As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann\u2019s \u201cForest Scenes.\u201d \u201cYou must lend me these, Basil,\u201d he cried. \u201cI want to learn them. They are perfectly charming.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, I am tired of sitting, and I don\u2019t want a life-sized portrait of myself,\u201d answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. \u201cI beg your pardon, Basil, but I didn\u2019t know you had any one with you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray,\u201d said Lord Henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. \u201cMy aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am in Lady Agatha\u2019s black books at present,\u201d answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. \u201cI promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were to have played a duet together\u2014three duets, I believe. I don\u2019t know what she will say to me. I am far too frightened to call.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don\u2019t think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me,\u201d answered Dorian, laughing.<\/p>\n
Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth\u2019s passionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray\u2014far too charming.\u201d And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case.<\/p>\n
The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry\u2019s last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, \u201cHarry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?\u201d<\/p>\n
Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. \u201cAm I to go, Mr. Gray?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, please don\u2019t, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I can\u2019t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for philanthropy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You don\u2019t really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hallward bit his lip. \u201cIf Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian\u2019s whims are laws to everybody, except himself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. \u201cYou are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five o\u2019clock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBasil,\u201d cried Dorian Gray, \u201cif Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,\u201d said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. \u201cIt is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut what about my man at the Orleans?\u201d<\/p>\n
The painter laughed. \u201cI don\u2019t think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don\u2019t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue<\/i> of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, \u201cHave you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral\u2014immoral from the scientific point of view.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause to influence a person is to give him one\u2019s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else\u2019s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one\u2019s nature perfectly\u2014that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one\u2019s self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion\u2014these are the two things that govern us. And yet\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,\u201d said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the lad\u2019s face that he had never seen there before.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd yet,\u201d continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, \u201cI believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream\u2014I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medi\u00e6valism, and return to the Hellenic ideal\u2014to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStop!\u201d faltered Dorian Gray, \u201cstop! you bewilder me. I don\u2019t know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don\u2019t speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.\u201d<\/p>\n
For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basil\u2019s friend had said to him\u2014words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them\u2014had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.<\/p>\n
Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?<\/p>\n
Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?<\/p>\n
With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was!<\/p>\n
Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cBasil, I am tired of standing,\u201d cried Dorian Gray suddenly. \u201cI must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can\u2019t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted\u2014the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I don\u2019t know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn\u2019t believe a word that he says.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I don\u2019t believe anything he has told me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know you believe it all,\u201d said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. \u201cI will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCertainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you later on. Don\u2019t keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. \u201cYou are quite right to do that,\u201d he murmured. \u201cNothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.\u201d<\/p>\n
The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d continued Lord Henry, \u201cthat is one of the great secrets of life\u2014to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life\u2019s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet us go and sit in the shade,\u201d said Lord Henry. \u201cParker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat can it matter?\u201d cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t feel that, Lord Henry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, you don\u2019t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? … You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don\u2019t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius\u2014is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won\u2019t smile…. People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible…. Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly…. Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Don\u2019t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing…. A new Hedonism\u2014that is what our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season…. The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last\u2014such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.<\/p>\n
Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am waiting,\u201d he cried. \u201cDo come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks.\u201d<\/p>\n
They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray,\u201d said Lord Henry, looking at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAlways! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer.\u201d<\/p>\n
As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry\u2019s arm. \u201cIn that case, let our friendship be a caprice,\u201d he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose.<\/p>\n
Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.<\/p>\n
After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. \u201cIt is quite finished,\u201d he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.<\/p>\n
Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
The lad started, as if awakened from some dream.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it really finished?\u201d he murmured, stepping down from the platform.<\/p>\n
\u201cQuite finished,\u201d said the painter. \u201cAnd you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is entirely due to me,\u201d broke in Lord Henry. \u201cIsn\u2019t it, Mr. Gray?\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward\u2019s compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.<\/p>\n
As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you like it?\u201d cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the lad\u2019s silence, not understanding what it meant.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course he likes it,\u201d said Lord Henry. \u201cWho wouldn\u2019t like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is not my property, Harry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhose property is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDorian\u2019s, of course,\u201d answered the painter.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is a very lucky fellow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow sad it is!\u201d murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. \u201cHow sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June…. If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that\u2014for that\u2014I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil,\u201d cried Lord Henry, laughing. \u201cIt would be rather hard lines on your work.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI should object very strongly, Harry,\u201d said Hallward.<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. \u201cI believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say.\u201d<\/p>\n
The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he continued, \u201cI am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one\u2019s good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. \u201cDorian! Dorian!\u201d he cried, \u201cdon\u2019t talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?\u2014you who are finer than any of them!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day\u2014mock me horribly!\u201d The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is your doing, Harry,\u201d said the painter bitterly.<\/p>\n
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. \u201cIt is the real Dorian Gray\u2014that is all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is not.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf it is not, what have I to do with it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have gone away when I asked you,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI stayed when you asked me,\u201d was Lord Henry\u2019s answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cHarry, I can\u2019t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.<\/p>\n
With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. \u201cDon\u2019t, Basil, don\u2019t!\u201d he cried. \u201cIt would be murder!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian,\u201d said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. \u201cI never thought you would.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAppreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself.\u201d And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. \u201cYou will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI adore simple pleasures,\u201d said Lord Henry. \u201cThey are the last refuge of the complex. But I don\u2019t like scenes, except on the stage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, after all\u2014though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn\u2019t really want it, and I really do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!\u201d cried Dorian Gray; \u201cand I don\u2019t allow people to call me a silly boy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you don\u2019t really object to being reminded that you are extremely young.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAh! this morning! You have lived since then.\u201d<\/p>\n
There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet us go to the theatre to-night,\u201d said Lord Henry. \u201cThere is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White\u2019s, but it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is such a bore putting on one\u2019s dress-clothes,\u201d muttered Hallward. \u201cAnd, when one has them on, they are so horrid.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d answered Lord Henry dreamily, \u201cthe costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBefore either.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry,\u201d said the lad.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI should like that awfully.\u201d<\/p>\n
The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. \u201cI shall stay with the real Dorian,\u201d he said, sadly.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it the real Dorian?\u201d cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. \u201cAm I really like that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes; you are just like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow wonderful, Basil!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAt least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter,\u201d sighed Hallward. \u201cThat is something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat a fuss people make about fidelity!\u201d exclaimed Lord Henry. \u201cWhy, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t go to the theatre to-night, Dorian,\u201d said Hallward. \u201cStop and dine with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t, Basil.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe won\u2019t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cI entreat you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cI must go, Basil,\u201d he answered.<\/p>\n
\u201cVery well,\u201d said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. \u201cIt is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCertainly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou won\u2019t forget?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, of course not,\u201d cried Dorian.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd … Harry!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, Basil?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRemember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have forgotten it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish I could trust myself,\u201d said Lord Henry, laughing. \u201cCome, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.\u201d<\/p>\n
As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":299,"menu_order":3,"template":"","meta":{"pb_show_title":"on","pb_short_title":"","pb_subtitle":"","pb_authors":[],"pb_section_license":""},"chapter-type":[48],"contributor":[],"license":[],"class_list":["post-24","chapter","type-chapter","status-publish","hentry","chapter-type-numberless"],"part":3,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/24","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/chapter"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/299"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/24\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":167,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/24\/revisions\/167"}],"part":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/parts\/3"}],"metadata":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapters\/24\/metadata\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"chapter-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/pressbooks\/v2\/chapter-type?post=24"},{"taxonomy":"contributor","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/contributor?post=24"},{"taxonomy":"license","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pressbooks.library.torontomu.ca\/thepictureofdoriangray\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/license?post=24"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}