if a personality fascinates me whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet and proposes to marry her why not? if he wedded Messalina he would be nonetheless 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 colourless they lack individuality still there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex they retain their egotism and add to it many other egos they are forced to have more than one life they become more highly organised and to be highly organised is, I should fancy the object of man's existence besides every experience is of value and whatever one may say against marriage it is certainly an experience I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife passionately adore her for six months and then suddenly become fascinated by someone else he would be a wonderful study you don't mean a single word of that Harry you know you don't if Dorian Gray's life were spoiled no one would be sorryer than yourself you are much better than you pretend to be you'll tend to be 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 neighbour with the possession of those virtues it is likely to be a benefit to us 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 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 as for marriage of course that would be silly but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women I will certainly encourage them they have the charm of being fashionable 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 lad throwing off his evening cape with its satin lined wings and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn I've 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've been looking for all my life he was flushed with excitement and pleasure and looked extraordinarily handsome I hope you will always be very happy Dorian said Hallward but I don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement you let Harry know and I don't forgive you for being late for dinner broken Lord Henry putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke down and try what the new chef here is like and then you will tell us how it all came about there is really not much to tell cried Dorian as they took their seats at the small round table what happened? simply this after I left you yesterday evening Harry, I dressed had some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to and went down at eight o'clock to the theatre Sybil was playing Rosalind of course the scenery was dreadful so absurd but Sybil you should have seen her when she came on in her boys' clothes she was perfectly wonderful she wore a moss-covered velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves slim brown cross-guarded hoes a dainty little green cap with a hawks 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 you are a 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 shall see her tonight she is simply a born artist I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled I forgot that I was in London and in the 19th century I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen after the performance was over I looked behind and spoke to her as we were sitting together suddenly they came into her eyes a look that I had never seen there before my lips moved towards her 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-coloured joy she trembled all over and shook like a white narcissist then she flung herself on her knees I missed my hands I feel that I should not tell you all this but I can't help it of course our engagement is a dead secret she has not even told her own mother I don't know what my guardians will say Lord Radley is sure to be furious I don't care I shall be of age in less than a year and then I can do what I like I have been right Basil, haven't I to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays lips that Shakespeare taught to speak whispered their secret in my ear I've had the arms of Rosalind around me and kissed Juliet on the mouth Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right said Hallward slowly Have you seen her today? 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 her? I don't know at what particular point did you mention the word marriage Dorian and what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it My dear Hattie, I did not treat it as a business transaction and I did not make any formal proposal I told her that I loved her and she said she was not worthy to be my wife not worthy why the whole world is nothing to me compared with her Women are wonderfully practical Mama to Lord Henry 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 Don't Harry, you have annoyed Dorian He is not like other men He will never bring misery upon anyone His nature is too fine for that Lord Henry looked across the table Dorian is never annoyed with me He answered I asked the question for the best reason possible for the only reason indeed that excuses one for asking any question Simple curiosity I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us and not we who propose to the women except of course in middle class life but then the middle classes are not modern Dorian Grey laughed and tossed his head Ha ha ha ha You are quite incorrigible Harry but I don't mind it is impossible to be angry with you When you see Sybil Vane you will see that the man who could wrong her is a beast, a beast without a heart I cannot understand how anyone could wish to shame the thing he loves I love Sybil Vane I want 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 You mock at it for that Ah, don't mock 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 Sybil Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong fascinating poisonous delightful theories And those are? Asked Lord Henry Helping himself to some salad Your theories about life Your theories about love Your theories about pleasure The only thing worth having a theory about He answered in his slow melodious voice But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as my own It belongs to nature, not to me Pleasure is nature's test Her sign of approval When we are happy we are always good But when we are good we are not always happy Ah, but what do you mean by good? Guide Basil Holwood Yes Echoed Dorian leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the centre of the table What do you mean by good, Harry? To be good is to be in harmony with oneself He replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others One's own life, that is the important thing As for the lives of one's neighbours if one wishes to be a prig or a puritan one can flaunt one's moral views about them but they are not one's concern Besides, individualism has really the higher aim Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one's age I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality But surely if one lives merely for oneself, Harry one pays a terrible price for doing so Suggested the painter Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays I should fancy that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial Beautiful sins, like beautiful things are the privilege of the rich One has to pay in other ways but money What sort of ways, Basil? Oh, I should fancy in remorse and suffering and well in the consciousness of degradation Lord Henry shrunked his shoulders My dear fellow, medieval art is charming but medieval emotions are out of date One can use them in fiction, of course But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure and no uncivilized man ever knows what a pleasure is I know what pleasure is Cried Dorian Gray It is to adore someone That is certainly better than being adored He answered, toying with some fruits Being adored is a nuisance Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods They worship us and are always bothering us to do something for them I should have said that whatever they asked for they'd first given to us Murmured the lad gravely They create love in our natures They have a right to demand it back That is quite true Dorian Cried Holwood Nothing is ever quite true Said Lord Henry That is Interrupted Dorian You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives Possibly He sighed But they invariably want it back in such a very small change That is the worry Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it Inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us from carrying them out Harry, you are dreadful I don't know why I like you so much You will always like me Dorian He replied Well, you have some coffee, you fellows Waiter, bring coffee and fine champagne and some cigarettes Oh no, don't mind the cigarettes, I have some Basil, I can't allow you to smoke cigars You must have a cigarette A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure It is exquisite and it leaves one unsatisfied What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit What nonsense you talk, Harry Cried the lad taking a light from a fire-breathing silver dragon That the waiter had placed on the table Let us go down to the theatre When Sybil comes on the stage 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 tired look in his eyes But I am always ready for a new emotion I am afraid, however, that for me at any rate there is no such thing Still, your wonderful girl may thrill me I love acting, it is so much more real than life Let us go Dorian, you will come with me I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the broom You must follow us in a handsome They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee, standing The painter was silent and preoccupied There was a gloom over him He could not bear this marriage And yet it seems to him to be better than many other things that might have happened After a few minutes they all passed downstairs He drove off by himself as had been arranged And watched the flashing lights of the little broom 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 Life had come between them His eyes darkened And the crowded, flaring streets became blurred to his eyes When the cab drew up at the theatre It seemed to him that he had grown years older End of chapter 6 Chapter 7 of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter 7 For some reason or other the house was crowded that night And the fat Jew manager who met them at the door Was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile He escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility Waving his fat Jeweled hands And talking at the top of his voice Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever He felt as if he had come to look for Miranda And had been met by Caliban Lord Henry upon the other hand rather liked him At least he declared he did He insisted on shaking him by the hand And assuring him that he was proud to meet a man Who had discovered a real genius And had gone bankrupt over a poet Hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit The heat was terribly oppressive And the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dailier With petals of yellow fire In the gallery had taken off their coats and westscots And hung them over the side They talked to each other across the theatre And shared their oranges with the tawdry girls Who sat beside 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 Lord Henry Yes Answered Dorian Gray It was here I found her and she is divine beyond all living things When she acts you will forget everything These common rough people 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 The same flesh and blood as one's self? Oh, I hope not Exclaimed Lord Henry who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera glass Don't pay any attention to him Dorian Said the painter I understand what you mean and I believe in this girl Anyone you love must be marvelous And any girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble 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's 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 The gods made simple vain for you Without her you would have been incomplete Thanks Basil One said 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 onto the stage Yes, 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 enthusiastic house She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud Motionless and as one in a dream sat Dorian Gray gazing at her Lord Henry peered through his glasses murmuring Charming, charming The scene was the hall of Capulet's house And Romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends The band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music And the dance began Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world Her body swayed while she danced As a plant sways in the water The curves of her throat were 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 words she had to speak Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much Which mannerly devotion shows in this Or saints have hands that pilgrim's hands do touch And palm to palm as holy palmers kiss With the brief dialogue that follows Was 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 colour It took away all the life from the verse It made the passion unreal Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her He was puzzled and anxious 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 overemphasised everything that she had to say The beautiful passage Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face Else would a maiden blush be paint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak tonight Was declined with the painful precision Of a schoolgirl 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 join thee I have no joy of this contract tonight It is too rash, too unadvised Too sudden, too like the lightning Which Doth cease to be Your one can say it lightens Sweet, good night This bud of love by summer's ripening breath May prove a beautyous flower when next we meet She spoke the words as though they conveyed No meaning to her It was not nervousness Indeed, so far from being nervous She was 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, Dorian He said But she can't act Let us go I'm going to see the play through Answered the lad in a hard, bitter voice I'm awfully sorry that I made you waste an evening, Harry I apologise to you both My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Bain was ill Interrupted Hallward And some other night I wish she were ill He rejoined But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold She is entirely altered Last night she was a great artist This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress Don't talk like that about anyone you love, Dorian Love is a more wonderful thing than art They're both simply forms of imitation Remarked Lord Henry But do let us go Dorian, you must not stay here any longer It is not good for one's morals to see bad acting Besides, I don't suppose you'll 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 delightful experience There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating People who know absolutely everything And people who know absolutely nothing Good heavens, 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 Sybil Vane She is beautiful What more can you want? Go away, Harry Cried the lad I want to be alone Basil, you must go Can't you see that my heart is breaking? The hot tears came to his eyes His lips trembled And rushing to the back of the box He leaned up against the wall Hiding his face in his hands Let us go, Basil 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 and proud And indifferent The play dragged on and seemed interminable Half of the audience went out Tramping in heavy boots and laughing The whole thing was a fiasco The last act was played to almost empty benches The curtain went down on a titter and some groans As soon as it was over Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the green room The girl was standing there alone With a look of triumph on her face Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire There was a radiance about her Her potted 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 tonight, Dorian She cried, horribly He answered, gazing at her in amazement Horribly, it was dreadful Are you ill? You have no idea what it was You have no idea what I suffered The girl smiled Dorian She answered, lingering over his name With long-drawn music in her voice As though it were sweeter than honey To the red petals of her mouth Dorian, you should have understood But you understand now, don't you? Understand what? He asked angrily Why I was so bad tonight Why I shall always be bad Why I shall never act well again He shrugged his shoulders You are ill, I suppose 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 But happiness dominated her Dorian, Dorian She cried 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 Nothing but shadows and I thought them real You came Oh, my beautiful love And you freed my soul from prison You taught me what reality really is Tonight, for the first time in my life I saw through the hollowness, the sham The silliness of the empty pageant In which I had always played Tonight, for the first time I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous And old and painted That the moonlight in the orchard was false That the scenery was vulgar That the words I had to speak were unreal were not My words were not what I wanted to say You had brought me something higher Something of which all arts is but a reflection You had made me understand what love really is My love, my love, Prince Charming Prince of life, I have grown 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 tonight I understand how it was that everything had gone for me I thought that I was going to be wonderful I found that I could do nothing Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant The knowledge was exquisite to me I heard them hissing and I smiled What could they know of love such as ours? 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 Dorian, Dorian You understand now what it signifies 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've killed my love He muttered She looked at him in wonder and laughed He made no answer She came across to him And with her little fingers Stroked his hair 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 Yes He cried You've cured 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 marvellous Because you had genius and intellect Because you realised the dreams of great poets And gave shape and substance to the shallows of art You have thrown it all away You are shallow and stupid My God, 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 once Why, once? Oh, 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 Without your art you are nothing I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent The world would have worshipped you And you would have borne my name What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face The girl grew white and trembled She clenched her hands together And her voice seemed to catch in her throat You are not serious, Dorian? She murmured You are acting Acting? I leave that to you You do it so well He answered bitterly She rose from her knees And 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 He cried A lone moan broke from her And she flung herself at his feet And lay there like a trampled flower Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me She whispered I am so sorry I didn't act well I was thinking of you all the time But I will try, indeed I will try It came so suddenly across me My love for you I think I should never have known it If we had not kissed each other Kiss me again, my love Don't go away from me I couldn't bear it Oh, don't go away from me My brother No, never mind, he didn't mean it He was in jest But you, oh, can't you forgive me for tonight? 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 After all, it is only once That I have not pleased you But you are quite right, Dorian I should have shown myself more of an artist It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn't help it Oh, 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 chiseled lips curled in exquisite disdain There is always something ridiculous About the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love Sybil Vane seems to him to be absurdly melodramatic Her tears and sobs annoyed him I'm going He said at last in his calm, clear voice 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 A little hand 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 Past gaunt black shadowed archways And evil-looking houses Women with horse 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 doorsteps And heard shrieks and oaths From gloomy courts As the dawn was just breaking He found himself close to Covent Garden The darkness lifted And flushed with faint fires The sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl 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 seems to bring him An anodyne for his pain He followed him to 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 Stayed green piles of vegetables Under the portico, with its grey sun-bleached pillars Loitered a troop of draggled, bare-headed girls Waiting for the auction to be over Others crowded round the swinging doors Of the coffee-house in the piazza The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped Upon the rough stones Shaking their bells and trappings Drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks Iris necked and pink-footed The pigeons ran about picking up seeds After a little while he hailed a handsome And drove home For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep Looking round at the silent square With its blank, close-shuttered windows And its staring blinds The sky was pure opal now And the roofs of the houses glistened Like silver against it From some chimney opposite A thin wreath of smoke was rising It curled a violet ribbon Through the nacre-coloured air In the huge gilt Venetian lantern Spoiled of some doge's barge That hung from the ceiling Of the great oak-paneled hall of entrance The lights were still burning From three flickering jets Thin blue petals of flame they seemed Rimmed with white fire He turned them out And having thrown his hat and cape on the table Passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom A large octagonal chamber on the ground floor That in his newborn feeling for luxury He had just had decorated for himself And hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries That had been discovered stored in a disused attic At Selby Royal As he was turning the handle of the door His eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward Had painted of him He started back, zipped in surprise Then he went on into his own room Looking somewhat puzzled After he had taken the buttonhole out of his coat He seemed to hesitate Finally he came back Went over to the picture and examined it In the dim, arrested light That struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds The face appeared 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 strange He turned round and walking to the window Drew up the blind 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 The quivering ardent sunlight Gave 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 He winced, and taking up from the table An oval glass framed in ivory cupids One of Lord Henry's many presents to him Glanced hurriedly into its polished depths 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 Yes, 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 wish had not been fulfilled Such things were impossible It seemed monstrous even to think of them And yet there was the picture before him With the touch of cruelty in the mouth Cruelty? Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his 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 And yet 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 Eon upon Eon of torture His life was well worth hers She had marred him for a moment If he had wounded her for an age Besides 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 someone with whom they could have scenes Lord Henry had told him that And Lord Henry knew what women were Why should he trouble about Sybil 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? No, 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 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 grey 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 The picture changed or unchanged Would be to him the visible emblem of conscience He would resist temptation He would not see Lord Henry any more Would not 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 Sybil Vane Make her a mens, marry her, try to love her again Yes, it was his duty to do so She must have suffered more than he had Poor child! 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 How horrible! He murmured to himself And he walked across to the window and opened it When he stepped out onto the grass he drew a deep breath The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his somber passions He thought only of Sybil 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 End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde It was long past noon when he awoke His valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room To see if he was stirring And had wondered what made his young master sleep so late Finally his bell sounded And Victor came in softly with a cup of tea And a pile of letters on a small tray of old Cervre china And drew back the olive satin curtains With their shimmering blue lining That hung in front of the three tall windows Monsieur Haswell slept this morning He said, smiling What o'clock is it, Victor? Asked Dorian Gray drowsily One hour and a quarter, Monsieur How late it was! He sat up and, having sipped some tea Turned over his letters One of them was from Lord Henry And had been brought by hand that morning He hesitated for a moment And then put it aside The others he opened listlessly They contained the usual collection of cards Invitations to dinner Tickets for private views Programs of charity concerts and the like That are showered on fashionable young men Every morning during the season There was a rather heavy bill For a chaste silver Louis Kahn's toilet said That he had not yet had the courage to send on To his guardians Who were extremely old-fashioned people And did not realize that we live in an age When unnecessary things are our only necessities And there were several very courteously worded Communications from German street money lenders Offering to advance any sum of money At a moment's notice And at the most reasonable rates of interest After about ten minutes he got up And throwing on an elaborate dressing gown Of silk-embroidered cashmere wool Passed into the onyx-paved bathroom The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through A dim sense of having taken part In some strange tragedy came to him once or twice But there was the unreality of a dream about it As soon as he was dressed he went into the library And sat down to a light French breakfast That had been laid out for him on a small round table Close to the open window It was an exquisite day The warm air seemed laden with spices A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue dragon bowl That filled with sulphur yellow roses stood before him He felt perfectly happy Suddenly his eye fell on the screen That he had placed in front of the portrait And he started to cold for monsieur Asked his valet putting an omelet on the table I shut the window Dorian shook his head I'm not cold He murmured, was it all true? Had the portrait really changed Or had it been simply his own imagination That had made him see a look of evil Where there had been a look of joy Surely a painted canvas could not alter The thing was absurd It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day It would make him smile And yet how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing First in the dim twilight And then in the bright dawn He had seen the touch of cruelty Round the warped lips He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room He knew that when he was alone He would have to examine the portrait He was afraid of certainty When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought And the man turned to go He felt a wild desire to tell him to remain As the door was closing behind him He called him back The man stood waiting for his orders Dorian looked at him for a moment I'm not at home to any one, Victor He said with a sigh The man bowed and retired Then he rose from the table Lit a cigarette and flung himself down A luxuriously cushioned couch That stood facing the screen The screen was an old one Of gilt Spanish leather Stamped and wrought With a rather florid Louis-Catard's pattern He scanned it curiously Wondering if ever before It had concealed the secret of a man's life Should he move it aside after all Why not let it stay there? What was the use of knowing If the thing was true it was terrible If it was not true Why trouble about it? But what if by some fate or deadlier chance Eyes other than his spied behind And saw the horrible change What should he do if Basil Hallward came And asked to look at his own picture? Basil would be sure to do that No, the thing had to be examined And at once anything would be better Than this dreadful state of doubt He got up and locked both doors At least he would be alone When he looked upon the mask of his shame Then he drew the screen aside And saw himself face to face It was perfectly true The portrait had altered As he often remembered afterwards And always with no small wonder He found himself at first Gazing at the portrait with a feeling Of almost scientific interest That such a change should have taken place Was incredible to him And yet it was a fact Was there some subtle affinity Between the chemical atoms That shaped themselves into form and colour On the canvas and the soul that was within him Could it be that what that soul thought They realised that what it dreamed They made true? Or was there some other more terrible reason He shuddered and felt afraid And going back to the couch Lay there gazing at the picture In sickened horror One thing, however He felt that it had done for him It had made him conscious how unjust How cruel he had been to Sybil Vane It was not too late to make reparation for that She could still be his wife His unreal and selfish love Would yield to some higher influence Would be transformed into some nobler passion And the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him Would be a guide to him through life Would be to him what holiness is to some And conscience to others And the fear of God to us all There were opiates for remorse Drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep But here was a visible symbol Of the degradation of sin Here was an ever-present sign Of the ruin men brought upon their souls Three o'clock struck and four And the half-hour rang its double chime But Dorian Gray did not stir He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life And to weave them into a pattern To find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion Through which he was wandering He did not know what to do Or what to think Finally he went over to the table And wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved Imploring her forgiveness And accusing himself of madness He covered page after page With wild words of sorrow And wilder words of pain There is a luxury in self-reproach When we blame ourselves We feel that no one else has a right to blame us It is the confession not the priest That gives us absolution When Dorian had finished the letter He felt that he had been forgiven Suddenly there came a knock to the door And he heard Lord Henry's voice outside My dear boy, I must see you Let me in at once I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this He made no answer at first But remained quite still The knocking still continued and grew louder Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in And to explain to him the new life he was going to lead To quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel To part if parting was inevitable He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture And unlocked the door I'm so sorry for it all Dorian Said Lord Henry as he entered But you must not think too much about it Do you mean about Sybil Vane? Ask the lad Yes, of course Answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair And slowly pulling off his yellow gloves It is dreadful from one point of view But it was not your fault Tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over? Yes I felt sure you had Did you make a scene with her? I was brutal, Harry, perfectly brutal But it's all right now I'm not sorry for anything that has happened It has taught me to know myself better Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse And tearing that nice curly hair of yours I've got through all that Said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling I'm perfectly happy now I know what conscience is to begin with It is not what you told me it was It is the divinous thinginess Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more At least not before me I want to be good I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous A very charming artistic basis for Athec's Dorian I congratulate you on it But how are you going to begin? By marrying