[...52] As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was
shown into the room.
"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian," he said, gravely. "I called
last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew
that was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really
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 of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a 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
heart-broken 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 the Euston 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?" murmured Dorian, 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 Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the first
time. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang
divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't [53] talk
about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as
Harry says, that gives reality to things. Tell me about yourself and
what you are painting."
"You went to the Opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and with
a strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the Opera while
Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to me
of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before
the girl you loved has 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?"
"What has 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
is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a
pleasure. I don't want to be at 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 used to come down to my studio,
day after day, to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural,
and affectionate 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 is all Harry's influence. I see
that."
The lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out on the green,
flickering garden for a few moments. "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 Gray I used to know."
"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 Sibyl
Vane had killed herself--"
"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried
Hallward, 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 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 Sibyl was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always
a heroine. The last night she played--the night you saw her--she acted
badly because she had known the reality of love. When she knew 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 [54] martyrdom, all its
wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think 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 in 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, or to see it
from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to
write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little
vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that
delightful phrase. Well, I am 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 and handle. Old brocades,
green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings,
luxury, pomp,--there is 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 own life, as Harry says,
is to escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my
talking to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed.
I was a school-boy when you knew me. I am 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 Harry. 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! Don't leave me,
Basil, and don't quarrel with me. I am what I am. There is nothing
more to be said."
Hallward felt strangely moved. Rugged and straightforward as he was,
there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its
tenderness. 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 won't speak to
you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. 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 [55] crude
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 am quite sure she never mentioned
to any one. 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. You must do me a drawing of her,
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 will never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he
exclaimed, starting back.
Hallward 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 have ever painted. Do take that screen away, Dorian.
It is simply horrid of your servant 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! Impossible, my dear fellow! It is an admirable place for
it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of the
room.
A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between
Hallward and the screen. "Basil," 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 Hallward, laughing.
"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honor 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."
Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute
amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was
absolutely pallid with rage. His hands were clinched, and the pupils
of his eyes were like disks 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 am going to exhibit it in
Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat of
varnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?"
"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, a
strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going [56] to
be shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life?
That was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be done
at once.
"Yes: I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going
to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue de
Sèze, 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 hide
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
said. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for being
consistent have just as many moods as others. 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, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. He
remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and
half in jest, "If you want to have an interesting 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, and looking him straight in
the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I will
tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit my
picture?"
Hallward 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 your 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 dearer to me than
any fame or reputation."
"No, Basil, you must tell me," murmured 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 Hallward, looking pale and pained. "Let
us sit down. I will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the
sunlight. Our lives are like that. Just answer me one question. Have
you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?--something
that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to
you suddenly?"
"Basil!" cried 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.
It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of
feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never
loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as [57] Harry
says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have
nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country.
Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most
extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you
madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you
spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I
was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my
art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still.
Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been
impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it
myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It
was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I
worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my
secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I
felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved
never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed;
but then you did not realize 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, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.
Well, after a few days the portrait left my studio, and as soon as I
had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to
me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had said anything in it,
more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint.
Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the
passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one
creates. Art is 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 must not be
shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have 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 young
man who had just made this strange confession to him. He wondered if
he would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord
Harry had 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
some one 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 picture. Did you really see it?"
"Of course I did."
"Well, you don't mind my looking at it 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 some day, surely?"
[58] "Never."
"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-by, Dorian. You have been
the one person in my life of whom I have been really fond. I don't
suppose I shall often see you again. You don't know what it cost me to
tell you all that I have told you."
"My dear Basil," cried Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you
felt that you liked me too much. That is not even a compliment."
"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession."
"A very disappointing one."
"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 not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. You and I
are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."
"You have got Harry," said Hallward, sadly.
"Oh, Harry!" 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 was in trouble. I would sooner
go to you, Basil."
"But you won't 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. I
will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant."
"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward, regretfully. "And
now good-by. 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 wresting a secret from his friend! How
much that strange confession explained to him! Basil's absurd fits of
jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious
reticences,--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There was
something tragic in a friendship so colored 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 the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room
to which any of his friends had access.