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Chapter XIII: 94-100
[94] "There is no good telling me you are going to be good, Dorian,"
cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl
filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray don't change."
Dorian shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my good
actions yesterday."
"Where were you yesterday?"
"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself."
"My dear boy," said Lord Henry smiling, "anybody can be good in the
country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why
people who live out of town are so uncivilized. There are only two
ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. One is by being cultured,
the other is by being corrupt. Country-people have no opportunity of
being either, so they stagnate."
"Culture and corruption," murmured Dorian. "I have known something
of both. It seems to me curious now that they should ever be found
together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I
think I have altered."
"You have not told me yet what your good action was. Or did you say
you had done more than one?"
"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one
else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I
mean. She was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I
think it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember
Sibyl, don't you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one
of our own class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village.
But I really loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All
during this wonderful May that we have been having, I used to run
down and see her two or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in
a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair,
and she was laughing. We were to have gone away together this
morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her as flower-like
as I had found her."
"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a
thrill of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry. "But I can
finish your idyl for you. You gave her good advice, and broke her
heart. That was the beginning of your reformation."
"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful things.
Hetty's heart is not broken. Of course she cried, and all that. But
there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her
garden."
"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing. "My
dear Dorian, you have the most curious boyish moods. Do you think
this girl will ever be really contented now with any one of her own
rank? I suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a
grinning ploughman. Well, having met you, and loved you, will teach
her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moral
point of view I really don't think much of your great renunciation.
[95] Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that
Hetty isn't floating at the present moment in some mill-pond, with
water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?"
"I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggest
the most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don't care
what you say to me, I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor
Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at
the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let me talk about it any
more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have
done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever
known, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to
be better. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in
town? I have not been to the club for days."
"The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance."
"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said
Dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly.
"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and
the public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more
than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunate
lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case, and Alan
Campbell's suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance
of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the gray
ulster who left Victoria by the midnight train on the 7th of November
was poor Basil, and the French police declare that Basil never
arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we will be
told that he has been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but
every one who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It
must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the
next world."
"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up
his Burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he
could discuss the matter so calmly.
"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it
is no business of mine. If he is dead, I don't want to think about
him. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it.
One can survive everything nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity
are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot
explain away. Let us have our coffee in the music-room, Dorian. You
must play Chopin to me. The man with whom my wife ran away played
Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The
house is rather lonely without her."
Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and, passing into the
next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the
keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, and, looking
over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it ever occur to you that Basil
was murdered?"
Lord Henry yawned. "Basil had no enemies, and always wore a
Waterbury watch. Why should he be murdered? He was not clever
enough to have enemies. Of course he had a wonderful genius for
painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as
possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once,
[96] and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild
adoration for you."
"I was very fond of Basil," said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes.
"But don't people say that he was murdered?"
"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to be probable. I know
there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man
to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was his chief defect.
Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low
voice, how you have kept your youth. You must have some secret. I
am only ten years older than you are, and I am wrinkled, and bald,
and yellow. You are really wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked
more charming than you do to-night. You remind me of the day I saw
you first. You were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely
extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in appearance.
I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would
do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be
respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It's absurd to talk
of the ignorance of youth. The only people whose opinions I listen
to now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They
seem in front of me. Life has revealed to them her last wonder. As
for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle.
If you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday,
they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when people wore
high stocks and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you
are playing is! I wonder did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the
sea weeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the
panes? It is marvelously romantic. What a blessing it is that there
is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don't stop. I want
music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo, and
that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my
own, that even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not
that one is old, but that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my
own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite
life you have had! You have drunk deeply of everything. You have
crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from
you. But it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It
has not marred you. You are still the same.
"I wonder what the rest of your life will be. Don't spoil it by
renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don't make
yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not shake
your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't deceive
yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a
question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly-built-up cells in which
thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy
yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color
in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once
loved and that brings strange memories with it, a line from a
forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece
of music that you had ceased to play,--I tell you, Dorian, that it is
on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes about
that somewhere; but our [97] own senses will imagine them for us.
There are moments when the odor of heliotrope passes suddenly across
me, and I have to live the strangest year of my life over again.
"I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried
out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always
will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for,
and what it is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never
done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or
produced anything outside of yourself! Life has been your art. You
have set yourself to music. Your days have been your sonnets."
Dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair.
"Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to
have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant
things to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if
you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh."
"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and play the nocturne
over again. Look at that great honey-colored moon that hangs in the
dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she
will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to the club,
then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly.
There is some one at the club who wants immensely to know you,--young
Lord Poole, Bournmouth's eldest son. He has already copied your
neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite
delightful, and rather reminds me of you."
"I hope not," said Dorian, with a touch of pathos in his voice. "But
I am tired to-night, Harry. I won't go to the club. It is nearly
eleven, and I want to go to bed early."
"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was
something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression
than I had ever heard from it before."
"It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a
little changed already."
"Don't change, Dorian; at any rate, don't change to me. We must
always be friends."
"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that.
Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. It
does harm."
"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be
going about warning people against all the sins of which you have
grown tired. You are much too delightful to do that. Besides, it is
no use. You and I are what we are, and will be what we will be.
Come round tomorrow. I am going to ride at eleven, and we might go
together. The Park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have
been such lilacs since the year I met you."
"Very well. I will be here at eleven," said Dorian. "Good-night,
Harry." As he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he
had something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.
It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm,
and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled
[98] home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress
passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is
Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was
pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing
his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had
been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had told
the girl whom he had made love him that he was poor, and she had
believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had
laughed at him, and told him that wicked people were always very old
and very ugly. What a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing.
And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats!
She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost.
When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He
sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library,
and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said
to him.
Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild
longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood,--his rose-white
boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had
tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption, and given horror
to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had
experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that
had crossed his own it had been the fairest and the most full of
promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable?
Was there no hope for him?
It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that.
It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. Alan
Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not
revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement,
such as it was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass
away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor,
indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his
mind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him.
Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. He could
not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done everything.
Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had
yet borne with patience. The murder had been simply the madness of a
moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He
had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him.
A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting
for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent
thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would
be good.
As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in
the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as
it had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to
expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of
evil had already gone away. He would go and look.
He took the lamp from the table and crept up-stairs. As he unlocked
the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [99]
lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the
hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to
him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already.
He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom,
and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and
indignation broke from him. He could see no change, unless that in
the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved
wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome,--more
loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet dew that
spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt.
Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or
the desire of a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his
mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us
do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these?
Why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have
crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was
blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped,--blood
even on the hand that had not held the knife.
Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up,
and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was
monstrous. Besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess?
There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything
belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had
been below-stairs. The world would simply say he was mad. They
would shut him up if he persisted in his story.
Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make
public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their
sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would
cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his
shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him.
He was thinking of Hetty Merton.
It was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking
at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in
his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least
he thought so. But who could tell?
And this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? Was he never to
get rid of the past? Was he really to confess? No. There was only
one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself,--that was
evidence.
He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? It had given him
pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had
felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had
been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look
upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere
memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience
to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it.
He looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward.
He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it.
It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it
[100] would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It
would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. He
seized it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up
from top to bottom.
There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its
agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their
rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the Square below, stopped,
and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a
policeman, and brought him back. The man rang the bell several
times, but there was no answer. The house was all dark, except for a
light in one of the top windows. After a time, he went away, and
stood in the portico of the next house and watched.
"Whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two
gentlemen.
"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman.
They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of
them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle.
Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics
were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was
crying, and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the
footmen and crept up-stairs. They knocked, but there was no reply.
They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying
to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the
balcony. The windows yielded easily: the bolts were old.
When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid
portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder
of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead
man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered,
wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined
the rings that they recognized who it was.
Content of Chapter XIII: 94-100
-THE END-
Oscar Wilde's novel: Picture of Dorian Gray
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