Sybil Vane Marrying Sybil Vane? Cried Lord Henry, standing up And looking at him in perplexed amazement But my dear Dorian Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say Something dreadful about marriage Don't say it Don't ever say things of that kind to me again Two days ago I asked Sybil to marry me I'm not going to break my word to her She used to be my wife Your wife? Dorian Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you this morning and sent the note down by my own man Your letter? Oh yes, I remember I was afraid there might be something in it That I wouldn't like You cut life to pieces with your epigrams You know nothing then What do you mean? Lord Henry walked across the room And sitting down by Dorian Gray Took both his hands in his own And held them tightly Dorian, he said My letter, don't be frightened Was to tell you that Sybil Vane is dead A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips And he leaped to his feet Tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp Dead? Sybil dead? It is not true It is a horrible lie How dare you say it? It is quite true, Dorian Said Lord Henry gravely It is in all the morning papers I wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till I came There will have to be an inquest, of course And you must not be mixed up in it Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris But in London people are so prejudiced Here one should never make one's debut with a scandal One should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age I suppose they don't know your name at the theatre If they don't it is all right Did anyone see you going round to her room? That is an important point Dorian did not answer for a few moments He was dazed with horror Finally he stammered in a stifled voice Harry, did you say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sybil? Oh, Harry, I can't bear it But be quick Tell me everything at once I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian Though it must be put in that way to the public It seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother About half past twelve or so She said she had forgotten something upstairs They waited some time for her But she did not come down again They ultimately found her lying dead On the floor of her dressing-room She had swallowed something, by mistake Some dreadful thing they use at theatres I don't know what it was But it had either prosic acid or white lead in it I should fancy it was prosic acid As she seems to have died instantaneously Harry, Harry, it is terrible! cried the lad Yes, it is very tragic, of course But you must not get yourself mixed up in it I see by the standard that she was seventeen I should have thought she was almost younger than that She looked such a child and seemed to know so little about acting Dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves You must come and dine with me And afterwards we will look in at the opera It is a patty night And everybody will be there You can come to my sister's box She has got some smart women with her So I have murdered Sybil Vane Said Dorian Gray half to himself Murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife Yet the roses are not the less lovely for all that The birds sing just as happily in my garden And tonight I am to dine with you And then go on to the opera and sup somewhere I suppose afterwards How extraordinarily dramatic life is If I had read all this in a book Harry I think I would have wept over it Somehow now that it has happened actually And to me it seems far too wonderful for tears Here is the first passionate love letter I have ever written in my life Strange that my first passionate love letter Should have been addressed to a dead girl Can they feel, I wonder Those white silent people we call the dead Sybil, can she feel Or know, or listen Oh Harry, how I loved her once It seems years ago to me now She was everything to me Then came that dreadful night Was it really only last night When she played so badly in my heart Almost broke She explained it all to me It was terribly pathetic But I was not moved a bit I thought her shallow Suddenly something happened that made me afraid I can't tell you what it was But it was terrible I said I would go back to her I felt I had done wrong And now she is dead My God, my God Harry What shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in And there is nothing to keep me straight She would have done that for me She had no right to kill herself It was selfish of her My dear Dorian Answered Lord Henry Taking a cigarette from his case And producing a gold-latten matchbox The only way a woman can ever reform a man Is by boring him so completely That he loses all possible interest in life If you had married this girl You would have been wretched Of course you would have treated her kindly One can always be kind To people about whom one cares nothing But she would have soon found out That you were absolutely indifferent to her And when a woman finds that out About her husband She either becomes dreadfully dowdy Or wears very smart bonnets That some other woman's husband has to pay for I say nothing about the social mistake Which would have been abject Which of course I would not have allowed But I assure you that in any case The whole thing would have been An absolute failure I suppose it would Mutted to the lad Walking up and down the room And looking horribly pale But I thought it was my duty It is not my fault that this terrible tragedy Created my doing what was right I remember your saying once That there is a fatality about good resolutions That they are always made too late Mine certainly were Good resolutions are useless attempts To interfere with scientific laws Their origin is pure vanity Their result is absolutely nil They give us now and then Some of those luxurious sterile emotions That have a certain charm for the weak That is all that can be said for them They are simply checks that men draw On a bank where they have no account Harry, cried Dorian Gray Coming over and sitting down beside him Why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy As much as I want to? I don't think I am heartless. Do you? You have done too many foolish things During the last fortnight to be entitled To give yourself that name, Dorian Answered Lord Henry With his sweet melancholy smile The lad frowned I don't like that explanation, Harry He rejoined But I am glad you don't think I am heartless I am nothing of the kind I know I am not And yet I must admit that this thing that has happened Does not affect me as it should It seems to me to be simply like A wonderful ending to a wonderful play It has all the terrible beauty Of a Greek tragedy A tragedy in which I took a great part But by which I have not been wounded It is an interesting question Said Lord Henry Who found an exquisite pleasure In playing on the lad's unconscious egotism An extremely interesting question I fancy that the true explanation is this It often happens that the real tragedies of life Occur in such an inartistic manner That they hurt us by their crude violence Their absolute incoherence Their absurd want of meaning Their entire lack of style They affect us just as vulgarity affects us They give us an impression of sheer brute force And we revolt against that Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses Artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives If these elements of beauty are real The whole thing simply appeals to our sense Of dramatic effect Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors But the spectators of the play Or, rather, we are both We watch ourselves and the mere wonder Of the spectacle enthralls us In the present case What is it that has really happened Someone has killed herself for love of you I wish that I had ever had such an experience It would have made me in love with love For the rest of my life The people who have adored me There have not been very many But there have been some Have always insisted on living on Long after I had ceased to care for them They have become stout and tedious And when I meet them they go in at once For reminiscences That awful memory of woman What a fearful thing it is And what an utter intellectual stagnation It reveals One should absorb the colour of life But one should never remember its details Details are always vulgar I must throw poppies in my garden Psyedorium There is no necessity Rejoined his companion Life has always poppies in her hands Of course, now and then things linger I once wore nothing but violets all through one season As a form of artistic mourning For a romance that would not die Ultimately, however, it did die I forget what killed it I think it was her proposing to sacrifice The whole world for me That is always a dreadful moment It fills one with the terror of eternity Well, would you believe it, a week ago At Lady Hampshire's I found myself seated at dinner Next the lady in question And she insisted on going over the whole thing again And digging up the past and raking up the future I had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel She dragged it out again And assured me that I had spoiled her life I am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner So I did not feel any anxiety But what a lack of taste she showed The one charm of the past is that it is the past But women never know when the curtain has fallen They always want a sixth act And as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over They propose to continue it If they were allowed their own way Every comedy would have a tragic ending And every tragedy would culminate in a farce They are charmingly artificial But they have no sense of art You are more fortunate than I am I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women I have known would have done for me What Sybil Vane did for you Ordinary women always console themselves Some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours Never trust a woman who wears mauve Whatever her age may be Or a woman over 35 who is fond of pink ribbons It always means that they have a history Others find a great consolation In suddenly discovering the good qualities Of their husbands They flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face As if it were the most fascinating of sins Religion consoles some Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation A woman once told me And I can quite understand it Besides, nothing makes one so vain As being told that one is a sinner Conscience makes egotists of us all Yes, there is really no end To the consolations that women find in modern life Indeed, I have not mentioned the most important one What is that, Harry? Said the lad listlessly Oh, the obvious consolation Taking someone else's admirer when one loses one's own In good society that always whitewashes a woman But really, Dorian, how different Sybil Vane must have been From all the women one meets There is something to me quite beautiful about her death I am glad I am living in a century When such wonders happen They make one believe in the reality As we all play with such as romance, passion and love I was terribly cruel to her You forget that? I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty Downright cruelty more than anything else They have wonderfully primitive instincts We have emancipated them But they remain slaves looking for their masters all the same They love being dominated I am sure you were splendid I have never seen you really and absolutely angry But I can fancy how delightful you looked And, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday That seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful But that I see now was absolutely true And it holds the key to everything What was that, Harry? You said to me that Sybil Vane represented to you All the heroines of romance That she was Desdemona one night and Ophelia the other That if she died as Juliet she came to life as Immigun You will never come to life again now You have entered the lad burying his face in his hands No, she will never come to life She has played her last part But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing room Simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobian tragedy As a wonderful scene from Webster or Ford or Cyril Turner The girl never really lived and so she has never really died To you, at least, she was always a dream A phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays And left them lovelier for its presence A reed through which Shakespeare's music sounded richer And more full of joy The moment she touched actual life she marred it And it marred her, and so she passed away Mournful Ophelia, if you like Put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled Cry out against heaven because the daughter of Brabantio died But don't waste your tears over Sybil Vane That's real than they are There was a silence The evening darkened in the room Noiselessly, and with silver feet The shadows crept in from the garden The colours faded wearyly out of things After some time Dorian Gray looked up You've explained me to myself, Harry He murmured with something of a sigh of relief I felt all that you have said Somehow I was afraid of it And I could not express it to myself How well you know me But we will not talk again of what has happened It has been a marvellous experience That is all I wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous Life has everything in store for you, Dorian There is nothing that you with your extraordinary good looks Will not be able to do But suppose, Harry, I become haggard and old and wrinkled What then? Said Lord Henry, rising to go Then, my dear Dorian, you would have to fight for your victories As it is they are brought to you No, you must keep your good looks We live in an age that reads too much to be wise And that thinks too much to be beautiful We cannot spare you And now you had better dress and drive down to the club We are rather late as it is I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry I feel too tired to eat anything What is the number of your sister's box? Twenty-seven, I believe It is on the grand tier You will see her name on the door But I am sorry he won't come and dine I don't feel up to it Said Dorian listlessly But I am awfully obliged to you for all you have said to me You are certainly my best friend No one has ever understood me as you have We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian Answered Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand Goodbye, I shall see you before nine-thirty, I hope Remember, Patty is singing As he closed the door behind him Dorian Gray touched the bell And in a few minutes, Victor appeared with the lamps And drew the blinds down He waited impatiently for him to go The man seemed to take an interminable time over everything As soon as he had left He rushed to the screen and drew it back No, there was no further change in the picture It had received the news of Sybil Vane's death Before he had known of it himself It was conscious of the events of life As they occurred The vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth Had no doubt appeared at the very moment That the girl had drunk the poison Whatever it was Was it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of what passed Within the soul? He wondered and hoped that some day He would see the change taking place Before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it Poor Sybil! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked death on the stage Then death himself had touched her And taken her with him How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursed him as she died? No She had died for love of him And love would always be a sacrament to him now She had atoned for everything By the sacrifice she had made of her life He would not think any more Of what she had made him go through On that horrible night at the theatre When he thought of her It would be as a wonderful tragic figure Sent on to the world stage To show the supreme reality of love A wonderful tragic figure Tears came to his eyes As he remembered her childlike look And winsome, fanciful ways And shy, tremulous grace He brushed them away hastily And looked again at the picture He felt that the time had really come Making his choice Or had his choice already been made Yes, life had decided that for him Life And his own infinite curiosity about life Eternal youth Infinite passion Pleasures subtle and secret Wild joys and wilder sins He was to have all these things The portrait was to bear the burden of his shame That was all A feeling of pain crept over him As he thought of the desecration that was in store For the fair face on the canvas Once in boyish mockery of Narcissus He had kissed, or feigned to kiss Those painted lips that now smiled So cruelly at him Morning after morning He had sat before the portrait Wondering at its beauty Almost enamoured of it As it seemed to him at times Was it to alter now With every mood to which he yielded it Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing To be hidden away in a locked room To be shut out from the sunlight That had so often touched to brighter gold The waving wonder of its hair The pity of it The pity of it For a moment he thought of praying That the horrible sympathy that existed Between him and the picture might cease It had changed in answer to a prayer Perhaps in answer to a prayer It might remain unchanged And yet, who that knew anything about life Would surrender the chance of remaining always young However fantastic that chance might be Or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught Besides, was it really under his control Had it indeed been prayer That had produced the substitution Might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all If thought could exercise its influence Upon a living organism Might not thought exercise an influence Upon dead and inorganic things Nay, without thought or conscious desire Might not things external to ourselves Vibrate in unison with our moods and passions Atom calling to atom in secret love Or strange affinity But the reason was of no importance He would never again tempt by a prayer Any terrible power If the picture was to alter It was to alter, it was all Why inquire too closely into it For there would be a real pleasure in watching it He would be able to follow his mind Into its secret places This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors As it had revealed to him his own body So it would reveal to him his own soul And when winter came upon it He would still be standing where spring trembles On the verge of summer When the blood crept from its face And left behind a pallid mask of chalk With leaden eyes He would keep the glamour of boyhood Not one blossom of his loveliness Would ever fade Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken Like the gods of the Greeks He would be strong and fleet and joyous What did it matter what happened To the coloured image on the canvas He would be safe That was everything He drew the screen back into its form A place in front of the picture Smiling as he did so And passed into his bedroom Where his ballet was already waiting for him An hour later he was at the opera And Lord Henry was leaning over his chair End of chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter 9 As he was sitting at breakfast next morning Basil Hallward was shown into the room I am so glad I found you Dorian He said gravely I called last night and they told me you were at the opera Of course I knew that wasn't possible But I wish you had left word where you really had gone to I passed a dreadful evening Half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another I think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard her at first I read of it quite by chance in the late edition of The Globe that I picked up at the club I came here at once and was miserable at not finding you I can't tell you how heartbroken I am about the whole thing I know what you must suffer But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For a moment I thought of following you there They gave the address in the paper somewhere in Austin Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten Poor woman, what a state she must be in And her only child too What did she say about it all? My dear Basil, how do I know? I'm at Dorian Gray Sipping some pale yellow wine From a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass And looking dreadfully bored I was at the opera You should have come on there I met Lady Gwendolyn, Harry's sister, for the first time We were in her box She is perfectly charming And putty sang divinely Don't talk about horrid subjects If one doesn't talk about a thing That has never happened It is simply expression, as Harry says That gives reality to things I may mention that she was not the woman's only child There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe But he is not on the stage He is a sailor or something And now, tell me about yourself And what you are painting You went to the opera, said Hallward Speaking very slowly And with a strange touch of pain in his voice Was the opera while Sybil Vane was lying dead In some sort of lodging You can talk to me of other women Being charming and patty singing divinely Before the girl you loved As even the quiet of a grave to sleep in Why, man, there are horrors in store For that little white body of hers Stop, Basil, I won't hear it Cried Dorian, leaping to his feet You must not tell me about things What is done is done What is past is past You call yesterday the past The actual lapse of time got to do with it It is only shallow people who require years To get rid of an emotion A man who was master of himself Can end the sorrow as easily as he can Invent a pleasure I don't want to be the mercy of my emotions I want to use them to enjoy them And to dominate them Dorian, this is horrible Something has changed you completely You look exactly the same wonderful boy Who day after day used to come down to my studio To sit for his picture With affection at then You were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world Now, I don't know what has come over you You talk as if you had no heart No pity in you It's all Harry's influence, I see that The lad flushed up and going to the window Looked out for a few moments On the green flickering sun-lashed garden I owe a great deal to Harry, Basil He said at last More than I owe to you You only taught me to be vain Well, I am punished for that, Dorian Or shall be some day I don't know what you mean, Basil He exclaimed turning round I don't know what you want What do you want? I want the Dorian grey I used to paint Said to the artist sadly Basil Said the lad going over to him And putting his hand on his shoulder You have come too late Yesterday when I heard that Sybil Vane Had killed herself Heavens, is there no doubt about that? Cried wholeward, looking up at him With an expression of horror My dear Basil Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident Of course she killed herself The elder man Buried his face in his hands How fearful He muttered, and a shudder ran through him No Said Dorian grey There is nothing fearful about it It is one of the great romantic tragedies Of the age, as a rule People who act lead the most Commonplace lives They are good husbands, or faithful wives Or something tedious You know what I mean, middle class virtue And all that kind of thing How different Sybil was She lived her finest tragedy She was always a heroine The last night she played The night she saw her She acted badly because she had known The reality of love For its unreality she died As Juliet might have died She passed again into the sphere of art There is something of the martyr about her Her death has all the pathetic uselessness Of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty But, as I was saying, you must not think That I have not suffered If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment About half past five perhaps Or a quarter to six You would have found me in tears Even Harry, who was here Who brought me the news, in fact Had no idea what I was going through I suffered immensely Then it passed away I cannot repeat an emotion No one can except sentimentalists And you are awfully unjust, Basil You come down here to console me That is charming of you You find me consoled And you are furious How like a sympathetic person You remind me of a story Harry told me About a certain philanthropist Who spent twenty years of his life Trying to get some grievance redressed Or some unjust law altered I forget exactly what it was Finally he succeeded And nothing could exceed his disappointment He had absolutely nothing to do Almost died of ennui And became a confirmed misanthrope And besides, my dear old Basil If you really want to console me Teach me rather to forget What has happened To a proper artistic point of view Was it not Goetier Who used to write about a consolation Désar? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered Book in your studio one day And chancing on that delightful phrase Well, I'm not like that young man You told me of when we were down At Marlowe together The young man who used to say that Yellow satin could console one for all The miseries of life I love beautiful things that one can touch I love brocades, green bronzes Lack of work, carved ivories Exquisite surroundings Luxury pomp There is so much to be got from all these But the artistic temperament that they create Or at any rate reveal Is still more to me To become the spectator of one's life As Hattie says Is to escape the suffering of life I know you were surprised At my talking to you like this You have not realised how I've developed I was a schoolboy when you knew me I'm a man now I have new passions New thoughts New ideas I am different, but you must not like me less I am changed, but you must always be my friend Of course I am very fond of Hattie But I know that you are better than he is You are not stronger You are too much afraid of life But you are better And how happy we used to be together And don't quarrel with me I am what I am There is nothing more to be said The painter felt strangely moved The lad was infinitely dear to him And his personality Had been the great turning point In his art He could not bear the idea Of reproaching him any more After all, his indifference Was probably merely a mood That would pass away There was so much in him that was good So much in him that was noble Well, Dorian He said at length with a sad smile I once speak to you again About this horrible thing after today I only trust your name won't be mentioned In connection with it The inquest is to take place this afternoon Have they summoned you? Dorian shook his head And a look of annoyance passed over his face At the mention of the word inquest There was something so cruel And vulgar About everything of the kind They don't know my name He answered But surely she did Only my Christian name And that I'm quite sure she never mentioned to anyone She told me once That they were all rather curious to learn who I was And that she invariably told them My name was Prince Charming It was pretty of her He must do me a drawing of Sybil, Basil I should like to have something more Of her than the memory of a few kisses And some broken pathetic words I will try and do something, Dorian If it would please you But you must come and sit to me yourself again I can't get on without you I can never sit to you again, Basil It is impossible He exclaimed starting back The painter stared at him My dear boy, what nonsense He cried Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it? Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it It is the best thing I've ever done Do take the screen away, Dorian It is simply disgraceful of your servants Hiding my work like that I felt the room looked different as I came in My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil You don't imagine I let him arrange my room for me He settles my flowers for me sometimes That is all No, I did it myself The light was too strong on the portrait Too strong? Surely not, my dear fellow This is an admirable place for it, let me see it And Holwood walked towards The corner of the room A cry of terror broke From Dorian Gray's lips And he rushed between the painter And the screen He said, looking very pale You must not look at it, I don't wish you to Not look at my own work You are not serious Why shouldn't I look at it? Exclaimed Holwood laughing If you try to look at it, Basil On my word of honour, I will never speak to you again As long as I live I am quite serious I don't offer any explanation And you are not to ask for any But remember, if you touch this screen Everything is over between us Holwood was thunderstruck He looked at Dorian Gray In absolute amazement He had never seen him like this before The lad was actually Palate with rage His hands were clenched And the pupils of his eyes Were like discs of blue fire He was trembling all over Dorian Don't speak But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it If you don't want me to He said, rather coldly Turning on his heel and going over Towards the window But really, it seems rather absurd That I shouldn't see my own work Especially as I'm going to exhibit it In Paris in the autumn So I must see it some day And why not today? To exhibit it? You want to exhibit it? Exclaimed Dorian Gray A strange sense of terror Creeping over him Was the world going to be shown His secret Where people to gay put the mystery Of his life That was impossible Something he did not Know what had to be done At once I don't suppose you will object to that George Petite is going to collect all my best pictures For a special exhibition in the Rue de Seize Which will open the first week in October The portrait will only be away a month I should think you could easily spare it for that time In fact, you are sure to be out of town And if you keep it always Behind a screen, you can't care much about it Dorian Gray passed his hand Over his forehead There were beads of perspiration there He felt that he was on the brink Of a horrible danger You told me a month ago That you would never exhibit it He cried Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being consistent Have just as many moods as others have The only difference is that your moods Are rather meaningless You can't have forgotten That you assured me most solemnly That nothing in the world would induce you To send it to any exhibition You told Harry exactly the same thing He stopped suddenly Seize He remembered that Lord Henry Had said to him once, half seriously And half in jest If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour Get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit Your picture He told me why he wouldn't And it was a revelation to me Yes, perhaps Basil too Had his secret He would ask him and try Basil? He said, coming over quite close We have each of us a secret Let me know yours And I shall tell you mine What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture? The painter shuddered in spite of himself Dorian, if I told you You might like me less than you do And you would certainly laugh at me I could not bear you doing either of those two things If you wish me never to look at your picture again I am content I have always you to look at If you wish the best work I have ever done To be hidden from the world I am satisfied Your friendship is dear to me than any fame or reputation No Basil, you must tell me Insisted Dorian Gray I think I have a right to know His feeling of terror had passed away And curiosity had taken its place He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's mystery Let us sit down Dorian Said the painter Looking troubled Let us sit down and just answer me One question Have you noticed in the picture Something curious Something that probably at first did not strike you But that revealed itself to you suddenly Basil cried to the lad Clutching the arms of his chair With trembling hands And gazing at him with wild startled eyes I see you did, don't speak Wait till you hear what I have to say Dorian, from the moment I met you Your personality had the most extraordinary influence Over me. I was dominated Soul, brain and power by you You became to me the visible Incarnation of that unseen ideal Whose memory haunts this artist like an exquisite dream I worshipped you I grew jealous of everyone to whom you spoke I wanted to have you all to myself I was only happy when I was with you When you were away from me You were still present in my art Of course, I never let you know anything about this It would have been impossible You would not have understood it I hardly understood it myself I only knew that I had seen perfection Face to face and that the world had become Wonderful to my eyes Too wonderful perhaps For in such mad worships there is peril Peril of losing them No less than the peril of keeping them Weeks and weeks went on And I grew more and more absorbed in you Then came a new development I had drawn you as Paris and Dainty Amour And as a doness with huntsman's cloak And polished boar spear Crowned with heavy lotus blossoms You had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge Gazing across the green turbid Nile You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland And seen in the water's silent silver The marvel of your own face And it had