"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that
evening, as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol
where dinner had been laid for three.
"No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing
waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don't interest
me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth
painting; though many of them would be the better for a little
white-washing."
"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as
he spoke.
Hallward started, and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" he
cried. "Impossible!"
"It is perfectly true."
"To whom?"
"To some little actress or other."
"I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible."
"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear
Basil."
"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."
"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," murmured Lord Henry,
sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is
beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your
portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal
appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst
others. We are to see her to-night, 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."
"But do you approve 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 none the less interesting. You know I am not a
champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one
unselfish. And unselfish people are 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 all that, Harry; you know you don't. If
Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself.
You are much better than you pretend to be."
Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of others
is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer
terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour
with the possession of those virtues that are 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 have never been so
happy. Of course it is sudden; all really delightful things are. And
yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my
life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked
extraordinarily handsome.
"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward, "but I
don't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.
You let Harry know."
"And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner," broke in Lord
Henry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder, and smiling as he spoke.
"Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and
then you will tell us how it all came about."
"There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian, as they took their
seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this. After I
left you yesterday evening, Harry, I 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. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.
Of course the scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!
You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy's clothes she was
perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with
cinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green
cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined
with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all
the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your
studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round
a pale rose. As for her acting--well, you shall see her to-night. She is
simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I
forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away
with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the
performance was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting
together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen
there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can't
describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my
life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy. She
trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung
herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell
you all this, but I can't help it. Of course our engagement is a dead
secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don't know what my
guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don't care. I
shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I
have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love out of poetry, and to
find my wife in Shakespeare's plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to
speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of
Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth."
"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right," said Hallward, slowly.
"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry.
Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall
find her in an orchard in Verona."
Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what did
she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it."
"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did
not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said
she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is
nothing to me compared with her."
"Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry--"much more
practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say
anything about marriage, and they always remind us."
Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed
Dorian. He is not like other men. He would 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 Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible,
Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you
see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a
beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how anyone can wish
to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl 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 Sibyl 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.
"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories
about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry."
"Pleasure is 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?" cried Basil Hallward.
"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 one's self," 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 one's self, 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, in suffering, in... well, in the
consciousness of degradation."
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediæval art is
charming, but mediæval 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
civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised 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 ask for they had 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 Hallward.
"Nothing is ever quite true," said Lord Henry.
"This 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 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. "Will you have some
coffee, you fellows?--Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and
some cigarettes. No: don't mind the cigarettes; I have some. Basil, I
can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette
is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it
leaves one unsatisfied. What more can 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 Sibyl 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 brougham. You must follow us in a
hansom."
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 seemed 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 brougham in front of him. A
strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that Dorian Gray would
never again be to him all that he had been in the past. 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.