[94] "There is no good telling me you are going to be good, Dorian,"
cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl
filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray don't change."
Dorian shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
things in my life. I am 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 uncivilized. There are only two
ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. One is by being cultured,
the other is by being corrupt. Country-people have no opportunity of
being either, so they stagnate."
"Culture and corruption," murmured Dorian. "I have known something of
both. It seems to me curious 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 told me yet what your good action was. Or did you say
you had done more than one?"
"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one
else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I
mean. She was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I
think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl,
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 idyl 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 Perdita, in her
garden."
"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing. "My
dear Dorian, you have the most curious boyish moods. Do you think this
girl will ever be really contented now with any one of her own rank? I
suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning
ploughman. Well, 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 really don't think much of your great renunciation. [95] Even as
a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't
floating at the present moment in some mill-pond, with water-lilies
round her, like Ophelia?"
"I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest
the most serious tragedies. I am 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 me 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 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 gray ulster
who left Victoria by the midnight train on the 7th 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 will be told that he has
been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one 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. One
can survive everything nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are
the only two facts in the nineteenth 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. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is
rather lonely without her."
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
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 had no enemies, and always wore a Waterbury
watch. Why should he be murdered? He was not clever enough to have
enemies. Of course he had a wonderful genius for painting. But a man
can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. Basil was
really rather dull. He only interested me once, [96] and that was when
he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you."
"I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes.
"But don't people say that he was murdered?"
"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to be 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.
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 bald, and yellow.
You are really wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming
than you do to-night. 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 whose opinions I listen to now with any respect are
people much younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has
revealed to them her last 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 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 panes? 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 to-night. It seems to me that
you are the young Apollo, and that I am Marsyas 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 am
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 palate. Nothing
has been hidden from you. But it has all been to you no more than the
sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still 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 color in a room or a morning
sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings
strange 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 [97] own
senses will imagine them for us. There are moments when the odor of
heliotrope passes suddenly across me, and I have to live the strangest
year 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 have been 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, Harry. And 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 play the nocturne
over again. Look at that great honey-colored 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 some one at the club who wants immensely to know you,--young
Lord Poole, Bournmouth's 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 touch of pathos in his voice. "But I
am tired to-night, Harry. I won't go to the club. It is nearly
eleven, and I want to go to bed early."
"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was
something in your touch that was wonderful. It had 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."
"Don't change, Dorian; at any rate, don't change to me. We must always
be friends."
"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.
Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It
does harm."
"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be
going about 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. Come round
tomorrow. I am going to ride at eleven, and we might go together. The
Park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have been such lilacs
since the year I met you."
"Very well. I will 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.
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 [98]
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 told the girl whom he had made
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 told him 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,
filled 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?
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. 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 had marred 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 borne
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 up-stairs. As he unlocked
the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99]
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, unless 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 spilt.
Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or
the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his
mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us
do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these?
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, who would believe him, even if he did confess? 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 he was mad. They 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.
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?
And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to get
rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. 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? It had given him
pleasure once 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 [100] 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. He seized it, and
stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to
bottom.
There was a cry 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. The house was all dark, except for a light in
one of the top windows. After a time, he went away, and stood in the
portico of the next house and watched.
"Whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen.
"Mr. Dorian Gray's, 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. Leaf was crying,
and wringing 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 up-stairs. 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: the bolts 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 Project Gutenberg's The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde