That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large
buttonhole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady
Narborough'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, nor those 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 Narborough, who
was a very clever woman, with what Lord Henry used to describe as the
remains 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 in trying to
raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.
However, that was all Narborough'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 and stay
with them 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 Harrowden, one of those
middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,
but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an
over-dressed woman of forty-seven, 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. Erlynne, 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 Narborough, looking at the
great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the
mauve-draped mantel-shelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton 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 Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "an
insult to poor Adolphe, 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 _chaud-froid_ was being
handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out
of sorts."
"I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid
to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly
should."
"Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in
love for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town."
"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.
"I really cannot understand it."
"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,
Lady Narborough," 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 _décolletée_
she was then."
"She is still _décolletée_," he answered, taking an olive in his long
fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an
_édition de 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 Ferrol is the fourth."
"Certainly, Lady Narborough."
"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 Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether,
like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at
her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had had any
hearts at all."
"Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zèle_."
"_Trop d'audace_, I tell her," said Dorian.
"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol
like? I don't know him."
"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,"
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.
Lady Narborough 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 Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so
as to be in the fashion."
"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in 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."
"Narborough 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 am afraid, Lady Narborough; but
it is quite true."
"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for your
defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married.
You would 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."
"_Fin de siècle_," murmured Lord Henry.
"_Fin du globe_," answered his hostess.
"I wish it were _fin du globe_," said Dorian, with a sigh. "Life is a
great disappointment."
"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, 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 are 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 am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry, with a
bow.
"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go through
Debrett carefully to-night, and draw out a list of all the eligible
young ladies."
"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked 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 Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon again.
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 want it to be a delightful gathering."
"I like men who have a future, and women who have a past," he answered.
"Or 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 Ruxton," she added. "I didn't see you hadn't finished your
cigarette."
"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going
to limit myself, for the future."
"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," 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 Ruxton 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 Narborough 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 guffawed 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. "You 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."
"Is Monmouth 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 makes 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?"
"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey
Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian."
"I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I find
him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat over-dressed, by
being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type."
"I don't know if he will 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 you do afterwards? Did you 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
latch-key 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 to-night."
"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come
round and see you to-morrow or next day. Make my excuses to Lady
Narborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home."
"All right, Dorian. I daresay I shall see you to-morrow 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 nerve 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
pastilles 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 under-lip. 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 tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside
was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and
persistent.
He hesitated for some moments, 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 the house. In Bond Street he found a hansom 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 drive fast."
"All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour," and
after his fare had got in he turned his horse round, and drove rapidly
towards the river.