all been what art should be Unconscious, ideal and remote One day a fatal day I sometimes think I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you As you actually are Not in the costume of dead ages But in your own dress And in your own time Whether it was the realism of the method Or the mere wonder of your own personality Thus directly presented to me without Mr. Vail I cannot tell But I know that as I worked at it Every flake in film of color seemed to me To reveal my secret I grew afraid that others would know my idolatry I felt Dorian that I had told too much That I had put too much of myself into it Then it was that I resolved never To allow the picture to be exhibited You were a little annoyed but then I realized all that it meant to me Harry to whom I talked about it laughed at me But I did not mind that When the picture was finished I sat alone with it I felt that I was right Well, after a few days a thing left my studio And as soon as I got rid of the intolerable Fascination of its presence It seemed to me that I had been foolish And imagining that I'd seen anything in it More than that you were extremely good looking And that I could paint Even now I cannot help feeling that it was a mistake To think that the passion one feels In creation is ever really shown In the work one creates Art is always more abstract than we fancy Form and color tell us of form and color That is all It often seems to me that art conceals The artist far more completely than it ever reveals him And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait The principal thing in my exhibition It never occurred to me that you would refuse I see now that you were right The picture cannot be shown You must not be angry with me Dorian For what I've told you As I said to Harry once you are made to be worshipped Dorian Gray drew a long breath The color came back to his cheeks And a smile played about his lips The peril was over He was safe for the time Yet he could not help feeling Infinite pity For the painter who had just made This strange confession to him And wondered if he himself Would ever be so dominated By the personality of a friend Lord Henry at the charm of being Very dangerous But that was all He was too clever and too cynical To be really fond of Would there ever be someone Who would fill him with a strange Idolatry Was that one of the things That life had in store It is extraordinary to me Dorian Said Hallward That you should have seen this in the portrait Did you really see it? I saw something in it He answered Something that seemed to me very curious Well you don't mind me looking at the thing now Dorian shook his head You must not ask me that Basil I could not possibly let you stand In front of that picture You will someday surely Never Well perhaps you are right Then the one person in my life Was really influenced by art Whatever I have done that is good I owe to you You don't know what it cost me To tell you all that I have told you My dear Basil Saint Dorian What have you told me Simply that you felt that you admired me too much That is not even a compliment It was not intended as a compliment It was a confession Now that I have made it Something seems to have gone out of me Perhaps one should never put one's worship into words To point in confession Why, what did you expect Dorian? You didn't see anything else in the picture did you? There was nothing else to see No, there was nothing else to see Why do you ask? But you mustn't talk about worship It is foolish You and I are friends Basil We must always remain so You have got Harry Said the painter sadly Oh, ha ha ha Haddy Cried the lad with a ripple of laughter Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible And his evenings in doing what is improbable Just the sort of life I would like to lead But still I don't think I would go to Harry If I were in trouble I would sooner go to you Basil You will sit to me again Impossible You spoil my life as an artist by refusing Dorian No man comes across two ideal things Few come across one I can't explain it to you Basil But I must never sit to you again There is something fatal about a portrait It has a life of its own I will come and have tea with you That will be just as pleasant Pleasanter for you I'm afraid Mermaid Hallward regretfully And now goodbye I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once again But that can't be helped I quite understand what you feel about it As he left the room Dorian Gray smiled to himself Poor Basil How little he knew of the true reason And how strange it was That instead of having been forced To reveal his own secret He had succeeded almost by chance In resting a secret from his friend How much that strange confession Explained to him The painter's absurd fits of jealousy His wild devotion His extravagant panigerics His curious reticences He understood them all now And he felt sorry There seemed to him to be something tragic In a friendship so coloured by romance He sighed and touched the bell The portrait must be hidden away at all costs He could not run such a risk of discovery again It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain Even for an hour In a room to which any of his friends had access Chapter 10 When his servant entered He looked at him steadfastly And wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen The man was quite impassive And waited for his orders Dorian lit a cigarette And walked over to the glass And glanced into it He could see the reflection of Víctor's face perfectly It was like a placid mask of civility There was nothing to be afraid of there Yet he thought it best to be on his guard Speaking very slowly He told him to tell the housekeeper that he wanted to see her And then to go to the frame-maker And ask him to send two of his men round at once It seemed to him that as the man left the room His eyes wandered in the direction of the screen Or was that merely his own fancy? After a few moments in her black silk dress With old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library He asked her for the key of the schoolroom The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian? She exclaimed Why? It's full of dust You must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it It's not fit for you to see Sir, it's not indeed I don't want it put straight, Leaf I only want the key Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it Why, it hasn't been open for nearly five years Not since his lordship died He winced at the mention of his grandfather He had hateful memories of him That does not matter He answered I simply want to see the place That is all Give me the key And here is the key, sir Said the old lady Going over the contents of her bunch With tremulously uncertain hands Here's the key I'll have it off the bunch in a moment But you don't think of living up there, sir And you're so comfortable here No, no He cried petulently Thank you, Leaf That will do She lingered for a few moments And was garrulous over some detail of the household He sighed And told her to manage things as she thought best She left the room, wreathed in smiles As the door closed Dorian put the key in his pocket And looked round the room His eye fell on a large purple satin cobalet Heavily embroidered with gold A splendid piece of late 17th century Venetian work That his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in It had perhaps served often as a pull for the dead Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own Worse than the corruption of death itself Something that would breed horrors And yet would never die What the worm was to the corpse His sins would be to the painted image on the canvas They would mar its beauty And eat away its grace They would defile it and make it shameful And yet the thing would still live on It would be always alive He shuddered And for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basil The true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence And the still more poisonous influences That came from his own temperament The love that he bore him Well, it was really love Had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual It was not that mere physical admiration of beauty That is born of the senses And that dies when the senses tire It was such love as Michelangelo had known And Montaigne and Winkleman and Shakespeare himself Yes, Basil could have saved him But it was too late now The past could always be annihilated Regret, denial or forgetfulness could do that But the future was inevitable There were passions in him That would find their terrible outlet Dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real He took up from the couch The great purple and gold texture that covered it And holding it in his hands passed behind the screen Was the face on the canvas vileer than before It seemed to him that it was unchanged And yet his loathing of it was intensified Gold hair, blue eyes and rose red lips They were all there It was simply the expression that had altered That was horrible in its cruelty Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke How shallow Basil's reproaches about civil vain had been How shallow and of what little account His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas And calling him to judgment A look of pain came across him And he flung the rich Paul over the picture As he did so, a knock came to the door He passed out as his servant entered The person s'arir, monsieur He felt that the man must be got rid of at once He must not be allowed to know Where the picture was being taken to There was something sly about him And he had thoughtful treacherous eyes Sitting down at the writing-table He scribbled a note to Lord Henry Asking him to send him round something to read And reminding him that they were to meet at 8.15 that evening Wait for an answer He said, handing it to him And show the men in here In two or three minutes there was another knock And Mr. Hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker Of South Audley Street Came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant Mr. Hubbard was a florid red-whiskered little man Whose admiration for art was considerably tempered By the inveterate impicuniosity Of most of the artists who dealt with him As a rule he never left his shop He waited for people to come to him He always made an exception in favour of Dorian Gray There was something about Dorian that charmed everybody It was a pleasure even to see him What can I do for you, Mr. Gray? He said, rubbing his fat, freckled hands I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in person I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir, Picked up at a sale, old Florentine From Fontale, I believe, admirably suited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray I am so sorry that you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Hubbard I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame Though I don't go in much at present for religious art But today I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me It is rather heavy, so I thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men No trouble at all, Mr. Gray, I am delighted to be of any service to you Which is the work of art, sir This Replied Dorian, moving the screen back Can you move it, covering it all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratched going upstairs There will be no difficulty, sir Said the genial frame-maker, beginning with the aid of his assistant To unhook the picture from the long brass chains By which it was suspended Now, where shall we carry it to, Mr. Gray? I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me Or perhaps you would better go in front I am afraid it is right at the top of the house We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider He held the door open for them And they passed out into the hall and began the ascent The elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky And now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard He now had the true tradesman's spirited dislike Of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful Dorian put his hand to it so as to help them Something of a load to carry, sir Cast the little man when they reached the top landing And he wiped his shiny forehead I am afraid it is rather heavy Murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room That was to keep for him the curious secret of his life And hide his soul from the eyes of men He had not entered the place for more than four years Not indeed since he had used it first as a playroom When he was a child, and then as a study When he grew somewhat older It was a large, well-proportioned room Which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso For the use of the little grandson Whom for his strange likeness to his mother And also for other reasons He had always hated and desired to keep at a distance It appeared to Dorian to have but little changed There was the huge Italian Cassone With its fantastically painted panels And its tarnished guilt mouldings In which he had so often hidden himself as a boy There the Satinwood bookcase Filled with his doggie-ed schoolbooks On the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen Were playing chess in a garden While a company of hawkers rode by Carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists How well he remembered it all Every moment of his lonely childhood Came back to him as he looked round He recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life And it seemed horrible to him That it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away How little he had thought in those dead days Of all that was in store for him But there was no other place in the house So secure from prying eyes as this He had the key and no one else could enter it Beneath its purple pool The face painted on the canvas could grow bestial Sodden and unclean What did it matter? No one could see it He himself would not see it Why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? He kept his youth That was enough And besides, might not his nature grow finer after all There was no reason that the future should be so full of shame Some love might come across his life and purify him And shield him from those sins That seems to be already sterling in spirit and in flesh Those curious unpictured sins Whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm Perhaps some day the cruel look Would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth And he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece No, that was impossible Hour by hour and week by week The thing upon the canvas was growing old It might escape the hideousness of sin But the hideousness of age was in store for it The cheeks would become hollow or flaxet Yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes And make them horrible The hair would lose its brightness The mouth would gape or droop Would be foolish or gross As the mouths of old men are There would be the wrinkled throat The cold blue veined hands The twisted body that he remembered In the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood The picture had to be concealed There was no help for it Bring it in, Mr Hubbard, please He said wearily, turning round I'm sorry I kept you so long I was thinking of something else I was glad to have a rest, Mr Gray Answered the frame-maker who was still gasping for breath Where shall we put it, sir? Where, here, this will do I don't want to have it hung up Just lean it against the wall Thanks Might one look at the work of art, sir? Dorian started It would not interest you, Mr Hubbard He said, keeping his eye on the man He felt ready to leap upon him And fling him to the ground If he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging That concealed the secret of his life I shan't trouble you any more now Watch obliged for your kindness in coming round Not at all, not at all, Mr Gray Ever ready to do anything for you, sir? And Mr Hubbard tramped downstairs Followed by the assistant Who glanced back at Dorian With a look of shy wonder In his rough, uncomely face He had never seen anyone so marvellous When the sound of their footsteps had died away Dorian locked the door At the key in his pocket He felt safe now No one would ever look upon the horrible thing No eye but his would ever see his shame On reaching the library He found that it was just after five o'clock And that the tea had been already brought up On a little table of dark, perfumed wood Thickly encrusted with nacre Present from Lady Radley His guardian's wife A pretty professional invalid Who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo Was lying a note from Lord Henry And beside it was a book bound in yellow paper The cover slightly torn And the edges soiled A copy of the third edition Of the St. James's Gazette Had been placed on the tea-tree It was evident that Victor had returned He wondered if he had met the men in the hall As they were leaving the house And had wormed out of them what they had been doing He would be sure to miss the picture Had no doubt missed it already While he had been laying the tea-things The screen had not been set back And a blank space was visible on the wall Perhaps some night He might find him creeping upstairs And trying to force the door of the room It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house He had heard of rich men Who had been blackmailed all their lives By some servant who had read a letter Or overheard a conversation Or picked up a card with an address Or found beneath a pillow a withered flower Or a shred of crumpled lace He sighed And having poured himself out some tea Opened Lord Henry's note It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper And a book that might interest him And that he would be at the club at 8.15 He opened the St. James's blankedly and looked through it A red pencil mark on the fifth page caught his eye It drew attention to the following paragraph Inquest on an actress An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern On Lachston Road by Mr. Danby, the district coroner On the body of Sybil Vane, a young actress Recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Hoban A verdict of death by misadventure was returned Considerable sympathy was expressed For the mother of the deceased Who was greatly affected during the giving Of her own evidence and that of Dr. Birrell Who had made the post-mortem examination Deceased He frowned and tearing the paper in two Went across the room and flung the pieces away How ugly it all was And how horribly real ugliness made things He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry For having sent him the report And it was certainly stupid of him To have marked it with red pencil Victor might have read it The man knew more than enough English for that Perhaps he had read it And had begun to suspect something And yet what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sybil Vane's death? There was nothing to fear Dorian Gray had not killed her His eye fell on the yellow book That Lord Henry had sent him What was it, he wondered He went towards the little pearl-coloured Protagonal stand that had always looked to him Like the work of some strange Egyptian bees That wrought in silver and taking up the volume Flung himself into an armchair And began to turn over the leaves After a few minutes he became absorbed It was the strangest book that he had ever read It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment And to the delicate sound of flutes The sins of the world were passing in dumb show Before him Things that he had dimly dreamed of Were suddenly made real to him Things of which he had never dreamed Were gradually revealed It was a novel without a plot And with only one character Being indeed simply a psychological study Of a certain young Parisian Who spent his life trying to realise in the 19th century All the passions and modes of thought That belonged to every century except his own And to sum up, as it were, in himself The various moods through which The world spirit had ever passed Loving for their mere artificiality Those renunciations that men have unwisely called Virtue As much as those natural rebellions That wise men still call sin The style in which it was written Was that curious, jewelled style Vivid and obscure at once Full of algo and of archaisms Of technical expressions And of elaborate paraphrases That characterises the work Of some of the finest artists Of the French school of Saint-Boliste There were in it metaphors as monstrous As orchids and a subtle in colour The life of the senses was described In the terms of mystical philosophy One hardly knew at times Whether one was reading the spiritual Ecstasies of some medieval saint Or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner It was a poisonous book The heavy odour of incense Seems to cling about its pages And to trouble the brain The mere cadence of the sentences The subtle monotony of their music So full as it was of complex refrains And movements elaborately repeated Produced in the mind of the lad As he passed from chapter to chapter A form of reverie A melody of dreaming That made him unconscious of the falling day And creeping shadows Cloudless and pierced by one solitary star A copper-green sky gleamed through the windows He read on by its one light Till he could read no more Then after his valet had reminded him several times Of the lateness of the hour He got up and going into the next room Placed the book on the little Florentine table That always stood at his bedside And began to dress for dinner It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club Where he found Lord Henry sitting alone In the morning-room, looking very much bored I am so sorry, Harry He cried But really, it is entirely your fault That book you sent me so fascinated me That I forgot how the time was going Yes, I thought you would like it Replied his host rising from his chair I didn't say I liked it, Harry I said it fascinated me There is a great difference Ah, you've discovered that Murmured Lord Henry And they passed into the dining-room End of chapter 10 Part 1 of chapter 11 Of the picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 11, Part 1 For years Dorian Gray Could not free himself from the influence of this book Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say That he never sought to free himself from it He procured from Paris No less than nine large paper copies Of the first edition And had them bound in different colours So that they might suit his various moods And the changing fancies of a nature Over which he seemed at times To have almost entirely lost control The hero, the wonderful young Parisian Whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments Were so strangely blended Became to him a kind of prefiguring type Of himself And indeed the whole book seems to him To contain the story of his own life Written before he had lived it In one point he was more fortunate Than the novel's fantastic hero He never knew, never indeed had any cause To know that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors And polished metal surfaces and still water Which came upon the young Parisian So early in his life And was occasioned by the sudden decay Of a beauty that had once Apparently been so remarkable It was with an almost cruel joy And perhaps in nearly every joy As certainly in every pleasure Cruelty has its place That he used to read the latter part of the book With its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasised Account of the sorrow and despair Of one who had himself lost What in others and the world He had most dearly valued For the wonderful beauty That had so fascinated Basil Hallward And many others besides him Seemed never to leave him Even those who had heard the most Evil things against him And from time to time Strange rumours about his mode of life Crept through London And became the chatter of the clubs Could not believe anything to his dishonour When they saw him He had always the look of one Who had kept himself unspotted From the world Men who talked grossly Became silent when Dorian Gray Entered the room There was something in the purity Of his face that rebuked them His mere presence seemed to recall to them The memory of the innocence That they had tarnished They wondered how one so charming And graceful as he was Could have escaped the stain of an age That was at once sordid and sensual Often on returning home From one of those mysterious and prolonged absences That gave rise to such strange conjecture Among those who were his friends Or thought that they were so He himself would creep upstairs To the locked room Open the door with the key That never left him now And stand with a mirror In front of the portrait That Basil Hallward had painted of him Looking now at the evil And ageing face on the canvas And now at the fair young face That laughed back at him from the polished glass The very sharpness of the contrast Used to quicken his sense of pleasure He grew more and more enamoured Of his own beauty More and more interested In the corruption of his own soul He would examine with minute care And sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight The hideous lines That seared the wrinkling forehead Or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth Wondering sometimes which were the more horrible The signs of sin or the signs of age He would place his white hands Beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture And smile He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs There were moments indeed at night When lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber Or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks Which under an assumed name and in disguise It was his habit to frequent He would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul With a pity that was all the more poignant Because it was purely selfish But moments such as these were rare That curiosity about life Which Lord Henry had first stirred in him As they sapped together in the garden of their friend Seemed to increase with gratification The more he knew, the more he desired to know He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous As he fed them Yet he was not really reckless At any rate in his relations to society Once or twice every month during the winter And on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted He would throw open to the world his beautiful house And have the most celebrated musicians of the day To charm his guests with the wonders of their art His little dinners in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him When noted as much for the careful selection And placing of those invited As for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table With its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers And embroidered cloths and antique plate of gold and silver Indeed there were many, especially among the very young men Who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray The true realisation of a type of which they had often dreamed In Eaton or Oxford days A type that was to combine something of the real culture Of the scholar, with all the grace and distinction And perfect manner of a citizen of the world To them he seemed to be of the company Of those whom Dante describes as having sought To make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty Like Goutier he was one for whom the visible world existed And certainly to him life itself was the first The greatest of the arts And for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation Fashion, by which what is really fantastic Becomes for a moment universal And dandyism, which in its own way is an attempt To assert the absolute modernity of beauty Had of course their fascination for him His mode of dressing and the particular styles That from time to time he affected Had their marked influence on the young exquisite Of the Mayfair Balls and Palmal Club windows Who copied him in everything that he did And tried to reproduce the accidental charm Of his graceful, though to him only half serious, Vopperies. For while he was but too ready to accept the position That was almost immediately offered to him On his coming of age, and found indeed a subtle pleasure In the thought that he might really become To the London of his own day, what to Imperial Neronian Rome the author of the Satiricon once had been. Yet in his inmost heart he desired to be Something more than a mere arbitre elegantiarum To be consulted on the wearing of a jewel Or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life That would have its reason to philosophy And its ordered principles, and find in the Spirit dualizing of the senses its highest Realization. The worship of the senses has often, and with Much justice being decried, men feeling a Natural instinct of terror about passions And sensations that seem stronger than Themselves, and that they are conscious of Sharing with the less highly organized Forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the True nature of the senses had never been Understood, and that they had remained Savage and animal, merely because the World had tried to starve them into Submission, or to kill them by pain. Instead of aiming at making them elements Of a new spirituality, of which a fine Instinct for beauty was to be the Dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving Through history, he was haunted by a Feeling of loss, so much had been Surrendered, and to such little purpose There had been mad, willful rejections Monstrous forms of self-torture and Self-denial, whose origin was fear And whose result was a degradation Infinitely more terrible than that Fancyed degradation from which in Their ignorance they had sought to Escape. Nature, in her wonderful irony Driving out the anchorite to feed With the wild animals of the desert And giving to the hermit the beasts Of the field as his companions. Yes, there was to be, as Lord Henry Had prophesied, a new hedonism That was to recreate life and to save It from that harsh, uncombly puritanism That is having in our own day its curious revival It was to have its service of the intellect Certainly, yet it was never to accept Any theory or system that would Involve the sacrifice of any mode Of passionate experience. Its aim, Indeed, was to be experience itself And not the fruits of experience Sweet or bitter as they might be Of the asceticism that deadens the senses As of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them It was to know nothing, but it was to teach Man to concentrate himself upon the moments Of a life that is itself but a moment. There are few of us who have not sometimes Wakened before dawn, either after one Of those dreamless nights that make us Almost enamoured of death, or one of Those nights of horror and misshapen joy When through the chambers of the brain Sweep phantoms more terrible than reality Itself, and instinct with that vivid life That lurks in all grotesques And that lends to gothic art Its enduring vitality. This art Being one might fancy, especially The art of those whose minds have been Troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains And they appear to tremble In black, fantastic shapes, dumb shadows Crawl into the corners of the room And crouch there. Outside there is the stirring of birds Among the leaves, or the sound Of men going forth to their work Or the sigh and sob of the wind Coming down from the hills And wandering round the silent house As though it feared to wake the sleepers And yet must needs call forth sleep From her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze Is lifted, and by degrees The forms and colours of things Are restored to them. And we watch the dawn remaking the world In its antique pattern. One mirrors get back their mimic life The flameless tapers stand where we had left them And beside them lies the half-cut book That we had been studying, or the wired flower That we had worn at the ball, or the letter That we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night Comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off And there steals over us a terrible sense Of the necessity for the continuance of energy In the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits. Or a wild longing it may be That our eyelids might open some morning Upon a world that had been Refashioned anew in the darkness For our pleasure. A world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours And be changed, or have other secrets. A world in which the past would have little or no place Or survive at any rate in no conscious form Of obligation or regret. The remembrance even of joy having its bitterness And the memories of pleasure, their pain. It was the creation of such worlds as these That seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object Or amongst the true objects of life. And in his search for sensations That would be at once new and delightful And possess that element of strangeness That is so essential to romance He would often adopt certain modes of thought That he knew to be really alien to his nature Abandon himself to their subtle influences And then, having as it were, caught their colour And satisfied his intellectual curiosity Leave them with that curious indifference That is not incompatible with a real art of temperament And that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists Is often a condition of it. It was rumoured of him once That he was about to join the Roman Catholic Communion And certainly the Roman ritual Had always a great attraction for him The daily sacrifice More awful, really, than all the sacrifices Of the antique world Sturred him as much by its superb rejection Of the evidence of the senses As by the primitive simplicity of its elements And the eternal pathos of the human tragedy That it sought to symbolise He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement And watch the priest in his stiff, flowered dalmatic Slowly and with white hands Moving aside the veil of the tabernacle Or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance With that pallid wafer That at times one would fain think Is indeed the panis celestis The bread of angels Or robed in the garments of the passion of Christ Breaking the host into the chalice And smiting his breast for his sins The fuming sensors that the grave boys In their lace and scarlet tossed into the air Like great gilt flowers Had their subtle fascination for him As he passed out He used to look with wonder At the black confessionors And longed to sit in the dim shadow of one of them And listened to men and women Whispering through the worn grating The true story of their lives But he never fell into the error Of arresting his intellectual development By any formal acceptance of creed or system Or of mistaking for a house in which to live An inn that is but suitable for the sedgern of a night Or for a few hours of a night In which there are no stars And the moon is in travail Mysticism with its marvellous power Of making common things strange to us And the subtle antinomianism That always seems to accompany it Moved him for a season And for a season he inclined To the materialistic doctrines Of the Darwinismus movement in Germany And found a curious pleasure Facing the thoughts and passions of men To some pearly cell in the brain Or some white nerve in the body Delighting in the conception Of the absolute dependence of the spirit On certain physical conditions Morbid or healthy, normal or diseased Yet, as has been said of him before No theory of life seemed to him To be of any importance Compared with life itself He felt keenly conscious of how barren All intellectual speculation is When separated from action and experiment He knew that the senses, no less than the soul Have their spiritual mysteries to reveal And so he would now study perfumes And the secrets of their manufacture Distilling heavily scented oils And burning odorous gums from the east He saw that there was no mood of the mind That had not its counterpart in the sensuous life And set himself to discover their true relations Wondering what there was in frankincense That made one mystical And in ambiguity that stirred one's passions And in violets that woke the memory of dead romances And in musk that troubled the brain And in chumpuck that stained the imagination And seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes And to estimate the several influences Of sweet-smelling roots and scented pollen-laden flowers Of aromatic bombs and of dark and fragrant woods Of spikenard that sickenes Of jovenia that makes men mad And of aloes that are said to be able To expel melancholy from the soul At another time he devoted himself entirely to music And in a long lattice-room With a mammalian and gold ceiling And walls of olive-green lacquer He used to give curious concerts In which mad gypsies tore wild music From little zithers or grave yellow-should tunisians Plucked at the strange strings of monstrous lutes While grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums And crouching upon scarlet mats Slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes Of reed or brass and charmed Or feigned to charm great hooded snakes And horrible horned adders The harsh intervals and shrill discords Of barbaric music stirred him At times when Schubert's grace And Chopin's beautiful sorrows And the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself Fell unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world The strangest instruments that could be found Either in the tombs of dead nations Or among the few savage tribes That have survived contact with western civilisations And loved to touch and try them He had the mysterious Juru Paris Of the Rio Negro Indians That women are not allowed to look at And that even youths may not see Till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging And the earthen jars of the Peruvians That have the shrill cries of birds And flutes of human bones Such as Alfonso de Ovalle Heard in Chile And the sonorous green jaspers That have found near Cusco And give forth a note of singular sweetness He had painted gourds filled with pebbles That rattled when they were shaken The long clarin of the Mexicans Into which the performer does not blow But through which he inhales the air The harsh toure of the Amazon tribes That is sounded by the sentinels Who sit all day long in high trees And can be heard, it is said, At a distance of three leagues The teponastli that has two vibrating tongues of wood And is beaten with sticks That are smeared with an elastic gum Obtained from the milky juice of plants The yottelbells of the Aztecs That are hung in clusters like grapes And a huge cylindrical drum Covered with the skins of great serpents Like the one that Bernal Diaz Saw when he went with Cortes Into the Mexican temple And of whose doleful sound He has left us so vivid a description The fantastic character of these instruments Fascinated him And he felt a curious delight in the thought That art, like nature, has her monsters Things of bestial shape And with hideous voices Yet after some time he wearied off them And would sit in his box at the opera Either alone or with Lord Henry Listening in rapt pleasure to tanhoyser And seeing in the prelude to that great work of art A presentation of the tragedy of his own soul On one occasion he took up the study of jewels And appeared at a costume ball as Ander Joillet's Admiral of France In a dress covered with 560 pearls This taste enthralled him for years And indeed may be said never to have left him He would often spend a whole day Settling and resettling in their cases The various stones that he had collected Such as the olive-green chrysoperil That turns red by lump light The symophane with its wire-like line of silver The pistachio-coloured peridot Rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes Carbuncles of fiery scarlet With tremulous four-rayed stars Flame-red cinnamon stones Orange and violet spinels And amethysts with their alternate layers Of ruby and sapphire He loved the red gold of the sun-stone And the moon-stone's pearly whiteness And the broken rainbow of the milky opal He procured from Amsterdam Three emeralds of extraordinary size And richness of colour And had a turquoise de la vierroche That was the envy of all the connoisseurs He discovered wonderful stories also about jewels In Alfonso's clericalis disciplina A serpent was mentioned with eyes of real Jacinth And in the romantic history of Alexander The conqueror of Amathia was said to have found In the Vale of Jordan Snakes with colours of real emeralds Growing on their backs There was a gem in the brain of the dragon Philostratus told us And by the exhibition of golden letters And a scarlet robe The monster could be thrown into a magical sleep And slain According to the great alchemist Pierre de Boniface The diamond rendered a man invisible And the agate of India made him eloquent The cornelian appeased anger And the hyacinth provoked sleep And the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine The garnet cast out demons And the hydropicus deprived the moon of her colour The selenite waxed and waned with the moon And the milosius that discovers thieves Could be affected only by the blood of kids Leonardo's Camilos had seen a white stone Taken from the brain of a newly killed toad That was a certain antidote against poison The bezawar that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer Was a charm that could cure the plague In the nests of Arabian birds was the aspelates That according to Democritus kept the wearer From any danger by fire The king of Ceylon rode through his city With a large ruby in his hand At the ceremony of his coronation The gates of the palace of John the priest Were made of sardius With the horn of the horned snake enraught So that no man might bring poison within Over the gable were two golden apples In which were two carbuncles So that the gold might shine by day And the carbuncles by night In Lodge's strange romance A margarite of America It was stated that in the chamber of the queen One could behold all the chaste ladies of the world Inchaste out of silver Looking through fair mirrors of chrysolites Carbuncles, sapphires and green emeralds Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu Place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead A sea monster had been enamoured of the pearl That the diver brought to King Peroses Had slain the thief and mourned for seven moons Over its loss When the Huns lured the king into the great pit He flung it away Procopius tells the story Nor was it ever found again Though the emperor Anastasius Offered five hundred weight of gold pieces for it The king of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian A rosary of three hundred and four pearls One for every god that he worshipped When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI Visited Louis XII of France His horse was loaded with gold leaves According to Plantum And his cap had double rows of rubies That threw out a great light Charles of England had ridden in stirrups Hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds Richard II had a coat valued at thirty thousand marks Which was covered with ballas rubies Hall described Henry VIII on his way to the tower Previous to his coronation as wearing a jacket of raised gold The placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones And a great borderic about his neck of large ballases The favourites of James I The earrings of emerald set in gold filigrein Edward II gave to Piers Gaviston A suit of red gold armour Studied with jacinths A collar of gold roses set with turquoise stones And a skullcap, parsemay with pearls Henry II wore jeweled gloves reaching to the elbow And had a hawk glove sewn with twelve rubies And fifty-two great orients The ducal hat of Charles the Rash The last Duke of Burgundy of his race Was hung with pear-shaped pearls And studied with sapphires How exquisite life had once been How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration Even to read of the luxury of the dead Was wonderful End of Chapter 11 Part 1 Part 2 of Chapter 11 Of The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 11 Part 2 Then he turned his attention to embroideries And to the tapestries that performed the office of frescoes In the chill rooms of the northern nations of Europe As he investigated the subject And he always had an extraordinary faculty Of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment In whatever he took up He was almost saddened by the reflection Of the ruin that time brought On beautiful and wonderful things He at any rate had escaped that Summer followed summer And the yellow jonquils bloomed And died many times And knights of horror Repeated the story of their shame But he was unchanged No winter marred his face And stained his flower-like bloom How different it was with material things Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe On which the gods fought against the giants That had been worked by brown girls For the pleasure of Athena Where the huge velarium that Nero Had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome That titan sail of purple Was represented the starry sky And Apollo driving a chariot Drawn by white, guilt-reigned steeds He longed to see the curious table napkins Wrought for the priest of the sun On which were displayed all the dainties And viands that could be wanted for a feast The mortuary cloth of King Chilperic With its three hundred golden bees The fantastic robes that excited the indignation Of the Bishop of Pontus And were figured with lions, panthers, bears Dogs, forests, rocks, hunters All in fact that a painter can copy from nature And the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore On the sleeves of which were embroidered The verses of a song beginning Madame Je suis tout joyeux The musical accompaniment of the words Being wrought in gold thread And each note of square shape in those days Formed with four pearls He read of the robe that was prepared At the palace at Reims For the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy And was decorated with thirteen hundred And twenty-one parrots made in broidery And blazoned with the king's arms And five hundred and sixty-one butterflies Whose wings were similarly ornamented With the arms of the queen The whole worked in gold Caterine de Médicis had a morning-bed Made for her of black velvet Powdered with crescents and suns Its curtains were of damask With leafy wreaths and garlands Figured upon a gold and silver ground And fringed along the edges With broideries of pearls And it stood in a rom And hung with rows of the queen's devices In cut black velvet Upon cloth of silver Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatids Fifteen feet high in his apartment The state bed of Sobieski, king of Poland Was made of Smyrna gold brocade Embroidered in turquoise's With verses from the Quran Its supports were of silver gilt Chased and profusely set With enameled and jeweled medallions It had been taken from the Turkish camp Before Vienna and the standard of Mohammed Had stood beneath the tremulous guilt Of its canopy And so for a whole year He sought to accumulate the most Exquisite specimens that he could find Of textile and embroidered work Getting the dainty Delhi Muslims Finally wrought with gold-thread palmates And stitched over with iridescent Beatles wings The darker gauzes That from their transparency Are known in the East as woven air And running water and evening dew Strange-figured cloths from Java Elaborate yellow Chinese hangings Books bound in tawny satins Or fair-blue silks And wrought with fleur-de-lis Birds and images Veils of lassi Worked in Hungry Point Sicilian brocades And stiff Spanish velvets Georgian work with its gilt coins And Japanese fukusas With their green-toned golds And their marvellously plumaged birds He had a special passion also For ecclesiastical vestments As indeed he had for everything Connected with the service of the church In the long cedar chests That lined the West gallery of his house He had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens Of what is really the raiment Of the bride of Christ Who must wear purple and jewels And fine linen That she may hide the pallid macerated body That is worn by the suffering that she seeks for And wounded by self-inflicted pain He possessed a gorgeous cope Of crimson silk and gold-thread damask Figured with a repeating pattern Of golden pomegranates Set in six-petalled formal blossoms Beyond which, on either side Was the pineapple device wrought in seed pearls The orphries were divided into panels Representing seeds from the life of the Virgin And the coronation of the Virgin Was figured in coloured silks upon the hood This was Italian work of the 15th century Another cope was of green velvet Embroidered with heart-shaped groups Of acanthus leaves From which spread long-stemmed white blossoms The details of which were picked out With silver thread and coloured crystals The morse bore a seraph's head In gold-thread-raised work The orphries were woven in a dipper Of red and gold silk And were starred with medallions Of many saints and martyrs Among whom was Saint Sebastian He had chassubals also Of amber-coloured silk And blue silk and gold brocade And yellow silk damask And cloth of gold Figured with representations Of passion and crucifixion of Christ And embroidered with lions And peacocks and other emblems Dalmatics of white satin And pink silk damask Decorated with tulips and dolphins And fleur-de-lis Alta-frontals of crimson velvet And blue linen And many corporals, chalice-fales And sudaria In the mystic offices To which such things were put There was something that quickened his imagination For these treasures And everything that he collected In his lovely house Were to be to him means of forgetfulness Modes by which he could escape For a season from the fear That seemed to him at times To be almost too great to be born Upon the walls of the lonely locked room Where he had spent so much of his boyhood He had hung with his own hands The terrible portrait Whose changing features Showed him the real degradation of his life And in front of it had draped The purple and gold pawl as a curtain For weeks he would not go there Would forget the hideous painted thing And get back his light heart His wonderful joyousness His passion at absorption In mere existence Then suddenly some night He would creep out of the house Go down to dreadful places Near blue gate fields And stay there day after day Until he was driven away On his return He would sit in front of the picture Sometimes loathing it and himself But filled at other times With that pride of individualism That is half the fascination of sin And smiling with secret pleasure At the misshapen shadow That had to bear the burden That should have been his own After a few years He could not endure to be long out of England And gave up the villa that he had shared At Tauville with Lord Henry As well as the little white walled-in house At Algiers where they had more than once Spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture That was such a part of his life And was also afraid that during his absence Someone might gain access to the room In spite of the elaborate bars That he had caused to be placed upon the door He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing It was true that the portrait still preserved Under all the foulness and ugliness of the face It's marked likeness to himself But what could they learn from that? He would laugh at anyone who tried to taunt him He had not painted it What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it? Yet he was afraid Sometimes when he was down at his great house In Nottinghamshire entertaining the fashionable young men Of his own rank who were his chief companions And astounding the county by the wanton luxury And gorgeous splendour of his mode of life He would suddenly leave his guests And rush back to town To see that the door had not been tampered with And that the picture was still there What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror Surely the world would know his secret then Perhaps the world already suspected it For while he fascinated many There were not a few who distrusted him He was very nearly black-balled at a West End club Of which his birth and social position Fully entitled him to become a member And it was said that on one occasion When he was brought by a friend Into the smoking-room of the Churchill The Duke of Berwick and another gentleman Got up in a marked manner and went out Curious stories became current about him After he had passed his twenty-fifth year It was rumoured that he had been seen Brawling with foreign sailors in a low den In the distant parts of Whitechapel And that he consorted with thieves and coiners And knew the mysteries of their trade His extraordinary absences became notorious And when he used to reappear again in society Men would whisper to each other in corners Or pass him with a sneer Or look at him with cold, searching eyes As though they were determined to discover his secret Of such insolences and attempted slights He, of course, took no notice And in the opinion of most people His frank debonair manner His charming, boyish smile And the infinite grace of that wonderful youth That seemed never to leave him Were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calamities For so they termed them that were circulated about him It was remarked, however, that some of those Who had been most intimate with him Appeared after a time to shun him Women who had wildly adored him And for his sake had braved all social censure And set convention at defiance Were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror If Dorian Gray entered the room Yet these whispered scandals Only increased in the eyes of many His strange and dangerous charm His great wealth was a certain element of security Society, civilised society at least Is never very ready to believe anything To the detriment of those who are both Rich and fascinating It feels instinctively that manners Are of more importance than morals And in its opinion the highest respectability Is of much less value than the possession Of a good chef And after all it is a very poor consolation To be told that the man who has given One a bad dinner or poor wine Is irreproachable in his private life Even the cardinal virtues Cannot atone for half cold entrees As Lord Henry remarked once In a discussion on the subject And there is possibly a good deal To be said for his view For the cannons of good society Are, or should be, the same as the cannons of art Form is absolutely essential to it It should have the dignity of a ceremony As well as its unreality And should combine the insincere character Of a romantic play With the wit and beauty That make such plays delightful to us Is insincereity such a terrible thing? I think not It is merely a method By which we can multiply our personalities Such at any rate was Dorian Gray's opinion He used to wonder at the shallow psychology Of those who conceived the ego in man As a thing simple, permanent, reliable And of one essence To him man was a being with myriad lives And myriad sensations A complex, multi-form creature That bore within itself strange legacies Of thought and passion And whose very flesh was tainted With the monstrous maladies of the dead He loved to stroll through the gaunt, cold picture gallery Of his country house And look at the various portraits Of those whose blood flowed in his veins Here was Philip Harbert Described by Francis Osbourne In his memoirs on the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James As one who was caressed by the court For his handsome face Which kept him not long company Was it young Harbert's life that he sometimes led Had some strange poisonous germ Crept from body to body till it had reached his own Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace That had made him so suddenly And almost without cause Give utterance in Basil Hallward's studio To the mad prayer that had so changed his life Here in gold embroidered red doublet Jeweled sircoat and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands Stood Sir Anthony Sherrod With his silver and black armour piled at his feet What had this man's legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples Bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame Where his own actions merely the dreams That the dead man had not dared to realise Here from the fading canvas Smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereur In her gauze hood, pearl stomacher And pink slashed sleeves A flower was in her right hand And her left clasped an enummeled collar Of white and damask roses On a table by her side Lay a mandolin and an apple There were large green rosettes Upon her little pointed shoes He knew her life And the strange stories that were told About her lovers Had he something of her temperament in him These oval, heavy-lidded eyes Seems to look curiously at him What of George Willoughby With his powdered hair and fantastic patches How evil he looked The face was satinine and swarthy And the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands That were so overladen with rings He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century And the friend in his youth of Lord Ferris What of the second Lord Beckenham The companion of the Prince Regent In his wildest days And one of the witnesses of the secret marriage With Mrs. Fitzherbert How proud and handsome he was With his chestnut curls and insolent pose What passions had he bequeathed The world had looked upon him as infamous He had led the orgies at Carlton House The star of the garter glittered upon his breast Beside him hung a portrait of his wife A pallid thin-lipped woman in black Her blood also stirred within him How curious it all seemed And his mother with her Lady Hamilton face And her moist wine-dashed lips He knew what he had got from her He had got from her his beauty And his passion for the beauty of others She laughed at him in her loose baccante dress There were vine-leaves in her hair The purple spilt from the cup she was holding The carnations of the painting had withered But the eyes were still wonderful in their depth And brilliancy of colour They seemed to follow him wherever he went Yet one had ancestors in literature As well as in one's own race Nearer perhaps in type and temperament Many of them, and certainly with an influence Of which one was more absolutely conscious There were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray That the whole of history was merely the record Of his own life Not as he had lived it in act and circumstance But as his imagination had created it for him As it had been in his brain and in his passions He felt that he had known them all Those strange terrible figures that had passed The stage of the world and made sin so marvellous And evil so full of subtlety It seemed to him that in some mysterious way Their lives had been his own The hero of the wonderful novel That had so influenced his life Had himself known this curious fancy In the seventh chapter he tells how Crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him He had sat as Tiberius in a garden at Capri Reading the shameful books of Elephantis While dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him And the flute player mocked the swinger of the censor And as Caligula had caroused with the green Shirted jockeys in their stables And supped in an ivory manger with a jewel Frontletted horse And as Domitian had wandered through a corridor Lined with marble mirrors Looking round with haggard eyes For the reflection of the dagger That was to end his days And sick with that ennui That terrible tidium wittai That comes on those to whom life denies nothing And had peered through a clear emerald At the red shambles of the circus And then in a litter of pearl and purple Drawn by silver shod mules Been carried through the street of pomegranates To a house of gold And heard men cry on Nero Caesar As he passed by And as Elagabalus had painted his face with colours And plied the distaf among the women And brought the moon from Carthage And given her in mystic marriage to the sun Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter And the two chapters immediately following In which, as in some curious tapestries Or cunningly wrought in namils Were pictured the awful and beautiful forms Of those whom vice and blood and weariness Had made monstrous or mad Philippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife And painted her lips with a scarlet poison That her lover might suck death From the dead thing he fondled Pietro Barbi, the Venetian Known as Paul II Who sought in his vanity To assume the title of Formosus And whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins Was bought at the price of a terrible sin Gianmaria Visconti Who used hounds to chase living men And whose murdered body Was covered with roses by a harlot Who had loved him The borger on his white horse With fratricide riding beside him And his mantle stained with the blood of Perrotto Pietro Riario, the young cardinal archbishop Of Florence, child and minion Of Sixtus IV Whose beauty was equaled only by his debauchery And who received Leonora of Aragon In a pavilion of white and crimson silk Filled with nymphs and centaurs And gilded a boy That he might serve at the feast As Ganymede or Hylas Edseline, whose melancholy could be cured Only by the spectacle of death And who had a passion for red blood As other men have for red wine The son of the fiend, as was reported And one who had cheated his father at Dice When gambling with him for his own soul Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery Took the name of Innocent And into whose torpid veins The blood of three lads Was infused by a Jewish doctor Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isorta And the lord of Rimini, whose effigy Was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man Who strangled Polisena with a napkin And gave poison to Ginevra d'Este In a cup of emerald And in order of a shameful passion Built a pagan church for Christian worship Charles VI, who had so wildly adored His brother's wife that a leper Had warned him of the insanity That was coming on him And who, when his brain had sickened And grown strange, could only be soothed By Saras and cards painted with the images Of love and death and madness And in his trimmed jerkin and jeweled cap And a canthus like curls Crifonetto Ballioni, who slew a storre With his bride, and Simonetto with his page And whose comeliness was such That as he lay dying in the yellow piazza Of Perugia, those who had hated him Could not choose but weep And Atalanta, who had cursed him Blessed him There was a horrible fascination in the Moor He saw them at night And they troubled his imagination in the day The Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning Poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch By an embroidered glove and a jeweled fan By a gilded pommander And by an amber chain Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book There were moments when he looked on evil Simply as a mode through which he could realise His conception of the beautiful Recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter 12 It was on the 9th of November The eve of his own 38th birthday As he often remembered afterwards He was walking home about eleven o'clock To Henry's, where he had been dining And was wrapped in heavy furs As the night was cold and foggy At the corner of Groverna Square And South Ordley Street A man passed him in the mist Walking very fast And with the collar of his grey ulster Turned up He had a bag in his hand Dorian recognised him It was Basil Hallwood A strange sense of fear For which he could not account Came over him He made no sign of recognition And went on quickly in the direction Of his own house But Hallwood had seen him Dorian heard him first Stopping on the pavement And then hurrying after him In a few moments his hand was on his arm Dorian, what an extraordinary piece of luck I've been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock Finally I took pity on your tired servant And told him to go to bed as he let me out I am off to Paris by the midnight train And I particularly wanted to see you before I left I thought it was you or rather your fur coat as you passed me But I wasn't quite sure Didn't you recognise me? In this fog, my dear Basil Why, I can't even recognise Groverna Square I believe my house is somewhere about here But I don't feel at all certain about it I'm sorry you are going away As I have not seen you for ages But I suppose you will be back soon No, I am going to be out of England for six months I intend to take a studio in Paris and shut myself up Till I have finished a great picture I have in my head However, it wasn't about myself I wanted to talk Here, we are at your door Let me come in for a moment, I have something to say to you I shall be charmed But won't you miss your train? Said Dorian Grey languidly As he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch key The lump light struggled out through the fog And Hallward looked at his watch I have heaps of time He answered The train doesn't go till twelve fifteen and it is only just eleven In fact, I was on my way to the club to look for you when I met you You see, I shat have any delay about luggage as I have sent on my heavy things All I have with me is in this bag and I can easily get to Victorian twenty minutes Dorian looked at him and smiled What a way for a fashionable painter to travel A Gladstone bag and an Ulster Come in or the fog will get into the house And mind you don't talk about anything serious Nothing is serious nowadays At least nothing should be Hallward shook his head as he entered And followed Dorian into the library There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth The lumps were lit And an open Dutch silver spirit case stood With some siphons of soda water and large cut glass tumblers On a little marketery table You see, your servant made me quite at home Dorian He gave me everything I wanted including your best gold tip cigarettes He is a most hospitable creature I like him much better than the Frenchman you used to have What has become of the Frenchman by and by? Dorian shrugged his shoulders I believe he married Lady Redley's maid And has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker Anglomania is very fashionable over there now I hear It seems silly of the French, doesn't it? But do you know He was not at all a bad servant I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about One often imagines things that are quite absurd He was really very devoted to me And seemed quite soddy when he