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chapter 10 when his servant entered, he looked at himsteadfastly 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 tothe glass and glanced into it. he could see the reflection of victor'sface perfectly. it was like a placid mask of servility. 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 tellthe house-keeper that he wanted to see her,
and then to go to the frame-maker and askhim to send two of his men round at once. it seemed to him that as the man left theroom his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen.or was that merely his own fancy? after a few moments, in her black silkdress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, mrs. leaf bustled intothe library. he asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "the old schoolroom, mr. dorian?" sheexclaimed. "why, it is full of dust.i must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it.
it is not fit for you to see, sir.it is not, indeed." "i don't want it put straight, leaf.i only want the key." "well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebsif you go into it. why, it hasn't been opened for nearly fiveyears--not since his lordship died." he winced at the mention of hisgrandfather. he had hateful memories of him."that does not matter," he answered. "i simply want to see the place--that isall. give me the key." "and here is the key, sir," said the oldlady, going over the contents of her bunch
with tremulously uncertain hands."here is the key. i'll have it off the bunch in a moment. but you don't think of living up there,sir, and you so comfortable here?" "no, no," he cried petulantly."thank you, leaf. that will do." she lingered for a few moments, and wasgarrulous 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 satincoverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-centuryvenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near bologna. yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadfulthing in. it had perhaps served often as a pall forthe dead. now it was to hide something that had acorruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself--something thatwould breed horrors and yet would never die.
what the worm was to the corpse, his sinswould 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 regrettedthat he had not told basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. basil would have helped him to resist lordhenry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his owntemperament.
the love that he bore him--for it wasreally love--had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. it was not that mere physical admiration ofbeauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. it was such love as michelangelo had known,and montaigne, and winckelmann, 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 findtheir 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 thescreen. was the face on the canvas viler thanbefore? it seemed to him that it was unchanged, andyet his loathing of it was intensified. gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. it was simply the expression that hadaltered. that was horrible in its cruelty.
compared to what he saw in it of censure orrebuke, how shallow basil's reproaches about sibyl vane had been!--how shallow,and of what little account! his own soul was looking out at him fromthe canvas and calling him to judgement. a look of pain came across him, and heflung the rich pall over the picture. as he did so, a knock came to the door. he passed out as his servant entered."the persons are here, monsieur." he felt that the man must be got rid of atonce. he must not be allowed to know where thepicture was being taken to. there was something sly about him, and hehad thoughtful, treacherous eyes.
sitting down at the writing-table hescribbled a note to lord henry, asking him to send him round something to read andreminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. "wait for an answer," he said, handing itto him, "and show the men in here." in two or three minutes there was anotherknock, and mr. hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of south audleystreet, came in with a somewhat rough- looking young assistant. mr. hubbard was a florid, red-whiskeredlittle man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterateimpecuniosity 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. but he always made an exception in favourof dorian gray. there was something about dorian thatcharmed 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 ofcoming round in person. i have just got a beauty of a frame, sir.picked it up at a sale. old florentine.
came from fonthill, i believe.admirably suited for a religious subject, mr. gray.""i am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, mr. hubbard. i shall certainly drop in and look at theframe--though i don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day i only want apicture carried to the top of the house for me. it is rather heavy, so i thought i wouldask 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 screenback. "can you move it, covering and all, just asit is? i don't want it to get scratched goingupstairs." "there will be no difficulty, sir," saidthe genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picturefrom the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "and, now, where shall we carry it to, mr.gray?" "i will show you the way, mr. hubbard, ifyou will kindly follow me. or perhaps you had better go in front.
i am afraid it is right at the top of thehouse. we will go up by the front staircase, as itis wider." he held the door open for them, and theypassed out into the hall and began the ascent. the elaborate character of the frame hadmade the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequiousprotests of mr. hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, dorian puthis hand to it so as to help them. "something of a load to carry, sir," gaspedthe little man when they reached the top
landing. and he wiped his shiny forehead. "i am afraid it is rather heavy," murmureddorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him thecurious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. he had not entered the place for more thanfour years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was achild, 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 littlegrandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at adistance. it appeared to dorian to have but littlechanged. there was the huge italian cassone, withits fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he hadso often hidden himself as a boy. there the satinwood book-case filled withhis dog-eared schoolbooks. on the wall behind it was hanging the sameragged 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 gauntletedwrists. 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 hisboyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was tobe hidden away. how little he had thought, in those deaddays, of all that was in store for him! but there was no other place in the houseso secure from prying eyes as this. he had the key, and no one else could enterit. beneath its purple pall, the face paintedon 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, andpurify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring inspirit and in flesh--those curious
unpictured sins whose very mystery lentthem their subtlety and their charm. perhaps, some day, the cruel look wouldhave passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world basilhallward's masterpiece. no; that was impossible. hour by hour, and week by week, the thingupon the canvas was growing old. it might escape the hideousness of sin, butthe hideousness of age was in store for it. the cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. yellow crow's feet would creep round thefading eyes and make them horrible. the hair would lose its brightness, themouth would gape or droop, would be foolish
or gross, as the mouths of old men are. there would be the wrinkled throat, thecold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather whohad 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 am sorry i kept you so long. i was thinking of something else." "always glad to have a rest, mr. gray,"answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath."where shall we put it, sir?"
"oh, anywhere. 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 flinghim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secretof his life. "i shan't trouble you any more now.
i am much obliged for your kindness incoming 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 hisrough uncomely face. he had never seen any one so marvellous. when the sound of their footsteps had diedaway, dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket.he felt safe now. no one would ever look upon the horriblething. no eye but his would ever see his shame.
on reaching the library, he found that itwas just after five o'clock and that the tea had been already brought up. on a little table of dark perfumed woodthickly incrusted with nacre, a present from lady radley, his guardian's wife, apretty professional invalid who had spent the preceding winter in cairo, was lying a note from lord henry, and beside it was abook 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- tray.it was evident that victor had returned.
