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O Retrato de Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
O Retrato de Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
INTRODUÇÃO
PREFÁCIO
O RETRATO DE DORIAN GRAY
CAPÍTULO I
CAPÍTULO 2
CAPÍTULO 3
CAPÍTULO 4
CAPÍTULO 5
CAPÍTULO 6
CAPÍTULO 7
CAPÍTULO 8
CAPÍTULO 9
CAPÍTULO 10
CAPÍTULO 11
CAPÍTULO 12
CAPÍTULO 13
THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
OSCAR WILDE
OSCAR WILDE
E DIÇÃO BILÍNGUE
2012
COPYRIGHT BY EDITORA LANDMARK LTDA.
PRIMEIRA EDIÇÃO: THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY, LIPPINCOTT’S MONTHLY
MAGAZINE, 20 DE JUNHO DE 1890
DIRETOR EDITORIAL: FABIO CYRINO
TRADUÇÃO E NOTAS: MARCELLA FURTADO
REVISÃO E ADEQUAÇÃO ORTOGRÁFICA: FRANCISCO DE FREITAS
DIAGRAMAÇÃO E CAPA: ARQUÉTIPO DESIGN+COMUNICAÇÃO
Oscar Wilde conquistou sua fama através de suas obras para o teatro e o modo
escolhido de expressão literária foi a sátira de costumes, uma forma que lhe
permitia exibir seu estilo e suas crenças estéticas, bem como seu domínio
sofisticado sobre a vida intelectual e a literatura de sua época. É inegável a
presença da sátira na maioria de suas peças, entretanto não se pode deixar de
observar a extensão pelo qual o Esteticismo moldou a estrutura dramática bem
como os temas de suas obras. Wilde defendia amplamente através de sua
produção as teses do movimento: a função primordial da arte seria a de criar
beleza e harmonia, e não apresentar de forma principal uma mensagem social
ou moral. Frequentemente, citava uma máxima proferida pelo poeta do
romantismo inglês, John Keats (1795-1821) – “A Beleza corresponde à Verdade
e a Verdade é bela” – como sendo o marco inicial do movimento estético, um
verdadeiro renascimento das artes na Inglaterra. A oportunidade de construir o
movimento estético precisamente e combiná-lo com os grande temas sociais,
levou Wilde a enveredar pelo drama.
Em 1889, J. M. Stoddart, um dos sócios da Lippincott, se encontrava em Londres
para coletar e contratar pequenos romances e contos para serem publicados em
sua revista. Na ocasião, conheceu pessoalmente Wilde e lhe encomendou uma
obra que retratasse o pensamento do Esteticismo. Segundo o biógrafo Philippe
Julian, em sua obra “Oscar Wilde”, Wilde desenvolveu a trama de “O Retrato de
Dorian Gray ” a partir de um acontecimento verdadeiro ocorrido com o escritor
alguns anos antes: por volta de 1884, Oscar Wilde foi convidado ao estúdio do
pintor Basil Ward, onde o mesmo estava finalizando uma pintura de um jovem
modelo. Quando a obra foi finalmente completada, Wilde teria dito: “é uma pena
que tal gloriosa criatura um dia envelheça”. O pintor concordou com sua opinião,
respondendo “seria maravilhoso se ele pudesse permanecer exatamente como
ele é; a imagem do quadro é que deveria ganhar as marcas do tempo”. Valendo-
se desse acontecimento, Wilde desenvolveu um pequeno romance que retratava
alguns dos conceitos desenvolvidos pelo movimento e apresentava uma história
unida aos conceitos da vida dupla, publicado na edição da revista literária norte-
americana em 20 de junho de 1890.
De certo modo, a trama desenvolvida por Wilde acaba por se referir a um outro
romance contemporâneo seu, de autoria do escritor escocês Robert Louis
Stevenson – “O Estranho Caso do Doutor Jeky ll e do Senhor Hy de”: o que neste
último é demonstrado como sendo uma divisão intrínseca à personalidade
humana, e com isso a busca primordial dos ensaios científicos da personagem
Henry Jeky ll, em “Dorian Gray ”, Wilde apresenta através da personagem
principal como essas duas partes divergentes de sua personalidade tentam
coexistir. Gray chega a comentar que apesar das aparências, cada um de nós
possui em si mesmo, um pouco do Céu e do Inferno. Devido a essa observação e
outras ao longo do romance, Wilde foi acusado de ser um mero compilador de
estilos e conteúdos, empregando livremente opiniões, personagens e
características de outros autores, como Honoré de Balzac, Robert Louis
Stevenson, Edgard Allan Poe e Arthur Conan Doy le.
O romance ampliado foi publicado no ano seguinte, em abril de 1891, pela casa
editorial inglesa “Ward, Lock and Bowden Company ”; nesta versão, Wilde
ampliou os treze capítulos originais passando para vinte, em virtude de uma série
de exigências que os editores ingleses realizaram no sentido de se suavizar a
trama, sem contudo perder o foco principal da história: Wilde inseriu quatro
novos capítulos – os capítulos 3, 5, 15 e 18 da versão de 1891 – e dividiu o capítulo
13 da versão de 1890, em dois.
“Um artista, meu caro senhor, não possui afinidade ética com tudo. A virtude e a
fraqueza são para ele simplesmente o que as cores de uma paleta são para um
pintor”.
“O público inglês não possui qualquer interesse em uma obra de arte até que lhe
seja informado que esta mesma obra é imoral”.
“Não desejo ser um escritor popular. Isso seria bom demais para as massas”.
O lançamento de “O Retrato de Dorian Gray ” fez com que seu autor se tornasse
ainda mais admirado e famoso. No entanto, em seu apogeu literário, começaram
a surgir os problemas pessoais, aliados aos seus posicionamentos audaciosos para
a época, o que desafiavam a moralidade da aristocracia inglesa. Seu
envolvimento com lorde Alfred Douglas o levaria à ruína: o pai de lorde Douglas,
o marquês de Queensberry , sabendo do envolvimento de seu filho com o
escritor, enviou uma carta ao escritor endereçada a “Oscar Wilde, o conhecido
Sodomita”. O escritor decidiu processar o marquês por difamação; em seguida,
tentou mudar de ideia e desistir do processo, visto que muitos rumores pairavam
sobre sua própria conduta, mas já era tarde demais: as provas apresentadas sobre
seu comportamento começaram a surgir e um novo processo foi instaurado
contra ele. Nesse processo, o tribunal também se valeu das ideias apresentadas
em “O Retrato de Dorian Gray ” como forma de justificar o caráter corruptor
dos ideais de Oscar Wilde, principalmente entre a juventude aristocrática inglesa.
O arti s ta é o cri ador de coi s as bel as . Revel ar a arte e ocul tar o arti s ta é o
obj eti vo da arte. O crí ti co é aquel e que pode traduzi r de outro modo, ou em um
novo materi al , as s uas i mpres s ões s obre as coi s as bel as .
As formas mai s el evadas ou bai xas da crí ti ca é um modo de
autobi ografi a. Aquel es que encontram s i gni fi cados fei os nas coi s as bel as s ão
corruptos e s em s erem encantadores . Is to é um defei to.
Aquel es que encontram s i gni fi cados bel os nas coi s as bel as s ão
aquel es que as cul ti vam. Para es s es há es perança. E l es s ão os el ei tos para
quem as coi s as bel as s i gni fi cam apenas bel eza.
Não exi s tem fatos morai s ou i morai s em um l i vro. Os l i vros s ão
apenas bem ou mal es cri tos . Is to é tudo.
O ódi o do s écul o 19 pel o Real i s mo é a rai va de Cal i bã[1] ao ver o s eu
própri o ros to di ante de um es pel ho.
O ódi o do s écul o 19 pel o Romanti s mo é a rai va de Cal i bã ao não poder
ver o s eu própri o ros to em um es pel ho. A vi da moral dos homens cons ti tui
partes do tema us ado por um arti s ta, mas a moral i dade da arte cons i s te do us o
perfei to de um mei o i mperfei to. Nenhum arti s ta des ej a provar nada. M es mo
as coi s as que s ão verdadei ras podem s er provadas . Nenhum arti s ta pos s ui
compreens ão da éti ca. Uma compreens ão éti ca em um arti s ta é um
manei ri s mo i mperdoável de es ti l o. Do mes mo modo, nenhum arti s ta é
mórbi do. O arti s ta pode expres s ar todas as coi s as . O pens amento e a
l i nguagem s ão os i ns trumentos artí s ti cos de uma arte. O ví ci o e a vi rtude s ão
os materi ai s artí s ti cos para a arte. A parti r do ponto de vi s ta da forma, a
ti pol ogi a de todas as artes é a arte do mús i co. Do ponto de vi s ta do s enti mento, o
ofí ci o do ator é a ti pol ogi a. Toda arte em s i é s uperfí ci e e s í mbol o. Aquel es que
vão al ém da s uperfí ci e o fazem s ob s eu própri o ri s co. Aquel es que des vendam
o s í mbol o o fazem s ob s eu própri o ri s co. É o es pectador e não a vi da que a Arte
real mente es pel ha. A di vers i dade de opi ni ão s obre o trabal ho da arte
demons tra que o trabal ho é novo, compl exo e vi tal . Quando os crí ti cos di vergem,
o arti s ta permanece de acordo com s i mes mo. Nós podemos perdoar um homem
por tornar al go úti l , mes mo que el e não a admi re. A úni ca des cul pa para s e
produzi r al go i núti l é aqui l o que s e admi ra i ntens amente.
[1] Uma das úni cas quatro i ns ti tui ções acadêmi cas que formam barri s ters
( advogados que di vi dem uma caus a com os s ol i ci tors , que têm contato com
o cl i ente, enquanto os barri s ters fazem a defes a do cl i ente na corte).
Local i zada em Londres , foi formada após a di s s ol ução da Ordem dos
Templ ári os no Rei no Uni do, em 1312, e exi s te até hoj e.
[2] Os es tudantes de advocaci a em M i ddl e Templ e s ão obri gados a j antar na
i ns ti tui ção pel o menos doze vezes . Após a refei ção, s eguem-s e debates e
pal es tras .
[3] No ori gi nal , “Stars and Garters ”. A expres s ão refere-s e a doi s el ementos :
pri mei ro, a cons tatação de que a mai or parte das medal has da caval ari a
bri tâni ca ti nha o formato de uma es trel a; depoi s , à Order of the Garter,
cri ada por E duardo III em 1344 como a mai s al ta condecoração da caval ari a
bri tâni ca. Por mei o da l i teratura, uti l i zada por Pope, Shakes peare e
Di ckens , entre outros , a expres s ão ganhou forma de di to popul ar, como a
vers ão norte-ameri cana “Oh, my s tars and garters !”.
[4] O vers o “A Dream of Form i n Days of Thought” é do poema “To a Greek
Gi rl ”, do i ngl ês Aus ti n Henry Dobs on ( 1840-1921).
CAPÍT ULO 2
[1] “Cenas das Fl ores tas ”, obra para pi ano s ol o de Robert Al exander Schumann,
compos ta em 1838.
[2] E ton Col l ege, fundado por Henri que IV em 1440, é um col égi o apenas para
garotos e l ocal i za-s e no mes mo l ocal até os di as de hoj e, nas
proxi mi dades do Cas tel o de Wi nds or, tendo formado dezoi to pri mei ros -
mi ni s tros bri tâni cos e i números membros da nobreza, al ém dos
herdei ros da cas a real i ngl es a.
CAPÍT ULO 3
Por uma razão ou outra, a cas a es tava chei a naquel a noi te, e o gordo
gerente j udeu que os recepci onou à porta os tentava um s orri s o ol eos o e trêmul o
de orel ha à orel ha. E l e os conduzi u ao camarote com um ti po de pompos a
humi l dade, bal ançando s uas mãos rechonchudas e chei as de j oi as , e fal ando
o mai s al to que podi a. Dori an Gray es tava mai s aves s o a el e do que nunca. E l e
s enti a como s e ti ves s e vi ndo procurar por M i randa e fora des coberto por
Cal i bã[1]. Lorde Henry, por outro l ado, gos tou bas tante del e. Pel o menos foi o
que di s s e e i ns i s ti a em tomar s uas mãos , cumpri mentando-l he e
as s egurando que es tava orgul hos o de encontrar um homem que des cobri ra um
verdadei ro tal ento e fora à fal ênci a por Shakes peare. Hal l ward s e di verti a vendo
os ros tos na pl atei a. O cal or era terri vel mente opres s i vo e a enorme l uz do s ol
bri l hava como uma dál i a mons truos a com pétal as de fogo. Os j ovens na gal eri a
ti raram s eus cas acos e col etes , e os penduravam ao l ado. Fal avam uns com os
outros através do teatro e di vi di am s uas l aranj as com as es pal hafatos as garotas
maqui adas que s e s entavam ao l ado del es . Al gumas mul heres ri am na
pl atei a; as s uas vozes eram horri vel mente agudas e des afi nadas . O s om do
ti rar das rol has chegava do bar.
“Que l ugar para al guém encontrar s ua deus a!”, di s s e l orde Henry.
“Si m!”, res pondeu Dori an Gray. “Foi aqui que eu a encontrei e el a é
di vi na, al ém de todas as coi s as vi vas . Quando el a i nterpretar, você es quecerá
todas as coi s as . E s tas pes s oas comuns aqui , com s eus ros tos gros s ei ros e
modos brutai s , s e tornam bem di ferentes quando el a es tá no pal co. Sentam-s e
em s i l ênci o e a obs ervam. E l as choram e ri em quando el a des ej a que as s i m
façam. E l a as torna tão res pons i vas quanto a um vi ol i no. E l a as es pi ri tual i za
e pode s e s enti r como s e fos s em da mes ma carne e do mes mo s angue quanto a
s i própri o.”
“Oh, es pero que não!”, murmurou l orde Henry, que es tava
exami nando os ocupantes da gal eri a por mei o de s eu ócul o de ópera.
“Não pres te atenção nel e, Dori an”, di s s e Hal l ward. “E ntendo o que você
di z e acredi to nes ta garota. Qual quer pes s oa que você ame deve s er
maravi l hos a e qual quer garota que tenha o efei to que você des creve deve s er
fi na e nobre. E s pi ri tual i zar a época de al guém – i s s o é al go vál i do de s e fazer.
Se es ta garota pode dar al ma a es tes que têm vi vi do s em uma, s e el a pode cri ar
o s enti do de bel eza em pes s oas cuj as vi das têm s i do s órdi das e fei as , s e el a
pode arrancá-l os do s eu egoí s mo e trocar-l hes l ágri mas por mágoas que não
s ão própri as del es , então el a val e toda a s ua adoração, val e toda a adoração do
mundo. E s te cas amento é mui to certo. Não o achava no começo, mas admi to o
s er agora. Deus fez Sybi l Vane para você. Sem el a, você s eri a bem i ncompl eto”.
“Obri gado, Bas i l ”, res pondeu Dori an Gray, apertando-l he a mão. “Sabi a
que você me compreenderi a. Harry é mui to cí ni co, el e me as s us ta. M as ei s a
orques tra. É bem horrí vel , mas dura apenas cerca de ci nco mi nutos . E ntão a
corti na s e l evanta e vocês verão a garota a quem darei toda a mi nha vi da, a
quem darei tudo o que exi s te de bom em mi m”.
Qui nze mi nutos depoi s , entre uma confus ão extraordi nári a de
apl aus os , Sybi l Vane pi s ou no pal co. Si m, el a era por certo encantadora de s e
ol har – uma das mai s encantadoras cri aturas , pens ou l orde Henry, que el e j á
vi ra. Havi a al go de cervo em s ua tí mi da graça e ol hos as s us tados . Um l eve
rubor, como a s ombra de uma ros a em um es pel ho de prata, vei o ao s eu ros to
quando el a rel anceou para a cas a l otada e entus i ás ti ca. E l a recuou al guns
pas s os e s eus l ábi os pareceram tremer. Bas i l Hal l ward l evantou-s e e começou
a apl audi r. Dori an Gray s entava-s e i móvel ol hando fi xamente para el a, como
um homem a s onhar. Lorde Henry es prei tava pel o s eu monócul o,
murmurando, “E ncantador, encantador”.
A cena era no corredor da cas a dos Capul eto e Romeu, em s uas ves tes
de peregri no, entrara com M ercuti o e s eus ami gos . O grupo, tal como es tava,
cantou al guns compas s os de mús i ca e a dança começou. Através da turba de
atores tos cos e mal ves ti dos , Sybi l Vane movi a-s e como uma cri atura de um
mundo mai s s ofi s ti cado. Seu corpo s e i ncl i nava, enquanto el a dançava, como
uma pl anta que os ci l a s obre a água. As curvas de s ua garganta eram como as
curvas de um l í ri o branco. Suas mãos pareci am s er fei tas de fri o marfi m.
Ai nda as s i m, el a es tava curi os amente i ndi ferente. E l a não exi bi a
nenhum s i nal de al egri a quando s eus ol hos pous aram em Romeu. As poucas
l i nhas que el a ti nha de fal ar:
foi decl amada com a dol oros a preci s ão de uma es tudante que fora
ens i nada a reci tar por al gum profes s or de s egunda categori a de l ocução.
Quando el a s e i ncl i nou s obre a s acada e chegou a es tas maravi l hos as l i nhas ,
Já pas s ara mui to do mei o-di a quando el e des pertou. Seu cri ado havi a
des l i zado vári as vezes para dentro do quarto, na ponta dos pés , para ver s e el e
es tava l evantando e s e perguntava o que fi zera s eu j ovem patrão dormi r até
tarde. Fi nal mente s ua campai nha s oou e Vi ctor entrou s uavemente com uma
xí cara de chá e uma pi l ha de cartas , em uma pequena bandej a de vel ha
porcel ana Sèvres , e abri u as corti nas de ceti m ol i va, com s eu ci nti l ante forro
azul , que pendi a defronte a três al tas j anel as .
“M ons i eur es teve dormi ndo por toda a manhã”, el e di s s e, s orri dente.
“Que horas s ão, Vi ctor?”, perguntou Dori an Gray, s onol ento.
“Uma e qui nze, mons i eur”.
Como era tarde! E l e s e l evantou e, tendo bebi do um pouco de chá,
vol tou-s e para as s uas cartas . Uma del as era de l orde Henry e fora entregue
em mãos naquel a manhã. E l e hes i tou por um momento e então a dei xou de
l ado. E l e abri u as outras i ndi ferentemente. Conti nham a habi tual col eção de
cartões , convi tes para j antar, i ngres s os para verni s s ages , programas para
concertos de cari dade e s i mi l ares , des pej ados em el egantes e j ovens rapazes a
cada manhã durante a es tação. Havi a uma conta bem s al gada, de um conj unto
para banho Loui s XV de prata, gravado em rel evo, que el e ai nda não ti vera a
coragem de envi ar para os s eus guardi ões , que eram pes s oas extremamente
anti quadas e não entendi am que vi vemos em uma época onde apenas as
coi s as s upérfl uas nos s ão extremamente neces s ári as ; e havi a vári as
mens agens em tom mui to cordi al dos fi nanci s tas de Jermyn Street oferecendo
o adi antamento de qual quer s oma de di nhei ro a qual quer momento e com as
mai s razoávei s taxas de j uros .
Depoi s de quas e dez mi nutos el e s e l evantou e, ves ti ndo um el aborado
roupão, pas s ou para o banhei ro de pi s o de ôni x. A água fri a o refres cou depoi s
de um l ongo s ono. E l e pareci a ter s e es queci do de tudo o que pas s ara. Um vago
s ens o de ter tomado parte de al guma es tranha tragédi a l he ocorreu uma ou
duas vezes , mas era a i rreal i dade de um s onho tudo aqui l o.
As s i m que termi nou de s e ves ti r, foi até a bi bl i oteca e s entou-s e para
um l eve des j ej um francês , que fora di s pos to para el e em uma pequena mes a
ci rcul ar próxi ma de uma j anel a aberta. E ra um bel o di a. O ar cál i do pareci a
carregar temperos . Uma abel ha voou adentro, zumbi ndo ao redor de uma ces ta
azul no formato de dragão, chei a de ros as amarel o-enxofre, que es tava à frente
del e. E l e s e s enti a perfei tamente fel i z.
De repente, s eus ol hos pous aram s obre a tel a que el e col ocara defronte
ao retrato e s e as s us tou.
“M ui to fri o para o M ons i eur?”, perguntou s eu cri ado, col ocando uma
omel ete s obre a mes a. “Devo fechar a j anel a?”
Dori an bal ançou s ua cabeça. “Não es tou com fri o”, el e murmurou.
E ra então verdade? O retrato ti nha mes mo mudado? Ou era
s i mpl es mente a s ua própri a i magi nação que o fi zera ver um ar di aból i co onde
havi a um tom de al egri a? De fato uma tel a pi ntada não poderi a mudar? A coi s a
era abs urda. Servi ri a como uma hi s tóri a para contar a Bas i l al gum di a. Aqui l o
o fari a s orri r.