went away Have another brandy and soda? Or would you like hock and seltzer? I always take hock and seltzer myself There are sure to be some in the next room Thanks, I won't have anything more Said the painter, taking his cap and coat off And throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner And now my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously Don't frown like that You make it so much more difficult for me What is it all about? Cried Dorian in his petulant way Flinging himself down on the sofa I hope it is not about myself I am tired of myself tonight I should like to be somebody else It is about yourself Unsaid Hallward in his grave deep voice And I must say it to you I shall only keep half an hour Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette Half an hour He murmured It is not much to ask of you Dorian And it is entirely for your own sake that I am speaking I think it right that you should know That the most dreadful things are being said against you in London I don't wish to know anything about them I love scandals about other people But scandals about myself don't interest me They have not got the charm of novelty They must interest you Dorian Every gentleman is interested in his good name You don't want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded Of course you have your position and your wealth And all that kind of thing But position and wealth are not everything Mind you, I don't believe these rumors at all At least I can't believe them when I see you Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face It cannot be concealed People talk sometimes of secret vices There are no such things If a wretched man has a vice It shows itself in the lines of his mouth The droop of his eyelids The molding of his hands even Somebody I won't mention his name But you know him Came to me last year to have his portrait done I had never seen him before And had never heard anything about him at the time Though I have heard a good deal since He offered an extravagant price I refused him There was something in the shape of his fingers that I hated I know now that I was quite right in what I fancied about him His life is dreadful But you Dorian with your pure bright innocent face And your marvelous untroubled youth I can't believe anything against you And yet I see you very seldom And you never come down to the studio now And when I am away from you And I hear all these hideous things That people are whispering about you I don't know what to say Why is it Dorian that a man like the Duke of Burwick Leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London Will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Stavely I met him at dinner last week Your name happened to come up in conversation In connection with the miniatures you have lent To the exhibition at Dudley Stavely curled his lip and said that you might have The most artistic taste But that you were a man Who no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know And who no chaste woman Should sit in the same room with I reminded him that I was a friend of yours And asked him what he meant He told me He told me right out before everybody It was horrible Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the guards Who committed suicide You were his great friend There was Sir Henry Ashton Who had to leave England with a tarnished name You and he were inseparable What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son in his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James Street He seemed broken with shame and sorrow What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentlemen would associate with him? Stop, Basil! You were talking about things of which you know nothing Said Dorian Gray, biting his lip And with a note of infinite contempt in his voice You asked me why Beric leaves a room when I enter it? It is because I know everything about his life Not because he knows anything about mine With such blood as he has in his veins How could his record be clean? You asked me about Henry Ashton and young Perth Did I teach the one his vices And the other his debauchery? If Kent's silly son takes his wife from the streets What is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend's name Across a bill and I his keeper I know how people chatter in England The middle classes air their moral prejudices Over their gross dinner tables And whisper about what they call the profligacies Of their betters in order to try to pretend They are in smart society and on intimate terms With the people they slander In this country it is enough for a man To have distinction and brains For every common tongue to wag against him And what sort of lives do these people Who purges being moral lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget That we are in the native land of the hypocrite Dorian, write Holwood That is not the question England is bad enough I know And English society is all wrong That is the reason why I want you to be fine You have not been fine One has the right to judge of a man By the effect he has over his friends Yours seems to lose all sense of honour Of goodness, of purity You have filled them with a madness for pleasure They have gone down in the depths You led them there Yes, you led them there And yet you can smile as you are smiling now And there is worse behind I know you and Harry are inseparable Surely for that reason if for no other You should not have made his sister's name a byword Take care Basil, you go too far I must speak and you must listen You shall listen When you met Lady Gwendolyn Not a breath of scandal had ever touched her Is there a single decent woman in London now Who would drive with her in the park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her Then there are other stories Stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn Out of dreadful houses And slinking in disguise Into the foulest dens in London Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heard them I laughed I hear them now and they make me shudder What about your country house and the life that is led there? Dorian, you don't know what is said about you I won't tell you that I don't want to preach to you I remember Harry saying once that Every man who turned himself into an amateur curate For the moment always began by saying that And then proceeded to break his word I do want to preach to you I want you to lead such a life As will make the world respect you I want you to have a clean name And a fair record I want you to get rid of the Dreadful people you associate with Don't shrug your shoulders like that Don't be so indifferent You have a wonderful influence You let it be for good, not for evil They say that you corrupt everyone With whom you become intimate And that it is quite sufficient for you To enter a house for shame Of some kind to follow after I don't know whether it is so or not How should I know? But it is said of you I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt The man's at Oxford He showed me a letter that his wife had written to him When she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone Your name was implicated in the most Terrible confession I ever read I told him that it was absurd That I knew you thoroughly and that you weren't capable Of anything of the kind Know you, I wonder do I know you Before I could answer that I should have to see Your soul To see my soul Mutted Dorian Gray starting up from the sofa And turning almost white from fear Yes Answered hallward gravely And with deep toned sorrow in his voice To see your soul But only God can do that A bitter laugh of mockery Broke from the lips of the younger man Ha ha ha ha ha You shall see it yourself tonight He cried Seizing a lamp from the table Come, it is your own handy work Why shouldn't you look at it You can tell the world all about it afterwards If you choose Nobody would believe you If they did believe you They would like me all the better for it I know the age better than you do Though you will pray about it so tediously Come, I tell you You've chatted enough about corruption Now you shall look on it Face to face There was the madness of pride In every word he uttered He stamped his foot upon the ground In his boyish, insolent manner He felt a terrible joy At the thought that someone else Was to share his secret And that the man who had painted The portrait that was the origin Of all his shame Was to be burdened for the rest Of his life with the hideous memory Of what he had done Yes He continued coming closer To him and looking steadfastly Into his stern eyes I shall show you my soul You shall see the thing That you fancy only God can see Hallward started back This is blasphemy, Dorian He cried You must not say things like that They are horrible and they don't mean anything You think so? He laughed again I know so As for what I said to you tonight I said it for your good You know I have always been a staunch friend to you Don't touch me, finish what you have to say The man shot across the painter's face He paused for a moment And a wild feeling of pity Came over him After all what right Had he to pry into the life Of Dorian Gray If he had done a tithe Of what was rumoured about him How much he must have suffered Then he straightened himself up And walked over to the fireplace And stood there Looking at the burning logs Frost like ashes And their throbbing cores of flame I am waiting, battle Said the young man in a hard, clear voice He turned round What I have to say is this He cried You must give me some answer to these horrible charges That I made against you If you tell me they are absolutely untrue From beginning to end I shall believe you Deny them, Dorian, deny them Can't you see what I am going through Don't tell me that you are bad and corrupt and shameful? Dorian Gray smiled There was a curl of contempt in his lips Come upstairs, Basil He said quietly I keep a diary of my life from day to day And it never leaves the room in which it is written I shall share it to you if you come with me I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it I see I have missed my train That makes no matter, I can go tomorrow But don't ask me to read anything tonight All I want is a plain answer to my question That shall be given to you upstairs I could not give it here You will not have to read long The picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 13 You insist on knowing, Basil? He asked in a low voice Yes I am delighted He answered, smiling Then he added, somewhat harshly You are the one man in the world Who is entitled to know everything about me You have had more to do with my life than you think And taking up the lamp He opened the door and went in He said to himself, You are the one man in the world Who is entitled to know everything about me He asked the lamp, he opened the door and went in A cold current of air passed them And the light shot up for a moment In a flame of murky orange He shuttered Shut the door behind you He whispered as he placed the lamp on the table Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years A faded, Flemish tapestry A curtained picture An old Italian cassone And an almost empty bookcase That was all that it seemed to contain Besides a chair and a table As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle That was standing on the mantel shelf He saw that the whole place was covered with dust And that the carpet was in holes A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting There was a damp odour of mildew So you think that it is only God who sees the soul bezel Draw that curtain back and you will see mine The voice that spoke was cold and cruel You are mad Dorian, we're playing a part Mutted Hallward frowning You weren't, then I must do it myself Said the young man and he tore the curtain from its rot And flung it on the ground An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips As he saw in the dim light The hideous face on the canvas grinning at him There was something in its expression That filled him with disgust and loathing Good heavens! It was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at The horror, whatever it was Had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty There was still some gold in the thinning hair And some scarlet on the sensual mouth The sodden eyes had kept something Of the loveliness of their blue The noble curves had not yet completely passed away From chiseled nostrils and from plastic throat Yes, it was Dorian himself But who had done it? He seemed to recognise his own brushwork And the frame was his own design The idea was monstrous Yet he felt afraid He seized the lighted candle And held it to the picture In the left-hand corner was his own name Traced in long letters of bright vermilion It was some foul parody Some infamous ignoble satire He had never done that Still it was his own picture He knew it and he felt as if his blood Had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice His own picture? What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray With the eyes of a sick man His mouth twitched And his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate He passed his hand across his forehead It was dank with clammy sweat The young man was leaning against the mantel shelf Watching him with that strange expression That one sees on the faces of those Who are absorbed in a play When some great artist is acting There was neither real sorrow in it Nor real joy There was simply the passion of the spectator With perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes He had taken the flower out of his coat And was smelling it or pretending to do so What does this mean? Cried Hallward at last His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears Years ago when I was a boy Said Dorian Gray Crushing the flower in his hand You met me, flattered me And taught me to be vain in my good looks One day you introduced me to a friend of yours Who explained to me the wonder of youth And you finished a portrait of me That revealed to me the wonder of beauty In a mad moment that even now I don't know whether I regret or not I made a wish, perhaps, you would call it a prayer I remember it Oh well I remember it No the thing is impossible The room is damp The little do has gotten into the canvas The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them I tell you the thing is impossible Ah, what is impossible? Mermit the young man Going over to the window and leaning his forehead Against the cold, mist-stained glass You told me you had destroyed it I was wrong It has destroyed me I don't believe it is my picture Can't you see your ideal in it? Said Dorian Bitterly The ideal as you call it As you called it There was nothing evil in it Nothing shameful You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again This is the face of a sadder It is the face of my soul Christ, what a thing I must have worshipped It is the eyes of a devil Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil Cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair Hallward turned again to the portrait And gazed at it It was true He exclaimed And this is what you have done with your life Why you must be worse even than those Who talk against you fancy to be He held the light up again to the canvas And examined it The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed And as he had left it It was from within, apparently That the foulness and horror had come Through some strange quickening of inner life The leprosies of sin Were slowly eating the thing away The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave Was not so fearful His hands shook And the candle fell from its socket on the floor And lay there, sputtering He placed his foot on it and put it out Then he flung himself into the rickety chair That was standing by the table And buried his face in his hands Good God Dorian, what a lesson What an awful lesson There was no answer But he could hear the young man sobbing at the window Pray Dorian, pray He murmured What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? Lead us not into temptation Forgive us our sins Wash away our inequities Let us say that together The prayer of your pride has been answered The prayer of your repentance will be answered also I worshiped you too much I am punished for it You worshiped yourself too much We are both punished Dorian Gray turned slowly around And looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes It is too late, Basil He falsed It is never too late, Dorian Let us kneel down and try If we cannot remember a prayer Isn't there ever somewhere Though your sins be a scarlet Yet it will make them as wet as snow Those words mean nothing to me now Hush, don't say that You have done enough evil in your life, my God Don't you see that a cursed thing leering at us? Dorian Gray glanced at the picture And suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred For Basil Hallward came over him As though it had been suggested to him By the image on canvas Whispered into his ear by those grinning lips The mad passions of a hunted animal Sturred within him And he loathed the man who was seated at the table More than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything He glanced wildly around Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest That faced him His eye fell on it He knew what it was It was a knife that he had brought up Some days before to cut a piece of cord And had forgotten to take away with him He moved slowly towards it Passing Hallward as he did so As soon as he got behind him He seized it and turned round Hallward stirred in his chair As if he was going to rise He rushed at him and dug the knife Into the great vein that is behind the ear Crushing the man's head down on the table And stabbing again and again There was a stifled groan And the horrible sound of someone choking with blood Three times the outstretched arms Shot up convulsively Waving, grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air He stabbed him twice more But the man did not move Something began to trickle on the floor He waited for a moment Still pressing the head down Then he threw the knife on the table and listened He could hear nothing but the drip drip On the thread-bear carpet He opened the door and went out on the landing The house was absolutely quiet No one was about For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade And peering down into the black seething well of darkness Then he took out the key and returned to the room Locking himself in as he did so The thing was still seated in the chair Straining over the table with bowed head And humped back and long fantastic arms Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck And the clotted black pool That was slowly widening on the table One would have said that the man was simply asleep How quickly it had all been done He felt strangely calm And walking over to the window Opened it and stepped out on the balcony The wind had blown the fog away And the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail Stard with myriads of golden eyes He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds And flashing the long beam of his lantern On the doors of the silent houses The crimson spot of a prowling handsome Gleaned at the corner and then vanished A woman in a flattering shawl Was creeping slowly by the railings Staggering as she went Now and then she stopped and peered back Once she began to sing in a hoarse voice The policeman strolled over and said something to her She stumbled away laughing A bitter blast swept across the square The gas lamps flickered and became blue And the leafless trees shook their black iron branches To and fro He shivered and went back Closing the window behind him Having reached the door He turned the key and opened it He did not even glance at the murdered man He felt that the secret of the whole thing Was not to realise the situation The friend who had painted the fatal portrait To which all his misery had been due Had gone out of his life That was enough Then he remembered the lamp It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship Made of dull silver And laid with arabesques of burnished steel And studied with coarse turquoises Perhaps it might be missed by the servant And questions would be asked He hesitated for a moment Then he turned back and took it from the table He could not help seeing the dead thing How still it was How horribly white the long hands looked It was like a dreadful wax image Having locked the door behind him He crept quietly downstairs The woodwork creaked And seemed to cry out as if in pain He stopped several times and waited No, everything was still It was merely the sound of his own footsteps When he reached the library He saw the bag and coat in the corner They must be hidden away somewhere He unlocked a secret press That was in the wainscoting A press in which he kept his own curious disguises And put them into it He could easily burn them afterwards Then he pulled out his watch It was twenty minutes to two He sat down and began to think Every year, every month almost The end was strangled in England For what he had done There had been a madness of murder in the air Some red star had come too close to the earth And yet what evidence was there against him Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven No one had seen him come in again Most of the servants would itself be royal His valet had gone to bed Paris It was to Paris that Basil had gone And by the midnight train as he had intended With his curious reserved habits It would be months before any suspicions would be roused Months! Everything could be destroyed long before then A sudden thought struck him He put on his fur coat and hat And went out into the hall There he paused Fearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman On the pavement outside And seeing the flash of the bull's eye Reflected in the window He waited and held his breath After a few moments he drew back the latch And slipped out, shutting the door Very gently behind him Then he began ringing the bell In about five minutes his valet appeared Half dressed and looking very drowsy I'm sorry to have had to wake you for answers He said, stepping in But I'd forgotten my latchkey What time is it? Ten minutes past two, sir Answered to the man, looking at the clock and blinking Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! He must wake me at nine tomorrow I have some work to do All right, sir Did anyone call this evening? Mr. Hallward, sir He stayed here till eleven and then he went away to catch his train Oh! I'm sorry I didn't see him Did he leave any message? No, sir Except that he would write you from Paris if he did not find you at the club That will do, Francis Don't forget to call me at nine tomorrow No, sir The man shambled down the passage in his slippers Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table And passed into the library For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room Biting his lip and thinking Then he took down the blue book from one of the shelves And began to turn over the leaves Alan Campbell, 152 Hartford Street, Mayfair Yes, that was the man he wanted End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 14 At nine o'clock the next morning His servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray And opened the shutters Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully Lying on his right side with one hand underneath his cheek He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play or study The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke And as he opened his eyes A faint smile passed across his lips As though he had been lost in some delightful dream Yet he had not dreamed at all His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain But youth smiles without any reason It is one of its chiefest charms He turned round and leaning upon his elbow Began to sip his chocolate The mellow November sun came streaming into the room The sky was bright and there was a genial warmth in the air It was almost like a morning in May Gradually the events of the preceding night Crept with silent blood-stained feet into his brain And reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered And for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing For Basil Hallward that had made him kill him As he sat in the chair, came back to him And he grew cold with passion The dead man was still sitting there too And in the sunlight now How horrible that was Such hideous things were for the darkness Not for the day He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through He would sicken or grow mad There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory Than in the doing of them Strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions And gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy Greater than any joy they brought or could ever bring To the senses But this was not one of them It was a thing to be driven out of the mind To be drugged with poppies To be strangled lest it might strangle one itself When the half-hour struck He passed his hand across his forehead And then got up hastily and dressed himself With even more than his usual care Giving a great deal of attention to the choice of his necktie And scarf pin His rings more than once He spent a long time also over breakfast Tasting the various dishes Talking to his valet about some new liveries That he was thinking of getting made For the servants at Selby And going through his correspondence At some of the letters he smiled Three of them poured him One he read several times over And then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face That awful thing, a woman's memory As Lord Henry had once said After he had drunk his cup of black coffee He wiped his lips slowly with a napkin Motioned to his servant to wait And going over to the table Sat down and wrote two letters One he put in his pocket The other he handed to the valet Take this round to 152 Hartford Street, Francis And if Mr. Campbell is out of town Get his address As soon as he was alone He lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a piece of paper Drawing first flowers and bits of architecture And then human faces Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew Seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward He frowned and, getting up, went over to the bookcase And took out a volume at hazard He was determined that he would not think about what had happened Until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so When he had stretched himself on the sofa He looked at the title page of the book It was Gautier's Imo Ikami Charpentier's Japanese paper edition With the Jacques-Marc etching The binding was of citron-green leather With a design of gilt trellis work And dotted pommie granites It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton As he turned over the pages His eye fell on the poem about the hand of La Cenère The cold yellow hand You suplesse encore mal lavé With its downy red hairs And its doigts de faune He glanced at his own white taper fingers Shuddering slightly in spite of himself And passed on Till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice Sur une gamme chromatique Le sein de père le riselant La vénus de la triatique Sors de l'eau son corps rose et blanc Les dômes sur l'azur des andes Suivant la phrase au pur contour S'enfle comme des gorge rondes Que soulèvent un soupir d'amour Les skiffes abordent et me déposent Joutant son amare aux piliers Devant une façade rose Sur le marbre d'un escalier How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating down The green waterways of the pink and pearl city Seated in a black gondola With silver prow and trailing curtains The mere lines looked to him Like those straight lines of turquoise blue That follow one as one pushes out to the Lidl The sudden flashes of colour Reminded him of the gleam of the opal And iris-throated birds That flutter round the tall Honeycombed campanile Or stalk with such stately grace Through the dim dust-stained arcades Leaning back with half-closed eyes He kept saying over and over to himself Duvant une façade rose Sur le marbre d'un escalier The whole of Venice was in those two lines He remembered the autumn that he had passed there And a wonderful love That had stirred him to mad, delightful follies There was romance in every place But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance And to the true romantic background Was everything for almost everything Basil had been with him part of the time And had gone wild over Tintoret Poor Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die! He sighed and took up the volume again And tried to forget He read of the swallows that fly in and out Of the little cafe at Smyrna Where the Huggies sit counting their amber beads And the turbaned merchants Smoke their long-tassled pipes And talk gravely to each other He read of the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde That weeps tears of granite In its lonely, sunless exile And longs to be back by the hot lotus-covered Nile Where there are sphinxes and rose-red ibises And white vultures with gilded claws And crocodiles with small, burial eyes That crawl over the green steaming mud He began to brood over those verses Which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble Tell of that curious statue That Goutier compares to a contralto voice The monstre charmant That couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre But after a time the book fell from his hand He grew nervous And a horrible fit of terror came over him What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back Perhaps he might refuse to come What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importance They had been great friends once, five years before Almost inseparable indeed Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end When they met in society now It was only Dorian Gray who smiled Alan Campbell never did He was an extremely clever young man Though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts And whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed He had gained entirely from Dorian His dominant intellectual passion was for science At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time Working in the laboratory And had taken a good class in the natural science Tripods of his year Indeed he was still devoted to the study of chemistry And had a laboratory of his own In which he used to shut himself up all day long Greatly to the annoyance of his mother He set her heart on his standing for Parliament And had a vague idea that a chemist Was a person who made up prescriptions He was an excellent musician however as well And played both the violin and the piano Better than most amateurs In fact it was music that at first brought him And Dorian Gray together Music and that indefinable attraction Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished And indeed exercised often without being conscious of it They had met at Lady Barksha's The night that Rubinstein played there And after that used to be always seen together At the opera and wherever good music was going on For eighteen months their intimacy lasted Campbell was always either at Selby Royal Or in Grovener Square To him as to many others Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful And fascinating in life Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them No one ever knew But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke When they met and that Campbell seemed always To go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present He had changed too Was strangely melancholy at times Appeared almost to dislike hearing music And would never himself play Giving us his excuse when he was called upon That he was so absorbed in science That he had no time left in which to practice And this was certainly true Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology And his name appeared once or twice in some Of the scientific reviews in connection With certain curious experiments This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for Every second he kept glancing at the clock As the minutes went by he became horribly agitated At last he got up and began to pace up And down the room looking like a beautiful Caged thing He took long stealthy strides His hands were curiously cold The suspense became unbearable Time seemed to him to be crawling With feet of lead While he by monstrous winds Was being swept towards the jagged edge Of some black cleft or precipice He knew what was waiting for him there Saw it indeed and shuddering Crushed with dank hands His burning lids As though he would have robbed the very brain of sight And driven the eyeballs back into their cave It was useless The brain had its own food on which it battened And the imagination made grotesque by terror Twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain Danced like some foul puppet on a stand And grinned through moving masks Then suddenly time stopped for him Yes, that blind slow-breathing thing Crawled no more and horrible thoughts Time being dead raced nimbly on in front And dragged a hideous future from its grave And showed it to him He stared at it Its very horror made him stone At last the door opened and his servant entered He turned glazed eyes upon him Mr. Campbell, sir Said the man A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips And the colour came back to his cheeks Ask him to come in at once, Francis He felt that he was himself again His mood of cowardice had passed away The man bowed and retired In a few moments Alan Campbell walked in Looking very stern and rather pale His pallor being intensified by his cold black hair And dark eyebrows Alan, this is kind of you I thank you for coming I had intended never to enter your house again, Dre But you said it was a matter of life and death His voice was hard and cold He spoke with slow deliberation There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze That he turned on Dorian He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrohan coat And seemed not to have noticed the gesture With which he had been greeted Yes, it is a matter of life and death, Alan At a more than one person Campbell took a chair by the table And Dorian sat opposite to him The two men's eyes met In Dorian's there was infinite pity He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful After a strained moment of silence He leaned across and said very quietly But watching the effect of each word Upon the face of him he had sent for Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house A room to which nobody but myself has access A dead man is seated at a table He's been dead ten hours now Don't stir and don't look at me like that Who the man is, why he died, how he died Are matters that do not concern you What you have to do is this Stop, Gray, I don't want to know anything further Whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life Keep your horrible secrets to yourself They don't interest me any more Alan, they will have to interest you This one will have to interest you I'm awfully sorry for you, Alan But I can't help myself You are the one man who is able to save me I am forced to bring you into the matter I have no option Alan, you are scientific You know about chemistry and things of that kind You have made experiments What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs To destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left Nobody saw this person come into the house Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris He will not be missed for months When he is missed there must be no trace of him found here You, Alan, you must change him And everything that belongs to him Into a handful of ashes that I may scatter in the air You are mad, Dorian Ah, I was waiting for you to call me Dorian You are mad, I tell you Mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to help you Mad to make this monstrous confession I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you're up to? It was suicide, Alan But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy Do you still refuse to do this for me? Of course I refuse I will have absolutely nothing to do with it I don't care what shame comes on you You deserve it all I should not be sorry to see you disgraced Publicly disgraced How dare you ask me of all men in the world To mix myself up in this horror I should have thought you knew more about people's characters Your friend, Lord Henry Wharton Can't have taught you much about psychology Whatever else he has taught you Nothing would induce me to stir a step to help you You have come to the wrong man Go to some of your friends Don't come to me Alan, it was murder I killed him You don't know what he had made me suffer Whatever my life is He had more to do with the making and marionette Than poor Harry has had He may not have intended it The result was the same Murder? Good God Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you It is not my business Besides, without my stirring in the matter You are certain to be arrested Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid But I will have nothing to do with it You must have something to do with it Wait, wait a moment, listen to me Only listen Alan All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment You go to hospitals and dead houses And the horrors that you do there don't affect you If in some hideous dissecting room or fetid laboratory You found this man lying on a leaden table With red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through You would simply look upon him as an admirable subject You would not turn a hair You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong On the contrary, you would probably feel you are benefitting the human race Or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world Or gratifying intellectual curiosity Or something of that kind What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible Than what you are accustomed to work at And remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me If it is discovered, I am lost And it is sure to be discovered unless you help me I have no desire to help you You forget that I am simply indifferent to the whole thing It has nothing to do with me Alan, I entreat you Think of the position I am in Just before you came, I almost fainted with terror You may not tear yourself some day No, don't think of that Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view You don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from Don't inquire now I've told you too much as it is But I beg of you to do this We were friends once, Alan Don't speak about those Testorian, they are dead The dead linger sometimes The man upstairs will not go away He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms Alan, Alan If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined Why? They will hang me, Alan Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have done There is no good in prolonging this scene I absolutely refuse to do anything in a matter It is insane of you to ask me You refuse? Yes I entreat you, Alan It is useless The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes Then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper And wrote something on it He read it over twice, folded it carefully And pushed it across the table Having done this, he got up and went over to the window Campbell looked at him in surprise And then took up the paper and opened it As he read it, his face became ghastly pale And he fell back in his chair A horrible sense of sickness came over him He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death In some empty hollow After two or three minutes of terrible silence Dorian turned round and came and stood behind him Putting his hand upon his shoulder I am so sorry for you, Alan He murmured But you leave me no alternative I have a letter written already Here it is You see the address If you don't help me, I must send it If you don't help me, I will send it You know what the result will be For you are going to help me It is impossible for you to refuse now I tried to spare you You will do me the justice to admit that You were stern, harsh, offensive You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me No living man at any rate I bore it all Now it is time for me to dictate term Campbell buried his face in his hands And a shudder passed through him Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan You know what they are The thing is quite simple Come, don't work yourself into this fever The thing has to be done Face it and do it A groan broke from Campbell's lips And he shivered all over The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece Seems to him to be dividing time Into separate atoms of agony Each of which was too terrible to be born He felt as if an iron ring Was being slowly tightened round his forehead As if the disgrace with which he was threatened Had already come upon him The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead It was intolerable It seemed to crush him Come, Alan, you must decide at once I cannot do it He said mechanically as though words could alter things You must, you have no choice Don't delay He hesitated a moment Is there a fire in the room upstairs? Yes, there is a gas fire with asbestos I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory No, Alan, you must not leave the house Write out on a sheet of note paper what you want David will take a cab and bring the things back to you Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them And addressed an envelope to his assistant Dorian took the note up and read it carefully Then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet With orders to return as soon as possible And to bring the things with him As the hall door shut Campbell started nervously And having got up from the chair Went over to the chimney-piece He was shivering with a kind of ague For nearly twenty minutes Neither of the men spoke A fly buzzed noisily about the room And the ticking of the clock Was like the beat of a hammer As the chime struck one Campbell turned round And looking at Dorian Gray Saw that his eyes were filled with tears There was something in the purity And the refinement of that sad face That seemed to enrage him You are infamous, absolutely infamous He muttered Hush, Alan! You have saved my life Said Dorian Your life? Good heavens! What a life that is! You have gone from corruption to corruption And now you have culminated in crime In doing what I am going to do And what you force me to do It is not of your life that I'm thinking Ah, Alan! murmured Dorian with a sigh I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me That I have for you He turned away as he spoke And stood looking out at the garden Campbell made no answer After about ten minutes A knock came to the door And the servant entered Carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals With a long coil of steel and platinum wire You rather curiously shaped iron clamps Shall I leave the things here, sir? He asked Campbell Yes Said Dorian And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another errand for you What is the name of the man at Richmond Who supplies Selby with orchids? Harden, sir Yes, Harden You must go down to Richmond at once See Harden personally And tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered And to have as few white ones as possible In fact, I don't want any white ones It is a lovely day, Francis And Richmond is a very pretty place Otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it No trouble, sir At what time shall I be back? Dorian looked at Campbell How long would your experiment take, Ellen? He said in a calm, indifferent voice The presence of a third person in the room Seems to give him extraordinary courage Campbell frowned and bit his lip It will take about five hours He answered It will be time enough then if you are back at half-past seven, Francis Or stay, just leave my things out for dressing You can have the evening to yourself I'm not dining at home, so I shall not want you Thank you, sir Said the man, leaving the room Now, Ellen, there is not a moment to be lost How heavy this chest is I'll take it for you, you bring the other things So, rapidly, and in an authoritative manner Campbell felt dominated by him They left the room together When they reached the top landing Dorian took out the key And turned it in the lock Then he stopped And a troubled look came into his eyes He shuddered I don't think I can go in, Ellen He murmured It is nothing to me, I don't require you And Campbell coldly Dorian half-opened the door As he did so, he saw the face of his portrait Learing in the sunlight On the floor in front of it The torn curtain was lying He remembered that the night before He had forgotten for the first time in his life To hide the fatal canvas And was about to rush forward When he drew back with a shudder What was that loathsome red dew That gleamed wet and glistening On one of the hands As though the canvas had sweated blood How horrible it was More horrible it seems to him for the moment Than the silent thing That he knew was stretched across the table The thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow On the spotted carpet Showed him that it had not stirred But was still there as he had left it He heaved a deep breath Opened the door a little wider And with half-closed eyes and averted head Walked quickly in Determined that he would not look Even once upon the dead man Then stooping down and taking up The gold and purple hanging He flung it right over the picture There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round And his eyes fixed themselves On the intricacies of the pattern before him He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest And the irons and the other things That he had required for his dreadful work He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward Had ever met, and if so What they had thought of each other Leave me now, said a stern voice behind him He turned and hurried out Just conscious that the dead man Had been thrust back into the chair And that Campbell was gazing into A glistening yellow face As he was going downstairs He heard the key being turned in the lock It was long after seven When Campbell came back into the library He was pale, but absolutely calm I have done what you asked me to do He muttered And now, goodbye, let us never see each other again You have saved me from ruin, Alan I cannot forget that Said Dorian simply As soon as Campbell had left He went upstairs There was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room But the thing that had been sitting at the table Was gone End of chapter 14 Chapter 15 Of The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 15 That evening at 8.30 Exquisitely dressed and wearing a large buttonhole Of Palmer Violets Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady Nabra's Drawing Room by bowing servants His forehead was throbbing with maddened nerves And he felt wildly excited But his manner as he bent over his hostess's hand Was as easy and graceful as ever Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease As when one has to play a part Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night Could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy As horrible as any tragedy of our age Those finely shaped fingers Could never have clutched a knife for sin Though smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness He himself could not help wondering At the calm of his demeanour And for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure Of a double life It was a small party Got up rather in a hurry by Lady Nabra Who was a very clever woman With what Lord Henry used to describe as The veins of really remarkable ugliness She had proved an excellent wife To one of our most tedious ambassadors And having buried her husband properly In a marble mausoleum Which she had herself designed And married off her daughters To some rich, rather elderly men She devoted herself now to the pleasures Of French fiction, French cookery And French esprit when she could get it Dorian was one of her special favourites And she always told him that she was extremely glad She had not met him in early life I know, my dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you She used to say And thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake It is most fortunate that you were not thought of at the time As it was, our bonnets were so unbecoming And the mills were so occupied And trying to raise the wind That I never had even a flirtation with anybody However, that was all Nabra's fault He was dreadfully short-sighted And there is no pleasure in taking in a husband Who never sees anything Her guests this evening were rather tedious The fact was, as she explained to Dorian Behind a very shabby fan One of her married daughters had come up Quite suddenly to stay with her And to make matters worse Had actually brought her husband with her I think it is most unkind of her, my dear She whispered Of course I go into stay with him every summer After I come from Homburg But then an old woman like me must have fresh air sometimes And besides, I really wake them up You don't know what an existence they lead down there It is pure unadulterated country life They get up early, because they have so much to do And go to bed early, because they have so little to think about There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood Since the time of Queen Elizabeth And consequently they all fall asleep after dinner You shan't sit next either of them You shall sit by me, and amuse me Dorian murmured a graceful compliment And looked round the room Yes, it was certainly a tedious party Two of the people he had never seen before And the others consisted of Ernest Harrodon One of those middle-aged mediocrities So common in London clubs Who have no enemies But are thoroughly disliked by their friends Lady Ruckston An overdressed woman of 47 With a hooked nose Who was always trying to get herself compromised But was so peculiarly plain That to her great disappointment No one would ever believe anything against her Mrs. Erlin A pushing nobody With a delightful lisp And Venetian red hair Lady Alice Chapman His hostess's daughter A dowdy, dull girl With one of those characteristic British faces That once seen are never remembered And her husband A red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature Who, like so many of his class Was under the impression that inordinate joviality Can atone for an entire lack of ideas He was rather sorry he had come Till Lady Narbara Looking at the great Ormaloo guilt-clock That sprawled in gaudy curves On the mow-trapped mantle-shelf exclaimed How horrid of Lord Henry Watton to be so late I sent round to him this morning on chance And he promised faithfully not to disappoint me It was some consolation that Harry was to be there And when the door opened And he heard his slow musical voice Lending charm to some insincere apology He ceased to feel bored But at dinner he could not eat anything Plate after plate went away untasted Lady Narbara kept scolding him for what she called An insult to poor Adolf Who invented the menu specially for you And now and then Lord Henry looked across at him Wondering at his silence and abstracted manner From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne He drank eagerly and his thirst seemed to increase Dorian said Lord Henry at last As the chauffeur was being handed round What is the matter with you tonight? You're quite out of sorts I believe he is in love cried Lady Narbara And that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous He is quite right, I certainly should Dear Lady Narbara murmured Dorian, smiling I have not been in love for a whole week Not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrole left town How you men can fall in love with that woman Exclaimed to the old lady I really cannot understand it It is simply because she remembers you When you were a little girl, Lady Narbara Said Lord Henry She is the one link between us and your short frocks She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago And how décolleté she was then She is still décolleté He answered, taking an olive in his long fingers And when she is in a very smart gown She looks like an Edithiande luxe of a bad French novel She is really wonderful and full of surprises Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary When her third husband died Her hair turned quite gold from grief How can you, Harry? Cried Dorian It is a most romantic explanation Laughed the hostess But her third husband, Lord Henry You don't mean to say Ferrole is the fourth Certainly, Lady Narbara I don't believe a word of it Well, ask Mr. Gray He is one of her most intimate friends Is it true, Mr. Gray? She assures me so, Lady Narbara Said Dorian I asked her whether, like Magritte de Navarre She had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle She told me she didn't Because none of them had any hearts at all Four husbands? Upon my word, that is Throde Zell Throde de dash, I tell her Said Dorian Oh, she is audacious enough for anything, my dear And what is Ferrole like? I don't know him The husbands of very beautiful women Belong to the criminal classes Said Lord Henry, sipping his wine Lady Narbara hit him with her fan Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised That the world says that you are extremely wicked But what world says that? Asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows It can only be the next world This world and I are on excellent terms Everybody I know says you are very wicked Cried the old lady, shaking her head Lord Henry looked serious for some moments It is perfectly monstrous He said at last The way people go about nowadays Saying things against one behind one's back That are absolutely and entirely true Isn't he incorrigible? Cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair I hope so Said his hostess, laughing But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrole In this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again So as to be in the fashion You will never marry again, Lady Narbara Broken Lord Henry You were far too happy When a woman marries again it is because She detested her first husband When a man marries again it is because He adored his first wife Women try their luck, men risk theirs Narbara wasn't perfect Cried the old lady If he had been you would not have loved him, my dear lady Was the rejoinder Women love us for our defects If we have enough of them they will forgive us everything Even our intellects You will never ask me to dinner again after saying this I'm afraid, Lady Narbara But it is quite true Of course it is true, Lord Henry If women did not love you for your defects Where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married You would all be a set of unfortunate bachelors Not, however, that that would alter you much Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors And all the bachelors like married men Fan de siècle Mama to Lord Henry And to Globe Answered his hostess I wish it were Fan de Globe Said Dorian with a sigh Life is a great disappointment Ah, my dear Cried Lady Narbara, putting on her gloves Don't tell me that you have exhausted life When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him Lord Henry is very wicked And I sometimes wish that I had been But you were made to be good You look so good I must find you a nice wife Lord Henry, don't you think that Mr Gray should get married? I'm always telling him so, Lady Narbara Said Lord Henry with a bow Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him I shall go through de Brett carefully tonight And draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies With their ages, Lady Narbara Ask Dorian Of course with their ages Slightly edited But nothing must be done in a hurry I want it to be what the morning post calls a suitable alliance And I want you both to be happy What nonsense people talk about happy marriages Exclaimed Lord Henry A man can be happy with any woman As long as he does not love her Ah, what a cynic you are! Cried the old lady Pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady Roxton You must come and dine with me again soon You are really an admirable tonic Much better than what Sir Andrew prescribes for me You must tell me what people you would like to meet though I wanted to be a delightful gathering I like men who have a future and women who have a past He answered What do you think that would make it a petticoat party? I fear so She said laughing as she stood up A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Roxton She added I didn't see you hadn't finished your cigarette Never mind, Lady Nobril I smoke a great deal too much I'm going to limit myself for the future Pray don't, Lady Roxton Said Lord Henry Moderation is a fatal thing Enough is as bad as a meal More than enough is as good as a feast Lady Roxton glanced at him curiously You must come and explain that to me Some afternoon, Lord Henry It sounds a fascinating theory She murmured as she swept out of the room Now mind you don't stay too long Over your politics and scandal Cried Lady Nabirah from the door If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs The men laughed And Mr Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table And came up to the top Dorian Gray changed his seat And went and sat by Lord Henry Mr Chapman began to talk in a loud voice About the situation in the House of Commons He gavored at his adversaries The word doctrinaire Word full of terror to the British mind Reappeared from time to time between his explosions An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought The inherited stupidity of the race Sound English common sense He jovially termed it Was shown to be the proper bulwark for society A smile curved Lord Henry's lips And he turned round and looked at Dorian Are you better, my dear fellow? He asked He seemed rather out of sorts at dinner I am quite well, Harry I am tired, that is all You were charming last night The little Duchess is quite devoted to you She tells me she is going down to Selby She has promised to come on the twentieth It is month to be there, too Oh, yes, Harry He bores me dreadfully Almost as much as he bores her She is very clever Too clever for a woman She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay White porcelain feet, if you like They have been through the fire And what fire does not destroy, it hardens She has had experiences How long has she been married? Asked Dorian An eternity, she tells me I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years But ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity With time thrown in Who else is coming? The Willoughby's Lord Rugby and his wife Our hostess, Geoffrey Cluston, the usual said I have asked Lord Grotrian I like him Said Lord Henry A great many people don't, but I find him charming He turns for being occasionally somewhat overdressed By being always absolutely overeducated He's a very modern type I don't know if he'll be able to come, Harry He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father Ah, what a nuisance people's people are Try and make him come By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night You left before eleven What did he do afterwards? Did he go straight home? Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned No, Harry He said at last I did not get home till nearly three Did you go to the club? Yes He answered, then he bit his lip No, I don't mean that, I didn't go to the club I walked about, I forget what I did How inquisitive you are, Harry You always want to know what one has been doing I always want to forget what I have been doing I came in at half past two If you wish to know the exact time I had left my latchkey at home And my servant had to let me in If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject You can ask him Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders My dear fellow, as if I cared Let us go up to the drawing room No, Sherry, thank you, Mr Chapman Something has happened to you, Dorian Tell me what it is You are not yourself tonight Don't mind me, Harry I am irritable and out of temper I shall come around and see you tomorrow Or next day Make my excuses to Lady Navra I shall not go upstairs I shall go home I must go home All right, Dorian I dare say I shall see you tomorrow at tea-time The Duchess is coming I will try to be there, Harry He said, leaving the room As he drove back to his own house He was conscious that the sense of terror He thought he had strangled Had come back to him Lord Henry's casual questioning Had made him lose his nerves for the moment And he wanted his nerves still Things that were dangerous Had to be destroyed He winced He hated the idea of even touching them Yet it had to be done He realised that And when he had locked the door of his library He opened the secret press Into which he had thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag A huge fire was blazing He piled another log on it The smell of the singeing clothes And burning leather was horrible It took him three quarters of an hour To consume everything At the end he felt faint and sick And having lit some Algerian pastiles In a pierced copper brazier He bathed his hands and forehead With a cool, musk-scented vinegar Suddenly he started His eyes grew strangely bright And he gnawed nervously at his underlip Between two of the windows Stood a large Florentine cabinet Made out of ebony And inlaid with ivory and blue lapis He watched it as though it were a thing That could fascinate and make afraid As though it held something that he longed for And yet almost loathed His breath quickened A mad craving came over him He lit a cigarette and then threw it away His eyelids drooped till the long Fringed lashes almost touched his cheek But he still watched the cabinet At last he got up from the sofa On which he had been lying Went over to it and having unlocked it Touched some hidden spring A triangular drawer passed slowly out His fingers moved instinctively towards it Dipped in and closed on something It was a small, Chinese box Of black and gold-dust lacquer Elaborately wrought The sides patterned with curved waves And the silken cords hung with round crystals And tassled in plaited metal threads He opened it Inside was a green paste Waxy in luster The odour curiously heavy and persistent He hesitated for some moment With a strangely immobile smile upon his face Then shivering Though the atmosphere of the room Was terribly hot He drew himself up and glanced at the clock It was twenty minutes to twelve He put the box back Shutting the cabinet doors as he did so And went into his bedroom As midnight was striking Bronze blows upon the dusky air Dorian Gray dressed commonly And with a muffler wrapped round his throat Crept quietly out of his house In Bond Street he found a handsome with a good horse He hailed it and in a low voice Gave the driver an address The man shook his head It is too far for me He muttered Here is a sovereign for you Said Dorian You shall have another if you drag fast All right, sir Answered the man He'll be there in an hour And after his fare had got in He turned his horse round And drove rapidly towards the river End of chapter fifteen Chapter sixteen of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter sixteen A cold rain began to fall And the blurred streetlamps looked ghastly In the dripping mist The public houses were just closing And dim men and women were clustering In broken groups round their doors From some of the bars came the sound Of horrible laughter In others drunkards brawled and screamed Lying back in the handsome With his hat pulled over his forehead Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes The sordid shame of the great city And now and then he repeated to himself The words that Lord Henry had said to him On the first day they had met To cure the soul by means of the senses And the senses by means of the soul Yes, that was the secret He had often tried it and would try it again now There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion Dens of horror where the memory of old sins Could be destroyed by the madness of sins That were new The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull From time to time a huge misshapen cloud Stretched a long arm across and hid it The gaslamps grew fewer And the streets more narrow and gloomy Once the man lost his way And had to drive back half a mile A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles The side windows of the handsome Were clogged with the gray flannel mist To cure the soul by means of the senses And the senses by means of the soul How the words rang in his ears His soul certainly was sick to death Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled What could atone for that? Ah, for that there was no atonement But though forgiveness was impossible Forgetfulness was possible still And he was determined to forget To stamp the thing out To crush it as one would crush the adder That had stung one Indeed, what right had basled to have spoken to him as he had done Who had made him a judge over others He had said things that were dreadful, horrible Not to be endured On and on plodded the handsome Going slower it seemed to him at each step He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him His throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together He struck at the horse madly with his stick The driver laughed and whipped up He laughed in answer and the man was silent The way seemed intermingable And the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider The monotony became unbearable And as the mist thickened he felt afraid Then they passed by lonely brick fields The fog was lighter here And he could see the strange bottle-shaped kilns With their orange, fan-like tongues of fire A dog barked as they went by And far away in the darkness Some wandering seagull screamed The horse stumbled in a rut Then swerved aside and broke into a gallop After some time they left the clay road And rattled again over rough-pavement streets Most of the windows were dark But now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted Against some lamplit blind He watched them curiously They moved like monstrous marionettes And made gestures like live things He hated them A dull rage was in his heart As they turned a corner A woman yelled something at them from an open door And two men ran after the handsome for about a hundred yards The driver beat at them with his whip It is said that passion makes one think in a circle Certainly with hideous iteration The bitten lips of Dorian Gray Shaped and reshaped those subtle