he wondered if he had met the men in thehall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had beendoing. he would be sure to miss the picture--hadno 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 himcreeping 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 beenblackmailed all their lives by some servant
who had read a letter, or overheard aconversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpledlace. he sighed, and having poured himself outsome tea, opened lord henry's note. it was simply to say that he sent him roundthe evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at theclub at eight-fifteen. he opened the st. james's languidly, andlooked through it. a red pencil-mark on the fifth page caughthis eye. it drew attention to the followingparagraph:
inquest on an actress.--an inquest was heldthis morning at the bell tavern, hoxton road, by mr. danby, the district coroner,on the body of sibyl vane, a young actress recently engaged at the royal theatre,holborn. a verdict of death by misadventure wasreturned. considerable sympathy was expressed for themother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her ownevidence, and that of dr. birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of thedeceased. 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 henryfor having sent him the report. and it was certainly stupid of him to havemarked 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 tosuspect something. and, yet, what did it matter?what had dorian gray to do with sibyl vane's death? there was nothing to fear.dorian gray had not killed her.
his eye fell on the yellow book that lordhenry had sent him. what was it, he wondered. he went towards the little, pearl-colouredoctagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange egyptianbees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chairand 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 showbefore him.
things that he had dimly dreamed of weresuddenly made real to him. things of which he had never dreamed weregradually revealed. it was a novel without a plot and with onlyone character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain youngparisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belongedto every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the variousmoods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that menhave unwisely called virtue, as much as
those natural rebellions that wise menstill call sin. the style in which it was written was thatcurious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, oftechnical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the frenchschool of symbolistes. there were in it metaphors as monstrous asorchids and as subtle in colour. the life of the senses was described in theterms of mystical philosophy. one hardly knew at times whether one wasreading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessionsof a modern sinner.
it was a poisonous book. the heavy odour of incense seemed to clingabout its pages and to trouble the brain. the mere cadence of the sentences, thesubtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movementselaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady ofdreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. cloudless, and pierced by one solitarystar, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows.he read on by its wan light till he could
read no more. then, after his valet had reminded himseveral 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 andbegan to dress for dinner. it was almost nine o'clock before hereached the club, where he found lord henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, lookingvery much bored. "i am so sorry, harry," he cried, "butreally it is entirely your fault. that book you sent me so fascinated me thati forgot how the time was going." "yes, i thought you would like it," repliedhis 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 have discovered that?" murmuredlord henry. and they passed into the dining-room. > chapter 11-part 1 for years, dorian gray could not freehimself from the influence of this book. or perhaps it would be more accurate to saythat he never sought to free himself from it.
he procured from paris no less than ninelarge-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, sothat they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almostentirely lost control. the hero, the wonderful young parisian inwhom 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 seemed to himto 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 causeto know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, andstill water which came upon the young parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauthat had once, apparently, been so remarkable. it was with an almost cruel joy--andperhaps 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
overemphasized, account of the sorrow anddespair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearlyvalued. for the wonderful beauty that had sofascinated basil hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. even those who had heard the most evilthings against him--and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of lifecrept through london and became the chatter of the clubs--could not believe anything tohis dishonour when they saw him. he had always the look of one who had kepthimself unspotted from the world. men who talked grossly became silent whendorian gray entered the room.
there was something in the purity of hisface that rebuked them. his mere presence seemed to recall to themthe memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. they wondered how one so charming andgraceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid andsensual. often, on returning home from one of thosemysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among thosewho were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the keythat never left him now, and stand, with a
mirror, in front of the portrait that basilhallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughedback at him from the polished glass. the very sharpness of the contrast used toquicken his sense of pleasure. he grew more and more enamoured of his ownbeauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. he would examine with minute care, andsometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared thewrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes
which were the more horrible, the signs ofsin or the signs of age. he would place his white hands beside thecoarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. he mocked the misshapen body and thefailing limbs. there were moments, indeed, at night, when,lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room ofthe little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, hewould think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the morepoignant because it was purely selfish.
but moments such as these were rare. that curiosity about life which lord henryhad first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend,seemed to increase with gratification. the more he knew, the more he desired toknow. he had mad hungers that grew more ravenousas he fed them. yet he was not really reckless, at any ratein his relations to society. once or twice every month during thewinter, and on each wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open tothe world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to
charm his guests with the wonders of theirart. his little dinners, in the settling ofwhich lord henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection andplacing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonicarrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate ofgold and silver. indeed, there were many, especially amongthe very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in dorian gray the truerealization of a type of which they had often dreamed in eton or oxford days, a
type that was to combine something of thereal culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner ofa citizen of the world. to them he seemed to be of the company ofthose whom dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worshipof beauty." like gautier, he was one for whom "thevisible world existed." and, certainly, to him life itself was thefirst, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but apreparation. fashion, by which what is really fantasticbecomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is anattempt to assert the absolute modernity of
beauty, had, of course, their fascinationfor him. his mode of dressing, and the particularstyles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the youngexquisites of the mayfair balls and pall mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried toreproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious,fopperies. for, while he was but too ready to acceptthe position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, andfound, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the
london of his own day what to imperialneronian rome the author of the satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart hedesired to be something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting ofa necktie, or the conduct of a cane. he sought to elaborate some new scheme oflife that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, andfind in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. the worship of the senses has often, andwith much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror aboutpassions and sensations that seem stronger
than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highlyorganized forms of existence. but it appeared to dorian gray that thetrue nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remainedsavage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aimingat making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct forbeauty was to be the dominant characteristic. as he looked back upon man moving throughhistory, he was haunted by a feeling of
loss.so much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! there had been mad wilful rejections,monstrous forms of self-torture and self- denial, whose origin was fear and whoseresult was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had soughtto escape; nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out the anchorite to feed with thewild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as hiscompanions. yes: there was to be, as lord henry hadprophesied, a new hedonism that was to
recreate life and to save it from thatharsh uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. it was to have its service of theintellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any theory or system that wouldinvolve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. its aim, indeed, was to be experienceitself, 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 concentratehimself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. there are few of us who have not sometimeswakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almostenamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantomsmore terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks inall grotesques, and that lends to gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art ofthose 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 shadowscrawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. outside, there is the stirring of birdsamong the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob ofthe wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers and yet mustneeds call forth sleep from her purple cave.
veil after veil of thin dusky gauze islifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, andwe watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. the wan mirrors get back their mimic life. the flameless tapers stand where we hadleft them, and beside them lies the half- cut book that we had been studying, or thewired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid toread, 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 ofenergy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open somemorning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for ourpleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world inwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in noconscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its
bitterness and the memories of pleasuretheir pain. it was the creation of such worlds as thesethat seemed to dorian gray to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, oflife; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that isso essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knewto be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught theircolour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curiousindifference that is not incompatible with
a real ardour of temperament, and that, indeed, according to certain modernpsychologists, is often a condition of it. it was rumoured of him once that he wasabout to join the roman catholic communion, and certainly the roman ritual had always agreat attraction for him. the daily sacrifice, more awful really thanall the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejectionof the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedythat it sought to symbolize. he loved to kneel down on the cold marblepavement and watch the priest, in his stiff
flowered dalmatic, slowly and with whitehands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallidwafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis caelestis," the breadof angels, or, robed in the garments of the passion of christ, breaking the host into the chalice and smiting his breast for hissins. the fuming censers that the grave boys, intheir lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtlefascination for him. as he passed out, he used to look withwonder at the black confessionals and long
to sit in the dim shadow of one of them andlisten to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of theirlives. but he never fell into the error ofarresting 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 sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of anight in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. mysticism, with its marvellous power ofmaking common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems toaccompany it, moved him for a season; and
for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the darwinismusmovement in germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts andpassions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of theabsolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid orhealthy, normal or diseased. yet, as has been said of him before, notheory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. he felt keenly conscious of how barren allintellectual speculation is when separated
from action and experiment. he knew that the senses, no less than thesoul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal. and so he would now study perfumes and thesecrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorousgums from the east. he saw that there was no mood of the mindthat had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discovertheir true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one'spassions, and in violets that woke the
memory of dead romances, and in musk thattroubled the brain, and in champak 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 balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that sickens; of hovenia, 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 entirelyto music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls ofolive-green lacquer, he used to give
curious concerts in which mad gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave,yellow-shawled tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, whilegrinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned indians blew throughlong pipes of reed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes andhorrible horned adders. the harsh intervals and shrill discords ofbarbaric music stirred him at times when schubert's grace, and chopin's beautifulsorrows, and the mighty harmonies of beethoven himself, fell unheeded on hisear.
he collected together from all parts of theworld the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of deadnations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with western civilizations, and loved to touch and trythem. he had the mysterious juruparis of the rionegro indians, that women are not allowed to look at and that even youths may not seetill they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the peruvians that have the shrill cries ofbirds, and flutes of human bones such as alfonso de ovalle heard in chile, and thesonorous green jaspers that are found near
cuzco and give forth a note of singularsweetness. he had painted gourds filled with pebblesthat rattled when they were shaken; the long clarin of the mexicans, into which theperformer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh ture of the amazon tribes, that is sounded by thesentinels who sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at adistance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that has two vibrating tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared withan elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of theaztecs, 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 theseinstruments 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 of them,and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with lord henry, listeningin rapt pleasure to "tannhauser" and seeing
in the prelude to that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his ownsoul. on one occasion he took up the study ofjewels, and appeared at a costume ball as anne de joyeuse, admiral of france, in adress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. this taste enthralled him for years, and,indeed, may be said never to have left him. he would often spend a whole day settlingand resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as theolive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike
line of silver, the pistachio-colouredperidot, 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 ofruby and sapphire. he loved the red gold of the sunstone, andthe moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. he procured from amsterdam three emeraldsof extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise de la vieilleroche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs.
he discovered wonderful stories, also,about jewels. in alphonso's clericalis disciplina aserpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history ofalexander, the conqueror of emathia was said to have found in the vale of jordan snakes "with collars of real emeraldsgrowing 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 scarletrobe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep and slain. according to the great alchemist, pierre deboniface, the diamond rendered a man
invisible, and the agate of india made himeloquent. the cornelian appeased anger, and thehyacinth 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 meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood ofkids. leonardus camillus had seen a white stonetaken from the brain of a newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote againstpoison. the bezoar, that was found in the heart ofthe arabian deer, was a charm that could
cure the plague. in the nests of arabian birds was theaspilates, that, according to democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. the king of ceilan rode through his citywith a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. the gates of the palace of john the priestwere "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake inwrought, so that no manmight bring poison within." over the gable were "two golden apples, inwhich were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day and the carbunclesby night.
in lodge's strange romance 'a margarite ofamerica', it was stated that in the chamber of the queen one could behold "all thechaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, andgreene emeraults." marco polo had seen the inhabitants ofzipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. a sea-monster had been enamoured of thepearl that the diver brought to king perozes, and had slain the thief, andmourned for seven moons over its loss. when the huns lured the king into the greatpit, he flung it away--procopius tells the
story--nor was it ever found again, thoughthe emperor anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. the king of malabar had shown to a certainvenetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that heworshipped. when the duke de valentinois, son ofalexander vi, visited louis xii of france, his horse was loaded with gold leaves,according to brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out agreat light. charles of england had ridden in stirrupshung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds.
richard ii had a coat, valued at thirtythousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. hall described henry viii, on his way tothe tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, theplacard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike abouthis neck of large balasses." the favourites of james i wore ear-rings ofemeralds set in gold filigrane. edward ii gave to piers gaveston a suit ofred-gold armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parseme with henry ii wore jewelled gloves reaching tothe elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with
twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. the ducal hat of charles the rash, the lastduke of burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and studded withsapphires. how exquisite life had once been! how gorgeous in its pomp and decoration!even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. -chapter 11-part 2 then he turned his attention toembroideries and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescoes in thechill rooms of the northern nations of
europe. as he investigated the subject--and healways had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the momentin whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderfulthings. he, at any rate, had escaped that. summer followed summer, and the yellowjonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story oftheir shame, but he was unchanged. no winter marred his face or stained hisflowerlike 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 girlsfor the pleasure of athena? where the huge velarium that nero hadstretched across the colosseum at rome, that titan sail of purple on which wasrepresented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? he longed to see the curious table-napkinswrought for the priest of the sun, on which were displayed all the dainties and viandsthat could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its
three hundred golden bees; the fantasticrobes 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 coatthat charles of orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered theverses of a song beginning "madame, je suis tout joyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, andeach note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. he read of the room that was prepared atthe palace at rheims 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-onebutterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, thewhole worked in gold." catherine de medicis had a mourning-bedmade for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. its curtains were of damask, with leafywreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along theedges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the
queen's devices in cut black velvet uponcloth of silver. louis xiv had gold embroidered caryatidesfifteen feet high in his apartment. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland,was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the koran. its supports were of silver gilt,beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. it had been taken from the turkish campbefore vienna, and the standard of mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of itscanopy. and so, for a whole year, he sought toaccumulate the most exquisite specimens
that he could find of textile andembroidered work, getting the dainty delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and stitched over with iridescentbeetles' wings; the dacca 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 fleurs-de-lis, birdsand images; veils of lacis worked in hungary point; sicilian brocades and stiff spanish velvets; georgian work, with itsgilt coins, and japanese foukousas, with
their green-toned golds and theirmarvellously plumaged birds. he had a special passion, also, forecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the serviceof the church. in the long cedar chests that lined thewest gallery of his house, he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens ofwhat is really the raiment of the bride of christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallidmacerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for and wounded byself-inflicted pain. he possessed a gorgeous cope of crimsonsilk and gold-thread damask, figured with a
repeating pattern of golden pomegranatesset in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-appledevice wrought in seed-pearls. the orphreys were divided into panelsrepresenting scenes from the life of the virgin, and the coronation of the virginwas figured in coloured silks upon the hood. this was italian work of the fifteenthcentury. 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 threadand coloured crystals.
the morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. the orphreys were woven in a diaper of redand gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs,among whom was st. sebastian. he had chasubles, also, of amber-colouredsilk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold,figured with representations of the 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 dolphinsand fleurs-de-lis; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and manycorporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria.
in the mystic offices to which such thingswere put, there was something that quickened his imagination. for these treasures, and everything that hecollected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes bywhich he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to bealmost too great to be borne. upon the walls of the lonely locked roomwhere he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terribleportrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-goldpall as a curtain.
for weeks he would not go there, wouldforget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderfuljoyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. then, suddenly, some night he would creepout of the house, go down to dreadful places near blue gate fields, and staythere, day after day, until he was driven on his return he would sit in front of thepicture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with thatpride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that hadto bear the burden that should have been
his own. after a few years he could not endure to belong out of england, and gave up the villa that he had shared at trouville with lordhenry, as well as the little white walled- in house at algiers where they had morethan once spent the winter. he hated to be separated from the picturethat 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 tobe placed upon the door. he was quite conscious that this would tellthem nothing. it was true that the portrait stillpreserved, under all the foulness and
ugliness of the face, its marked likenessto himself; but what could they learn from that? he would laugh at any one who tried totaunt 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 believeit? yet he was afraid. sometimes when he was down at his greathouse in nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank whowere his chief companions, and astounding
the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, hewould suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had notbeen 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 secretthen. perhaps the world already suspected it. for, while he fascinated many, there werenot a few who distrusted him. he was very nearly blackballed at a westend club of which his birth and social
position fully entitled him to become amember, and it was said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the churchill, theduke 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 seenbrawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of whitechapel, andthat he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. his extraordinary absences becamenotorious, and, when he used to reappear
again in society, men would whisper to eachother in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were determined to discover hissecret. of such insolences and attempted slightshe, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonairmanner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were inthemselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies, for so they termed them, thatwere circulated about him. it was remarked, however, that some ofthose who had been most intimate with him
appeared, after a time, to shun him. women who had wildly adored him, and forhis sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen togrow pallid with shame or horror if dorian gray entered the room. yet these whispered scandals only increasedin the eyes of many his strange and dangerous charm.his great wealth was a certain element of security. society--civilized society, at least--isnever very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich andfascinating.
it feels instinctively that manners are ofmore importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is ofmuch less value than the possession of a good chef. and, after all, it is a very poorconsolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, isirreproachable in his private life. even the cardinal virtues cannot atone forhalf-cold entrees, as lord henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, andthere is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. for the canons of good society are, orshould be, the same as the canons 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 aromantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. is insincerity such a terrible thing?i think not. it is merely a method by which we canmultiply our personalities. such, at any rate, was dorian gray'sopinion. he used to wonder at the shallow psychologyof those who conceive the ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and ofone essence.
to him, man was a being with myriad livesand myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strangelegacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrousmaladies of the dead. he loved to stroll through the gaunt coldpicture-gallery of his country house and look at the various portraits of thosewhose blood flowed in his veins. here was philip herbert, described byfrancis osborne, in his memoires 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 longcompany." was it young herbert's life that hesometimes led?
had some strange poisonous germ crept frombody to body till it had reached his own? was it some dim sense of that ruined gracethat had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in basilhallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? here, in gold-embroidered red doublet,jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood sir anthony sherard, withhis 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 andshame?
were his own actions merely the dreams thatthe dead man had not dared to realize? here, from the fading canvas, smiled ladyelizabeth devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. a flower was in her right hand, and herleft clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses.on a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. there were large green rosettes upon herlittle pointed shoes. he knew her life, and the strange storiesthat were told about her lovers. had he something of her temperament in him?
these oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed tolook curiously at him. what of george willoughby, with hispowdered hair and fantastic patches? how evil he looked! the face was saturnine and swarthy, and thesensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. delicate lace ruffles fell over the leanyellow hands that were so overladen with rings. he had been a macaroni of the eighteenthcentury, and the friend, in his youth, of lord ferrars.
what of the second lord beckenham, thecompanion of the prince regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses atthe secret marriage with mrs. fitzherbert? how proud and handsome he was, with hischestnut 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 hisbreast. beside him hung the 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 knewwhat he had got from her. he had got from her his beauty, and hispassion for the beauty of others. she laughed at him in her loose bacchantedress. there were vine leaves in her hair. the purple spilled from the cup she washolding. the carnations of the painting hadwithered, 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 wellas in one's own race, nearer perhaps in
type and temperament, many of them, andcertainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. there were times when it appeared to doriangray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he hadlived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in hispassions. he felt that he had known them all, thosestrange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sinso marvellous and evil so full of subtlety. it seemed to him that in some mysteriousway their lives had been his own.