E , ai nda, como era ví vi da s ua l embrança de tudo aqui l o! Pri mei ro, à
débi l l uz do al vorecer e então, na bri l hante aurora, el e vi ra o toque de
cruel dade em s eus l ábi os curvados . E l e quas e temeu que s eu cri ado
abandonas s e a s al a. E l e s abi a que, quando es ti ves s e s ó, teri a de exami nar o
retrato. E l e es tava com medo da certeza. Quando o café e os ci garros foram
trazi dos , e o cri ado s e vi rou para s ai r, el e s enti u um l ouco des ej o de pedi r para
que fi cas s e. As s i m que a porta s e fechou atrás de s i , el e o chamou de vol ta. O
homem fi cou es perando pel as s uas ordens . Dori an ol hou para el e por um
momento. “Não es tou em cas a para ni nguém, Vi ctor”, el e di s s e com um
s us pi ro. O homem s e i ncl i nou e s ai u.
E l e ergueu-s e da mes a, acendeu um ci garro e s e j ogou em um s ofá
l uxuos amente al mofadado que fi cava em frente à tel a. A tel a era fei ta com um
vel ho couro es panhol dourado, es tampado e trabal hado com um padrão Loui s
XIV bem fl ori do. E l e a obs ervou curi os amente, s e perguntando s e a tel a j á
cobri ra o s egredo da vi da de um homem al guma vez.
Deveri a el e col ocá-l a de l ado, depoi s de tudo? Por que não dei xá-l a fi car
l á? Qual era a i mportânci a de s aber? Se a coi s a era real , era terrí vel . Se não
fos s e, por que s e i ncomodar? M as e s e, por al gum des ti no ou coi nci dênci a
fatal , outros ol hos que não os del e es pi as s em por trás e vi s s em a terrí vel
mudança? O que el e fari a s e Bas i l Hal l ward vi es s e e pedi s s e para ver s eu
própri o retrato? E ra certo que el e o fari a. Não; a coi s a ti nha de s er exami nada e
de uma vez. Qual quer coi s a s eri a mel hor que es te terrí vel es tado de dúvi da.
E l e s e l evantou e trancou as duas portas . Pel o menos el e es tari a
s ozi nho quando pus es s e os ol hos s obre a más cara de s ua vergonha. E ntão el e
puxou a tel a para o l ado e s e vi u frente a frente cons i go mes mo. E ra
perfei tamente verdade. O retrato ti nha s e al terado.
Como el e frequentemente s e l embrari a depoi s e s empre s em
nenhum es tranhamento, el e s e encontrou pri mei ro mi rando o retrato com um
s enti mento de i nteres s e quas e ci entí fi co. Que tal mudança tenha ocorri do l he
era i nacredi tável . E , ai nda, era um fato. Havi a al guma s uti l afi ni dade entre
os átomos quí mi cos , que s e formavam em forma e cor s obre a tel a, e a al ma
es tava dentro del e? Poderi a s er que o quê aquel a al ma pens as s e, s e real i zari a?
Que o que fos s e s onhado, el es fari am acontecer? Ou haveri a al guma outra
razão, mai s terrí vel ? E l e tremeu e s enti u medo e, vol tando-s e para o s ofá,
dei tou-s e l á, ol hando o retrato com um doenti o terror.
Uma coi s a, porém, el e s enti u que aqui l o fi zera por el e. Ti nha fei to-o
cons ci ente de como el e fora i nj us to e cruel com Sybi l Vane. Não era tarde para
s e reparar aqui l o. E l a ai nda poderi a s er s ua es pos a. Seu amor s urreal e
egoí s ta poderi a ceder a al guma i nfl uênci a, s er trans formado em al guma
pai xão mai s nobre e o retrato que Bas i l Hal l ward pi ntara del e poderi a s er s eu
gui a pel a vi da, s eri a para el e o que o s acro era para al guns e a cons ci ênci a
para outros , e o temor de Deus para todos nós . Havi a opi áceos para o remors o,
drogas que poderi am entorpecer o s ens o moral até o s ono. M as aqui havi a um
s í mbol o vi s í vel da degradação do pecado. Aqui havi a um s i nal s empre
pres ente da ruí na que os homens trouxeram para as s uas al mas .
Bateram as três horas e as quatro, quatro e mei a, mas el e não s e
l evantou. E l e es tava tentando j untar as meadas es carl ates da vi da e tecê-l as
em um padrão; encontrar s eu cami nho por entre o ardente l abi ri nto da pai xão
pel o qual el e vagueava. E l e não s abi a o que fazer, nem o que pens ar.
Fi nal mente, el e s e di ri gi u até a mes a e es creveu uma carta apai xonada para
a garota que el e amava, i mpl orando o s eu perdão e acus ando a s i mes mo de
i ns ani dade. E l e cobri a pági nas e pági nas com l oucas pal avras de mágoa, e
ai nda mai s l oucas de dor. Havi a um l uxo na autorreprovação. Quando
cul pamos a nós mes mos , s enti mos que ni nguém mai s tem o di rei to de nos
cul par. É a confi s s ão, e não o padre, que nos abs ol ve. Quando Dori an Gray
termi nou s ua carta, el e s enti a que el e ti nha s i do perdoado.
Repenti namente bateram à porta e el e ouvi u a voz de l orde Henry do
l ado de fora. “M eu caro Dori an, tenho de vê-l o. Dei xe-me entrar de uma vez.
Não pos s o s uportar que s e tranque des ta manei ra”.
E l e não res pondeu de i ní ci o, mas permaneceu bem i móvel . As
bati das conti nuaram e fi caram mai s al tas . Si m, era mel hor dei xar l orde
Henry entrar e expl i car a el e a nova vi da que i ri a as s umi r, di s cuti r com el e
s e fos s e neces s ári o di s cuti r, s e s eparar, s e a s eparação fos s e i nevi tável . E l e
pul ou, arras tou a tel a apres s adamente s obre o quadro e des trancou a porta.
“Lamento por tudo i s s o, meu caro garoto”, di s s e l orde Henry, entrando.
“M as não pens e mui to a res pei to.”
“Você quer di zer s obre Sybi l Vane?”, perguntou Dori an.
“Si m, cl aro”, res pondeu l orde Henry, afundando-s e em uma cadei ra e
l entamente ti rando s uas l uvas . “É terrí vel , por um ponto de vi s ta, mas não foi
s ua cul pa. Di ga-me, você foi para a coxi a vê-l a depoi s que a peça acabou?”
“Si m”.
“E u s abi a que você i ri a. Você fez uma cena com el a?”
“Fui brutal , Harry, perfei tamente brutal . M as es tá tudo bem agora.
Não l amento por nada do que aconteceu. Is s o me ens i nou a me conhecer
mel hor”.
“Ah, Dori an, es tou tão fel i z que você tenha l evado des te modo! Temi
encontrá-l o enterrado em remors os e arrancando os s eus bel os cabel os ”.
“Pas s ei por tudo i s s o”, di s s e Dori an, bal ançando a cabeça e s orri ndo.
“E s tou perfei tamente fel i z, agora. Sei o que é cons ci ênci a, para começar. Não é
o que você me di s s e que era. É a coi s a mai s di vi na que há em nós . Não
des denhe, Harry, nunca mai s – pel o menos , não di ante de mi m. Quero s er
bom. Não s uporto a i dei a de mi nha al ma s er repugnante”.
“Uma bas e artí s ti ca bem encantadora para a éti ca, Dori an! Fel i ci to-l he
por i s s o. M as como você vai começar?”
“Cas ando-me com Sybi l Vane”.
“Cas ando com Sybi l Vane!”, excl amou l orde Henry, l evantando-s e e
ol hando para el e em perpl exa s urpres a. “M as , meu queri do Dori an...”
“Si m, Harry, s ei o que você i rá di zer. Al go terrí vel s obre o cas amento.
Não o di ga. Nunca di ga coi s as des te ti po para mi m novamente. Há doi s di as ,
pedi Sybi l Vane em cas amento. Não i rei quebrar mi nha pal avra. E l a s erá
mi nha es pos a”.
“Sua es pos a! Dori an!... Você não l eu mi nha carta? E s crevi para você es ta
manhã e envi ei a nota pel o meu própri o cri ado”.
“Sua carta? Oh, s i m, me l embro. Ai nda não a l i , Harry. Temi a que
houves s e al go nel a que eu não gos tas s e”
Lorde Henry cruzou a s al a e, s entando-s e próxi mo de Dori an Gray,
tomou s uas duas mãos e as apertou com força. “Dori an”, el e di s s e, “mi nha
carta... não s e as s us te... era para l he di zer que Sybi l Vane es tá morta”.
Um gri to de dor s e ergueu dos l ábi os do rapaz e el e s e l evantou de um
s al to, arrancando s uas mãos do control e de l orde Henry. “M orta! Sybi l morta!
Não é verdade! É uma menti ra terrí vel !”
“É bem verdade, Dori an”, di s s e l orde Henry, gravemente. “E s tá em
todos os j ornai s matuti nos . E s crevi para que você não l es s e nenhum del es até
que eu chegas s e. Tal vez haj a um i nquéri to e você não pode s er envol vi do nel e.
Coi s as como es tas tornam um homem cel ebri dade em Pari s . M as , em
Londres , as pes s oas s ão mui to preconcei tuos as . Aqui , ni nguém nunca deve
fazer s ua es trei a com um es cândal o. É preci s o res ervar i s s o para dar al gum
i nteres s e à vel hi ce. Não acredi to que s ai bam s eu nome no teatro. Se não, bem,
es tá tudo bem. Al guém o vi u rondando o camari m del a? E s te é um ponto
i mportante”.
Dori an não res pondeu por al guns i ns tantes . E l e es tava entorpeci do de
terror. Fi nal mente el e murmurou, com a voz embargada, “Harry, você
menci onou um i nquéri to? O que você qui s di zer com i s s o? Que Sybi l ...? Oh,
Harry, não pos s o s uportar! M as s ej a rápi do. Conte-me tudo de uma vez”.
“Não tenho dúvi da de que não foi um aci dente, Dori an, embora deva
s er col ocado des ta forma para o públ i co. As s i m que s ai u do teatro com a s ua
mãe, perto da mei a-noi te e mei a, el a di s s e que es quecera al go no andar de
ci ma. E s peraram al gum tempo por el a, mas el a não des ceu novamente.
E ncontraram-na enfi m morta, no chão de s eu camari m. E l a engol i ra al guma
coi s a por engano, al guma coi s a terrí vel que us am nos teatros . Não s ei o que
era, mas era áci do prús s i co[1] ou al vai ade. Imagi no que s ej a áci do prús s i co,
poi s parece que el a morreu i ns tantaneamente. É mui to trági co, cl aro, mas
você não pode s e envol ver ni s s o. Li no Standard que el a ti nha dezes s ete anos .
Pens ava que el a fos s e mai s j ovem ai nda. E l a aparentava s er cri ança e pareci a
s aber tão pouco s obre i nterpretação. Dori an, você não deve dei xar que i s s o o
acometa. Você deve vi r j antar comi go e depoi s i remos à Ópera. É noi te de Patti e
todos es tarão l á. Você poderá fi car no camarote de mi nha i rmã. E l a l evará
al gumas mul heres es pertas com el a”.
“E ntão, as s as s i nei Sybi l Vane”, di s s e Dori an Gray, quas e como para
s i mes mo – “as s as s i nei -a, tão certamente quanto ti ves s e cortado s ua pequena
garganta com uma faca. E as ros as não s ão menos encantadoras por caus a
di s to. Os pás s aros gorj ei am i gual mente fel i zes em meu j ardi m. E es ta noi te
j antarei com você e então i remos à Ópera e beberemos depoi s , s uponho. Como a
vi da é extraordi nari amente dramáti ca! Se eu ti ves s e l i do tudo i s s o em um
l i vro, Harry, acho que teri a chorado. De al guma forma, j á que i s s o real mente
aconteceu, e a mi m, parece mui to maravi l hos o para l ágri mas . E i s mi nha
pri mei ra apai xonada carta de amor que es crevi em mi nha vi da. E s tranho que
mi nha pri mei ra carta de amor apai xonada tenha s i do para uma garota que
tenha morri do. E l es podem s enti r, me pergunto, es tas pál i das e s i l entes
pes s oas que chamamos de mortos ? Sybi l ! E l a pode s enti r ou s aber, ou es cutar?
Oh, Harry, como eu a amei uma vez! Parece-me que foi há anos , agora. E l a
era tudo para mi m. E ntão chegou es ta noi te terrí vel – foi real mente apenas a
noi te pas s ada? – quando el a i nterpretou de manei ra tão rui m e meu coração
quas e s e parti u. E l a me expl i cou tudo. Foi terri vel mente patéti co. M as eu não
fi quei nem um pouco emoci onado. E u pens ei que el a fos s e s uperfi ci al . E ntão
al go aconteceu que me deu medo. Não pos s o l he di zer o que era, mas foi
tenebros o. E u di s s e que vol tari a para el a. Senti a que fi z errado. E agora el a
es tá morta. M eu Deus ! M eu Deus ! Harry, o que devo fazer? Você não s abe o
peri go que corro e não há nada para me manter no prumo. E l a teri a fei to i s s o
por mi m. E l a não ti nha o di rei to de s e matar. Foi mui to egoí s mo da parte del a”.
“M eu caro Dori an, o úni co modo pel o qual uma mul her s empre pode
cons ertar um homem é entedi á-l o tão compl etamente que el e perde todo o
i nteres s e pos s í vel na vi da. Se você ti ves s e des pos ado es ta garota, es tari a
arrui nado. Cl aro que você a teri a tratado bem. Sempre s e pode s er bondos o com
as pes s oas com as quai s não nos i mportamos . M as el a l ogo teri a des coberto
que você s eri a i nfi ni tamente i ndi ferente a el a. E , quando uma mul her faz
tal des coberta s obre s eu mari do, el a ou s e torna terri vel mente des l ei xada ou
us a al gumas toucas mui to s ofi s ti cadas que o mari do de outra mul her terá de
comprar também. Nada di go s obre o erro s oci al , mas l he as s eguro que, em todo
cas o, a coi s a toda s eri a um fracas s o compl eto”.
“Suponho que s i m”, res mungou o rapaz, cami nhando a es mo pel a s al a
e com uma aparênci a terri vel mente pál i da. “M as pens ava que era meu dever.
Não é mi nha cul pa que es ta horrí vel tragédi a tenha evi tado que eu fi zes s e o
que era correto. Lembro que me di s s e uma vez que havi a uma fatal i dade s obre
as boas res ol uções ... que el as eram s empre deci di das mui to tarde. A mi nha
certamente o foi ”.
“As boas res ol uções s ão s i mpl es mente tentati vas i nútei s de i nterferi r
em l ei s ci entí fi cas . Sua ori gem é pura vai dade. Seu res ul tado, abs ol utamente
nul o. E l as nos dão, de vez em quando, al gumas daquel as l uxuos as e es térei s
emoções que nos proporci onam certo charme. Is to é tudo o que s e pode di zer
s obre el as ”.
“Harry”, excl amou Dori an Gray, aproxi mando-s e e s entando ao s eu
l ado, “por que não cons i go s enti r es ta tragédi a tanto quanto eu quero? Não acho
que eu s ej a i ns ens í vel . Você acha?”
“Você fez mui tas coi s as tol as em s ua vi da para ter o di rei to de s e dar s e
atri bui r es te nome, Dori an”, res pondeu l orde Henry, com s eu s orri s o doce e
mel ancól i co.
O rapaz fez cara fei a. “Não gos to des ta expl i cação, Harry”, el e repl i cou,
“mas es tou fel i z por você não pens ar que s ou i ns ens í vel . Não s ou nada des te
ti po. Sei que não s ou. E admi to, porém, que es ta coi s a que aconteceu não me
afeta como deveri a. Parece-me apenas que foi s i mpl es mente um fi m
maravi l hos o para uma peça maravi l hos a. Tem toda a terrí vel bel eza de uma
grande tragédi a, uma tragédi a na qual atuei , mas pel a qual não fui feri do”.
“É uma ques tão i nteres s ante”, di s s e l orde Henry, que des cobri u um
del i cado prazer em bri ncar com o egoí s mo i ncons ci ente do rapaz, “uma ques tão
extremamente i nteres s ante. Imagi no que a expl i cação s ej a es ta.
Frequentemente acontece que as tragédi as reai s da vi da ocorram de manei ra
tão s em arte que el as nos machucam pel a s ua vi ol ênci a crua, s ua abs ol uta
i ncoerênci a, s eu des ej o abs urdo de s enti do, s ua compl eta fal ta de es ti l o. E l a
nos afeta da mes ma manei ra que a vul gari dade. E l a nos dá a i mpres s ão de
uma força bruta e abrupta e nos revol tamos contra i s s o. Às vezes , entretanto,
uma tragédi a que apres enta el ementos artí s ti cos de bel eza atraves s a as
nos s as vi das . Se es s es el ementos de bel eza s ão reai s , a coi s a toda
s i mpl es mente apel a ao nos s o s ens o de efei to dramáti co. Repenti namente,
des cobri mos que não s omos mai s os atores , mas os es pectadores da peça. Ou
mel hor, s omos ambos . Obs ervamo-nos e a mera maravi l ha do es petácul o nos
encanta. No cas o pres ente, o que real mente aconteceu? Al guém s e matou pel o
s eu amor. Qui s era eu ter ti do tal experi ênci a. Teri a me fei to apai xonado pel o
amor pel o res to da mi nha vi da. As pes s oas que me adoraram – não foram
tantas , mas foram al gumas – s empre i ns i s ti ram em conti nuar vi vendo, mui to
tempo após eu ter dei xado de me i mportar com el as ou el as por mi m.
Tornaram-s e val entes e tedi os as , e quando as encontro, s eguem di reto para as
remi ni s cênci as . Que pavoros a memóri a es ta as das mul heres ! Que coi s a
temeros a el a é! E que extrema es tagnação i ntel ectual el a revel a! Al guém
deveri a abs orver a cor da vi da, mas nunca s e l embrar dos s eus detal hes . Os
detal hes s ão s empre vul gares ”.
“Cl aro, às vezes as coi s as s e detêm. Uma vez, não us ei nada al ém de
vi ol etas por uma temporada i ntei ra, como l uto por um romance que não
morreri a. No fi m das contas , porém, el e morreu. E s queci o que o matou. Acho
que foi a propos ta del a de s acri fi car todo o mundo por mi m. E s te é s empre um
momento terrí vel . E nche al guém com o terror da eterni dade. Bem – você
acredi tari a? – uma s emana atrás , na cas a de l ady Hamps hi re, encontrei -me à
mes a com a dama em ques tão e el a i ns i s ti a em vol tar s obre a coi s a toda outra
vez, e a es cavar o pas s ado e remexer o futuro. E nterrei meu romance em uma
cama de papoul as . E l a o puxou novamente e me as s egurou que arrui nei s ua
vi da. E s tou i ncl i nado a afi rmar que el a comeu um j antar enorme, as s i m, eu
não s enti nenhuma ans i edade. M as que fal ta de gos to el a demons trou! O
úni co encanto do pas s ado é que el e pertence ao pas s ado. M as as mul heres
nunca s abem quando as corti nas caem. Sempre querem um s exto ato e, as s i m
que o i nteres s e na peça acaba por compl eto, el as propõem conti nuá-l a. Se
fos s em permi ti das a fazer do s eu modo, toda comédi a teri a um fi nal trági co e
toda tragédi a termi nari a em uma fars a. E l as s ão encantadoramente
arti fi ci ai s , mas não têm s ens o de arte. Você é mai s afortunado do que eu. E u
l he as s eguro, Dori an, que nenhuma das mul heres que conheci teri a fei to por
mi m o que Sybi l Vane fez por você. As mul heres ordi nári as s empre cons ol am
a s i mes mas . Al gumas del as o fazem bus cando cores s enti mentai s . Nunca
confi e em uma mul her que us a l i l ás , s ej a qual for a i dade del a ou uma
mul her com mai s de tri nta e ci nco anos que s ej a apai xonada por fai xas cor de
ros a. Is s o s empre s i gni fi ca que el as têm hi s tóri a. Outras encontram grande
cons ol o em des cobri r repenti namente as boas qual i dades de s eus mari dos .
E l as os tentam s ua fel i ci dade conj ugal na frente de outras , como s e fos s e o
mai s fas ci nante dos pecados . A rel i gi ão conforta al gumas . Seus mi s téri os têm
todo o charme do fl erte, uma mul her uma vez me di s s e; e pos s o entender i s s o
mui to bem. Al ém di s s o, nada torna al guém tão vão quanto s aber que al guém é
pecador. Real mente, não há fi m para o cons ol o que uma mul her pode obter na
vi da moderna. De fato, nem menci onei o mai s i mportante de todos ”.
“O que é, Harry?”, perguntou Dori an Gray, i ndi ferente.
“Oh, o mai s óbvi o. Roubar a admi radora de al guém quando s e perde a
própri a. E m boa companhi a que s empre dá uma cai ação a uma mul her. M as ,
real mente, Dori an, como Sybi l Vane deveri a s er di ferente de todas as
mul heres que s e pode encontrar! Há al go que me é mui to boni to em s ua morte.
E s tou fel i z por vi ver em um s écul o em que tai s maravi l has ocorrem. E l as nos
fazem crer na real i dade das coi s as com as quai s pes s oas s uperfi ci ai s e
modernas bri ncam, como romance, pai xão e amor”.
“Fui terri vel mente cruel com el a. Você es quece-s e di s s o”.
“Acredi to que as mul heres apreci am a cruel dade mai s do que
ni nguém. E l as têm i ns ti ntos maravi l hos amente pri mi ti vos . Nós as
l i bertamos , mas el as permanecem es cravas procurando por s eus amos , do
mes mo modo. E l as amam s er domi nadas . E s tou certo de que você foi
es pl êndi do. E u nunca o vi nervos o, mas pos s o i magi nar como você pareci a
prazeros o. E , no fi m das contas , você me di s s e al go anteontem que me
pareceu, naquel e momento, s er meramente fantas i os o, mas que vej o agora
s er perfei tamente verdadei ro e que expl i ca tudo”.
“O que era, Harry?”
“Você me di s s e que Sybi l Vane repres entava para você todas as
heroí nas do romance – que em uma noi te el a era Des dêmona, em outra,
Ofél i a; que, s e el a morres s e como Jul i eta, el a res s us ci tari a como Imogêni a”.
“E l a nunca vol tará a vi ver agora”, murmurou o rapaz, enterrando s eu
ros to entre as mãos .
“Não, el a nunca vol tará à vi da. E l a i nterpretou s eu úl ti mo papel . M as
você deve pens ar nes ta s ol i tári a morte, naquel e camari m barato,
s i mpl es mente como um es tranho e fúnebre fragmento de uma tragédi a
j acobi na, como uma cena maravi l hos a de Webs ter ou Ford, ou Cyri l Tourneur.
A garota nunca vi vera real mente e, portanto, nunca morreu de fato. E l a foi ,
pel o menos , s empre um s onho para você, um fantas ma que es voaçou s obre as
peças de Shakes peare e as dei xou ai nda mai s encantadoras com a s ua
pres ença, uma fl auta pel a qual a mús i ca de Shakes peare s oou mai s
s ofi s ti cada e com a mai s compl eta al egri a. No momento em que el a tocou a vi da
real , el a a embotou e a vi da a embotou, e então el a morreu. Lamente por
Ofél i a, s e qui s er. Derrame ci nzas em s ua cabeça, porque Cordél i a s e
es trangul ou. Chore aos céus porque a fi l ha de Brabanti o morreu[2]. M as não
des perdi ce s uas l ágri mas por Sybi l Vane. E l a foi menos real do que s uas
l ágri mas o s ão”.
Fez-s e s i l ênci o. A noi te es cureci a a s al a. As s ombras arras tavam-s e
para dentro, vi ndas do j ardi m, s em barul ho, com s eus pés de prata. As cores
s e des vaneci am das coi s as com cans aço.
Depoi s de al gum tempo, Dori an Gray ergueu os ol hos . “Você me
expl i cou para mi m mes mo, Harry”, el e murmurou, com al go de um s us pi ro
de al í vi o. “Senti tudo o que di s s e, mas de al guma forma eu temi a aqui l o e não
podi a expres s á-l o para mi m mes mo. Você me conhece mui to bem! M as não
fal aremos novamente do que aconteceu. Foi uma experi ênci a maravi l hos a.
Is s o é tudo. Pergunto-me s e a vi da ai nda me res erva al go tão maravi l hos o”.
“A vi da tem tudo res ervado para você, Dori an. Não há nada que você,
com s ua extraordi nári a aparênci a, não s ej a capaz de real i zar”.
“M as s uponha, Harry, que eu me torne emaci ado, vel ho e enrugado?
E então?”
“Ah, então”, di s s e l orde Henry, erguendo-s e para parti r, “então, meu
caro Dori an, você teri a de l utar pel as s uas vi tóri as . Do j ei to que es tá, el as l he
s erão trazi das . Não, você deve s e manter bel o. Vi vemos em uma época que s e l ê
demai s para s er s ábi o e que s e pens a demai s para s er bel o. Não podemos
poupá-l o. E agora é mel hor que você s e vi s ta e venha para o cl ube. E s tamos
bem atras ados , agora”.
“Acho que me j untarei a você na Ópera, Harry. Si nto-me mui to cans ado
para comer qual quer coi s a. Qual é o número do camarote de s ua i rmã?”
“Vi nte e s ete, acredi to. E s tá na fi l ei ra pri nci pal . Você verá o nome del a
na porta. M as l amento que você não venha ao j antar”.
“Não es tou com vontade”, di s s e Dori an, cans adamente. “M as es tou
terri vel mente em dí vi da com você por tudo o que me di s s e. Você certamente é
meu mel hor ami go. Ni nguém me entendeu como você”.
“E s tamos apenas no começo de nos s a ami zade, Dori an”, res pondeu
l orde Henry, apertando-l he a mão. “Adeus . E s pero vê-l o antes das nove e mei a.
Lembre-s e, Patti i rá cantar”.
As s i m que a porta fechou-s e atrás del e, Dori an Gray tocou a s i neta e,
em poucos mi nutos , Vi ctor apareceu com as l âmpadas e fechou as corti nas .
E l e es perou i mpaci entemente que s e fos s e. O homem pareci a gas tar um
tempo i ntermi nável com tudo.
As s i m que o cri ado s e foi , el e correu para a tel a e a afas tou. Não; não
havi a mudanças pos teri ores no retrato. O quadro recebera a notí ci a da morte de
Sybi l Vane antes que el e mes mo a s oubes s e. Tomava ci ênci a dos fatos da vi da
as s i m que aconteci am. A vi ci os a cruel dade que amarrotava as fi nas l i nhas
dos l ábi os ti nha, s em dúvi da, apareci do no exato momento em que a garota
ti nha bebi do o veneno ou s ej a l á o que fos s e. Ou era i ndi ferença aos
res ul tados ? Será que o quadro apenas tomava conheci mento do que s e pas s ava
dentro da al ma? E l e s e perguntou e es perou que em al gum di a vi s s e a
mudança ocorrendo di ante de s eus própri os ol hos , tremendo enquanto des ej ava
aqui l o.
Pobre Sybi l ! Que romance teri a s i do! Às vezes el a i mi tava a morte s obre
o pal co e, por fi m, a própri a M orte a tocara e a l evara cons i go. Como teri a el a
i nterpretado es ta úl ti ma cena? Teri a el a amal di çoado-o enquanto fal eci a? Não;
el a morrera pel o amor del e e o amor s empre s eri a um s acramento para el e,
agora. E l a havi a expi ado por tudo, pel o s acri fí ci o que el a fi zera de s ua vi da.
E l e não pens ari a mai s no que el a l he fi zera pas s ar, naquel a terrí vel noi te no
teatro. Quando el e pens as s e nel a, s eri a como uma trági ca fi gura maravi l hos a
a mos trar que o Amor foi uma grande real i dade. Uma trági ca fi gura
maravi l hos a? As l ágri mas vi eram aos ol hos enquanto el e s e l embrava daquel e
ar i nfanti l , s eus modos cati vantes e extravagantes e s ua tí mi da e trêmul a
graça. E l e as s ecou rapi damente e ol hou mai s uma vez para o retrato.
E l e s enti u que a hora de fazer a s ua es col ha ti nha real mente
chegado. Ou s ua es col ha j á teri a s i do fei ta? Si m, a vi da deci di ra por el e – a
vi da e a s ua i nfi ni ta curi os i dade s obre el a. A j uventude eterna, a pai xão
i nfi ni ta, prazeres s uti s e s ecretos , l oucas al egri as e ai nda mai s l oucos
pecados – el e es tava para pos s ui r todas es tas coi s as . O retrato carregari a o pes o
de s ua vergonha: i s s o era tudo.
Um s enti mento de dor l he abateu enquanto pens ava na profanação
que es tava res ervada para o bel o ros to s obre a tel a. Uma vez, em uma
adol es cente zombari a à Narci s o, el e bei j ara ou fi ngi ra bei j ar, aquel es l ábi os
pi ntados que agora s orri am tão cruel mente para el e. M anhã após manhã, el e
s e s entara di ante do retrato maravi l hado com s ua bel eza, quas e enamorado por
el a, como l he pareci a às vezes . Deveri a i s s o mudar agora, a cada s ens ação que
el e cedes s e? Deveri a s e tornar uma coi s a pavoros a e repul s i va a s er es condi da
em uma s al a trancada, a s er afas tada da l uz do s ol que ti nha tão
frequentemente trans formado em outro ai nda mai s bri l hante a maravi l ha
ondul ada de s eu cabel o? Que pena! Que pena!
Por um momento, el e pens ou em pedi r que a terrí vel s i mpati a que
exi s ti a entre el e e o retrato pudes s e ces s ar. O retrato mudou em res pos ta a um
pedi do; tal vez, em res pos ta a um pedi do, pudes s e permanecer i nal terado. E ,
ai nda, quem, que s abi a tudo s obre a Vi da, renunci ari a à oportuni dade de
fi car s empre j ovem, embora es ta oportuni dade fos s e fantás ti ca ou de quai s
cons equênci as fatai s el a poderi a es tar carregada? Al ém do mai s , i s s o es tava
real mente s ob s eu control e? Ti nha s i do de fato um pedi do que produzi ra as
mudanças ? Não poderi a haver al guma razão ci entí fi ca para i s s o? Se o
pens amento pudes s e exercer s ua i nfl uênci a s obre um organi s mo vi vo, não
poderi a exercer al guma i nfl uênci a s ob coi s as i nertes e i norgâni cas ? Não, s em
um pens amento ou um des ej o cons ci ente, não poderi am as coi s as externas a
nós vi brar em uní s s ono com nos s as s ens ações e pai xões , átomo convocando
átomo, em amor s ecreto ou es tranha afi ni dade? M as o moti vo era
i ns i gni fi cante. E l e nunca mai s tentari a, por um pedi do, qual quer força
terrí vel . Se o quadro ti ves s e de mudar, que mudas s e. Is s o era tudo. Por que
pes qui s ar i s s o tão a fundo?
Poi s havi a um verdadei ro prazer em obs ervá-l o. E l e s eri a capaz de
s egui r s ua mente até s eus recôndi tos s ecretos . E s te retrato l he s eri a o mai s
mági co dos es pel hos . As s i m como l he revel ara s eu própri o corpo, agora l he
revel ari a s ua própri a al ma. E , quando o i nverno chegas s e, el e es tari a ai nda
onde a pri mavera treme com a i mi nênci a do verão. Quando o s angue
es corres s e de s eu ros to e dei xas s e uma pál i da más cara de gi z com ol hos
pes ados , el e manteri a o gl amour da adol es cênci a. Nenhum dos botões de s eu
encanto des vaneceri a. Nenhum pul s o de s ua vi da s eri a mes mo enfraqueci do.
Como os deus es dos gregos , el e s eri a forte, l i gei ro e al egre. O que i mportava o
que aconteci a à i magem col ori da s obre a tel a? E l e es tari a a s al vo. Is s o era tudo.
E l e puxou a tel a de vol ta para o s eu l ugar ori gi nal , defronte ao quadro,
s orri ndo como es tava e pas s ou para o s eu quarto, onde s eu cri ado j á es tava l he
es perando. Uma hora depoi s el e es tava na Ópera e l orde Henry es tava s e
debruçando s obre s ua pol trona.
[1] Áci do prús s i co: uma vari ação de ci aneto de hi drogêni o, de extrema
vol ati l i dade, e um dos mai s poderos os venenos da anti gui dade. Pos s ui
forte aroma de amêndoas amargas , s endo encontrado em caroços de
pês s ego e de al gumas vari edades de maçãs .
[2] Des dêmona é a fi l ha de Brabanti o, na obra Otel o, de Wi l l i am Shakes peare.
CAPÍT ULO 7
[1] A gal eri a de fato exi s te, as s i m como Georges Peti t. O endereço compl eto é 8,
Rue de Sèzes , Pari s . Peti t ( 1856–1920) foi um nome-chave no mundo
artí s ti co de Pari s , l i gado pri nci pal mente aos Impres s i oni s tas . Sua
gal eri a foi aberta i ni ci al mente no número 12 da rue Godot de M auroy,
em 1881, s endo fechada em 1933.
CAPÍT ULO 8
Por anos , Dori an Gray não pôde s e l i bertar da memóri a des s e l i vro.
Ou, tal vez, s eri a mai s preci s o di zer que el e nunca procurou s e l i bertar del e.
E l e s ol i ci tou, de Pari s , nada menos que ci nco cópi as em tamanho grande da
pri mei ra edi ção e as encadernou em cores di ferentes , para que pudes s em
combi nar com s eus vári os humores e mutantes fantas i as de uma natureza
s obre a qual el e pareci a, às vezes , ter perdi do i ntei ramente o control e. O herói ,
o maravi l hos o j ovem pari s i ens e, no qual o temperamento românti co e o
temperamento ci entí fi co eram tão es tranhamente mes cl ados , tornou-s e uma
es péci e de ti po i magi nado de s i mes mo. E , de fato, todo o l i vro pareci a-l he
conter a hi s tóri a de s ua própri a vi da, es cri ta antes que el e a vi ves s e.
E m um ponto, el e foi mai s afortunado do que o fantás ti co herói do
l i vro. E l e nunca teve – nunca, de fato, ti vera al gum moti vo para ter – aquel e
certo temor grotes co de es pel hos e s uperfí ci es de metal pol i do, e ai nda a água,
que s e abatera s obre o j ovem pari s i ens e tão cedo em s ua vi da e foi ocas i onado
pel a s úbi ta decadênci a de s ua bel eza que, uma vez, aparentemente, foi tão
notável . E ra como uma al egri a prati camente cruel – e, tal vez, em quas e todas
as al egri as , tão certamente quanto em todos os prazeres , a cruel dade tem s eu
l ugar – que el e cos tumava l er a parte fi nal do l i vro, com s eu real mente
trági co, s enão exagerado, rel ato s obre a tri s teza e o des es pero de al guém que
perdera aqui l o que, nos outros e no mundo, el e mai s apreci ava.
E l e, de qual quer forma, não ti nha moti vo para es s e temor. A bel eza
adol es cente que tanto fas ci nara Bas i l Hal l ward e mui tos outros depoi s del e,
pareci a nunca dei xá-l o. M es mo aquel es que ouvi am as pi ores coi s as a s eu
res pei to ( e, de tempos em tempos , es tranhos boatos s obre s eu modo de vi da
es pal havam-s e s obre Londres e tornavam-s e as s unto pri nci pal nos cl ubes )
não podi am acredi tar em nada que o des abonas s e quando o vi am. E l e ti nha
s empre o ar de quem s e manti nha i macul ado do mundo. Os homens de fal a
gros s ei ra s e cal avam quando Dori an Gray entrava na s al a. Havi a al go, na
pureza de s eu ros to, que os reprovava. Sua s i mpl es pres ença pareci a l embrar-
l hes da i nocênci a que el es macul avam. E l es s e perguntavam como al guém
tão encantador e graci os o como el e poderi a es capar da mácul a de uma época que
era, por us a vez, s órdi da e s ens ual .
E l e mes mo, ao retornar para cas a de uma des s as mi s teri os as e
prol ongadas aus ênci as que davam ocas i ão a tal es tranha conj etura entre
aquel es que eram s eus ami gos ou pens avam s er, s ubi ri a as es cadas até o
quarto fechado, abri a a porta com a chave que nunca o dei xava e, permaneci a,
com um es pel ho, em frente ao retrato que Bas i l Hal l ward pi ntara del e,
ol hando agora para o ros to envel heci do e mau na tel a, e então para a bel a e
j ovem face ri ndo-l he de vol ta através do vi dro pol i do. A própri a agudeza do
contras te cos tumava ani mar s eu s enti mento de prazer. E l e s e tornava cada vez
mai s enamorado de s ua própri a bel eza e cada vez mai s i nteres s ado na
corrupção de s ua al ma. E l e exami nava com um cui dado i ntens o, e
frequentemente com um prazer mons truos o e terrí vel , as abomi návei s l i nhas
que endureci am a enrugada tes ta ou s e es pal havam pel a forte e s ens ual boca,
s e perguntando às vezes quai s eram os mai s horrí vei s , os s i nai s de pecado ou
os s i nai s da vel hi ce. E l e col ocava s uas mãos brancas ao l ado das mãos
gros s ei ras e i nchadas do retrato, e s orri a. E l e zombava do corpo deformado e dos
membros derrotados .
Havi a momentos , na verdade, durante a noi te, quando, dei tado i ns one
em s ua própri a câmara del i cadamente perfumada ou no quarto s órdi do da
pequena taverna de má fama próxi ma às Docas , a qual , com um nome fal s o e
di s farçado, era s eu hábi to frequentar, el e pens ava na ruí na que trouxera
s obre s ua al ma, com uma mi s eri córdi a que era ai nda mai s pungente porque
era compl etamente egoí s ta. M as , momentos como es te eram raros . Aquel a
curi os i dade s obre a vi da que, mui tos anos antes , l orde Henry ti nha pri mei ro
eri çado nel e, enquanto s entavam-s e j untos no j ardi m de s eu ami go, pareci a
aumentar com a s ati s fação. Quanto mai s el e s abi a, mai s des ej ava s aber. E l e
ti nha uma fome i ns ana que s e tornava mai s voraz à medi da que a al i mentava.
M es mo as s i m, el e não era real mente i mpul s i vo, de qual quer forma
em s uas rel ações s oci ai s . Uma ou duas vezes em todos os mes es durante o
i nverno e em cada noi te de quarta-fei ra enquanto a es tação durava, el e abri a
ao mundo s ua bel a cas a e ti nha os mús i cos mai s cel ebrados do momento para
encantar s eus convi dados com as maravi l has de s ua arte. Seus pequenos
j antares , em cuj a arrumação l orde Henry s empre o aj udava, eram comentados
tanto pel a cui dados a s el eção e di s pos i ção daquel es que eram convi dados ,
quanto pel o s ofi s ti cado gos to exi bi do na decoração da mes a, com s eus s uti s e
s i nfôni cos arranj os de fl ores exóti cas e toal has bordadas , e l ouças anti gas de
ouro e de prata. De fato, eram mui tos , es peci al mente entre os rapazes bem
j ovens , que vi am ou i magi navam ver, em Dori an Gray a real i zação verdadei ra
de um ti po que el es frequentemente s onhavam em s eus di as de E ton ou de
Oxford, um ti po que deveri a combi nar al go da cul tura real do acadêmi co com
toda a graça e a di s ti nção e modos perfei tos de um ci dadão do mundo. Para el es ,
el e pareci a pertencer àquel es a quem Dante des creve como tendo s e es forçado a
“fazer de s i mes mos perfei tos pel o cul to à bel eza”. Como Gauti er, el e era
aquel e por quem “o mundo vi s í vel exi s ti a”.
E , certamente, para el e a própri a vi da era a pri mei ra, a mai or das
artes , e para el a todas as outras artes pareci am s er apenas uma preparação. A
moda, pel a qual o que era real mente fantás ti co s e torna por um momento
uni vers al e o Dandi s mo que, de s ua própri a forma, é uma tentati va de
expres s ar a moderni dade abs ol uta da bel eza, ti nham, cl aramente, s ua
fas ci nação por el e. Seu modo de s e ves ti r e os es ti l os parti cul ares que el e
fi ngi a de vez em quando ti nham s ua i nfl uênci a marcada nos j ovens del i cados
nas j anel as dos bai l es de M ayfai r[1] e do cl ube de Pal l M al l [2], que o
copi avam em tudo o que fazi a e tentavam reproduzi r o encanto aci dental de
s uas graci os as , embora para el e apenas mei o s éri as , gal anteri as .
Poi s , embora el e es ti ves s e mui to pronto a acei tar a pos i ção que quas e
l he era i medi atamente ofereci da ao pas s ar para a vi da adul ta e encontras s e,
com efei to, um prazer s uti l com a i dei a de que el e pudes s e s er para a Londres
de s eu tempo o que para a Roma i mperi al de Nero o autor de “Satyri con” fora um
vez, ai nda em s eu mai s í nti mo âmago el e des ej ava s er mai s que um mero
arbi ter el eganti arum[3] a s er cons ul tado s obre o us o de uma j oi a ou s obre o nó
de uma gravata, ou a condução de uma bengal a. E l e bus cava el aborar al gum
novo pl ano de vi da que teri a s ua fi l os ofi a raci onal e s eus pri ncí pi os ordenados
e encontrari a na es pi ri tual i zação dos s enti dos s ua mai s al ta real i zação.
O cul to aos s enti dos ti nha frequentemente s i do, e com mui ta j us ti ça,
des prezado pel os homens que, s enti ndo um i ns ti nto natural de terror s obre
pai xões e s ens ações , pareci am mai s fortes que nós mes mos , nós que
cons ci entemente nos comparti l hamos com as formas menos organi zadas de
exi s tênci a. M as pareci a a Dori an Gray que a verdadei ra natureza dos s enti dos
nunca fora compreendi da e que el es permaneci am s el vagens e ani mai s
s omente porque o mundo bus cara s ubmetê-l os pel a fome ou matá-l os pel a dor,
ao i nvés de tentar fazê-l os el ementos de uma nova es pi ri tual i dade, da qual
um i ns ti nto s ofi s ti cado pel a bel eza deveri a s er a caracterí s ti ca domi nante.
E nquanto el e obs ervava o homem movendo-s e através da Hi s tóri a, el e era
tomado por um s enti mento de perda. Tanto fora entregue! E para propós i tos tão
pequenos ! Houvera i ns anas rej ei ções vol untári as , formas mons truos as de
autotortura e autorrecus a, cuj a ori gem era o medo e cuj o res ul tado era uma
degradação i nfi ni tamente mai s terrí vel do que a degradação i magi nada da
qual , em s ua i gnorânci a, el es bus caram es capar, a Natureza em s ua
maravi l hos a i roni a conduzi ndo o eremi ta para l onge da mul ti dão em di reção
aos ani mai s s el vagens do des erto e dando ao ermi tão as bes tas do campo como
companhi as .
Si m, deveri a haver, como l orde Henry profeti zara, um novo hedoni s mo
que deveri a recri ar a vi da e s al vá-l a daquel e duro e medonho puri tani s mo que
es tava tendo, em nos s os própri os di as , s eu curi os o renas ci mento. Certamente
es tari a a s ervi ço do i ntel ecto; porém, nunca deveri a acei tar qual quer teori a ou
s i s tema que envol ves s e o s acri fí ci o de qual quer modo de experi ênci a
apai xonada. Seu obj eti vo, com efei to, era o de s er a própri a experi ênci a e não os
frutos da experi ênci a, doces ou amargos como podem s er. Do as ceti s mo que
morti fi ca os s enti dos , como da vul gar l i berti nagem que os entorpece, era como
s aber nada. M as deveri a ens i nar ao homem a s e concentrar nos momentos da
vi da que s ão em s i mes mos apenas um momento.
Há poucos de nós que, às vezes , não acordam antes da aurora, tanto
depoi s de uma des tas noi tes s em s onhos que fazem al guém quas e s e
enamorar da morte ou uma des tas noi tes de horror e al egri a des fi gurada,
quando através das câmaras do cérebro vagam fantas mas mai s terrí vei s do que
a própri a real i dade e aptos com aquel a ví vi da vi da que es prei ta em tudo o que é
grotes co e que empres ta à arte góti ca s ua res i s tente vi tal i dade, es ta arte s endo,
pode-s e i magi nar, es peci al mente a arte daquel as mentes que foram
perturbadas com a doença da i magi nação. Aos poucos , dedos brancos s urgem
pel as corti nas e parecem tremer. Fantás ti cas s ombras negras es pal ham-s e
pel os cantos do quarto e s e ani nham l á. Do l ado de fora, há o eri çar dos
pás s aros entre as fol has ou o s om dos homens i ndo para o trabal ho, ou o
s us pi ro e o s ol uço do vento des cendo a col i na e vagando pel a cas a s i l enci os a,
embora temendo des pertar os que dormem. Véu após véu de fi na renda
es cureci da s e ergue e, gradual mente, as formas e as cores das coi s as l hes
s ão devol vi das , e obs ervamos a aurora refazer o mundo em s eu padrão anti go.
Os cans ados es pel hos retornam à s ua vi da de i mi tação. Os cas ti çai s s em
chama fi cam onde os dei xamos e, ao l ado del es , s e dei ta o l i vro l i do pel a
metade que es ti vemos es tudando ou a fl or com s eu cabo que us amos no bai l e,
ou a carta que tememos l er, ou que l emos com mui ta frequênci a. Nada nos
parece al terado. Al ém das s ombras i rreai s da noi te, retorna a vi da que
conhecí amos . Temos de retomá-l a de onde paramos e l á nos domi na um
terrí vel s enti mento de neces s i dade pel a conti nui dade de energi a na mes ma
vol ta cans ati va de hábi tos es tereoti pados ou uma l ouca âns i a, pode s er, que
nos s as pál pebras s e abram em al guma manhã para um mundo que fora
renovado para o nos s o prazer, na es curi dão, um mundo no qual as coi s as
teri am formas e cores novas , e s er al terado ou ter outros s egredos , um mundo
no qual o pas s ado teri a um l ugar pequeno, s e al gum, ou s obrevi ve, de
qual quer forma, em uma forma i ncons ci ente de dí vi da ou l amento, a
l embrança mes mo da al egri a tendo s eu amargor e as memóri as de prazer, s ua
dor.
E ra a cri ação de mundos como aquel es que pareci am s er para Dori an
Gray o verdadei ro obj eti vo ou entre os verdadei ros obj eti vos da vi da; e, em s ua
bus ca por s ens ações que s eri am por s ua vez novas e prazeros as , e pos s ui r
aquel e el emento de es tranheza que era tão es s enci al para o romance, el e
frequentemente adotava certos modos de pens amento que el e s abi a s erem
compl etamente al hei os à s ua natureza, abandonava a s i mes mo às s uas s uti s
i nfl uênci as e então tendo, como aconteci a, apreendi do s uas cores e s ati s fei to
s ua curi os i dade i ntel ectual , as dei xava com aquel a curi os a i ndi ferença que
não é i ncompatí vel com um real ardor de temperamento e que, de fato, de
acordo com al guns ps i cól ogos modernos , normal mente é uma condi ção del a.
Corri am boatos de que el e es tava pres tes a s e j untar à comunhão
catól i ca romana; e, certamente, o ri tual romano s empre exercera uma grande
atração s obre el e. O s acri fí ci o di ári o, mai s pavoros o, de fato, do que todos os
s acri fí ci os do mundo anti go, o exci tava tanto quanto pel a extraordi nári a
rej ei ção da evi dênci a dos s enti dos por caus a da pri mi ti va s i mpl i ci dade dos
s eus el ementos e o pathos eterno da tragédi a humana que bus cava s i mbol i zar.
E l e amava s e aj oel har no fri o pavi mento de mármore, e com o padre, em s ua
rí gi da cas ul a fl ori da, l entamente e com mãos brancas , mover-s e para al ém do
véu do tabernácul o, e erguer aci ma do rebus cado os tens óri o em forma de
l anterna com aquel a pál i da hós ti a que às vezes , poderi a pens ar-s e com
res i gnação que de fato é o pani s cael es ti s , o pão dos anj os ou, s e ves ti r com os
traj es da Pai xão de Cri s to, quebrando a hós ti a dentro do cál i ce e gol peando s eu
pei to pel os s eus pecados . Os i ncens óri os fumegantes , que os bravos garotos ,
com l aços e roupas vermel has , rodavam pel o ar como grandes fl ores douradas ,
ti nham uma s uti l fas ci nação s obre el e. E nquanto el e di vagava, cos tumava
ol har com admi ração para os confes s i onári os pretos e des ej ava s e s entar s ob a
tênue l uz de um del es para ouvi r homens e mul heres s us s urrando, através
da grade empanada, a verdadei ra hi s tóri a de s uas vi das .
M as el e nunca i ncorreu no erro de s ubmeter s eu des envol vi mento
i ntel ectual a al guma acei tação formal de credo ou de s i s tema, ou de confundi r
a cas a na qual vi vi a com um al oj amento apenas compatí vel com a es tadi a por
uma noi te, ou por poucas horas de uma noi te, na qual não há es trel as e a l ua
es tá pari ndo. O mi s ti ci s mo, com s eu poder maravi l hos o de tornar as coi s as que
nos s ão comuns es tranhas para nós e o s uti l anti nomi ani s mo que s empre
parece acompanhá-l o, o movi a por uma temporada; e por uma temporada, el e
s e i ncl i nou para as doutri nas materi al í s ti cas do movi mento darwi ni s ta na
Al emanha e encontrou um prazer curi os o em traçar as i dei as e as pai xões do
homem a al guma cél ul a perol ada no cérebro ou a al gum nervo branco no corpo,
s e regozi j ando com o concei to de abs ol uta dependênci a do es pí ri to em certas
condi ções fí s i cas , mórbi das ou s audávei s , normai s ou doenti as . Ai nda, como
fora di to del e antes , nenhuma teori a de vi da pareci a s er-l he de al guma
i mportânci a s e comparada com a própri a vi da. E l e s e s enti a agudamente
cons ci ente de quão es téri l toda a es pecul ação i ntel ectual é quando s eparada da
ação e do experi mento. E l e s abi a que os s enti dos , tanto quanto a al ma, têm
mi s téri os a s erem revel ados .
E as s i m, el e es tudava perfumes e o s egredo de s ua fabri cação,
des ti l ando ól eos de odores fortes e quei mando gomas chei ros as do Ori ente. E l e
vi a que não havi a di s pos i ção da mente que não ti ves s e a s ua contraparte na
vi da s ens ual e s e di s punha a des cobri r s uas verdadei ras rel ações , s e
perguntando o que havi a no ol í bano que tornava al guém mí s ti co e no âmbar
ci nza que eri çava as pai xões de al guém, e nas vi ol etas que des pertavam a
memóri a de romances pas s ados , e no al mí s car que perturbava o cérebro, e no
champak[4] que embotava a i magi nação; e bus cava, frequentemente, el aborar
uma verdadei ra ps i col ogi a dos perfumes e es ti mar as vári as i nfl uênci as das
raí zes de chei ro adoci cado, e das fragrantes fl ores carregadas de pól en, de
bál s amos aromáti cos e das madei ras es curas e odorí feras , do nardo que
envenena, da hovêni a que enl ouquece os homens , e do al oé que s e di z s er
capaz de expel i r a mel ancol i a da al ma.
E m outra ocas i ão, el e s e devotou i ntei ramente à mús i ca e, em uma
ampl a s al a fas qui ada, com um teto vermel ho e dourado e paredes de l aquê
verde-ol i va, el e cos tumava dar curi os os concertos nos quai s l oucos ci ganos
choravam i ns anas mús i cas de pequenas cí taras ou tuni s i anos graves e em
xal es amarel os , as arrancavam de tens as cordas de mons truos os al aúdes ,
enquanto negros ri s onhos bati am monotonamente em tambores de cobre, ou
i ndi anos de turbante, agachando-s e s obre es tei ras vermel has , as s opravam
através de l ongos tubos de j unco ou metal e encantavam, ou fi ngi am encantar,
grandes s erpentes encapuzadas e horrí vei s ví boras de chi fre. Os ás peros
i nterval os e agudas di s s onânci as da bárbara mús i ca l he exci tavam às vezes
quando a graça de Schubert e as bel as mágoas de Chopi n, e as poderos as
harmoni as do própri o Beethoven, caí am i ndi ferentes em s eus ouvi dos . E l e
col eci onava, de todas as partes do mundo, os mai s es tranhos i ns trumentos que
podi am s er encontrados , tanto nas tumbas das nações mortas ou entre as
poucas tri bos s el vagens que s obrevi veram ao contato com as ci vi l i zações
oci dentai s , e amava encos tar e tentar tocá-l as . E l e ti nha os mi s teri os os
j urupari s dos í ndi os do Ri o Negro, cuj as mul heres não s ão permi ti das ol har,
e que mes mo os j ovens não podem ver até que s ej am s ubmeti dos ao j ej um e ao
es pancamento, e as j arras de argi l a dos peruanos , que guardam os agudos
gri tos de pás s aros , e fl autas de os s os humanos como as que Al fons o de Oval l e
ouvi ra no Chi l e, e as pedras verdes e s onoras que s ão encontradas próxi mas a
Cuzco e dão uma nota de s i ngul ar doçura. E l e ti nha cabaças pi ntadas , chei as
de s ei xos que chacoal havam quando eram bal ançadas ; o l ongo cl ari m dos
mexi canos , através do qual o i ntérprete não as s opra, mas pel o qual i nal a o ar;
o rude turé das tri bos amazôni cas , que era tocado pel os s enti nel as que s e
s entavam por todo o di a nas árvores e que pode s er ouvi do, como s e afi rma, a
uma di s tânci a de três l éguas ; o teponaztl i que tem duas l í nguas de madei ra
vi brantes e s e bate com varetas untadas com uma goma el ás ti ca obti da do s uco
l ei tos o das pl antas ; os s i nos yotl dos as tecas que s ão s us pens os em cachos ,
como as uvas ; e um enorme tambor ci l í ndri co, coberto com a pel e de grandes
s erpentes , como aquel a que Bernal Di az vi u quando foi com Cortéz ao templ o
mexi cano e daquel e tri s te s om do qual el e nos dei xou uma ví vi da des cri ção. O
caráter fantás ti co daquel es i ns trumentos o fas ci nava e el e s enti a um curi os o
prazer em pens ar que a Arte, como a Natureza, ti nha s eus mons tros , coi s as de
forma bes ti al e com vozes horrendas . No entanto, depoi s de al gum tempo, el e
s e cans ava del as e s entava em s eu camarote na Ópera, s ej a s ozi nho ou com
l orde Henry, ouvi ndo em arrebatado êxtas e “Tannhäus er” e vendo naquel a
grande obra de arte uma apres entação da tragédi a de s ua própri a al ma.
E m outra ocas i ão, el e tomava o es tudo das j oi as e apareceu em um
bai l e à fantas i a como Anne de Joyeus e, al mi rante de França, em um ves ti do
coberto com qui nhentas e s es s enta pérol as . Com frequênci a, el e pas s ava um
di a i ntei ro arrumando e rearrumando em s eus es toj os as vári as pedras que
el e j untara, tal como o cri s oberi l o verde-ol i va que fi ca vermel ho pel a l uz de
uma l anterna, o ci mofâni o com s ua l i nha i gual a um fi o de prata, o peri doto
de cor de pi s tache, topázi os avermel hados e amarel ados , carbúncul os de forte
es carl ate com trêmul as es trel as de quatro rai os , granadas vermel has como o
fogo, es pi nél i os l aranj a e vi ol eta e ameti s tas com s uas camadas al ternadas de
rubi e de s afi ra. E l e amava o vermel ho dourado da aventuri na e a brancura
perol ada da s el eni ta, e o arco-í ri s quebrado da l ei tos a opal a. E l e adqui ri ra de
Ams terdã três es meral das de extraordi nári o tamanho e ri queza de cores , e
ti nha uma turques a de l a vi ei l l e roche que era a i nvej a de todos os
connoi s s eurs .
E l e des cobri a maravi l hos as hi s tóri as , também s obre j oi as . No
“Cl eri cal i s Di s ci pl i na”, de Al fons i , uma s erpente era menci onada com ol hos
de j aci nto real e na hi s tóri a românti ca de Al exandre, di zi a que el e encontrara
cobras , no val e do Jordão, “com col ares de verdadei ras es meral das cres cendo em
s uas cos tas ”. Havi a uma gema no cérebro do dragão, Fi l os trato nos conta, e
“pel a exi bi ção de l etras douradas e de um robe vermel ho”, o mons tro s eri a
l ançado em um s ono mági co e decapi tado. De acordo com o grande al qui mi s ta
Pi erre de Boni face, um di amante tornava um homem i nvi s í vel e a ágata da
Índi a o fazi a el oquente. A cornal i na apazi guava a i ra e o j aci nto provocava o
s ono, e a ameti s ta di s s i pava os vapores do vi nho. A granada es pantava os
demôni os e o hi drópi co pri vava a l ua de s ua cor. A s el eni ta aumentava e
di mi nuí a com a l ua e a morgani ta, que des cobre l adrões , pode s er afetada
apenas pel o s angue de garotos . Leonardus Cami l l us vi ra uma pequena pedra
branca, ti rada de uma rã recém-morta, que era um determi nado antí doto contra
venenos . O bezoar, que era encontrado no coração do cervo árabe[5], era um
encanto que poderi a curar a pes te negra. Nos ni nhos de pás s aros árabes havi a
o as pi l ates que, de acordo com Demócri to, manti nha quem o deti ves s e a s al vo
de qual quer peri go pel o fogo.
O rei do Cei l ão caval gava pel a s ua ci dade com um enorme rubi em
mãos , como a ceri môni a de s ua coroação. Os portões do pal áci o de Pres te João
eram “fei tos de s árdi o, com o corno da s erpente de chi fres gravado, portanto
nenhum homem poderi a i nocul ar s eu veneno”. Sobre a cumeei ra havi a “duas
maçãs douradas , nas quai s havi a doi s carbúncul os ”, as s i m o ouro poderi a
bri l har ao di a e os carbúncul os , à noi te. No es tranho romance de Lodge, “A
M argari te of Améri ca”[6], es tava es cri to que na câmara de M argari te eram
vi s tas “todas as damas cas tas do mundo, decoradas em prata, ol hando para
bel os es pel hos de cri s ól i tas , carbúncul os , s afi ras e verdes es meral das ”.
M arco Pól o obs ervara os habi tantes de Zi pangu col ocar uma pérol a ros ada na
boca dos mortos . Um mons tro mari nho havi a s e enamorado pel a pérol a que o
mergul hador l evara para o rei Perozes e decapi tara o l adrão, e l amentara por
s ete l uas s obre a s ua perda. Quando os hunos atraí ram o rei para o grande
fos s o, el e a j ogou para l onge – Procópi o conta a hi s tóri a – e nunca foi
encontrada novamente, embora o i mperador Anas táci o ofereces s e qui nhentas
barras de ouro por el a. O rei de M al abar mos trara a um venezi ano um ros ári o
de cento e quatro pérol as , uma para cada deus que el e adorava.
Quando o Duque de Val enti noi s , fi l ho de Al exandre IV, vi s i tou Loui s
XII da França, s eu caval o es tava carregado com fol has de ouro, de acordo com
Brantôme e s eu chapéu ti nha l i nhas dupl as de rubi que i rradi avam uma
grande l uz. Carl os da Ingl aterra montava com es tri bos s us pens os por trezentos
e vi nte e um di amantes . Ri cardo III ti nha um cas aco, aval i ado em tri nta mi l
marcos , que era coberto com rubi s opacos . Hal l des creveu Henri que VIII, em
s eu cami nho para a Torre, antes de s ua coroação, como us ando “uma j aqueta
de ouro em rel evo, a pl aca rendada com di amantes e outras pedras preci os as , e
um grande bauderi ke[7] ao redor de s eu pes coço de grandes rubi s ”. Os favori tos
de Jai me I us avam bri ncos de es meral das aj us tados em fi l i granas de ouro.
E duardo II deu a Pi ers Gaves ton um conj unto de armadura de ouro vermel ho,
ornado de j aci ntos e um col ar de ros as de ouro di s pos tas com turques as , e um
pequeno boné pars emé com pérol as . Henri que II us ava l uvas rebus cadas que
chegavam aos cotovel os , e ti nha uma l uva de fal coari a[8] com doze rubi s e
ci nquenta e duas grandes pérol as . O chapéu ducal de Carl os , o Temerári o, o
úl ti mo Duque de Burgundy de s ua es ti rpe, era ornado de s afi ras e s us pens o
com pérol as no formato de pera.
Como a vi da fora uma vez del i cada! Como fora bel a em s ua pompa e
decoração! M es mo l er s obre o l uxo dos mortos era maravi l hos o. E ntão el e
vol tava s ua atenção para os bordados e para as tapeçari as que executavam o
ofí ci o de afres cos nas fri as s al as das nações ao norte da E uropa. E nquanto el e
pes qui s ava o as s unto – e el e s empre ti nha uma faci l i dade extraordi nári a em
s e tornar abs ol utamente abs orto no momento em que pegava qual quer coi s a –
el e quas e s e entri s teci a pel o refl exo da ruí na que o tempo l ançava s obre as
coi s as bel as e maravi l hos as . E l e, de al guma forma, es capara a i s s o. O verão
s egui a ao verão e os narci s os amarel os fl ores ci am e pereci am mui tas vezes , e
as noi tes de horror repeti am a hi s tóri a de s ua vergonha, mas el e permaneci a
i gual . Nenhum i nverno embotava s eu ros to ou manchava s eu fres cor i gual a
de uma fl or. Como era di ferente com as coi s as materi ai s ! Para onde ti nham
i do? Onde es tava o grande robe cor de açafrão, com o qual os deus es l utaram
contra os gi gantes e que ti nha s i do teci do para Atenas ? Onde es tava o enorme
vel ari um que Nero es tendera s obre o Col i s eu, em Roma, no qual es tava
repres entado o céu es trel ado e Apol o conduzi ndo uma carruagem puxada por
garanhões brancos s ob rédeas douradas ? E l e ans i ava por ver os curi os os
guardanapos de mes a trabal hados por E l agabal us , nos quai s eram exi bi dos
todas as fadas e provi s ões que s e poderi am des ej ar para um banquete; a
túni ca mortuári a do rei Chi l peri c, com s uas trezentas abel has douradas ; os
fantás ti cos robes que s us ci taram a i ndi gnação do Bi s po de Pontus e que eram
decorados com “l eões , panteras , urs os , fl ores tas , rochas , caçadores – tudo, na
verdade, que um pi ntor pode copi ar da natureza”; e o cas aco que uma vez ves ti u
Carl os de Orl éans , nas mangas do qual es tavam bordadas os vers os de uma
canção que começava com “M adame, j e s ui s tout j oyeux”, o acompanhamento
mus i cal das pal avras s endo trabal hado em l i nhas de ouro, e cada nota, uma
forma quadrada naquel es di as , cons ti tuí da por quatro pérol as . E l e l era s obre a
s al a que foi preparada no pal áci o em Rhei ms para o us o da rai nha Joana de
Burgundy, e que era decorada com “mi l , trezentos e vi nte e um papagai os ,
fei tos em bordado, e adornados com as armas do rei , e qui nhentas e s es s enta
e uma borbol etas , cuj as as as eram s i mi l armente ornadas com as armas da
rai nha, tudo trabal hado em ouro”. Catari na de M édi ci ti nha uma cama de
l amentações fei ta para el a de vel udo negro, pol vi l hado com l uas cres centes e
s ói s . Suas corti nas eram de damas qui m, com frondos as gri nal das e
gui rl andas , des enhadas s obre uma bas e de ouro e de prata, e adereçadas com
rendas bordadas , que permaneci a em um quarto com pi l has de apetrechos da
rai nha, em um vel udo negro cortado s obre um teci do de prata. Loui s XIV ti nha
cari áti das bordadas em ouro, medi ndo quatro metros e mei o, em s eu
apartamento. A cama pri nci pal de Sobi es ki , rei da Pol ôni a, era fei ta de
brocados de ouro de Smyrna gravada em turques as com vers os do Al corão. Seus
pés eram fei tos de prata dourada, ri camente gravados em rel evo e
profus amente adornados com medal has es mal tadas e rebus cadas . Fora
s aqueada de um acampamento turco di ante de Vi ena e o es tandarte de M aomé
es ti vera s obre el e.
E as s i m, por um ano i ntei ro, el e bus cara acumul ar os es péci mes
mai s s ofi s ti cados que podi a encontrar de trabal hos têxtei s e gravados , obtendo
as del i cadas mus s el i nas de Dél i , fi namente trabal hadas , com pal mí pedes
de fi os de ouro e al i nhavados trans l úci dos como as as de abel has ; as gazes de
Daca, que pel a s ua trans parênci a eram conheci das no Ori ente como “teci do do
ar”, “água corrente” e “orval ho da noi te”; es tranhos teci dos es tampados de Java;
el aborados s us pens óri os chi nes es amarel os ; l i vros encadernados em ceti m
ful vo ou bel as s edas azui s e trabal hadas em fl ores de l i s , pás s aros e
i magens ; véus trançados , trabal hados em ponto húngaro; brocados s i ci l i anos e
rí gi dos vel udos es panhói s ; trabal hos georgi anos com s uas moedas douradas e
Foukous as j apones as com s eus ouros es verdeados e s eus pás s aros de
pl umagem maravi l hos a.
E l e ti nha uma pai xão es peci al , também, por ves tes ecl es i ás ti cas ,
como de fato el e ti nha por tudo rel aci onado ao s ervi ço da Igrej a. Nos grandes
bus tos de cedro que s e al i nhavam pel a gal eri a oes te de s ua cas a, el e
armazenara mui tos es péci mes raros e bel os do que real mente é o ves tuári o da
Noi va de Cri s to, que deve us ar púrpura e j oi as , e fi no l i nho para que el a pos s a
ocul tar o corpo pál i do e macerado que foi abati do pel o s ofri mento que el a
procurara e feri do pel a dor i mpos ta por s i mes ma. E l e ti nha uma bel a
cobertura de s eda carmes i m e de dourados fi os damas qui m, retratando um
padrão repeti ti vo de um conj unto dourado de romãs em fl ores cênci as formai s
de s ei s pétal as ; al ém di s s o, em cada l ado havi a um apetrecho de abacaxi
trabal hado em mi nús cul as pérol as . Os auri frí gi os eram di vi di dos em pai néi s
repres entando cenas da vi da da Vi rgem e a s ua coroação era retratada em s edas
col ori das s obre o capuz. E ra um trabal ho i tal i ano do s écul o 15. Outra cobertura
era de vel udo verde, bordado com fol has de acanto agrupadas em forma de
coração, dos quai s s e es pal havam l ongos caul es de fl ores cênci as brancas ,
s eus detal hes real çados com fi os prateados e cri s tai s col ori dos . A fi vel a trazi a a
cabeça de um s erafi m em fi os de ouro em al to rel evo. Os auri frí gi os eram
teci dos em l os angos al ternados de s eda vermel ha e dourada, e eram es trel ados
com medal hões de mui tos s antos e márti res , entre el es São Sebas ti ão. E l e
ti nha cas ul os , também, de s eda cor de âmbar e s eda azul , e brocados
dourados , e damas qui ns de s eda amarel a e pano de ouro, des enhado com
repres entações da Pai xão e da Cruci fi cação de Cri s to e bordados com l eões ,
pavões e outros embl emas ; dal máti cas de ceti m branco e s eda adamas cada
ros a, decoradas com tul i pas , gol fi nhos e fl ores de l i s ; l ençói s de al tar de
vel udo carmes i m e l i nho azul ; e mui tos corporai s , véus de cál i ce e o s udári o.
Nos mí s ti cos ofí ci os às quai s es s es obj etos eram us ados , havi a al go que
acel erava a s ua i magi nação.
Poi s es s as coi s as , e tudo o que el e col eci onara em s ua encantadora
cas a, deveri am s er mei os de es queci mento, modos pel os quai s el e poderi a
es capar, por uma temporada, do medo que l he pareci a s er às vezes quas e
mai or do que el e poderi a aguentar. Sobre as paredes da s ol i tári a s al a trancada,
onde el e pas s ara mui to de s ua adol es cênci a, s us pendera com as s uas
própri as mãos o terrí vel retrato, cuj os traços mutantes l he mos travam a real
degradação de s ua vi da e ti nha guarneci do o pál i o púrpuro e dourado defronte
del e como uma corti na. Por s emanas el e não pôde i r até l á, es quecera da
abomi nável coi s a pi ntada e vol tava com o coração l eve, s ua maravi l hos a
al egri a, s eu prazer apai xonado pel a s i mpl es exi s tênci a. E ntão,
repenti namente, em uma noi te qual quer el e s e arras tava para fora da cas a, i a
aos l ugares pavoros os perto de Bl ue Gate Fi el ds , e fi cava l á, di a após di a, até
que fos s e l evado para fora. Ao vol tar, el e s e s entava di ante do quadro, às vezes
amal di çoando-o e a s i mes mo, mas chei o, em outras ocas i ões , com aquel e
orgul ho pel a rebel i ão que é a metade da fas ci nação pel o pecado, s orri ndo, com
prazer s ecreto, da s ombra deformada que ti nha de carregar, o fardo que s eri a
del e própri o.
Depoi s de poucos anos , el e não podi a s uportar s e aus entar por mui to
tempo da Ingl aterra e cedera a vi l a que di vi di a com l orde Henry em Trouvi l l e,
as s i m como a pequena cas a branca cercada na Argél i a, onde el e pas s ara s eus
i nvernos mai s de uma vez. E l e odi ava s er s eparado do quadro que tanto fazi a
parte de s ua vi da e, também, temi a que, em s ua aus ênci a, al guém pudes s e
ter aces s o à s al a, apes ar das el aboradas trancas e barras que el e fi zera s erem
col ocados na porta.
E l e es tava bem ci ente que i s s o nada l hes di zi a. E ra verdade que o
retrato ai nda pres ervava, s ob toda podri dão e fei ura do ros to, s ua marcada
s emel hança cons i go mes mo; mas o que poderi am des cobri r a parti r di s s o? E l e
ri ri a de qual quer um que tentas s e provocá-l o; el e não o pi ntara. O que
i mportava para el e s e o quadro pareces s e s er tão vi l e chei o de vergonha?
M es mo s e el e l hes contas s e, quem acredi tari a?
M es mo as s i m, el e temi a. Às vezes , quando el e es tava em s ua grande
cas a em Notti ghams hi re, entretendo os s ofi s ti cados j ovens de s ua mes ma
pos i ção s oci al , que eram s eus pri nci pai s companhei ros e s urpreendendo o
condado com a s ua devas s a l uxúri a e bel o es pl endor de s eu modo de vi da,
repenti namente dei xava s eus convi dados e corri a para a ci dade, para ver s e a
porta não havi a s i do vi ol ada e s e o retrato ai nda es tava l á. E s e el e fos s e
roubado? O mero pens amento o fazi a gel ar de horror. Certamente o mundo
des cobri ri a s eu s egredo, então. Tal vez o mundo j á s us pei tas s e del e.
Poi s , enquanto el e fas ci nava mui tos , havi a uns poucos que
des confi avam del e. E l e fora rej ei tado em um cl ube de Wes t E nd, o qual s eu
berço e s ua pos i ção s oci al o habi l i tavam compl etamente a s e tornar membro e
em uma ocas i ão, quando el e fora l evado por um ami go à s al a de fumar do
Carl ton, o Duque de Berwi ck e outro caval hei ro s e l evantaram de manei ra
acentuada e s aí ram. Hi s tóri as curi os as s e tornaram correntes s obre el e,
depoi s que el e pas s ara dos vi nte e ci nco anos . Di zi a-s e que el e bri gara com
mari nhei ros es trangei ros em um recanto es condi do nas partes di s tantes de
Whi techapel e que el e s e as s oci ara a l adrões e fal s i fi cadores e que conheci a
os mi s téri os daquel as ocupações . Suas aus ênci as extraordi nári as s e tornaram
notóri as e, quando el e cos tumava reaparecer novamente na s oci edade, os
homens s us s urravam entre s i pel os cantos ou pas s avam por el e com des prezo,
ou l he encaravam com ol hos fri os e pers crutadores , como s e es ti ves s em
determi nados a des cobri r s eu s egredo.
De tai s i ns ol ênci as e atentados des prezos el e, cl aro, não tomava
ci ênci a, e na opi ni ão de mui tas pes s oas , s ua manei ra franca e al egre, s eu
encantador s orri s o adol es cente e a i nfi ni ta graça daquel a maravi l hos a
j uventude, que nunca pareci a dei xá-l o, eram em s i mes mas uma res pos ta
s ufi ci ente para as cal úni as ( poi s as s i m el es as chamavam) que ci rcul avam
s obre el e. Obs ervava-s e, porém, que aquel es que foram mui to í nti mos del e
pareci am, depoi s de al gum tempo, evi tá-l o. De todos os s eus ami gos , ou as s i m
chamados , l orde Henry Wotton era o úni co que permaneci a l eal a el e. As
mul heres que l oucamente o adoravam e que pel o s eu bem ti nham enfrentado
todas as cens uras s oci ai s e convenci onado des afi á-l as , s e vi am tornar mai s
pál i das de vergonha ou de horror s e Dori an Gray adentras s e pel o reci nto.
Ai nda, es s es es cândal os s us s urrados apenas l he davam, na vi s ão de
mui tos , s eu es tranho e peri gos o encanto. Sua grande s aúde certamente era um
el emento de s egurança. A s oci edade, pel o menos a ci vi l i zada, nunca es tá
mui to preparada para acredi tar em qual quer coi s a em detri mento daquel es
que s ão, ao mes mo tempo, ri cos e encantadores . E l a s ente, i ns ti nti vamente,
que os modos têm mai or i mportânci a que a moral e a mai s al ta
res pei tabi l i dade é de menor val or, em s ua opi ni ão, do que a pos s e de um bom
chef. E , no fi m das contas , é de mui to pouco cons ol o ouvi r que um homem que
ofereceu um pés s i mo j antar ou um vi nho rui m é i mpecável em s ua vi da
pri vada. M es mo as vi rtudes cardeai s não podem des cul par pri mei ros pratos
fri os , como l orde Henry obs ervou uma vez, di s cuti ndo o tema; e há,
pos s i vel mente, mui to a s er di to s obre es s a opi ni ão. Poi s os cânones da boa
s oci edade s ão, ou deveri am s er, os mes mos da arte. A forma é es s enci al à
s oci edade. Deveri a ter a di gni dade de uma ceri môni a, as s i m como s ua
i rreal i dade, e deveri a combi nar o pers onagem i ns i ncero de uma peça
românti ca com o gêni o e a bel eza que fazem tai s peças charmos as . A
i ns i nceri dade é uma coi s a tão terrí vel ? Acho que não. É apenas um método
pel o qual podemos mul ti pl i car nos s as pers onal i dades .
E s ta era, de qual quer forma, a opi ni ão de Dori an Gray. E l e cos tumava
fi car es tupefato com a ras a ps i col ogi a daquel es que concebem o E go no homem
como uma s i mpl es coi s a, permanente, confi ável e de es s ênci a úni ca. Para
el e, o homem era um s er com uma mi rí ade de vi das e de s ens ações , uma
cri atura compl exa e mul ti forme que trazi a em s i mes ma es tranhos l egados de
pens amentos e pai xões , e cuj a própri a carne es tava cons purcada com as
mons truos as doenças dos mortos . E l e amava pas s ear pel a s ombri a gal eri a de
quadros de s ua cas a de campo e ol har aos vári os retratos daquel es cuj o s angue
corri a em s uas vei as . Al i es tava Phi l i p Herbert, des cri to por Franci s Os borne,
em s uas “M emóri as dos Rei nados da rai nha E l i zabeth e do rei Jai me”, “como
al guém que era papari cado pel a corte por caus a de s eu bel o ros to, que não l he
dava companhi as mui to l ongas ”. Foi a vi da do j ovem Herbert que el e às vezes
l evava? Teri a al gum es tranho e venenos o germe s e arras tado de corpo para corpo
até que chegas s e ao del e própri o? Teri a s i do aquel e obs curo s enti mento de
arrui nada graça que teri a fei to el e, tão repenti namente, e quas e s em
propós i to, dar expres s ão, no es túdi o de Bas i l Hal l ward, àquel e pedi do i ns ano
que tanto mudara s ua vi da? Aqui , em gi bão vermel ho com rendas douradas ,
s obretudo s ofi s ti cado, rufo e punhos com bordas douradas , es tava s i r Anthony
Sherard, com s ua armadura prateada e negra empi l hada a s eus pés . Qual fora
o l egado des te homem? Teri a o amante de Gi ovanna de Nápol es l he dei xado
al guma herança de pecado e de vergonha? Seri am as s uas ações s i mpl es mente
os s onhos que aquel e l ouco homem não ti nha ous ado real i zar? Aqui , da tel a
des gas tada, s orri a l ady E l i zabeth Devereux, em s ua touca di fus a, s eu corpete
de pérol as e s uas l uvas cor de ros a, cortadas . Uma fl or em s ua mão di rei ta e a
es querda s egurando um col ar es mal tado de ros as brancas e adamas cadas . E m
uma mes a, ao s eu l ado, es tavam um bandol i m e uma maçã. Havi a grandes
ros etas verdes s obre s eus s apatos de ponta pequena. E l e conheci a a vi da del a e
as es tranhas hi s tóri as que s e contavam s obre s eus amantes . Teri a el e al go do
temperamento del a? Aquel es ol hos ovai s , de pál pebras pes adas , pareci am
ol har de modo curi os o para el e. E George Wi l l oughby, com s eu cabel o es pars o
e s eus fantás ti cos s i nai s ? Como el e pareci a mau! O ros to era mel ancól i co e
tri guei ro, e os l ábi os s ens uai s pareci am s e contorcer de des prezo. Del i cados
l aços ondul ados caí am s obre as pequenas mãos amarel as que es tavam tão
s obrecarregadas de anéi s . E l e fora um macaroni do s écul o 18, e ami go, em
s ua j uventude, de l orde Ferrars . E o s egundo l orde Sherard, o companhei ro do
Prí nci pe Regente em s eus di as mai s l oucos , e uma das tes temunhas do
cas amento s ecreto com a s enhora Fi tzherbert? Como el e era orgul hos o e bel o,
com s eus cachos cas tanhos e pos e i ns ol ente! Quai s pai xões el e l egara? O
mundo o vi a como i nfame. E l e conduzi ra as orgi as em Carl ton Hous e. A
E s trel a da Jarretei ra bri l hava em s eu pei to. Ao l ado del e es tava o retrato de s ua
es pos a, uma mul her pál i da e de l ábi os fi nos , ves ti da de preto. O s angue
del a, também, s e l evantava dentro del e. Como tudo aqui l o pareci a curi os o!
Ai nda ti nha ances trai s na l i teratura, as s i m como na própri a
des cendênci a de outros , mai s próxi mo tal vez em ti po e temperamento, mui tos
del es , e certamente com uma i nfl uênci a da qual era ai nda mai s cons ci ente.
Havi a momentos que pareci a a Dori an Gray que toda a hi s tóri a era apenas o
regi s tro de s ua própri a vi da, não como el e a vi vera em ato e ci rcuns tânci a, mas
como a s ua i magi nação as cri ara, como teri a s i do em s eu cérebro e em s uas
pai xões . E l e s enti a que conheci a a todos , aquel as es tranhas e terrí vei s
fi guras que ti nham pas s ado pel o pal co do mundo e tornado o pecado tão
maravi l hos o e o mau tão chei o de s urpres as . Pareci a-l he que, de al gum modo
mi s teri os o, s uas vi das ti nham s i do a del e própri o.
O herói do peri gos o romance que tanto ti nha i nfl uenci ado s ua vi da
também ti nha, el e mes mo, es ta curi os a fantas i a. E m um capí tul o do l i vro el e
conta como, coroado com l aurel , a menos que um rel âmpago l he ati ngi s s e, el e
s e s entara, como Ti béri o, em um j ardi m em Capri , l endo os vergonhos os l i vros
de E l efanti s , enquanto anões e pavões andavam e dançavam ao s eu redor, e o
fl auti s ta i mi tava o bal anço do turí bul o; e, como Cal í gul a, ti nha farreado com os
montadores de cami s a verde em s eus es tábul os e j antado em uma
manj edoura de marfi m com um caval o que ti nha uma j oi a na fronte; e, como
Domi ci ano, ti nha perambul ado por um corredor l adeado de es pel hos de
mármore, ol hando ao redor com ol hos perturbados com o refl exo do punhal que
deveri a dar cabo de s eus di as , e farto daquel e fas ti o, daquel e tédi o vi tal que
vem àquel es a quem a vi da nada recus a; e ti nha pers crutado através de uma
es meral da verde no pi cadei ro vermel ho do ci rco e então, em uma l i tei ra
púrpura de pérol as , carregada por mul as de ferradura de prata, fora l evado
pel as Ruas das Romãs até a Cas a de Ouro, e ouvi ra os homens chorarem por
Nero Cés ar enquanto el e pas s ava; e, como Hel i ogábal o, pi ntara s ua face e
pregara o fus o entre as mul heres , e trouxe ra a Lua de Cartagena e a concedera
em mí s ti co cas amento com o Sol .