words That dealt with soul and sense Till he had found in them the full expression As it were of his mood And justified by intellectual approval Passions that without such justification Would still have dominated his temper From cell to cell of his brain Crept the one thought And the wild desire to live Most terrible of all man's appetites Crickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre Ugliness that had once been hateful to him Because it made things real Became dear to him now for that very reason Ugliness was the one reality The coarse brawl, the loaths of den The crude violence of disordered life The very vileness of thief and outcast Were more vivid in their intense Actuality of impression than all the gracious Shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song They were what he needed for forgetfulness In three days he would be free Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk At the top of a dark lane Over the low roofs and the jagged chimney stacks Of the houses rose the black masts of ships Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails To the yards Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it? He asked huskily through the trap Dorian started and peered round This will do He answered, and having got out hastily And given the driver the extra fare He had promised him He walked quickly in the direction of the key Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern Of some huge merchantman The light shook and splintered in the puddles A red glare came from an outward bound steamer That was coaling The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh He hurried on towards the left Glancing back now and then To see if he was being followed In about seven or eight minutes He reached a small shabby house That was wedged in between two gaunt factories In one of the top windows stood a lamp He stopped and gave a peculiar knock After a little time He heard steps in the passage And the chain being unhooked The door opened quietly And he went in without saying a word To the squat misshapen figure That flattened itself into the shadow as he passed At the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain That swayed and shook in the gusty wind Which had followed him in from the street He dragged it aside and entered a long low room Which looked as if it had once been A third-rate dancing saloon Shrill flaring gas jets Dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors That faced them were ranged round the walls Greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them Making quivering disks of light The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust Trampled here and there into mud And stained with dark rings of spilled liquor Some malaise were crouching by a little charcoal stove Playing with bone counters And showing their white teeth as they chattered In one corner with his head buried in his arms A sailor sprawled over a table And by the torturally painted bar That ran across one complete side Stood two haggard women Mocking an old man Who was brushing the sleeves of his coat With an expression of disgust He thinks he's got red ants on him Laughed one of them as Dorian passed by The man looked at her in terror And began to whimper At the end of the room There was a little staircase leading to a darkened chamber As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps The heavy odour of opium met him He heaved a deep breath And his nostrils quivered with pleasure When he entered a young man with smooth yellow hair Who was bending over a lamp Lighting a long thin pipe Looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner You hear Adrian? Motted Dorian Where else should I be? He answered listlessly None of the chaps will speak to me now I thought you had left England Darlington is not going to do anything My brother paid the bill at last George doesn't speak to me either I don't care He added with a sigh As long as one has this stuff One doesn't want friends I think I have had too many friends Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things That lay in such fantastic postures On the ragged mattresses The twisted limbs The gaping mouths The staring lusterless eyes Fascinated him He knew in what strange heavens They were suffering And what dull hells Were teaching them the secret Of some new joy They were better off than he was He was prisoned in thought Memory like a horrible malady Was eating his soul away From time to time he seemed to see The eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him Yet he felt he could not stay The presence of Adrian Singleton Troubled him He wanted to be where no one Would know who he was He wanted to escape from himself I'm going to the other place He said after a pause On the wharf? Yes That mad cat is sure to be there They won't have her in this place now Dorian shrugged his shoulders I'm sick of women who love one Women who hate one are much more interesting Besides, the stuff is better Much the same I like it better Come and have something to drink I must have something I don't want anything Mermut the young man Never mind Adrian Singleton rose up weirdly And followed Dorian to the bar A half-caste in a ragged turban And a shabby ulster Grinned a hideous greeting As he thrust a bottle of brandy And two tumblers in front of them The women sidled up And began to chatter Dorian turned his back on them And said something in a low voice To Adrian Singleton A crooked smile Like a Malay crease Rised across the face Of one of the women We are very proud tonight She sneered For God's sake, don't talk to me Cried Dorian, stamping his foot on the ground What do you want? Money? Here it is Don't ever talk to me again Two red sparks flashed For a moment in the woman's sodden eyes Then flickered out And left them dull and glazed She tossed her head And raked the coins off the counter With greedy fingers The companion watched her enviously It's no use Sighed Adrian Singleton I don't care to go back What does it matter? I'm quite happy here You'll write to me if you want anything, won't you? Said Dorian after a pause Perhaps. Good night then Good night And said the young man, passing up the steps And wiping his parched mouth With a handkerchief Dorian walked to the door With pain in his face As he drew the curtain aside A hideous laugh broke From the painted lips of the woman Who had taken his money There goes the devil's bargain She hickoffed in a horse voice Curse you! He answered Don't call me that She snapped her fingers Prince Charming is what you like to be called Ain't it? She yelled after him The drowsy sailor Leaped to his feet as she spoke And looked wildly round The sound of the shutting of the hall door Fell on his ear He rushed out as if in pursuit Dorian Gray hurried along the key Through the drizzling rain His meeting with Adrian Singleton Had strangely moved him And he wondered if the ruin of that young life Was really to be laid at his door As Basil Hallward had said to him With such infamy of insult He bit his lip And for a few seconds his eyes grew sad Yet after all, what did it matter to him? One's days were too brief To take the burden of another's errors On one's shoulders Each man lived his own life And paid his own price for living it The only pity was one had to pay So often for a single fault One had to pay over and over Again, indeed In her dealings with man Destiny never closed her accounts There are moments, psychologists tell us When the passion for sin Or for what the world calls sin So dominates a nature That every fibre of the body As every cell of the brain Seems to be instinct with fearful impulses Men and women at such moments Lose the freedom of their will They move to their terrible end As automatons move Choice is taken from them And conscience is either killed Or if it lives at all Lives but to give rebellion its fascination And disobedience its charm For all sins, as theologians Weary not of reminding us Are sins of disobedience When that high spirit That morning star of evil Fell from heaven It was as a rebel that he fell Callous concentrated on evil With stained mind And soul hungry for rebellion Dorian Gray hastened on Quickening his step as he went But as he darted aside Into a dim archway That had served him often As a shortcut to the ill-famed place He was going. He felt himself Suddenly seized from behind And before he had time to defend himself He was thrust back against the wall With a brutal hand round his throat He struggled madly for life And by a terrible effort Wrenched the tightening fingers away In a second he heard the click Of a revolver and saw the gleam Of a polished barrel pointing straight At his head and the dusky form A short, thick-set man facing him What do you want? He gasped Keep quiet, said the man If you stir I shoot you You're mad. What have I done to you? You wrecked the life of Sybil Bain Was the answer And Sybil Bain was my sister She kills herself, I know it Her death is at your door I swore I would kill you in return For years I have sought you I had no clue, no trace People who could have described you were dead I knew nothing of you But the patent name she used to call you I heard it tonight by chance Make your peace with God For tonight you are going to die Dorian Gray grew sick with fear I never knew her He stammered I've never heard of her You were mad You had better confess your sin For as sure as I am James Bain You are going to die There was a horrible moment Dorian did not know what to say or do Down on your knees Growl to the man I give you one minute to make your peace No more I go on board tonight for India And I must do my job first One minute, that's all Dorian's arms fell to his side Paralyzed with terror He did not know what to do Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain Stop He cried How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me 18 years Said to the man Why do you ask? What do years matter? 18 years Laughed Dorian Gray with a touch of triumph in his voice 18 years Set me under the lamp and look at my face James Bain hesitated for a moment Not understanding what was meant Then he seized Dorian Gray And dragged him from the archway Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light Yet it served to show him the hideous error As it seemed into which he had fallen Well, the face of the man he had sought to kill Had all the bloom of boyhood All the unstained purity of youth He seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers Hardly older, if older indeed at all Than his sister had been When they had parted so many years ago It was obvious that this was not The man who had destroyed her life He loosened his hold and reeled back My God! My God! He cried And I would have murdered you Dorian Gray drew a long breath You had been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man He said, looking at him sternly Let this be a warning to you Not to take vengeance into your own hands Forgive me, sir muttered James Bain I was deceived A chance word I heard in that damn den Set me on the wrong track You had better go home and put that pistol away Or you may get into trouble Said Dorian, turning on his heel And going slowly down the street James Bain stood on the pavement in horror He was trembling from head to foot After a little while A black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall Moved out into the light And came close to him with stealthy footsteps He felt a hand laid on his arm And looked round with a start It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar Why didn't you kill him? She hissed out, putting a haggard face quite close to his I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly's You're fool, you should have killed him He has lots of money and he's as bad as bad He is not the man I'm looking for He answered And I want no man's money I want a man's life The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now This one is little more than a boy Thank God I have not got his blood upon my hands The woman gave a bitter laugh Little more than a boy She sneered Well, hey man, it's nine on eighteen years Since Prince Charming made me what I am You lie! Cried James Bain She raised her hand up to heaven And before God I am telling the truth She cried Before God? Strike me down if it ain't so He is the worst one that comes here They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face It's nine on eighteen years since I met him He hasn't changed much since then I have though She added with a sickly leer You swear this? I swear it Came in horse echo from her flat mouth But don't give me away to him She whined I am afraid of him Let me have some money for my night's lodging He broke from her with an oath And rushed to the corner of the street But Dorian Gray had disappeared When he looked back The woman had vanished also End of chapter sixteen Chapter seventeen Of the picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter seventeen A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory At Selby Royal Talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth Who with her husband, a jaded looking man of sixty Was amongst his guests It was tea time And the mellow light of the huge lace-covered lamp That stood on the table Lit up the delicate china And hammered silver of the service At which the Duchess was presiding Her white hands were moving daintily Among the cups The full red lips were smiling At something that Dorian had whispered to her Lord Henry was lying back In a silk-draped wicker chair Looking at them On a peach-coloured divan Sat Lady Nabra Pretending to listen to the Duke's description Of the last Brazilian beetle That he had added to his collection Three young men in elaborate smoking suits Handing tea-cakes to some of the women The house-party consisted of twelve people And there were more expected to arrive on the next day What are you two talking about? Said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table And putting his cup down I hope Dorian has told you about my plan For re-christening everything, Gladys It is a delightful idea But I don't want to be re-christened, Harry Re-joined the Duchess Looking up at him with her wonderful eyes I am quite satisfied with my own name And I am sure Mr Gray should be satisfied with his My dear Gladys I would not alter either name for the world They are both perfect I was thinking chiefly of flowers Yesterday I cut an orchid for my buttonhole It was a marvellous spotted thing As effective as the seven deadly sins In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called He told me it was a fine specimen of Robin Soniana Or something dreadful of that kind It is a sad truth But we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things Names are everything I never quarrel with actions My one quarrel is with words That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature The man who could call a spade a spade Should be compelled to use one It is the only thing he is fit for Then what should we call you, Harry? She asked His name is Prince Paradox Said Dorian I recognise him in a flash Exclaimed the Duchess I won't hear of it Laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair From a label there is no escape I refuse the title Royalties may not abdicate Famous a warning from pretty lips You wish me to defend my throne, then? Yes I give the truths of tomorrow I prefer the mistakes of today She answered You disarm me, Gladys He cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear I never tilt against beauty He said with a wave of his hand That is your error, Harry, believe me You value beauty far too much How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am To acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then? Cried the Duchess What becomes of you similarly about your kids? Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys You as a good Tory must not underrate them Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is You don't like your country, then? She asked I live in it That you may censor it the better Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it? He inquired What do they say of us? That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop Is that yours, Harry? I give it to you I could not use it, it is too true You need not be afraid Our countrymen never recognise a description They are practical They are more cunning than practical When they make up their ledger They balance stupidity by wealth and vice by hypocrisy Still, we have done great things Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys We have carried their burden Only as far as the stock exchange She shook her head I believe in the race She cried It represents the survival of the pushing It has development Decay fascinates me more What of art? She asked It is a melody Love An illusion Religion The fashionable substitute for belief You are a skeptic Never, skepticism is the beginning of faith What are you? To define is to limit Give me a clue Threads snap, you would lose your way in the labyrinth You bewilder me, let us talk of someone else Our host is a delightful topic Years ago he was christened Prince Charmin Ah, don't remind me of that Cried Dorian Grey Our host is rather horrid this evening Answered the duchess, colouring I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me On purely scientific principles As the best specimen he could find Of a modern butterfly Well, I hope that he won't stick pins into you duchess Laughed Dorian Oh, my mate does that already Mr Grey when she is annoyed with me And what did she get annoyed with you about, duchess? For the most trivial things, Mr Grey, I assure you Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine And tell her that I must be dressed by half past eight How unreasonable of her! You should give her a warning I dearant, Mr Grey Why, she invents hats for me You remember the one I wore at Lady Healdstone's garden party? You don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do Well, she made it out of nothing All good hats are made out of nothing Like all good reputations, Gladys Interrupted Lord Henry Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy To be popular, one must be a mediocrity Not with women Said the duchess, shaking her head And women rule the world I assure you we can't bear mediocrities We women, as someone says, love with our ears Just as you men love with your eyes If you ever love at all It seems to me we never do anything else Mohammed Dorian Ah, then you never really love Mr Grey Answered the duchess with mock sadness My dear Gladys Cried Lord Henry How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition And repetition converts an appetite into an art Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved Difference of object does not alter a singleness of passion It merely intensifies it We can have in life but one great experience at best And the secret of life is to reproduce that experience As often as possible Even when one has been wounded by it, Terry? Asked the duchess after a pause Especially when one has been wounded by it Answered Lord Henry The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Grey With a curious expression in her eyes What do you say to that, Mr Grey? She inquired Dorian hesitated for a moment Then he threw his head back and laughed Ha ha ha ha ha I always agree with Harry, duchess Even when he is wrong? Harry is never wrong, duchess And does his philosophy make you happy? I've never searched for happiness I have searched for pleasure And found it, Mr Grey? Often, too often The duchess sighed I am searching for peace She said And if I don't go and dress, I shall have none this evening Let me get you some orchards, duchess Cried Dorian, starting to his feet And walking down the conservatory You are floating disgracefully with him Said Lord Henry to his cousin You would better take care He is very fascinating If you were not, there would be no battle Greek meets Greek, then I am on the sides of the Trojans They fought for a woman They were defeated There are worse things than capture She answered You gallop with a loose reign Pace gives life Was the repost I shall write it in my diary tonight What? That a burnt child loves the fire I am not even singed My wings are untouched Use them for everything except flight Courage has passed from men to women It is a new experience for us You have a rival Who? He loved Lady Nabra He whispered She perfectly adores him You fill me with apprehension The appeal to antiquity is fatal to us Who are romanticists Romanticists? You have all the methods of science Men have educated us But not explained you Describe us as a sex Was her challenge Sphinxes without secrets She looked at him smiling How long Mr. Gray is She said Let us go and help him I have not yet told him the colour of my frock Ah, you must suit your frock To his flowers, Gladys That would be a premature surrender Romantic art begins with its climax I must keep an opportunity for retreat In the Parthian manner There is no safety in the desert I could not do that Women are not always allowed a choice He answered But hardly had he finished the sentence Before from the far end of the conservatory Came a stifled groan Followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall Everybody started up The Duchess stood motionless in horror And with fear in his eyes Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms And Dorian Gray lying face downwards On the tiled floor in a death-like swoon He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room And laid upon one of the sofas After a short time He came to himself and looked round With a dazed expression What has happened? He asked Ah, I remember Am I safe here, Harry? He began to tremble My dear Dorian Answered Lord Henry You merely fainted, that was all You must have overtired yourself You'd better not come down to dinner I will take your place No, I will come down He said, struggling to his feet I would rather come down I must not be alone He went to his room and dressed There was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner As he sat at table But now and then a thrill of terror ran through him When he remembered that pressed against the window Of the conservatory Like a white handkerchief He had seen the face of James Vane Watching him End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Of The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 18 The next day he did not leave the house And indeed spent most of the time in his own room Sick with a wild terror of dying And yet indifferent to life itself The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down Had begun to dominate him If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind He shook The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded pains Seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions And wild regrets When he closed his eyes He saw again the sailor's face Peering through the mist-stained glass His horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart But perhaps it had been only his fancy But had called vengeance out of the night And set the hideous shapes of punishment before him Actual life was chaos But there was something terribly logical in the imagination It was the imagination that set remorse To dog the feet of sin It was the imagination that made each crime Bear its misshapen brood In the common world of fact The wicked were not punished Nor the good rewarded Success was given to the strong Failure thrust upon the weak That was all Besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house He would have been seen by the servants or the keepers The foot marks been found on the flower beds The gardeners would have reported it Yes, it had been merely fancy Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him He had sailed away in his ship to found her in some winter sea From him at any rate he was safe Why, the man did not know who he was Could not know who he was The mask of youth had saved him And yet, if it had been merely an illusion How terrible it was to think that conscience could raise Such fearful phantoms And give them visible form And make them move before one What sort of life would be his If day and night shadows of his crime Were to peer at him from silent corners Lock him from secret places To whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast To wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep As the thought crept through his brain He grew pale with terror And the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder Oh, in what a wild hour of madness He had killed his friend Gastly the mere memory of the scene He saw it all again Each hideous detail came back to him with added horror Out of the black cave of time Terrible and swathed in scarlet Rows the image of his sin When Lord Henry came in at six o'clock He found him crying As one whose heart will break It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out There was something in the clear, pine-scented air Of that winter morning That seemed to bring him back his joyousness And his ardour for life But it was not merely the physical conditions Of environment that had caused the change His own nature had revolted against the excess Of anguish that had sought to maim and mar The perfection of its calm With subtle and finely wrought temperaments It is always so Their strong passions must either bruise or bend They either slay the man or themselves die Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on The loves and sorrows that are great Are destroyed by their own plenitude Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim Of a terror-stricken imagination And looked back now on his fears With something of pity And not a little of contempt After breakfast he walked with the Duchess For an hour in the garden And then drove across the park To join the shooting-party The crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass There was an inverted cup of blue metal A thin film of ice bordered the flat reed-grown lake At the corner of the pinewood He caught sight of Sir Geoffrey Cluston The Duchess's brother Jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun He jumped from the cart And having told the groom to take the mayor home Made his way towards his guest Through the withered bracken and rough undergross Have you had good sport, Geoffrey? He asked Not very good, Dorian I think most of the birds have gone to the open I dare say it will be better after lunch When we get to new ground Dorian strolled along by his side The keen aromatic air The brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood The horse cries of the beaters Ringing out from time to time And the sharp snaps of the guns that followed Fascinated him And filled him with a sense of delightful freedom He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness By the high indifference of joy Suddenly, from a lumpy tussock of old grass Some twenty yards in front of them With black-tipped ears erect And long-hinder limbs throwing it forward Started a hare It bolted for a thicket of alders Sir Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder But there was something in the animal's grace of movement That strangely charmed Dorian Gray And he cried out at once Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live What nonsense, Dorian! Laughed his companion And as the hare bounded into the thicket He fired There were two cries heard The cry of a hare in pain Which is dreadful The cry of a man in agony Which is worse Good heavens! I have hit a beater! Exclaimed Sir Geoffrey What an ass the man was to get in front of the guns Stop shooting there He called out at the top of his voice A man is hurt The headkeeper came running up with a stick in his hand Where, sir? Where is he? He shouted At the same time the firing ceased along the line Here! answered Sir Geoffrey angrily Hurring towards the thicket Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled by shooting for the day Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder clump Brushing the lithe swinging branches aside In a few moments they emerged Dragging a body after them into the sunlight He turned away in horror It seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went He heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead And the affirmative answer of the keeper The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces There was the trampling of myriad feet And the low buzz of voices A great copper-breasted pheasant Came beating through the boughs overhead After a few moments that were to him in his perturbed state Like endless hours of pain He felt a hand laid on his shoulder He started and looked round Dorian Said Lord Henry I'd better tell them that the shooting has stopped for a day It would not look well to go on I wish it was stopped forever, Harry He answered bitterly The whole thing is hideous and crude Is the man? He could not finish the sentence I'm afraid so Rejoined Lord Henry He got the whole charge of shot in his chest He must have died almost instantaneously Come, let us go home They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue For nearly fifty yards without speaking Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry And said with a heavy sigh It is a bad omen, Harry A very bad omen Asked Lord Henry Oh, this accident, I suppose My dear fellow, it can't be helped It was the man's own fault Why did he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us It is rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course It does not do to pepper beaters It makes people think that one is a wild shot And Geoffrey is not He shoots very straight But there is no use talking about the matter Dorian shook his head It is a bad omen, Harry I feel if something horrible were going to happen to some of us To myself, perhaps He added, passing his hand over his eyes With a gesture of pain The elder man laughed The only horrible thing in the world Is on we, Dorian That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness But we are not likely to suffer from it Unless these fellows keep chattering About this thing at dinner I must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed As for omens There is no such thing as an omen Destiny does not send us heralds She is too wise or too cruel for that Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want There is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry Don't laugh like that I'm telling you the truth A peasant who has just died is better off than I am I have no terror of death It is the coming of death that terrifies me Its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me Good heavens, don't you see a man moving behind the trees there Watching me, waiting for me? Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing Yes? He said, smiling I see the gardener waiting for you I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table tonight How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow You must come and see my doctor when we get back to town Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry In a pesitating manner, and then produced a letter Which he handed to his master A grace told me to wait for an answer He murmured Dorian put the letter into his pocket Tell her grace that I am coming in He said coldly The man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house How fun women are of doing dangerous things Loved Lord Henry It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most A woman will flirt with anybody in the world As long as other people are looking on How fun you are of seeing dangerous things, Harry In the present instance you are quite astray I like the Duchess very much, but I don't love her And the Duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less So you are excellently matched You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for scandal The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty Said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram? The world goes to the altar of its own accord What's the answer? I wish I could love Cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of Pathos in his voice But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire I am too much concentrated on myself My own personality has become a burden to me I want to escape to go away, to forget It was silly of me to come down here at all I think I shall send a wire to Harvey to have the yacht got ready On a yacht one is safe Safe? From what, Dorian? You are in some trouble Why not tell me what it is? You know I would help you I can't tell you, Harry He answered sadly And I dare say it is only a fancy of mine This unfortunate accident has upset me I have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me What nonsense! I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it Ah, here is the Duchess looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown You see, we have come back, Duchess I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray She answered Poor Joffrey is terribly upset And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hair How curious! Yes, it was very curious I don't know what made me say it Some we might suppose It looked the loveliest of little live things But I am sorry they told you about the man It is a hideous subject It is an annoying subject Broken Lord Henry It has no psychological value at all Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on purpose How interesting he would be I should like to know someone who had committed a real murder How horrid of you, Harry Cry to the Duchess Isn't it, Mr. Gray? Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again He's going to faint It is nothing, Duchess He murmured My nerves are dreadfully out of order That is all I am afraid I walked too far this morning I didn't hear what Harry said Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time I think I must go and lie down You would excuse me, won't you? They had reached the great flight of steps That led from the conservatory onto the terrace As the glass door closed behind Dorian Lord Henry turned And looked at the Duchess with his slumberous eyes I do very much in love with him He asked He did not answer for some time But stood gazing at the landscape I wish I knew She said at last He shook his head Knowledge would be fatal It is the uncertainty that charms one A mist makes things wonderful One may lose one's way Always end at the same point, my dear Gladys What is that? Disillusion It was my debut in life She sighed I came to you, crowned I am tired of strawberry leaves They become you Only in public You would miss them Said Lord Henry I will not part with a petal Monmouth has ears Old age is dull of hearing Has he never been jealous? I wish he had been He glanced about as if in search of something What are you looking for? She inquired The button from your foil He answered You have dropped it I have still the mask It makes your eyes lovelier Was his reply She laughed again Her teeth showed like white seeds In a scarlet fruit Upstairs in his own room Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa With terror in every tingling Fibre of his body Life had suddenly become Too hideous a burden For him to bear The dreadful death of the unlucky beater Shot in the thicket like a wild animal It seemed to him to prefigure death For himself also He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said In a chance mood of cynical jesting At final clock He rang his bell for his servant And gave him orders to pack his things For the night expressed to town And to have the broom at the door by 8.30 He was determined not to sleep Another night at Selby Royal It was an ill omen place Death walked there in the sunlight The grass of the forest Had been spotted with blood Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry Telling him that he was going up to town To consult his doctor And asking him to entertain his guests In his absence As he was putting it into the envelope A knock came to the door And his valet informed him That the head-keeper wished to see him He frowned and bit his lip Send him in He muttered after some moment's hesitation As soon as the man entered Dorian pulled his check-book out of a drawer And spread it out before him I suppose you've come about that unfortunate accident of this morning, Thornton He said taking up a pen Yes, sir Answered the game-keeper Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people depended on him? Asked Dorian, looking bored If so, I should not like them to be left in want And we'll send them any sum of money you may think necessary We don't know who he is, sir That is what I took the liberty of coming to you about Don't know who he is Said Dorian listlessly What do you mean? No, sir, never saw him before Seems like a sailor, sir The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand And he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating A sailor? He cried out Did you see a sailor? Yes, sir He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor Tattooed on both arms and that kind of thing Was there anything found on him? Said Dorian, leaning forward And looking at the man with startled eyes Anything that would tell his name? Some money, sir, not much And a sick shooter There was no name of any kind A decent-looking man, sir, but rough like A sort of sailor, we think Dorian started to his feet A terrible hope fluttered past him He clutched at it madly Where is the body? He exclaimed Quick, I must see it at once It is in an empty stable in the home farm, sir The folk don't like to have that sort of thing in their houses They say a corpse brings bad luck The home farm? Go there at once and meet me Tell one of the grooms to bring my horse around No, never mind Or go to the stables myself It will save time In less than a quarter of an hour Dorian Gray was galloping down the Long Avenue As hard as he could go The trees seemed to sweep past him In spectral procession And wild shadows who fling themselves Across his path Once the mare swerved at a white gate post And nearly threw him He lashed her across her neck with his crop She cleft the dusky air like an arrow The stones flew from her hoofs At last he reached the home farm Two men were loitering in the yard He leaped from the saddle And threw the reins to one of them In the farthest stable A light was glimmering Something seemed to tell him that the body was there And he hurried to the door And put his hand upon the latch There he paused for a moment Feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery That would either make or ma his life Then he thrust the door open and entered On a heap of sacking in the far corner Was lying the dead body of a man Dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers A spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face A coarse candle stuck in a bottle Sputtered beside it Dorian Gray shuddered He felt that his could not be the hand To take the handkerchief away And called out to one of the farm servants to come to him Take that thing off the face I wish to see it He said clutching at the doorpost for support When the farm servant had done so He stepped forward A cry of joy broke from his lips The man who had been shot in the thicket Was James Vane He stood there for some minutes Looking at the dead body As he rode home His eyes were full of tears For he knew he was safe End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Of The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter 19 There is no use You're telling me that you are going to be good Cried Lord Henry Hipping his white fingers Into a red copper bowl filled with rose water You are quite perfect Pray don't change Dorian Gray shook his head No Harry, I've done too many dreadful things in my life I'm not going to do any more I began my good actions yesterday Where were you yesterday? In the country Harry I was staying at a little inn by myself My dear boy Said Lord Henry, smiling Anybody can be good in the country There are no temptations there That is the reason why people who live out of town Are so absolutely uncivilized Civilization is not by any means An easy thing to attain to There are only two ways by which man can reach it One is by being cultured The other by being corrupt Country people have no opportunity of being either So they stagnate Culture and corruption I've known something of both It seems terrible to me now That they should ever be found together For I have a new ideal Harry I am going to alter I think I have altered You have not yet told me what your good action was Or did you say you had done more than one? Asked his companion as he spilled into his plate A little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries And through a perforated shell shaped spoon Snowed white sugar upon them I can tell you Harry It is not a story I could tell to anyone else I spared somebody It sounds vain But you understand what I mean She was quite beautiful And wonderfully like Sybil Vane I think it was that which first attracted me to her You remember Sybil, don't you? How long ago that seems Well, Hetty was not one of our own class, of course She was simply a girl in a village But I really loved her I am quite sure that I loved her All during this wonderful May that we have been having I used to run down and see her two or three times a week Yesterday she met me in a little orchard The apple blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair And she was laughing We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn Suddenly I determined to leave her as flower-like As I had found her I should think the novelty of the emotion Must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian Interrupted Lord Henry But I can finish your idol for you You gave her good advice and broke her heart That was the beginning of your reformation Harry, you are horrible You mustn't say these dreadful things Hetty's heart is not broken Of course she cried and all that But there is no disgrace upon her She can live like Perditor In her garden of mint and marigold And weep over a faithless florizel Said Lord Henry laughing As he leaned back in his chair My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously boyish moods Do you think this girl will ever be really content now With any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married someday to a rough carter Or a grinning plowman Well, the fact of having met you and loved you Will teach her to despise her husband And she will be wretched From a moral point of view I cannot say that I think much of your great renunciation Even as a beginning it is poor Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating At the present moment in some starlit mill pond With lovely water lilies round her, like Ophelia I can't bear this, Hetty You mock at everything and then suggest the most serious tragedies I'm sorry I told you now I don't care what you say to me I know I was right in acting as I did Poor Hetty As I rode past the farm this morning I saw her white face at the window Like a spray of jasmine Don't let us talk about it any more And don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have done for years The first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever known Is really a sort of sin I want to be better I am going to be better Tell me something about yourself What is going on in town I have not been to the club for days The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time Said Dorian, pouring himself out some wine And frowning slightly My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks And the British public are really not equal to the mental strain Of having more than one topic every three months They have been very fortunate lately however They have had my own divorce case And Alan Campbell's suicide Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey Ulster Who left for Paris by the midnight train on the 9th of November Was poor Basil And the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Paris at all I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in San Francisco It is not a thing But everyone who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco It must be a delightful city And possess all the attractions of the next world What do you think has happened to Basil? Asked Dorian, holding up his burgundy against the light And wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly I have not the slightest idea If Basil chooses to hide himself it is no business of mine If he is dead I don't want to think about him Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me I hate it Why? Said the younger man wearily Because? Said Lord Henry Passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box One can survive everything nowadays Except that Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the 19th century that one cannot explain away Let us have our coffee in the music room Dorian You must play Chopin to me The man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely Oh, Victoria! I was very fond of her The house is rather lonely without her Of course, married life is merely a habit A bad habit But then one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits Perhaps one regrets them the most They are such an essential part of one's personality Dorian said nothing But rose from the table And passing into the next room Sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white and black ivory of the keys After the coffee had been brought in he stopped and looking over at Lord Henry said Harry, did it ever occur to you that Basil was murdered? Lord Henry yawned Basil was very popular and always wore a watery watch Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever enough to have enemies Of course he had a wonderful genius for painting The man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible Basil was really rather dull He only interested me once and that was when he told me years ago that he had a wild adoration for you And that you were the dominant motive of his art I was very fond of Basil, said Dorian, with a note of sadness in his voice But don't people say that he was murdered? Oh, some of the papers do It does not seem to me to be at all probable I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them He had no curiosity It was his chief defect What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil? Said the younger man He watched him intently after he had spoken I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that doesn't suit you All crime is vulgar Just as all vulgarity is crime It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder I'm sorry if I hurt your vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true Crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders I don't blame them in the smallest degree I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us Simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations A method of procuring sensations? Did you think, then, that a man who has once committed a murder Could possibly do the same crime again? Don't tell me that Oh, anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often Cried Lord Henry laughing That is one of the most important secrets of life I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner But let us pass from poor Basil I wish I could believe that he had come to such a really romantic end As you suggest, but I can't I dare say he fell into the scent of an omnibus And that the conductor hushed up the scandal Yes, I should fancy that was his end I see him lying now on his back Under those dull green waters with the heavy barges floating over him And long weeds catching in his hair Do you know, I don't think he would have done much more good work During the last ten years his painting had gone off very much Dorian heaved a sigh And Lord Henry strolled across the room And began to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot A large grey plumaged bird with pink crest and tail That was balancing itself upon a bamboo purge As his pointed fingers touched it It dropped the white scurff of crinkled lids over black glass-like eyes And began to sway backwards and forwards Yes He continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket His painting had quite gone off It seemed to me to have lost something It had lost an ideal When you and he ceased to be great friends He ceased to be a great artist What was it separated you? I suppose he bored you If so, he never forgave you It's a habit bores have By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever seen it since he finished it Oh, I remember you're telling me years ago That you had sent it down to Selby and that it had gotten a slade or stolen on the way You never got it back, or what a pity It was really a masterpiece I remember I wanted to buy it I wish I had, now It belonged to Basel's best period Since then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions That always entitles a man to be called a representative British artist Did you advertise for it? You should I forget, St Dorian I suppose I did But I never really liked it I'm sorry I sat for it The memory of the thing is hateful to me Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in some play Hamlet, I think, how do they run? Like the painting of a solo, a face without a heart? Yes, that is what it was like Lord Henry laughed Ha! If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart He answered, sinking into an armchair Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano Like a painting of a solo He repeated A face without a heart The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes By the way, Dorian He said, after a pause What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses? How does the quotation run? His own soul The music jarred and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend Why do you ask me that, Harry? My dear fellow Said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer That is all I was going through the park last Sunday and close by the marble arch There stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people Listening to some vulgar street preacher As I passed by, I heard the man yelling out that question to his audience Struck me as being rather dramatic London is very rich in curious effects of that kind A wet Sunday An uncouth Christian in a Macintosh A ring of sickly white faces Under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas And a wonderful phrase Flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips It was really very good in its way Quite a suggestion I thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul but that man had not I'm afraid, however, he would not have understood me Don't, Harry The soul is a terrible reality It can be bought and sold and bartered away It can be poisoned or made perfect There is a soul in each one of us I know it Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian? Quite sure Ah, then it must be an illusion The things one feels absolutely certain about are never true That is the fatality of faith and the lesson of romance How grave you are Don't be so serious What have you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No, we have given up our belief in the soul Play me something Play me a nocturne, Dorian And as you play, tell me in a low voice How you have kept your youth You must have some secret I am only ten years older than you are And I am wrinkled and worn and yellow You are really wonderful, Dorian You have never looked more charming than you do tonight You remind me of the day I saw you first You were rather cheeky, very shy and absolutely extraordinary You have changed, of course, but not in appearance I wish you would tell me your secret To get back my youth I would do anything in the world Except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable Youth, there is nothing like it It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth The only people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect Are people much younger than myself They seem in front of me Life has revealed to them her latest wonder As for the aged, I always contradict the aged I do it on principle If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday They solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820 When people wore high stocks, believed in everything And knew absolutely nothing How lovely that thing you are playing is I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca With the sea weeping round the villa And the salt spray dashing against the pains It is marvelously romantic What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us That is not imitative Don't stop, I want music tonight It seems to me that you were the young Apollo And that I am Marcius listening to you I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own That even you know nothing of The tragedy of old age is not that one is old But that one is young I'm amazed sometimes at my own sincerity Ah, Dorian, how happy you are What an exquisite life you have had You have drunk deeply of everything You have crushed the grapes against your palette Nothing has been hidden from you And it has all been to you, no more Than the sound of music It has not marred you You are still the same I am not the same, had he? Yes, you are the same I wonder what the rest of your life will be Don't spoil it by renunciations At present you are a perfect type Don't make yourself incomplete You are quite flawless now You need not shake your head You know you are Besides, Dorian, don't deceive yourself Life is not governed by will or intention Life is a question of nerves and fibres And slowly built up cells In which thought hides itself And passion has its dreams You may fancy yourself safe And think yourself strong But a chance tone of colour in a room Or a morning sky, a particular perfume That you had once loved And that brings subtle memories with it A line from a forgotten poem That you had come across again A cadence from a piece of music That you had ceased to play I tell you, Dorian, that it is On things like these that our lives depend Browning writes about that somewhere But our own senses will imagine them for us There are moments when the odour of Lila Blanc Will suddenly cross me and I have to live The strangest month of my life over again I wish I could change places with you, Dorian The world has cried out against us both But it has always worshipped you It always will worship you You are the type of what the age is searching for And what it is afraid it has found I am so glad that you have never done anything Never carved a statue or painted a picture Or produced anything outside of yourself Life has been your art You have set yourself to music Your days are your sonnets Dorian rose up from the piano And passed his hand through his hair Yes, life has been exquisite He murmured But I am not going to have the same life, Hattie You must not say these extravagant things to me You don't know everything about me I think that if you did Even you would turn from me You laugh Don't laugh Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the knock Turn over again Look at that great honey-coloured moon That hangs in the dusky air She is waiting for you to charm her And if you play She will come closer to the earth You won't Let us go to the club, then It has been a charming evening And we must end it charmingly There is someone at White's Who wants immensely to know you The eldest son He has already copied your neckties And has begged me to introduce him to you He is quite delightful And rather reminds me of you I hope not Said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes But I am tired tonight, Hattie I shan't go to the club It is nearly eleven And I want to get a bit early Do stay You have never played so well as tonight There was something in your touch That was wonderful There is more expression than I had ever heard from it before It is because I am going to be good He answered smiling I am a little changed already You cannot change to me, Dorian Said Lord Henry You and I will always be friends Yet you poisoned me with a book once I should not forgive that Hattie, promise me that you will never lend that book to anyone It does harm My dear boy You are really beginning to moralise You will soon be going about like the converted And the revivalist Warning people against all the sins Of which you have grown tired You are much too delightful to do that Besides, it is no use You and I are what we are And will be what we will be As for being poisoned by a book There is no such thing as that Art has no influence upon action It annihilates the desire to act It is superbly sterile The books that the world calls immoral Are books that show the world its own shame That is all Oh, but we won't discuss literature Come round tomorrow I am going to ride at eleven We might go together And I will take you to lunch afterwards With Lady Branson She is a charming woman And wants to consult you about some tapestries She is thinking of buying Mind you come Or shall we lunch with our little Duchess She says she never sees you now Perhaps you are tired of gladness I thought you would be A clever tongue gets on one's nerves Well, in any case, be here at eleven Must I really come, Harry? Certainly The park is quite lovely now I don't think there have been such lilacs Since the year I met you Very well I shall be here at eleven Said Dorian Good night, Harry As he reached the door He hesitated for a moment As if he had something more to say Then he sighed and went out End of chapter nineteen Chapter twenty Of the picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information Or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org The picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde Chapter twenty It was a lovely night So warm that he threw his coat over his arm And did not even put his silk scarf Round his throat As he strolled home Smoking his cigarette Two young men in evening dress passed him He heard one of them whisper to the other That is Dorian Gray He remembered how pleased he used to be When he was pointed out Or stared at or talked about He was tired of hearing his own name now Half the charm of the little village Where he had been so often lately Was that no one knew who he was He had often told the girl Whom he had lured to love him That he was poor And she had believed him He had told her once that he was wicked And she had laughed at him And answered that wicked people Were always very old and very ugly What a laugh she had Just like a thrush singing And how pretty she had been In her cotton dresses and her large hats She knew nothing But she had everything that he had lost When he reached home He found his servant waiting up for him He sent him to bed And threw himself down on the sofa in the library And began to think over some of the things That Lord Henry had said to him Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing For the unstained purity of his boyhood His rose-white boyhood As Lord Henry had once called it He knew that he had tarnished himself Felt his mind with corruption And given horror to his fancy That he had been an evil influence to others And had experienced a terrible joy in being so And that of the lives that had crossed his own It had been the fairest and the most full of promise That he had brought to shame But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? Ah, in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion He had prayed that the portrait Should bear the burden of his days And he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth All his failure had been due to that Better for him that each sin of his life Had brought its sure swift penalty along with it There was purification in punishment Not forgive us our sins But smite us for our iniquities Should be the prayer of man to a most just God The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him So many years ago now was standing on the table And the white-limbed cupids laughed round it as it rolled He took it up as he had done on that night of horror When he had first noted the change in the fatal picture And with wild, tear-dimmed eyes Looked into its polished shield Once someone who had terribly loved him Had written to him a mad letter Ending with these idolatrous words The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold The curves of your lips rewrite history The phrases came back to his memory And he repeated them over and over to himself Then he loathed his own beauty And flinging the mirror on the floor Crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel It was his beauty that had ruined him His beauty and the youth that he had prayed for But for those two things His life might have been free from stain His beauty had been to him but a mask His youth but a mockery What was youth at best? A green and unripe time A time of shallow moods and sickly thoughts Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him It was better not to think of the past Nothing could alter that It was of himself and of his own future That he had to think James Vane was hidden in a nameless grave In Selby Churchard Alan Campbell had shot himself one night In his laboratory But had not revealed the secret That he had been forced to know The excitement such as it was Over Basil Hallward's disappearance Would soon pass away It was already waning He was perfectly safe there Nor indeed was it the death of Basil Hallward That weighed most upon his mind It was the living death of his own soul That troubled him Basil had painted the portrait That admired his life He could not forgive him that It was the portrait that had done everything Basil had said things to him That were unbearable And that he had yet born with patience The murder had been simply the madness Of a moment As for Alan Campbell His suicide had been his own act He had chosen to do it It was nothing to him A new life That was what he wanted That was what he was waiting for Surely he had begun it already He had spared one innocent thing At any rate He would never again tempt innocence He would be good As he thought of Hetty Merton He began to wonder if the portrait In the locked room had changed Surely it was not still so horrible As it had been Perhaps if his life became pure He would be able to expel Every sign of evil passion From the face Perhaps the signs of evil Had already gone away He would go and look He took the lamp from the table And crept upstairs As he unbarred the door A smile of joy Flitted across his strangely young-looking face And lingered for a moment about his lips Yes, he would be good And the hideous thing That he had hidden away Would no longer be a terror to him He felt as if the load Had been lifted from him already He went in quietly Locking the door behind him As was his custom And dragged the purple hanging From the portrait A cry of pain and indignation Broke from him He could see no change Saved that in the eyes There was a look of cunning And in the mouth the curved wrinkle Of the hypocrite The thing was still loathsome More loathsome, if possible Than before And the scarlet dew that spotted the hand Seemed brighter And more like blood newly spilled Then he trembled Had it been merely vanity That had made him do his one good deed Or the desire for a new sensation As Lord Henry had hinted With his mocking laugh Or that passion to act apart That sometimes makes us do things Better than we are ourselves Or perhaps all these And why was the red stain Larger than it had been It seemed to have crept Like a horrible disease Over the wrinkled fingers There was blood on the painted feet As though the thing had dripped Blood even on the hand That had not held the knife Confess! Did it mean that he was to confess To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess Who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. He would shut him up if he persisted in his story. Yet it was his duty to confess, To suffer public shame And to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men To tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him Till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, This mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity, curiosity, hypocrisy. Had there been nothing more In his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? No. There had been nothing more. Through Vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognised that now. But this murder! Was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself. That was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had given him pleasure To watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away He had been filled with terror Lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. He looked round and saw the knife That had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times Till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright and glistened. As it had killed the painter So it would kill the painter's work And all that that meant. It would kill the past And when that was dead he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life And without its hideous warnings He would be at peace. He seized the thing And stabbed the picture with it. There was a cry he heard And a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony That the frightened servants woke And crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen who were passing In the square below Stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman And brought him back. The man rang the bell several times But there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows The house was all dark. After a time he went away And stood in an adjoining portico And watched. Whose house is that constable? Asked for the elder of the two gentlemen. Mr. Dorian Gray, sir. Answered the policeman. They looked at each other As they walked away and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. Inside, in the servants' part of the house The half-clad domestics were talking In low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leif was crying And ringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour He got the coachman and one of the footmen And crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door They got on the roof and dropped down On to the balcony. The windows yielded easily. Their boats were old. When they entered They found hanging upon the wall A splendid portrait of their master As they had last seen him In all the wonder of his exquisite youth And beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man In evening-dress With a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, And loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined The rings that they recognized Who it was. End of Chapter 20 End of the Picture of Dorian Gray By Oscar Wilde