the hero of the wonderful novel that had soinfluenced 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 agarden at capri, reading the shameful books of elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-playermocked the swinger of the censer; and, as caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as domitian, had wanderedthrough a corridor lined with marble
mirrors, looking round with haggard eyesfor the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible taedium vitae, that comes onthose to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the redshambles of the circus and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver- shod mules, been carried through the streetof pomegranates to a house of gold and heard men cry on nero caesar as he passedby; and, as elagabalus, had painted his face with colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the moon fromcarthage and given her in mystic marriage
to the sun. over and over again dorian used to readthis fantastic chapter, and the two chapters immediately following, in which,as in some curious tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice andblood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: filippo, duke of milan, who slew hiswife 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 the second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title offormosus, and whose tiara, valued at two
hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; gian mariavisconti, who used hounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was coveredwith roses by a harlot who had loved him; the borgia on his white horse, with fratricide riding beside him and his mantlestained with the blood of perotto; pietro riario, the young cardinal archbishop offlorence, child and minion of sixtus iv, whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received leonora ofaragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, andgilded a boy that he might serve at the
feast as ganymede or hylas; ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by thespectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for redwine--the son of the fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him forhis own soul; giambattista cibo, who in mockery took the name of innocent and intowhose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a jewish doctor; sigismondo malatesta, the lover of isotta and the lordof rimini, whose effigy was burned at rome as the enemy of god and man, who strangledpolyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to
ginevra d'este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a paganchurch for christian worship; charles vi, who had so wildly adored his brother's wifethat a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange, couldonly be soothed by saracen cards painted with the images of love and death andmadness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, grifonetto baglioni, who slew astorre withhis bride, and simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he laydying 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 themall. he saw them at night, and they troubled hisimagination in the day. the renaissance knew of strange manners ofpoisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove anda jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander 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 couldrealize his conception of the beautiful.
chapter 12 it was on the ninth of november, the eve ofhis own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. he was walking home about eleven o'clockfrom lord henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, asthe night was cold and foggy. at the corner of grosvenor square and southaudley street, a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collarof his grey ulster turned up. he had a bag in his hand. dorian recognized him.it was basil hallward.
a strange sense of fear, for which he couldnot account, came over him. he made no sign of recognition and went onquickly in the direction of his own house. but hallward 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 have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock. finally i took pity on your tired servantand 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 recognize me?" "in this fog, my dear basil?why, i can't even recognize grosvenor square. i believe my house is somewhere about here,but i don't feel at all certain about it. i am sorry you are going away, as i havenot seen you for ages. but i suppose you will be back soon?"
"no: i am going to be out of england forsix months. i intend to take a studio in paris and shutmyself up till i have finished a great picture i have in my head. however, it wasn't about myself i wanted totalk. 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 gray languidly as he passed up the stepsand opened the door with his latch-key. the lamplight struggled out through thefog, 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 tolook for you, when i met you. you see, i shan't have any delay aboutluggage, as i have sent on my heavy things. all i have with me is in this bag, and ican easily get to victoria in twenty minutes."dorian looked at him and smiled. "what a way for a fashionable painter totravel! a gladstone bag and an ulster!come in, or the fog will get into the house.
and mind you don't talk about anythingserious. nothing is serious nowadays.at least nothing should be." hallward shook his head, as he entered, andfollowed dorian into the library. there was a bright wood fire blazing in thelarge open hearth. the lamps were lit, and an open dutchsilver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers,on a little marqueterie table. "you see your servant made me quite athome, dorian. he gave me everything i wanted, includingyour best gold-tipped cigarettes. he is a most hospitable creature.
i like him much better than the frenchmanyou used to have. what has become of the frenchman, by thebye?" dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i believe he married lady radley'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 quiteabsurd. he was really very devoted to me and seemedquite sorry when he went away. have another brandy-and-soda? or would you like hock-and-seltzer?i always take hock-and-seltzer myself. there is sure to be some in the next room." "thanks, i won't have anything more," saidthe painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he hadplaced in the corner. "and now, my dear fellow, i want to speakto you seriously. don't frown like that.you make it so much more difficult for me."
"what is it all about?" cried dorian in hispetulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa."i hope it is not about myself. i am tired of myself to-night. i should like to be somebody else.""it is about yourself," answered hallward in his grave deep voice, "and i must say itto you. i shall only keep you half an hour." dorian sighed and lit a cigarette."half an hour!" he murmured. "it is not much to ask of you, dorian, andit is entirely for your own sake that i am speaking.
i think it right that you should know thatthe 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, butscandals 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 goodname. you don't want people to talk of you assomething vile and degraded. of course, you have your position, and yourwealth, and all that kind of thing. but position and wealth are not everything.mind you, i don't believe these rumours at all.
at least, i can't believe them when i seeyou. sin is a thing that writes itself across aman'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 showsitself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his handseven. somebody--i won't mention his name, but youknow him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. i had never seen him before, and had neverheard 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 hisfingers that i hated. i know now that i was quite right in what ifancied about him. his life is dreadful. but you, dorian, with your pure, bright,innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--i can't believe anythingagainst you. and yet i see you very seldom, and younever come down to the studio now, and when i am away from you, and i hear all thesehideous things that people are whispering
about you, i don't know what to say. why is it, dorian, that a man like the dukeof berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? why is it that so many gentlemen in londonwill neither go to your house or invite you to theirs?you used to be a friend of lord staveley. i met him at dinner last week. your name happened to come up inconversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibitionat the dudley. staveley curled his lip and said that youmight have the most artistic tastes, but
that you were a man whom no pure-mindedgirl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same roomwith. i reminded him that i was a friend ofyours, 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 youngmen? there was that wretched boy in the guardswho 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 and his career? i met his father yesterday in st. james'sstreet. he seemed broken with shame and sorrow.what about the young duke of perth? what sort of life has he got now? what gentleman would associate with him?""stop, basil. you are talking about things of which youknow nothing," said dorian gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contemptin his voice.
"you ask me why berwick leaves a room wheni enter it. it is because i know everything about hislife, not because he knows anything about mine. with such blood as he has in his veins, howcould his record be clean? you ask me about henry ashton and youngperth. did i teach the one his vices, and theother his debauchery? if kent's silly son takes his wife from thestreets, what is that to me? if adrian singleton writes his friend'sname across a bill, am i his keeper? i know how people chatter in england.
the middle classes air their moralprejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call theprofligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with thepeople they slander. in this country, it is enough for a man tohave distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him.and what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? my dear fellow, you forget that we are inthe native land of the hypocrite." "dorian," cried hallward, "that is not thequestion.
england is bad enough i know, and englishsociety is all wrong. that is the reason why i want you to befine. you have not been fine. one has a right to judge of a man by theeffect he has over his friends. yours seem to lose all sense of honour, ofgoodness, of purity. you have filled them with a madness forpleasure. they have gone down into the depths.you led them there. yes: you led them there, and yet you cansmile, as you are smiling now. and there is worse behind.i know you and harry are inseparable.
surely for that reason, if for none other,you should not have made his sister's name a by-word.""take care, basil. you go too far." "i must speak, and you must listen.you shall listen. when you met lady gwendolen, not a breathof scandal had ever touched her. is there a single decent woman in londonnow who would drive with her in the park? why, even her children are not allowed tolive with her. then there are other stories--stories thatyou have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguiseinto 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 aboutyou. i won't tell you that i don't want topreach to you. i remember harry saying once that every manwho 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 makethe world respect you. i want you to have a clean name and a fairrecord. i want you to get rid of the dreadfulpeople you associate with. don't shrug your shoulders like that.don't be so indifferent. you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil.they say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it isquite 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. lord gloucester was one of my greatestfriends at oxford. he showed me a letter that his wife hadwritten to him when she was dying alone in her villa at mentone. your name was implicated in the mostterrible confession i ever read. i told him that it was absurd--that i knewyou thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. know you?i wonder do i know you?
before i could answer that, i should haveto see your soul." "to see my soul!" muttered dorian gray,starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "yes," answered hallward gravely, and withdeep-toned sorrow in his voice, "to see your soul.but only god can do that." a bitter laugh of mockery broke from thelips of the younger man. "you shall see it yourself, to-night!" hecried, seizing a lamp from the table. "come: it is your own handiwork. 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 meall the better for it. i know the age better than you do, thoughyou will prate about it so tediously. come, i tell you. you have chattered enough about corruption.now you shall look on it face to face." there was the madness of pride in everyword he uttered. he stamped his foot upon the ground in hisboyish insolent manner. he felt a terrible joy at the thought thatsome one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portraitthat was the origin of all his shame was to
be burdened for the rest of his life withthe hideous memory of what he had done. "yes," he continued, coming closer to himand looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "i shall show you my soul. you shall see the thing that you fancy onlygod 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 meananything." "you think so?"he laughed again. "i know so.
as for what i said to you to-night, i saidit for your good. you know i have been always a stanch friendto you." "don't touch me. finish what you have to say."a twisted flash of pain 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 intothe life of dorian gray? if he had done a tithe of what was rumouredabout him, how much he must have suffered! then he straightened himself up, and walkedover to the fire-place, and stood there,
looking at the burning logs with theirfrostlike ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. "i am waiting, basil," said the young manin a hard clear voice. he turned round."what i have to say is this," he cried. "you must give me some answer to thesehorrible charges that are made against you. if you tell me that they are absolutelyuntrue from beginning to end, i shall believe you. deny them, dorian, deny them!can't you see what i am going through? my god! don't tell me that you are bad, andcorrupt, 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 show it to you if you come withme." "i shall come with you, dorian, if you wishit. i see i have missed my train. that makes no matter.i can go to-morrow. but don't ask me to read anything to-night.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." chapter 13 he passed out of the room and began theascent, basil hallward following close behind.they walked softly, as men do instinctively at night. the lamp cast fantastic shadows on the walland staircase. a rising wind made some of the windowsrattle.
when they reached the top landing, dorianset the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock."you insist on knowing, basil?" he asked in a low voice. "yes.""i am delighted," he answered, smiling. then he added, somewhat harshly, "you arethe one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. you have had more to do with my life thanyou think"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. a cold current of air passed them, and thelight shot up for a moment in a flame of
murky orange.he shuddered. "shut the door behind you," he whispered,as he placed the lamp on the table. hallward glanced round him with a puzzledexpression. the room looked as if it had not been livedin for years. a faded flemish tapestry, a curtainedpicture, an old italian cassone, and an almost empty book-case--that was all thatit seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. as dorian gray was lighting a half-burnedcandle that was standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole placewas covered with dust and that the carpet
was in holes. a mouse ran scuffling behind thewainscoting. there was a damp odour of mildew."so you think that it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will seemine." the voice that spoke was cold and cruel."you are mad, dorian, or playing a part," muttered hallward, frowning. "you won't?then i must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore the curtain from its rodand flung it on the ground.
an exclamation of horror broke from thepainter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning athim. there was something in its expression thatfilled him with disgust and loathing. good heavens! it was dorian gray's own facethat he was looking at! the horror, whatever it was, had not yetentirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. there was still some gold in the thinninghair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. the sodden eyes had kept something of theloveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away fromchiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. yes, it was dorian himself.
but who had done it?he seemed to recognize 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 itto the picture. in the left-hand corner was his own name,traced in long letters of bright vermilion. it was some foul parody, some infamousignoble satire. he had never done that.still, it was his own picture. he knew it, and he felt as if his blood hadchanged 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 themantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces ofthose who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. there was neither real sorrow in it norreal joy. there was simply the passion of thespectator, 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 inhis ears. "years ago, when i was a boy," said doriangray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to bevain of my good looks. one day you introduced me to a friend ofyours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of methat revealed to me the wonder of beauty.
in a mad moment that, even now, i don'tknow whether i regret or not, i made a wish, perhaps you would call it aprayer...." "i remember it! oh, how well i remember it!no! the thing is impossible. the room is damp.mildew has got into the canvas. the paints i used had some wretched mineralpoison in them. i tell you the thing is impossible." "ah, what is impossible?" murmured theyoung 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. "my ideal, as you call it...""as you called it." "there was nothing evil in it, nothingshameful. you were to me such an ideal as i shallnever meet again. this is the face of a satyr.""it is the face of my soul." "christ! what a thing i must haveworshipped!
it has 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. "my god!if it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, youmust be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" he held the light up again to the canvasand examined it. the surface seemed to be quite undisturbedand as he had left it.
it was from within, apparently, that thefoulness and horror had come. through some strange quickening of innerlife the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. the rotting of a corpse in a watery gravewas not so fearful. his hand shook, and the candle fell fromits 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 andburied 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 inone's boyhood? 'lead us not into temptation.forgive us our sins. wash away our iniquities.' let us say that together.the prayer of your pride has been answered. the prayer of your repentance will beanswered also. i worshipped you too much. i am punished for it.you worshipped 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 faltered."it is never too late, dorian. let us kneel down and try if we cannotremember a prayer. isn't there a verse somewhere, 'though yoursins be as scarlet, yet i will make them as white 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 accursed thing leering
at us?" dorian gray glanced at the picture, andsuddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for basil hallward came over him, asthough it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his earby those grinning lips. the mad passions of a hunted animal stirredwithin him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his wholelife he had ever loathed anything. he glanced wildly around. something glimmered on the top of thepainted chest that faced him. his eye fell on it.he knew what it was.
it was a knife that he had brought up, somedays 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 itand turned round. hallward stirred in his chair as if he wasgoing to rise. he rushed at him and dug the knife into thegreat vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table andstabbing again and again. there was a stifled groan and the horriblesound of some one choking with blood. three times the outstretched arms shot upconvulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-
fingered hands in the air. he stabbed him twice more, but the man didnot 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, andlistened. he could hear nothing, but the drip, dripon the threadbare carpet. he opened the door and went out on thelanding. the house was absolutely quiet.no one was about. for a few seconds he stood bending over thebalustrade 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 inthe neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one wouldhave said that the man was simply asleep. how quickly it had all been done! he felt strangely calm, and walking over tothe window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony.
the wind had blown the fog away, and thesky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. he looked down and saw the policeman goinghis rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silenthouses. the crimson spot of a prowling hansomgleamed at the corner and then vanished. a woman in a fluttering shawl was creepingslowly 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 saidsomething 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 blackiron branches to and fro. he shivered and went back, closing thewindow behind him. having reached the door, he turned the keyand opened it. he did not even glance at the murdered man. he felt that the secret of the whole thingwas not to realize the situation. the friend who had painted the fatalportrait 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 moorishworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, andstudded with coarse turquoises. perhaps it might be missed by his servant,and questions would be asked. he hesitated for a moment, then he turnedback 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 outas if in pain. he stopped several times and waited.no: everything was still. it was merely the sound of his ownfootsteps. when he reached the library, he saw the bagand coat in the corner. they must be hidden away somewhere. he unlocked a secret press that was in thewainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them intoit. 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--men were strangled in england for what he had done. there had been a madness of murder in theair. some red star had come too close to theearth.... and yet, what evidence was there againsthim? basil hallward had left the house ateleven. no one had seen him come in again. most of the servants were at selby royal.his valet had gone to bed.... paris!yes.
it was to paris that basil had gone, and bythe midnight train, as he had intended. with his curious reserved habits, it wouldbe 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 outinto the hall. there he paused, hearing the slow heavytread 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 latchand 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 am sorry to have had to wake you up,francis," he said, stepping in; "but i had forgotten my latch-key. what time is it?""ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking."ten minutes past two? how horribly late! you must wake me at nine to-morrow.i have some work to do."
"all right, sir.""did any one call this evening?" "mr. hallward, sir. he stayed here till eleven, and then hewent away to catch his train." "oh!i am sorry i didn't see him. did he leave any message?" "no, sir, except that he would write to youfrom paris, if he did not find you at the club.""that will do, francis. don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow." "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 anddown the room, biting his lip and thinking. then he took down the blue book from one ofthe shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "alan campbell, 152, hertford street,mayfair." yes; that was the man he wanted. chapter 14 at nine o'clock the next morning hisservant came in with a cup of chocolate on
a tray and opened the shutters. dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lyingon 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 theshoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across hislips, 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 hiselbow, began to sip his chocolate. the mellow november sun came streaming intothe room. the sky was bright, and there was a genialwarmth in the air. it was almost like a morning in may. gradually the events of the preceding nightcrept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselvesthere with terrible distinctness. he winced at the memory of all that he hadsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for basil hallward thathad made him kill him as he sat in the
chair came back to him, and he grew coldwith 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 hadgone through he would sicken or grow mad. there were sins whose fascination was morein the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pridemore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could everbring, to the senses.
but this was not one of them. it was a thing to be driven out of themind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle oneitself. when the half-hour struck, he passed hishand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even morethan his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin and changing his rings more thanonce. he spent a long time also over breakfast,tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he wasthinking of getting made for the servants
at selby, and going through hiscorrespondence. at some of the letters, he smiled.three of them bored him. one he read several times over and thentore 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 goingover to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. one he put in his pocket, the other hehanded to the valet.
"take this round to 152, hertford street,francis, and if mr. campbell is out of town, get his address." as soon as he was alone, he lit a cigaretteand began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits ofarchitecture, and then human faces. suddenly he remarked that every face thathe drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to basil hallward. he frowned, and getting up, went over tothe book-case and took out a volume at hazard. he was determined that he would not thinkabout 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 emaux et camees,charpentier's japanese-paper edition, with the jacquemart etching. the binding was of citron-green leather,with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates.it had been given to him by adrian singleton. as he turned over the pages, his eye fellon the poem about the hand of lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encoremal lavee," 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 lovelystanzas upon venice: sur une gamme chromatique,le sein de peries ruisselant, la venus de l'adriatiquesort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. les domes, sur l'azur des ondessuivant la phrase au pur contour, s'enflent comme des gorges rondesque souleve un soupir d'amour. l'esquif aborde et me depose,jetant son amarre au pilier, devant une facade rose,sur le marbre d'un escalier.
how exquisite they were!as one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink andpearl city, seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. the mere lines looked to him like thosestraight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the lido. the sudden flashes of colour reminded himof the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tallhoneycombed campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. leaning back with half-closed eyes, he keptsaying over and over to himself:
"devant une facade rose, sur le marbre d'unescalier." the whole of venice was in those two lines. he remembered the autumn that he had passedthere, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies.there was romance in every place. but venice, like oxford, had kept thebackground for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, oralmost 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 outof the little cafe at smyrna where the hadjis sit counting their amber beads andthe turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the obelisk in the placede la concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to beback by the hot, lotus-covered nile, where there are sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, andcrocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began tobrood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of
that curious statue that gautier comparesto a contralto voice, the "monstre charmant" that couches in the porphyry-roomof the louvre. but after a time the book fell from hishand. he grew nervous, and a horrible fit ofterror came over him. what if alan campbell should be out ofengland? days would elapse before he could comeback. perhaps he might refuse to come. what could he do then?every moment was of vital importance. they had been great friends once, fiveyears before--almost inseparable, indeed.
then the intimacy had come suddenly to anend. when they met in society now, it was onlydorian 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 ofthe beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from dorian. his dominant intellectual passion was forscience. at cambridge he had spent a great deal ofhis time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the natural sciencetripos of his year.
indeed, he was still devoted to the studyof chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up allday long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for parliament and had a vagueidea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. he was an excellent musician, however, aswell, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. in fact, it was music that had firstbrought him and dorian gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that dorianseemed to be able to exercise whenever he
wished--and, indeed, exercised oftenwithout being conscious of it. they had met at lady berkshire's the nightthat rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at theopera and wherever good music was going on. for eighteen months their intimacy lasted. campbell was always either at selby royalor in grosvenor square. to him, as to many others, dorian gray wasthe type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. whether or not a quarrel had taken placebetween them no one ever knew. but suddenly people remarked that theyscarcely spoke when they met and that
campbell seemed always to go away earlyfrom any party at which dorian gray was present. he had changed, too--was strangelymelancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would neverhimself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in whichto practise. and this was certainly true. every day he seemed to become moreinterested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of thescientific reviews in connection with
certain curious experiments. this was the man dorian gray was waitingfor. 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 anddown 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 wasbeing swept towards the jagged edge of some
black cleft of precipice. he knew what was waiting for him there; sawit, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though hewould have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into theircave. it was useless. the brain had its own food on which itbattened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distortedas a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned throughmoving masks. then, suddenly, time stopped for him.
yes: that blind, slow-breathing thingcrawled 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 servantentered. 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 hischeeks. "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 coal-blackhair and dark eyebrows. "alan! this is kind of you.i thank you for coming." "i had intended never to enter your houseagain, gray. but you said it was a matter of life anddeath." his voice was hard and cold.he spoke with slow deliberation.
there was a look of contempt in the steadysearching gaze that he turned on dorian. he kept his hands in the pockets of hisastrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had beengreeted. "yes: it is a matter of life and death,alan, and to more than one person. sit down."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 wasdreadful. after a strained moment of silence, heleaned across and said, very quietly, but
watching the effect of each word upon theface 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 has 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 ornot true doesn't concern me. i entirely decline to be mixed up in yourlife.
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 am 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 thatkind. you have made experiments. what you have got to do is to destroy thething 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 issupposed 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, andeverything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that i may scatter in theair." "you are mad, dorian." "ah!i was waiting for you to call me dorian." "you are mad, i tell you--mad to imaginethat 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 myreputation for you? what is it to me what devil's work you areup to?" "it was suicide, alan.""i am glad of that. 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 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 theworld, to mix myself up in this horror? i should have thought you knew more aboutpeople's characters. your friend lord henry wotton can't havetaught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you.nothing will 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 or the marring of it than poorharry has had. he may not have intended it, the result wasthe 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 doingsomething 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, andthe horrors that you do there don't affect you. if in some hideous dissecting-room or fetidlaboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped outin it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirablesubject. you would not turn a hair.you would not believe that you were doing
anything wrong. on the contrary, you would probably feelthat you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in theworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. what i want you to do is merely what youhave often done before. indeed, to destroy a body must be far lesshorrible than what you are accustomed to work at. and, remember, it is the only piece ofevidence against me. if it is discovered, i am lost; and it issure 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 withterror. you may know terror yourself some day.no! don't think of that. look at the matter purely from thescientific point of view. you don't inquire where the dead things onwhich you experiment come from. don't inquire now.
i have 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 days, dorian--they are dead." "the dead linger sometimes.the man upstairs will not go away. he is sitting at the table with bowed headand 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 thematter. 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 doriangray's eyes. then he stretched out his hand, took apiece 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 overto the window.
campbell looked at him in surprise, andthen took up the paper, and opened it. as he read it, his face became ghastly paleand he fell back in his chair. a horrible sense of sickness came over him. he felt as if his heart was beating itselfto death in some empty hollow. after two or three minutes of terriblesilence, dorian turned round and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon hisshoulder. "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.but 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 for me to dictate terms." campbell buried his face in his hands, anda 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 heshivered all over. the ticking of the clock on the mantelpieceseemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which wastoo terrible to be borne. he felt as if an iron ring was being slowlytightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened hadalready come upon him. the hand upon his shoulder weighed like ahand of lead.
it was intolerable.it seemed to crush him. "come, alan, you must decide at once." "i cannot do it," he said, mechanically, asthough 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 notepaper what you
want and my servant will take a cab andbring the things back to you." campbell scrawled a few lines, blottedthem, 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 hisvalet, with orders to return as soon as possible and to bring the things with him. as the hall door shut, campbell startednervously, 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 themen spoke.
a fly buzzed noisily about the room, andthe ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. as the chime struck one, campbell turnedround, and looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity andrefinement 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 tocorruption, and now you have culminated in crime. in doing what i am going to do--what youforce me to do--it is not of your life that i am thinking." "ah, alan," murmured dorian with a sigh, "iwish 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 thedoor, and the servant entered, carrying a
large mahogany chest of chemicals, with along coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. "shall i leave the things here, sir?" heasked 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 whosupplies selby with orchids?" "harden, sir.""yes--harden. you must go down to richmond at once, seeharden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as i ordered, and tohave as few white ones as possible.
in fact, i don't want any white ones. it is a lovely day, francis, and richmondis 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 will your experiment take, alan?" he said in a calm indifferent voice.the presence of a third person in the room seemed 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 fordressing. you can have the evening to yourself.i am not dining at home, so i shall not want you." "thank you, sir," said the man, leaving theroom. "now, alan, there is not a moment to belost. how heavy this chest is! i'll take it for you.you bring the other things." he spoke rapidly and in an authoritativemanner.
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, alan," he murmured."it is nothing to me. i don't require you," said campbell coldly. dorian half opened the door.as he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight.on the floor in front of it the torn
curtain was lying. he remembered that the night before he hadforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about torush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. what was that loathsome red dew thatgleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweatedblood? how horrible it was!--more horrible, itseemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretchedacross the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet
showed him that it had not stirred, but wasstill there, as he had left it. he heaved a deep breath, opened the door alittle wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determinedthat 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 turnround, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. he heard campbell bringing in the heavychest, and the irons, and the other things
that he had required for his dreadful work. he began to wonder if he and basil hallwardhad 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 consciousthat the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and that campbell was gazing intoa glistening yellow face. as he was going downstairs, he heard thekey being turned in the lock. it was long after seven when campbell cameback into the library. he was pale, but absolutely calm.
"i have done what you asked me to do," hemuttered "and now, good-bye. 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 wentupstairs. there was a horrible smell of nitric acidin the room. but the thing that had been sitting at thetable was gone.