Dori an cos tumava l er es te fantás ti co capí tul o repeti damente e o
capí tul o i medi atamente s egui nte, no qual o herói des creve as curi os as
tapeçari as que l he havi am teci do pel os des í gni os de Gus tave M oreau, e nos
quai s eram retratados as formas terrí vei s e bel as daquel es que o Ví ci o, o
Sangue e o Cans aço ti nham tornado mons tros ou l oucos : Fi l i ppo, Duque de
M i l ão, que es fol ou s ua es pos a e pi ntou s eus l ábi os com um veneno es carl ate;
Pi etro Barbi , o Venezi ano, conheci do como Paul o, o Segundo, que bus cou em
s ua vai dade as s umi r o tí tul o de Formos o, e cuj a ti ara, aval i ada em duzentos
mi l fl ori ns , foi adqui ri da ao preço de um terrí vel pecado; Gi an M ari a
Vi s conti , que us ava cães de caça para pers egui r homens vi vos e cuj o corpo
as s as s i nado foi coberto de ros as por uma pros ti tuta que o amava; o Borgi a em
s eu caval o branco, com o Fratri ci da erguendo-s e ao s eu l ado e s eu manto
manchado com o s angue de Perotto; Pi etro Ri ari o, o j ovem Cardeal Arcebi s po de
Fl orença, fi l ho e s ubordi nado de Si s to IV, cuj a bel eza era i gual ada apenas
pel a s ua l i berti nagem e que recebera Leonor de Aragão em um pavi l hão de
s edas brancas e carmes i ns , chei as de ni nfas e centauros , e ornou um garoto
para que el e pudes s e s ervi -l a na fes ta como Gani medes ou Hyl as ; E zzel i n,
cuj a mel ancol i a podi a s er curada apenas pel o es petácul o da morte e que ti nha
uma pai xão por s angue vermel ho, como outros homens teri am pel o vi nho ti nto
– o fi l ho do Demôni o, como s e di zi a, e aquel e que roubara s eu pai no j ogo de
dados quando apos tara com el e s ua própri a al ma; Gi anbatti s ta Ci bo, que por
zombari a adotou o nome de Inocente e em cuj as torpes vei as o s angue de três
rapazes foi i nfundi do por um médi co j udeu; Si gi s mondo M al ates ta, o amante
de Is otta e s enhor de Ri mi ni , cuj a efí gi e foi quei mada em Roma como
i ni mi go de Deus e dos homens , que es trangul ou Pol i s s ena com um
guardanapo e deu veneno em uma taça de es meral das para Gi nevra d’E s te, e
em honra de uma pai xão vergonhos a, cons trui u uma i grej a pagã para o cul to
de Cri s to; Charl es IV, que adorava tão l oucamente a es pos a de s eu i rmão que
um l epros o l he avi s ou da i ns ani dade que es tava s e abatendo s obre el e e que
poderi a s er apl acada apenas por cartas s aracenas pi ntadas com as i magens do
Amor, da M orte e da Loucura; e, em s eu bem col ocado col ete e s ofi s ti cado boné
e cachos como acanto, Gri fonetto Bagl i oni , que as s as s i nou As torre com s ua
noi va e Si monetto com s eu paj em, e cuj a bel eza era tal que, enquanto el e
es tava a morrer na pi azza amarel a de Perugi a, aquel es que o odi avam não
podi am dei xar de chorar, e Atal anta, que o amal di çoara, o abençoou.
Havi a uma horrí vel fas ci nação em todos el es . E l e os vi a à noi te e
perturbavam s ua i magi nação durante o di a. O Renas ci mento conheci a
es tranhas manei ras de envenenar – por um capacete e uma tocha aces a, por
uma l uva bordada e um l eque s ofi s ti cado, por uma cai xa de perfumes dourada
e por uma corrente de âmbar. Dori an Gray fora envenenado por um l i vro. Havi a
momentos em que vi a o mau apenas como um modo através do qual el e poderi a
real i zar s eu concei to de bel eza.
[1] Pri nci pal es tação ferrovi ári a de Londres naquel e momento. Hoj e, é uma
es tação ferrovi ári a com parti das e chegadas apenas l ocai s .
[2] Vi nho branco di l uí do com água gas ei fi cada. Bebi da mui to popul ar na
Ingl aterra vi tori ana.
CAPÍT ULO 11
Às nove horas da manhã s egui nte, s eu cri ado vei o com uma xí cara de
chocol ate em uma bandej a e abri u as corti nas . Dori an dormi a paci fi camente,
dei tado ao l ado di rei to, com uma mão debai xo de s eu ros to. E l e pareci a um
garoto cans ado de bri ncar ou de es tudar.
O homem teve de tocá-l o duas vezes no ombro antes que el e acordas s e,
e enquanto abri a os ol hos , um débi l s orri s o pas s ou pel os s eus l ábi os , como s e
el e es ti ves s e tendo al gum s onho del i ci os o. Porém, el e não s onhara nada. Sua
noi te não fora i ncomodada por quai s quer i magens de prazer ou de dor. M as o
j ovem s orri a s em nenhuma razão. E ra um dos s eus pri nci pai s encantos .
E l e s e vi rou e, apoi ando-s e no cotovel o, começou a beber s eu chocol ate.
O s uave s ol de novembro i rradi ava-s e pel o quarto. O céu era de um azul
bri l hante e havi a um cal or ameno no ar. Pareci a quas e uma manhã de mai o.
Aos poucos , os eventos da noi te pas s ada s e ergui am em s i l enci os os
pés manchados de s angue em s eu cérebro e s e recons truí am l á com uma
terrí vel cl areza. E l e es tremeceu com a memóri a de tudo o que ti nha pas s ado e,
por um momento, o mes mo s enti mento curi os o de amal di çoar Bas i l Hal l ward,
que l he fi zera matá-l o enquanto es tava s entado na cadei ra, vol tou a s i e
es fri ou a s ua pai xão. O homem morto es tava s entado l á, também com o s ol da
manhã s obre el e. Como era horrí vel aqui l o! Coi s as repugnantes como es s as
eram pertenci am à es curi dão, não ao di a.
E l e s enti u que s e pens as s e s obre o que el e ti nha pas s ado, adoeceri a
ou enl ouqueceri a. Havi a pecados cuj a fas ci nação es tava mai s na memóri a do
que em cometê-l os , es tranhos tri unfos que s ati s fazi am o orgul ho mai s do que
as pai xões e davam ao i ntel ecto um exci tado s enti mento de al egri a, mai or que
a al egri a proporci onada ou que poderi am s er proporci onadas por el es , aos
s enti dos . M as aquel e não era o cas o. E ra uma coi s a a s er reti rada da mente, a
s er entorpeci da com ópi o, a s er es trangul ada antes que el a mes ma pudes s e
es trangul ar al guém.
E l e pas s ou s ua mão pel a tes ta e então s e l evantou apres s adamente e
s e ves ti u com ai nda mai s atenção do que a habi tual , s e dedi cando bas tante à
s el eção de s ua gravata e ao al fi nete de s eu l enço, e trocando s eus anéi s mai s
de uma vez.
E l e fi cou mui to tempo no café da manhã, provando os vári os pratos ,
convers ando com s eu paj em s obre novos uni formes que el e es tava pens ando
em confecci onar para os cri ados em Sel by e veri fi cando s ua corres pondênci a.
E l e s orri u com al gumas de s uas cartas . Três del as o entedi aram. Uma el e
rel eu vári as vezes e então ras gou com um l eve ar de i rri tação em s eu ros to.
“Que coi s a horrí vel , a memóri a de uma mul her!”, como di s s era uma vez l orde
Henry.
Quando termi nou de beber s eu café, el e s entou-s e à mes a e es creveu
duas cartas . Uma, el e col ocou em s eu bol s o, a outra, entregou para s eu paj em.
“Leve i s to para o número 152 da Hertford Street, Franci s , e s e o s enhor
Campbel l es ti ver fora da ci dade, obtenha s eu endereço”.
As s i m que fi cou s ozi nho, el e acendeu um ci garro e começou a
rabi s car em um pedaço de papel , des enhando fl ores , um pouco de arqui tetura,
pri mei ro, e depoi s ros tos . Logo el e notou que cada ros to que des enhava pareci a
ter uma extraordi nári a s emel hança com Bas i l Hal l ward. E l e fechou a cara e,
s e l evantando, foi até a es tante e reti rou um vol ume qual quer. E l e s e
determi nara a não pens ar s obre o que acontecera, até que fos s e abs ol utamente
neces s ári o fazê-l o.
Quando el e s e es ti cou s obre o s ofá, ol hou para o tí tul o do l i vro. E ra
E maux et Camées , de Gauti er[1], em uma edi ção de papel -arroz da
Carpenti er, com o ental he de Jacquemart. A encadernação era de couro verde-
ci dra, com um des enho de trel i ças douradas e romãs ponti l hadas . Fora l he
dado por Adri an Si ngl eton. E nquanto el e vi rava as pági nas , s eus ol hos
des cobri ram o poema s obre as mãos de Lacenai re, a mão amarel a e fri a du
s uppl i ce encore mal l avée[2], com s eus abundantes pêl os rui vos e s eus “dedos
de fauno[3]”. E l e ol hava para os s eus própri os dedos fi nos e conti nuou, até
chegar a es tes ví vi dos vers os s obre Veneza:
[1] Li vro que reúne 18 poemas , depoi s expandi do para 37, de autori a de Pi erre
Jul es Theóphi l e Gauti er ( 1811-1872), francês precurs or do
Parnas i ani s mo. O l i vro foi es cri to enquanto Gauti er vi aj ava pel o Ori ente
M édi o e é cons i derado a s ua obra-pri ma.
[2] “Ai nda i mpura pel o tormento”.
[3] “Dedos de fauno”. Ambos os trechos s ão do poema “É tudes de M ai ns ”
( “E s tudo s obre as mãos ”).
[4] Sobre uma es cal a cromáti ca / Seu pei to gotej ando pérol as / A Vênus do
Adri áti co / E rgue s eu corpo das águas ros a e branca. / Os domos , s obre o
azul das águas / Seguem o puro contorno da fras e, / Bal ançam como s ei os
redondos , / E rgui dos por um s us pi ro de amor. / O es qui fe aterra e eu
des embarco, / Amarro s ua corda ao pi l ar, / Defronte à uma fachada ros a,
/ No mármore de uma es cada.
( Trecho do poema “Sur l es l agunes ”).
[5] Il ha próxi ma à Veneza, onde s e l ocal i za um bal neári o de verão, de grande
reputação entre o s écul o XIX e a pri mei ra metade do s écul o XX,
frequentando pri nci pal mente pel a el i te europei a.
[6] “M ons tro encantador”.
CAPÍT ULO 13
“Não há nenhuma vantagem em me di zer que você s erá bom, Dori an”,
excl amou l orde Henry, mergul hando s eus dedos brancos em um pote de cobre
vermel ho chei o de água ros ada. “Você é bas tante perfei to. Por favor, não mude”.
Dori an bal ançou a cabeça. “Não, Harry, j á fi z mui tas coi s as terrí vei s
em mi nha vi da. Não i rei fazê-l as mai s . Comecei mi nhas boas ações ontem”.
“Onde você es tava ontem?”
“No campo, Harry. Fi quei s ozi nho em uma pequena es tal agem”.
“M eu caro rapaz”, di s s e l orde Henry, s orri ndo, “qual quer um pode s er
bom no campo. Não há tentações l á. E s ta é a razão pel a qual as pes s oas que
não vi vem na ci dade s ão tão rús ti cas . Há apenas doi s modos , você s abe, de s e
tornar ci vi l i zado. Um é obter cul tura, o outro é s e tornar corrupto. Os
campones es não têm a oportuni dade de um nem de outro, portanto fi cam
es tagnados ”.
“Cul tura e corrupção”, murmurou Dori an. “Conheço um pouco de ambas .
Parece-me curi os o agora que s ej am encontradas j untas . Poi s eu tenho um novo
i deal , Harry. M udarei . Acho que j á mudei ”.
“Você ai nda não me di s s e qual foi a s ua boa ação. Ou você di s s e que
foi mai s de uma?”
“Pos s o l he contar, Harry. Não é uma hi s tóri a que poderi a di zer a mai s
ni nguém. Poupei uma pes s oa. Soa vão, mas você entende o que eu quero di zer.
E l a era mui to boni ta e maravi l hos a, tanto quanto Sybi l Vane. Acho que i s to foi
o que me atrai u pri mei ro nel a. Você s e l embra de Sybi l , não? Como parece que
faz tempo! Bem, Hetty não era al guém da nos s a própri a cl as s e, cl aro. E l a era
s i mpl es mente uma garota de um vi l arej o. M as eu real mente a amei . E s tou
bem certo de que a amei . Durante todo es te maravi l hos o mai o que ti vemos , eu
cos tumava correr para vê-l a duas ou três vezes por s emana. Ontem, el a me
encontrou em um pequeno pomar. Os botões de maçã caí am s obre s eus cabel os
e el a ri a. Deverí amos ter fugi do j untos no rai ar des ta manhã. De repente,
deci di dei xá-l a tão i gual a uma fl or quando a conheci ”.
“Acho que a novi dade da emoção deve ter l he dado uma emoção do prazer
verdadei ro, Dori an”, i nterrompeu l orde Henry. “M as pos s o concl ui r s eu i dí l i o
por você. Você deu a el a um bom cons el ho e parti u o coração del a. E s te foi o
i ní ci o de s ua regeneração”.
“Harry, você é horrí vel ! Você não deve di zer es tas coi s as terrí vei s . O
coração de Hetty não es tá parti do. Cl aro que el a chorou e tudo o mai s . M as não
houve des graça s obre el a. E l a pode vi ver, como Perdi ta, em s eu j ardi m”.
“E chorar s obre um Fl ori zel i nfi el [1]”, di s s e l orde Henry, ri ndo. “M eu
caro Dori an, você tem os mai s curi os os humores adol es centes . Você acha que
es ta garota fi cará real mente s ati s fei ta com al guém de s ua própri a pos i ção
s oci al ? Suponho que el a s e cas e, al gum di a, com um rude cartei ro ou um
s orri dente l avrador. Bem, tendo l he conheci do e amado, i s s o a ens i nará a
des prezar o s eu mari do e el a fi cará arrui nada. De um ponto de vi s ta moral ,
real mente não apreci o mui to s ua grande regeneração. M es mo em s eu i ní ci o,
é defi ci ente. Al ém do mai s , como você s abe que Hetty não es tá fl utuando em
al gum l ago, com nenúfares ao s eu l ado, i gual à Ofél i a?”
“Não pos s o s uportar i s s o, Harry! Você zomba de tudo e então s ugere as
mai s s éri as tragédi as . Arrependo-me de ter l he contado i s s o. Não me i mporto
com o que me di z, s ei que es tava certo ao agi r como agi . Pobre Hetty! E nquanto
eu caval gava da fazenda, nes ta manhã, vi s eu ros to branco à j anel a, como um
vapor de j as mi m. Não me dei xe fal ar mai s a res pei to e não tente me convencer
que mi nha pri mei ra boa ação em anos , o pri mei ro bocado de autos s acri fí ci o
que j á vi vi , é real mente um ti po de pecado. Quero s er mel hor. Serei mel hor.
Di ga-me al go s obre s i mes mo. O que es tá acontecendo na ci dade? Não tenho i do
ao cl ube há di as ”.
“As pes s oas ai nda di s cutem o des apareci mento do pobre Bas i l ”.
“E u pens ava que j á ti nham s e cans ado di s s o”, di s s e Dori an, s ervi ndo-
s e de um pouco de vi nho e franzi ndo l evemente a fronte.
“M eu caro rapaz, el es es tão fal ando di s s o há apenas s ei s s emanas e o
públ i co não é, de fato, i gual ao es forço mental de s e ter mai s de um as s unto a
cada três mes es . Ul ti mamente, porém, foram bem afortunados . Ti veram o
meu própri o di vórci o e o s ui cí di o de Al an Campbel l . Agora, têm a mi s teri os a
des apari ção de um arti s ta. A Scotl and Yard ai nda s us tenta que o homem em
um s obretudo ci nza que embarcou no trem da mei a-noi te em Vi ctori a, em 7 de
novembro, era o pobre Bas i l e a pol í ci a frances a decl ara que Bas i l nunca
chegou a Pari s . Suponho que, em qui nze di as , s aberemos que el e foi vi s to em
São Franci s co. É al go es tranho, mas todos os que des aparecem s ão vi s tos em
São Franci s co. Deve s er uma ci dade del i ci os a e conta com todas as atrações do
novo mundo”.
“O que você acha que aconteceu a Bas i l ?”, i ndagou Dori an, s egurando
s eu burgundy contra a l uz e s e perguntando como el e podi a di s cuti r o as s unto
tão cal mamente.
“Não tenho a menor i dei a. Se Bas i l es col heu es conder-s e, não é
probl ema meu. Se es ti ver morto, nem quero pens ar nel e. A morte é a úni ca
coi s a que me as s us ta. E u a odei o. Pode-s e s obrevi ver a tudo hoj e em di a, exceto
a i s to. A morte e a vul gari dade s ão os doi s úni cos fatos no s écul o 19 que não
podem dar s ati s fação. Vamos beber nos s o café na s al a de mús i ca, Dori an. Você
deve tocar Chopi n para mi m. O homem com quem mi nha mul her fugi u tocava
Chopi n mui to bem. Pobre Vi ctori a! E u gos tava mui to del a. A cas a es tá bem
vazi a s em el a”.
Dori an nada di s s e, mas ergueu-s e da mes a e, pas s ando para a
próxi ma s al a, s entou-s e ao pi ano e dei xou s eus dedos des l i zarem pel as
tecl as . Depoi s que o café foi s ervi do, el e parou e, ol hando para l orde Henry,
di s s e, “Harry, j á l he ocorreu que Bas i l pode ter s i do as s as s i nado?”
Lorde Henry bocej ou. “Bas i l não ti nha i ni mi gos e s empre us ou um
rel ógi o Waterbury. Por que el e s eri a as s as s i nado? E l e não era i ntel i gente o
s ufi ci ente para fazer i ni mi gos . Cl aro que ti nha um gêni o maravi l hos o para a
pi ntura. M as um homem pode pi ntar como Vel ás quez e, ai nda, s er es túpi do
quanto pos s í vel . Bas i l era real mente es túpi do. E l e apenas me i nteres s ou
uma vez e foi quando el e me di s s e, anos atrás , que ti nha uma l ouca adoração
por você”.
“E u gos tava mui to de Bas i l ”, di s s e Dori an, com ar tri s te nos ol hos .
“M as as pes s oas não di zem que el e foi as s as s i nado?”
“Oh, al guns dos j ornai s , s i m. Não me parece provável . Sei que há
l ugares terrí vei s em Pari s , mas Bas i l não era o ti po de homem que i ri a l á.
E l e não era curi os o. E ra s eu grande defei to. Toque um noturno para mi m,
Dori an e, enquanto toca, conte-me, em voz bai xa, como você manteve s ua
j uventude. Você deve ter al gum s egredo. Sou apenas dez anos mai s vel ho que
você e es tou enrugado, cal vo e amarel o. Você é real mente maravi l hos o, Dori an.
Nunca aparentou es tar mai s encantador do que nes ta noi te. Você me l embra do
di a em que o vi pel a pri mei ra vez. Você era bem i ns ol ente, mui to tí mi do e
abs ol utamente extraordi nári o. Você mudou, cl aro, mas não em aparênci a.
Quero que me conte s eu s egredo. Para vol tar à mi nha adol es cênci a, eu dari a
tudo no mundo, menos me exerci tar, acordar cedo ou s er res pei tável . A
j uventude! Não há nada como el a. É abs urdo fal ar da i gnorânci a da j uventude.
As úni cas pes s oas cuj as opi ni ões eu es cuto, agora, com al gum res pei to, s ão
as das pes s oas bem mai s j ovens que eu. E l as parecem es tar adi ante de mi m.
A vi da l hes revel ou s ua úl ti ma maravi l ha. Quanto aos vel hos , s empre os
contradi go. Faço por pri ncí pi o. Se você l hes perguntar s ua opi ni ão s obre al go
que aconteceu ontem, el es s ol enemente darão as opi ni ões em voga em 1820,
quando as pes s oas us avam gravatas al tas e não s abi am de coi s a al guma. Como
é encantador i s s o que você es tá tocando! Pergunto-me s e Chopi n es creveu i s s o
em M ai orca, com o mar chorando perto da vi l a e o vapor s al gado arremes s ando-
s e contra as j anel as ... É maravi l hos amente românti co. É uma bênção que nos
s ej a dei xada uma arte que não s ej a i mi tati va! Não pare. Quero mús i ca nes ta
noi te. Parece que você é o j ovem Apol o e que eu s ou M árs i as ouvi ndo-o[2].
Tenho mágoas , Dori an, de mi m mes mo, que nem você as conhece. A tragédi a
da vel hi ce não é que al guém s ej a vel ho, mas que al guém s ej a j ovem.
Surpreendo-me, às vezes , com a mi nha própri a s i nceri dade. Ah, Dori an, como
você é fel i z! Que vi da del i ci os a você l eva! Você s e embebeu profundamente de
tudo. Você es magou as uvas contra s eu pal ato. Nada l he foi es condi do. M as
tudo foi para você não mai s do que o s om da mús i ca. Is s o não l he embotou. Você
conti nua o mes mo”.
“Pergunto-me como s erá o res to de s ua vi da. Não a es trague com
renúnci as . Nes te momento, você é o ti po perfei to. Não s e torne i ncompl eto. Você
é i rretocável , agora. Não preci s a bal ançar a cabeça: você s abe que é. Al ém
di s s o, Dori an, não s e engane. A vi da não é governada pel a vontade ou pel a
i ntenção. A vi da é uma ques tão de nervos , fi bras e cél ul as l entamente
formadas nas quai s s e es condem o pens amento e a pai xão tem s eus s onhos .
Você pode s e i magi nar a s al vo e s e cons i derar forte. M as um tom de cor
ocas i onal em um quarto ou no céu da manhã, um perfume parti cul ar que você
amou uma vez e que carrega es tranhas memóri as cons i go, um vers o de um
poema es queci do que s e l he ocorre outra vez, uma cadênci a de uma peça
mus i cal que você j á não toca mai s – eu l he di rei , Dori an, s ão de coi s as como
es tas que a nos s a vi da depende. Browni ng es creve s obre i s s o em al gum l ugar;
mas os nos s os própri os s enti dos s erão i magi nados para nós . Há momentos em
que o odor do hel i otrópi o pas s a repenti namente por mi m e eu tenho de vi ver o
ano mai s es tranho de mi nha vi da outra vez”.
“Gos tari a de trocar de l ugar com você, Dori an. O mundo nos execrou
j untos , mas s empre o cul tuou. Sempre o cul tuará. Você é o ti po que a época
procura e que teme ter encontrado. E s tou tão fel i z por você nunca ter fei to nada,
nunca es cul pi r uma es tátua ou pi ntar um quadro, ou qual quer coi s a al ém de
s i mes mo! A vi da tem s i do a s ua arte. Você s e afi nou com a mús i ca. Seus di as
têm s i do s eus s onetos .”
Dori an ergueu-s e do pi ano e pas s ou a mão pel os cabel os .
“Si m, a vi da tem s i do prazeros a”, el e murmurou, “mas não terei a
mes ma vi da, Harry. E você não deve di zer es tas coi s as extravagantes para
mi m. Você não s abe tudo s obre mi m. Acho que, s e s oubes s e, você me
abandonari a. Você ri ? Não ri a”.
“Por que parou de tocar, Dori an? Vol te e toque o noturno novamente.
Ol he para a enorme l ua cor de mel s us pens a no ar obs curo. E l a o es pera para
que a encante e s e você tocar, el a s e aproxi mará da terra. Você não vai ? Vamos
ao cl ube, então. E s tá s endo uma noi te encantadora, e devemos termi ná-l a
i gual mente. Há al guém l á que des ej a conhecê-l o i mens amente – o j ovem
l orde Pool e, o pri mogêni to de Bournmouth. E l e j á copi ou s uas gravatas e me
i mpl orou para que eu o apres entas s e a el e. E l e é bas tante agradável e me
l embra mui to você”.
“E s pero que não”, di s s e Dori an, com um toque de pathos em s ua voz.
“M as es tou cans ado es ta noi te, Harry. Não i rei ao cl ube. Já s ão quas e onze e
quero dormi r cedo”.
“Por favor, fi que. Você nunca tocou tão bem quanto nes ta noi te. Havi a
al go em s eu toque que era maravi l hos o. Ti nha mai s expres s ão do que eu j á
ouvi ra del e antes ”.
“É porque es tou vi rando uma boa pes s oa”, el e res pondeu s orri ndo. “Já
es tou um pouco mudado”.
“Não mude, Dori an; de qual quer forma, não mude comi go. Sempre
deveremos s er ami gos ”.
“Porém, você me envenenou com um l i vro, uma vez. Não poderei
perdoar i s to. Harry, prometa que nunca empres tará aquel e l i vro para mai s
ni nguém. Aquel e l i vro arruí na”.
“M eu caro rapaz, você es tá real mente começando a moral i zar. Logo você
es tará avi s ando as pes s oas contra todos os pecados dos quai s j á s e cans ou. Você
é mui to agradável para fazer i s to. Al ém di s s o, é i núti l . Você e eu s omos o que
s omos , e s eremos o que s eremos . Venha amanhã. Irei caval gar às onze e
podemos i r j untos . O Parque es tá mui to encantador ul ti mamente. Acho que
não havi a tantas l i l ás es quanto no ano em que o conheci ”.
“M ui to bem. E s tarei aqui às onze”, di s s e Dori an. “Boa noi te, Harry”.
Quando chegou à porta, hes i tou por um momento, como s e ti ves s e al go mai s a
di zer. E ntão, s us pi rou e s ai u.
E s tava uma noi te encantadora, tão quente que el e j ogou s eu cas aco
s obre o braço e nem mes mo col ocou s eu l enço de s eda s obre o pes coço. E nquanto
cami nhava para cas a, fumando um ci garro, doi s j ovens rapazes em roupas de
gal a pas s aram por el e. E l e ouvi u um del es s us s urrar para o outro, “E s te é
Dori an Gray”. E l e s e l embrou de que cos tumava fi car orgul hos o quando era
apontado ou encarado, ou comentado. Agora, el e es tava cans ado de ouvi r o s eu
nome. A metade do encanto da pequena vi l a onde el e es ti vera tão
frequentemente nos úl ti mos tempos era que ni nguém s abi a quem el e era.
E l e di s s era à garota que fi zera amá-l o que era pobre e el a acredi tara. E l e
di s s e, uma vez, que era rui m e el a ri u del e e l he di s s e que as pes s oas más
eram s empre mui to vel has e mui to fei as . Que ri s ada el a ti nha! – quas e como
um tordo cantando. E como el a era boni ta em s eus ves ti dos de al godão e
chapéus grandes ! E l a nada s abi a, mas ti nha tudo o que el e perdera.
Quando el e chegou em cas a, encontrou s eu cri ado es perando-o. E l e
di s pens ou o cri ado e s e j ogou s obre o s ofá na bi bl i oteca, e começou a pens ar
s obre al gumas coi s as que l orde Henry l he di s s era.
E ra real mente verdade que não s e podi a mudar? E l e s enti a uma
s audade l ouca pel a i macul ada pureza de s ua adol es cênci a – s ua adol es cênci a
ros a e branca, como l orde Henry uma vez a chamara. E l e s abi a que ti nha
manchado a s i mes mo, enchi do s ua mente de corrupção e dado horror à s ua
i magi nação; que el e fora uma má i nfl uênci a para os outros e ti nha provado
uma al egri a terrí vel , por as s i m s er; e que as vi das que cruzaram a del e
própri a foram as mai s j us tas e chei as de promes s as que el e envergonhara.
M as s eri a tudo i rrecuperável ? Não haveri a es perança para el e?
E ra mel hor não pens ar no pas s ado. Nada poderi a al terá-l o. E ra s obre
el e e no s eu própri o futuro que el e teri a de pens ar. Al an Campbel l s e matara
com um ti ro em s eu l aboratóri o, uma noi te, mas não havi a revel ado o s egredo
que fora forçado a s aber. A exci tação, as s i m como era, s obre o des apareci mento
de Bas i l Hal l ward l ogo pas s ari a. Já es tava enfraquecendo. E l e es tava
perfei tamente a s al vo di s s o. De fato, nem era a morte de Bas i l Hal l ward que
mai s l he pes ava a cons ci ênci a. E ra a morte vi va de s ua própri a al ma que o
i ncomodava. Bas i l pi ntara o retrato que embotara a s ua vi da. E l e não podi a
perdoá-l o por i s s o. Foi o retrato que fez tudo aqui l o. Bas i l l he di s s era coi s as
que eram i ns uportávei s e, ai nda, el e s uportara com paci ênci a. O as s as s i nato
fora s i mpl es mente a l oucura do momento. Quanto a Al an Campbel l , o s ui cí di o
fora s eu própri o ato. E l e es col hera fazê-l o. Não era nada com el e.
Uma nova vi da! Is s o era o que el e queri a. Is s o era o que el e es tava
es perando. Certamente que j á ti nha começado. E l e poupara uma coi s a
i nocente, de qual quer forma. E l e nunca mai s tentari a a i nocênci a. E l e s eri a
bom.
E nquanto pens ava em Hetty M erton, el e começou a s e perguntar s e o
retrato na s al a trancada s e al terara. Certamente, não deveri a es tar tão horrí vel ,
ai nda, quanto fora. Tal vez, s e a s ua vi da s e tornas s e pura, el e s eri a capaz de
expel i r cada pecado da má pai xão daquel e ros to. Tal vez os s i nai s da mal dade
j á ti ves s em s e di s s i pado. E l e i ri a ol har.
Pegou o l ampari na da mes a e s ubi u as es cadas . E nquanto
des trancava a porta, um s orri s o de al egri a adej ou por um momento em s eus
l ábi os . Si m, el e s eri a bom e a coi s a repugnante que el e es condera não mai s
l he s eri a um terror. E l e s enti a como s e a carga j á l he ti ves s e s i do reti rada.
E l e entrou cal mamente, trancando a porta por detrás de s i , como era
s eu cos tume e arras tou a cobertura púrpura do retrato. Um gri to de dor e de
i ndi gnação i rrompeu del e. E l e não podi a ver al terações , a menos nos ol hos ,
onde havi a um ol har manhos o e na boca a ruga encurvada do hi pócri ta. A coi s a
ai nda era as queros a – mai s as queros a, s e pos s í vel , do que antes – e a
umi dade es carl ate que manchava a mão pareci a mai s bri l hante, mai s ai nda
com s angue recém-derramado.
Teri a s i do apenas a vai dade que o l evara a fazer es ta boa ação? Ou o
des ej o de uma nova s ens ação, como l orde Henry s ugeri ra, com s ua ri s ada
zombetei ra? Ou aquel a pai xão em i nterpretar um papel que às vezes nos l eva a
fazer as coi s as mel hor do que s omos ? Ou, tal vez, tudo i s s o?
Por que a mancha vermel ha es tava mai or do que ti nha s i do? Pareci a ter
s e es pal hado como uma terrí vel doença s obre os dedos enrugados . Havi a
s angue nos pés pi ntados , como s e a coi s a ti ves s e es corri do – s angue até
mes mo na mão que não s egurara a faca.
Confes s ar? Aqui l o s i gni fi cava que el e ti nha de confes s ar? Render-s e e
s er condenado à morte? E l e ri u. Senti a que a i dei a era mons truos a. Al ém
di s s o, quem acredi tari a nel e, mes mo s e confes s as s e? Não havi a traços do
homem as s as s i nado em l ugar al gum. Tudo o que pertenci a a el e fora
des truí do. E l e mes mo quei mara o que es ti vera l á embai xo. O mundo
s i mpl es mente di ri a que el e es tava l ouco. E l es o prenderi am s e conti nuas s e
com a hi s tóri a.
Ai nda, era s eu dever confes s ar, s ofrer condenação públ i ca e fazer a
reconci l i ação públ i ca. Havi a um Deus que convocava os homens a contar s eus
pecados à terra as s i m como ao céu. Nada que el e pudes s e fazer o l i mpari a até
que contas s e s eu própri o pecado. Seu pecado? E l e deu de ombros . A morte de
Bas i l Hal l ward l he pareci a mui to pequena. E l e es tava pens ando em Hetty
M erton.
E ra um es pel ho i nj us to, es te es pel ho de s ua al ma para qual es tava
ol hando. Vai dade? Curi os i dade? Hi pocri s i a? Não havi a nada mai s em s ua
renúnci a do que i s s o? Houvera al go mai s . Pel o menos , era o que el e achava.
M as quem podi a di zer?
E es te as s as s i nato – i ri a pers egui -l o por toda a s ua vi da? Nunca el e
es tari a l i vre do pas s ado? Deveri a real mente confes s ar? Não. Havi a apenas uma
úni ca prova dei xada contra el e. O própri o retrato – era aquel a prova.
E l e o des trui ri a. Por que o manti vera por tanto tempo? Is s o l he dera
prazer uma vez, ao vê-l o mudar e envel hecer. Nos úl ti mos tempos , el e não
s enti a tal prazer. Is s o o manti nha acordado de noi te. Quando vi aj ava, era
tomado de terror com o recei o que outros ol hos caí s s em s obre el e. O retrato
l ançara a mel ancol i a s obre as s uas pai xões . Sua s i mpl es l embrança embotara
mui tos momentos de al egri a. Fora como a cons ci ênci a, para el e. Si m, era a
cons ci ênci a. E l e o des trui ri a.
E l e ol hou ao redor e vi u a faca que havi a gol peado Bas i l Hal l ward. E l e
a l i mpara mui tas vezes , até que não ti ves s e mancha al guma dei xada s obre
el a. E s tava bri l hante e rel uzente. Como ti nha as s as s i nado o pi ntor, a faca
matari a o trabal ho do pi ntor e tudo o que el e s i gni fi cava. M atari a o pas s ado e
quando o pas s ado es ti ves s e morto, el e es tari a l i vre. E l e a agarrou e es faqueou
a tel a com el a, ras gando a coi s a de ci ma a bai xo.
Ouvi u-s e um gri to e um es trondo. O gri to foi tão horrí vel em s ua
agoni a, que os cri ados as s us tados des pertaram e s aí ram de s eus quartos . Doi s
caval hei ros que pas s avam pel a praça embai xo pararam e ol haram para a
grande cas a. Cami nharam até encontrar um pol i ci al , que os s egui u de vol ta
até l á. O homem tocou a s i neta vári as vezes , mas não houve res pos ta. A cas a
es tava toda es cura, exceto por uma l uz em uma das j anel as s uperi ores . Depoi s
de um tempo, el e foi embora, fi cou no pórti co da cas a ao l ado e aguardou.
“De quem é aquel a cas a, guarda?”, perguntou o mai s vel ho dos doi s
caval hei ros .
“De Dori an Gray, s enhor”, res pondeu o pol i ci al .
E l es s e entreol haram, enquanto cami nhavam, com um ol har de
s arcas mo. Um del es era o ti o de s i r Henry As hton.
Lá dentro, na al a dos empregados , os cri ados s emi ves ti dos fal avam
entre s i em s us s urros quas e i naudí vei s . A vel ha s enhora Leaf es tava
chorando e torcendo as mãos . Franci s es tava pál i do como a morte.
Depoi s de uns qui nze mi nutos , el e j untou-s e ao cochei ro e um dos
l acai os e s ubi ram as es cadas . Bateram à porta, mas não houve res pos ta.
Chamaram. Tudo es tava em s i l ênci o. Fi nal mente, depoi s de tentar arrombar a
porta em vão, s ubi ram ao tel hado e pul aram para a varanda. As j anel as
cederam faci l mente: os parafus os es tavam vel hos .
Quando entraram, encontraram s us pens o à parede um es pl êndi do
retrato de s eu patrão, como o ti nham vi s to pel a úl ti ma vez, em todo o s eu
es pl endor de uma del i cada j uventude e bel eza. Dei tado no chão havi a um
homem morto, em roupa de gal a, com uma faca em s eu coração. E l e es tava
murcho, enrugado e s eu s embl ante era repugnante. Apenas quando
exami naram os anéi s reconheceram quem era.
FIM
The arti s t i s the creator of beauti ful thi ngs . To reveal art and conceal
the arti s t i s art’s ai m. The cri ti c i s he who can trans l ate i nto another manner
or a new materi al hi s i mpres s i on of beauti ful thi ngs .
The hi ghes t as the l owes t form of cri ti ci s m i s a mode of
autobi ography. Thos e who fi nd ugl y meani ngs i n beauti ful thi ngs are corrupt
wi thout bei ng charmi ng. Thi s i s a faul t.
Thos e who fi nd beauti ful meani ngs i n beauti ful thi ngs are the
cul ti vated. For thes e there i s hope. They are the el ect to whom beauti ful
thi ngs mean onl y beauty.
There i s no s uch thi ng as a moral or an i mmoral book. Books are wel l
wri tten, or badl y wri tten. That i s al l .
The ni neteenth century di s l i ke of real i s m i s the rage of Cal i ban
s eei ng hi s own face i n a gl as s .
The ni neteenth century di s l i ke of romanti ci s m i s the rage of Cal i ban
not s eei ng hi s own face i n a gl as s . The moral l i fe of man forms part of the
s ubj ect-matter of the arti s t, but the moral i ty of art cons i s ts i n the perfect us e
of an i mperfect medi um. No arti s t des i res to prove anythi ng. E ven thi ngs that
are true can be proved. No arti s t has ethi cal s ympathi es . An ethi cal s ympathy
i n an arti s t i s an unpardonabl e manneri s m of s tyl e. No arti s t i s ever morbi d.
The arti s t can expres s everythi ng. Thought and l anguage are to the arti s t
i ns truments of an art. Vi ce and vi rtue are to the arti s t materi al s for an art.
From the poi nt of vi ew of form, the type of al l the arts i s the art of the
mus i ci an. From the poi nt of vi ew of feel i ng, the actor’s craft i s the type. Al l art
i s at once s urface and s ymbol . Thos e who go beneath the s urface do s o at thei r
peri l . Thos e who read the s ymbol do s o at thei r peri l . It i s the s pectator, and not
l i fe, that art real l y mi rrors . Di vers i ty of opi ni on about a work of art s hows that
the work i s new, compl ex, and vi tal . When cri ti cs di s agree, the arti s t i s i n
accord wi th hi ms el f. We can forgi ve a man for maki ng a us eful thi ng as l ong
as he does not admi re i t. The onl y excus e for maki ng a us el es s thi ng i s that
one admi res i t i ntens el y.
OSCAR WILDE
CHAPT E R 1
The s tudi o was fi l l ed wi th the ri ch odor of ros es , and when the l i ght
s ummer wi nd s ti rred ami ds t the trees of the garden there came through the
open door the heavy s cent of the l i l ac, or the more del i cate perfume of the
pi nk-fl oweri ng thorn.
From the corner of the di van of Pers i an s addl e-bags on whi ch he was
l yi ng, s moki ng, as us ual , i nnumerabl e ci garettes , l ord Henry Wotton coul d
j us t catch the gl eam of the honey-s weet and honey-col ored bl os s oms of the
l aburnum, whos e tremul ous branches s eemed hardl y abl e to bear the burden
of a beauty s o fl ame-l i ke as thei rs ; and now and then the fantas ti c s hadows of
bi rds i n fl i ght fl i tted acros s the l ong tus s ore-s i l k curtai ns that were s tretched
i n front of the huge wi ndow, produci ng a ki nd of momentary Japanes e effect,
and maki ng hi m thi nk of thos e pal l i d j ade-faced pai nters who, i n an art that
i s neces s ari l y i mmobi l e, s eek to convey the s ens e of s wi ftnes s and moti on.
The s ul l en murmur of the bees s houl deri ng thei r way through the l ong
unmown gras s , or ci rcl i ng wi th monotonous i ns i s tence round the bl ack-
crocketed s pi res of the earl y June hol l yhocks , s eemed to make the s ti l l nes s
more oppres s i ve, and the di m roar of London was l i ke the bourdon note of a
di s tant organ.
In the centre of the room, cl amped to an upri ght eas el , s tood the ful l -
l ength portrai t of a young man of extraordi nary pers onal beauty, and i n front
of i t, s ome l i ttl e di s tance away, was s i tti ng the arti s t hi ms el f, Bas i l
Hal l ward, whos e s udden di s appearance s ome years ago caus ed, at the ti me,
s uch publ i c exci tement, and gave ri s e to s o many s trange conj ectures .
As he l ooked at the graci ous and comel y form he had s o s ki l ful l y
mi rrored i n hi s art, a s mi l e of pl eas ure pas s ed acros s hi s face, and s eemed
about to l i nger there. But he s uddenl y s tarted up, and, cl os i ng hi s eyes ,
pl aced hi s fi ngers upon the l i ds , as though he s ought to i mpri s on wi thi n hi s
brai n s ome curi ous dream from whi ch he feared he mi ght awake.
“It i s your bes t work, Bas i l , the bes t thi ng you have ever done”, s ai d
Lord Henry, l angui dl y. “You mus t certai nl y s end i t next year to the Gros venor.
The Academy i s too l arge and too vul gar. The Gros venor i s the onl y pl ace”.
“I don’t thi nk I wi l l s end i t anywhere”, he ans wered, tos s i ng hi s head
back i n that odd way that us ed to make hi s fri ends l augh at hi m at Oxford.
“No: I won’t s end i t anywhere”.
Lord Henry el evated hi s eyebrows , and l ooked at hi m i n amazement
through the thi n bl ue wreaths of s moke that curl ed up i n s uch fanci ful
whorl s from hi s heavy opi um-tai nted ci garette. “Not s end i t anywhere? M y
dear fel l ow, why? Have you any reas on? What odd chaps you pai nters are! You
do anythi ng i n the worl d to gai n a reputati on. As s oon as you have one, you
s eem to want to throw i t away. It i s s i l l y of you, for there i s onl y one thi ng i n
the worl d wors e than bei ng tal ked about, and that i s not bei ng tal ked about. A
portrai t l i ke thi s woul d s et you far above al l the young men i n E ngl and, and
make the ol d men qui te j eal ous , i f ol d men are ever capabl e of any emoti on”.
“I know you wi l l l augh at me”, he repl i ed, “but I real l y can’t exhi bi t i t.
I have put too much of mys el f i nto i t”.
Lord Henry s tretched hi s l ong l egs out on the di van and s hook wi th
l aughter.
“Yes , I knew you woul d l augh; but i t i s qui te true, al l the s ame”.
“Too much of yours el f i n i t! Upon my word, Bas i l , I di dn’t know you
were s o vai n; and I real l y can’t s ee any res embl ance between you, wi th your
rugged s trong face and your coal -bl ack hai r, and thi s young Adoni s , who l ooks
as i f he was made of i vory and ros e-l eaves . Why, my dear Bas i l , he i s a
Narci s s us , and you… wel l , of cours e you have an i ntel l ectual expres s i on, and
al l that. But beauty, real beauty, ends where an i ntel l ectual expres s i on
begi ns . Intel l ect i s i n i ts el f an exaggerati on, and des troys the harmony of
any face. The moment one s i ts down to thi nk, one becomes al l nos e, or al l
forehead, or s omethi ng horri d. Look at the s ucces s ful men i n any of the
l earned profes s i ons . How perfectl y hi deous they are! E xcept, of cours e, i n the
Church. But then i n the Church they don’t thi nk. A bi s hop keeps on s ayi ng at
the age of ei ghty what he was tol d to s ay when he was a boy of ei ghteen, and
cons equentl y he al ways l ooks abs ol utel y del i ghtful . Your mys teri ous young
fri end, whos e name you have never tol d me, but whos e pi cture real l y
fas ci nates me, never thi nks . I feel qui te s ure of that. He i s a brai nl es s ,
beauti ful thi ng, who s houl d be al ways here i n wi nter when we have no
fl owers to l ook at, and al ways here i n s ummer when we want s omethi ng to
chi l l our i ntel l i gence. Don’t fl atter yours el f, Bas i l : you are not i n the l eas t
l i ke hi m”.
“You don’t unders tand me, Harry. Of cours e I am not l i ke hi m. I know
that perfectl y wel l . Indeed, I s houl d be s orry to l ook l i ke hi m. You s hrug your
s houl ders ? I am tel l i ng you the truth. There i s a fatal i ty about al l phys i cal
and i ntel l ectual di s ti ncti on, the s ort of fatal i ty that s eems to dog through
hi s tory the fal teri ng s teps of ki ngs . It i s better not to be di fferent from one’s
fel l ows . The ugl y and the s tupi d have the bes t of i t i n thi s worl d. They can s i t
qui etl y and gape at the pl ay. If they know nothi ng of vi ctory, they are at l eas t
s pared the knowl edge of defeat. They l i ve as we al l s houl d l i ve, undi s turbed,
i ndi fferent, and wi thout di s qui et. They nei ther bri ng rui n upon others nor
ever recei ve i t from al i en hands . Your rank and weal th, Harry; my brai ns ,
s uch as they are – my fame, whatever i t may be worth; Dori an Gray’s good
l ooks – we wi l l al l s uffer for what the gods have gi ven us , s uffer terri bl y”.
“Dori an Gray? i s that hi s name?” s ai d Lord Henry, wal ki ng acros s the
s tudi o towards Bas i l Hal l ward.
“Yes ; that i s hi s name. I di dn’t i ntend to tel l i t to you”.
“But why not?”
“Oh, I can’t expl ai n. When I l i ke peopl e i mmens el y I never tel l thei r
names to any one. It s eems l i ke s urrenderi ng a part of them. You know how I
l ove s ecrecy. It i s the onl y thi ng that can make modern l i fe wonderful or
mys teri ous to us . The commones t thi ng i s del i ghtful i f one onl y hi des i t.
When I l eave town I never tel l my peopl e where I am goi ng. If I di d, I woul d
l os e al l my pl eas ure. It i s a s i l l y habi t, I dare s ay, but s omehow i t s eems to
bri ng a great deal of romance i nto one’s l i fe. I s uppos e you thi nk me awful l y
fool i s h about i t?”
“Not at al l ”, ans wered Lord Henry, l ayi ng hi s hand upon hi s
s houl der; “not at al l , my dear Bas i l . You s eem to forget that I am marri ed, and
the one charm of marri age i s that i t makes a l i fe of decepti on neces s ary for
both parti es . I never know where my wi fe i s , and my wi fe never knows what I
am doi ng. When we meet – we do meet occas i onal l y, when we di ne out
together, or go down to the duke’s – we tel l each other the mos t abs urd s tori es
wi th the mos t s eri ous faces . M y wi fe i s very good at i t – much better, i n fact,
than I am. She never gets confus ed over her dates , and I al ways do. But when
s he does fi nd me out, s he makes no row at al l . I s ometi mes wi s h s he woul d;
but s he merel y l aughs at me”.
“I hate the way you tal k about your marri ed l i fe, Harry”, s ai d Bas i l
Hal l ward, s haki ng hi s hand off, and s trol l i ng towards the door that l ed i nto
the garden. “I bel i eve that you are real l y a very good hus band, but that you are
thoroughl y as hamed of your own vi rtues . You are an extraordi nary fel l ow. You
never s ay a moral thi ng, and you never do a wrong thi ng. Your cyni ci s m i s
s i mpl y a pos e”.
“Bei ng natural i s s i mpl y a pos e, and the mos t i rri tati ng pos e I know”,
cri ed Lord Henry, l aughi ng; and the two young men went out i nto the garden
together, and for a ti me they di d not s peak.
After a l ong paus e Lord Henry pul l ed out hi s watch. “I am afrai d I
mus t be goi ng, Bas i l ”, he murmured, “and before I go I i ns i s t on your
ans weri ng a ques ti on I put to you s ome ti me ago”.
“What i s that?” as ked Bas i l Hal l ward, keepi ng hi s eyes fi xed on the
ground.
“You know qui te wel l ”.
“I do not, Harry”.
“Wel l , I wi l l tel l you what i t i s ”.
“Pl eas e don’t”.
“I mus t. I want you to expl ai n to me why you won’t exhi bi t Dori an
Gray’s pi cture. I want the real reas on”.
“I tol d you the real reas on”.
“No, you di d not. You s ai d i t was becaus e there was too much of
yours el f i n i t. Now, that i s chi l di s h”.
“Harry”, s ai d Bas i l Hal l ward, l ooki ng hi m s trai ght i n the face, “every
portrai t that i s pai nted wi th feel i ng i s a portrai t of the arti s t, not of the s i tter.
The s i tter i s merel y the acci dent, the occas i on. It i s not he who i s reveal ed by
the pai nter; i t i s rather the pai nter who, on the col ored canvas , reveal s
hi ms el f. The reas on I wi l l not exhi bi t thi s pi cture i s that I am afrai d that I
have s hown wi th i t the s ecret of my own s oul ”.
Lord Harry l aughed. “And what i s that?” he as ked.
“I wi l l tel l you”, s ai d Hal l ward; and an expres s i on of perpl exi ty came
over hi s face.
“I am al l expectati on, Bas i l ”, murmured hi s compani on, l ooki ng at
hi m.
“Oh, there i s real l y very l i ttl e to tel l , Harry”, ans wered the young
pai nter; “and I am afrai d you wi l l hardl y unders tand i t. Perhaps you wi l l
hardl y bel i eve i t”.
Lord Henry s mi l ed, and, l eani ng down, pl ucked a pi nk-petal l ed
dai s y from the gras s , and exami ned i t. “I am qui te s ure I s hal l unders tand
i t”, he repl i ed, gazi ng i ntentl y at the l i ttl e gol den whi te-feathered di s k, “and I
can bel i eve anythi ng, provi ded that i t i s i ncredi bl e”.
The wi nd s hook s ome bl os s oms from the trees , and the heavy l i l ac
bl ooms , wi th thei r cl us teri ng s tars , moved to and fro i n the l angui d ai r. A
gras s hopper began to chi rrup i n the gras s , and a l ong thi n dragon-fl y fl oated
by on i ts brown gauze wi ngs . Lord Henry fel t as i f he coul d hear Bas i l
Hal l ward’s heart beati ng, and he wondered what was comi ng.
“Wel l , thi s i s i ncredi bl e”, repeated Hal l ward, rather bi tterl y –
“i ncredi bl e to me at ti mes . I don’t know what i t means . The s tory i s s i mpl y
thi s . Two months ago I went to a crus h at Lady Brandon’s . You know we poor
pai nters have to s how ours el ves i n s oci ety from ti me to ti me, j us t to remi nd
the publ i c that we are not s avages . Wi th an eveni ng coat and a whi te ti e, as
you tol d me once, anybody, even a s tock-broker, can gai n a reputati on for bei ng
ci vi l i zed. Wel l , after I had been i n the room about ten mi nutes , tal ki ng to
huge overdres s ed dowagers and tedi ous Academi ci ans , I s uddenl y became
cons ci ous that s ome one was l ooki ng at me. I turned hal f-way round, and s aw
Dori an Gray for the fi rs t ti me. When our eyes met, I fel t that I was growi ng
pal e. A curi ous i ns ti nct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to
face wi th s ome one whos e mere pers onal i ty was s o fas ci nati ng that, i f I
al l owed i t to do s o, i t woul d abs orb my whol e nature, my whol e s oul , my very
art i ts el f. I di d not want any external i nfl uence i n my l i fe. You know
yours el f, Harry, how i ndependent I am by nature. M y father des ti ned me for
the army. I i ns i s ted on goi ng to Oxford. Then he made me enter my name at
the M i ddl e Templ e. Before I had eaten hal f a dozen di nners I gave up the
Bar, and announced my i ntenti on of becomi ng a pai nter. I have al ways been
my own mas ter; had at l eas t al ways been s o, ti l l I met Dori an Gray. Then –
But I don’t know how to expl ai n i t to you. Somethi ng s eemed to tel l me that I was
on the verge of a terri bl e cri s i s i n my l i fe. I had a s trange feel i ng that Fate
had i n s tore for me exqui s i te j oys and exqui s i te s orrows . I knew that i f I s poke
to Dori an I woul d become abs ol utel y devoted to hi m, and that I ought not to
s peak to hi m. I grew afrai d, and turned to qui t the room. It was not cons ci ence
that made me do s o: i t was cowardi ce. I take no credi t to mys el f for tryi ng to
es cape”.
“Cons ci ence and cowardi ce are real l y the s ame thi ngs , Bas i l .
Cons ci ence i s the trade-name of the fi rm. That i s al l ”.
“I don’t bel i eve that, Harry. However, whatever was my moti ve – and i t
may have been pri de, for I us ed to be very proud – I certai nl y s truggl ed to the
door. There, of cours e, I s tumbl ed agai ns t Lady Brandon. ‘You are not goi ng to
run away s o s oon, M r. Hal l ward?’ s he s creamed out. You know her s hri l l
horri d voi ce?”
“Yes ; s he i s a peacock i n everythi ng but beauty”, s ai d Lord Henry,
pul l i ng the dai s y to bi ts wi th hi s l ong, nervous fi ngers .
“I coul d not get ri d of her. She brought me up to Royal ti es , and peopl e
wi th Stars and Garters , and el derl y l adi es wi th gi ganti c ti aras and hooked
nos es . She s poke of me as her deares t fri end. I had onl y met her once before,
but s he took i t i nto her head to l i oni ze me. I bel i eve s ome pi cture of mi ne had
made a great s ucces s at the ti me, at l eas t had been chattered about i n the
penny news papers , whi ch i s the ni neteenth-century s tandard of i mmortal i ty.
Suddenl y I found mys el f face to face wi th the young man whos e pers onal i ty
had s o s trangel y s ti rred me. We were qui te cl os e, al mos t touchi ng. Our eyes
met agai n. It was mad of me, but I as ked Lady Brandon to i ntroduce me to hi m.
Perhaps i t was not s o mad, after al l . It was s i mpl y i nevi tabl e. We woul d have
s poken to each other wi thout any i ntroducti on. I am s ure of that. Dori an tol d me
s o afterwards . He, too, fel t that we were des ti ned to know each other”.
“And how di d Lady Brandon des cri be thi s wonderful young man? I
know s he goes i n for gi vi ng a rapi d préci s of al l her gues ts . I remember her
bri ngi ng me up to a mos t trucul ent and red-faced ol d gentl eman covered al l
over wi th orders and ri bbons , and hi s s i ng i nto my ear, i n a tragi c whi s per
whi ch mus t have been perfectl y audi bl e to everybody i n the room, s omethi ng
l i ke ‘Si r Humpty Dumpty – you know -- Afghan fronti er – Rus s i an i ntri gues :
very s ucces s ful man – wi fe ki l l ed by an el ephant – qui te i ncons ol abl e –
wants to marry a beauti ful Ameri can wi dow – everybody does nowadays – hates
M r. Gl ads tone – but very much i nteres ted i n beetl es : as k hi m what he thi nks
of Schouval off. ‘I s i mpl y fl ed. I l i ke to fi nd out peopl e for mys el f. But poor Lady
Brandon treats her gues ts exactl y as an aucti oneer treats hi s goods . She ei ther
expl ai ns them enti rel y away, or tel l s one everythi ng about them except what
one wants to know. But what di d s he s ay about M r. Dori an Gray?”
“Oh, s he murmured, ‘Charmi ng boy – poor dear mother and I qui te
i ns eparabl e – engaged to be marri ed to the s ame man – I mean marri ed on
the s ame day – how very s i l l y of me! Qui te forget what he does – afrai d he –
does n’t do anythi ng – oh, yes , pl ays the pi ano – or i s i t the vi ol i n, dear M r.
Gray?’ We coul d nei ther of us hel p l aughi ng, and we became fri ends at once”.
“Laughter i s not a bad begi nni ng for a fri ends hi p, and i t i s the bes t
endi ng for one”, s ai d Lord Henry, pl ucki ng another dai s y.
Hal l ward buri ed hi s face i n hi s hands . “You don’t unders tand what
fri ends hi p i s , Harry”, he murmured – “or what enmi ty i s , for that matter. You
l i ke every one; that i s to s ay, you are i ndi fferent to every one”.
“How horri bl y unj us t of you!” cri ed Lord Henry, ti l ti ng hi s hat back,
and l ooki ng up at the l i ttl e cl ouds that were dri fti ng acros s the hol l owed
turquoi s e of the s ummer s ky, l i ke ravel l ed s kei ns of gl os s y whi te s i l k”. Yes ;
horri bl y unj us t of you. I make a great di fference between peopl e. I choos e my
fri ends for thei r good l ooks , my acquai ntances for thei r characters , and my
enemi es for thei r brai ns . A man can’t be too careful i n the choi ce of hi s
enemi es . I have not got one who i s a fool . They are al l men of s ome
i ntel l ectual power, and cons equentl y they al l appreci ate me. Is that very vai n
of me? I thi nk i t i s rather vai n”.
“I s houl d thi nk i t was , Harry. But accordi ng to your category I mus t be
merel y an acquai ntance”.
“M y dear ol d Bas i l , you are much more than an acquai ntance”.
“And much l es s than a fri end. A s ort of brother, I s uppos e?”
“Oh, brothers ! I don’t care for brothers . M y el der brother won’t di e, and
my younger brothers s eem never to do anythi ng el s e”.
“Harry!”
“M y dear fel l ow, I am not qui te s eri ous . But I can’t hel p detes ti ng my
rel ati ons . I s uppos e i t comes from the fact that we can’t s tand other peopl e
havi ng the s ame faul ts as ours el ves . I qui te s ympathi ze wi th the rage of the
E ngl i s h democracy agai ns t what they cal l the vi ces of the upper cl as s es . They
feel that drunkennes s , s tupi di ty, and i mmoral i ty s houl d be thei r own s peci al
property, and that i f any one of us makes an as s of hi ms el f he i s poachi ng on
thei r pres erves . When poor Southwark got i nto the Di vorce Court, thei r
i ndi gnati on was qui te magni fi cent. And yet I don’t s uppos e that ten per cent of
the l ower orders l i ve correctl y”.
“I don’t agree wi th a s i ngl e word that you have s ai d, and, what i s
more, Harry, I don’t bel i eve you do ei ther”.
Lord Henry s troked hi s poi nted brown beard, and tapped the toe of hi s
patent-l eather boot wi th a tas s el l ed mal acca cane. “How E ngl i s h you are,
Bas i l ! If one puts forward an i dea to a real E ngl i s hman – al ways a ras h thi ng
to do – he never dreams of cons i deri ng whether the i dea i s ri ght or wrong. The
onl y thi ng he cons i ders of any i mportance i s whether one bel i eves i t one’s
s el f. Now, the val ue of an i dea has nothi ng whats oever to do wi th the s i nceri ty
of the man who expres s es i t. Indeed, the probabi l i ti es are that the more
i ns i ncere the man i s , the more purel y i ntel l ectual wi l l the i dea be, as i n
that cas e i t wi l l not be col ored by ei ther hi s wants , hi s des i res , or hi s
prej udi ces . However, I don’t propos e to di s cus s pol i ti cs , s oci ol ogy, or
metaphys i cs wi th you. I l i ke pers ons better than pri nci pl es . Tel l me more
about Dori an Gray. How often do you s ee hi m?”
“E very day. I coul dn’t be happy i f I di dn’t s ee hi m every day. Of cours e
s ometi mes i t i s onl y for a few mi nutes . But a few mi nutes wi th s omebody one
wors hi ps mean a great deal ”.
“But you don’t real l y wors hi p hi m?”
“I do”.
“How extraordi nary! I thought you woul d never care for anythi ng but
your pai nti ng, – your art, I s houl d s ay. Art s ounds better, does n’t i t?”
“He i s al l my art to me now. I s ometi mes thi nk, Harry, that there are
onl y two eras of any i mportance i n the hi s tory of the worl d. The fi rs t i s the
appearance of a new medi um for art, and the s econd i s the appearance of a
new pers onal i ty for art al s o. What the i nventi on of oi l -pai nti ng was to the
Veneti ans , the face of Anti noüs was to l ate Greek s cul pture, and the face of
Dori an Gray wi l l s ome day be to me. It i s not merel y that I pai nt from hi m,
draw from hi m, model from hi m. Of cours e I have done al l that. He has s tood
as Pari s i n dai nty armor, and as Adoni s wi th hunts man’s cl oak and pol i s hed
boar-s pear. Crowned wi th heavy l otus -bl os s oms , he has s at on the prow of
Adri an’s barge, l ooki ng i nto the green, turbi d Ni l e. He has l eaned over the
s ti l l pool of s ome Greek woodl and, and s een i n the water’s s i l ent s i l ver the
wonder of hi s own beauty. But he i s much more to me than that. I won’t tel l you
that I am di s s ati s fi ed wi th what I have done of hi m, or that hi s beauty i s s uch
that art cannot expres s i t. There i s nothi ng that art cannot expres s , and I know
that the work I have done s i nce I met Dori an Gray i s good work, i s the bes t work
of my l i fe. But i n s ome curi ous way – I wonder wi l l you unders tand me? – hi s
pers onal i ty has s ugges ted to me an enti rel y new manner i n art, an enti rel y
new mode of s tyl e. I s ee thi ngs di fferentl y, I thi nk of them di fferentl y. I can
now re-create l i fe i n a way that was hi dden from me before. ‘A dream of form
i n days of thought’ – who i s i t who s ays that? I forget; but i t i s what Dori an
Gray has been to me. The merel y vi s i bl e pres ence of thi s l ad – for he s eems
to me l i ttl e more than a l ad, though he i s real l y over twenty – hi s merel y
vi s i bl e pres ence – ah! I wonder can you real i ze al l that that means ?
Uncons ci ous l y he defi nes for me the l i nes of a fres h s chool , a s chool that i s to
have i n i ts el f al l the pas s i on of the romanti c s pi ri t, al l the perfecti on of the
s pi ri t that i s Greek. The harmony of s oul and body, – how much that i s ! We i n
our madnes s have s eparated the two, and have i nvented a real i s m that i s
bes ti al , an i deal i ty that i s voi d. Harry! Harry! i f you onl y knew what Dori an
Gray i s to me! You remember that l ands cape of mi ne, for whi ch Agnew offered
me s uch a huge pri ce, but whi ch I woul d not part wi th? It i s one of the bes t
thi ngs I have ever done. And why i s i t s o? Becaus e, whi l e I was pai nti ng i t,
Dori an Gray s at bes i de me”.
“Bas i l , thi s i s qui te wonderful ! I mus t s ee Dori an Gray”.
Hal l ward got up from the s eat, and wal ked up and down the garden.
After s ome ti me he came back. “You don’t unders tand, Harry”, he s ai d”. Dori an
Gray i s merel y to me a moti ve i n art. He i s never more pres ent i n my work
than when no i mage of hi m i s there. He i s s i mpl y a s ugges ti on, as I have
s ai d, of a new manner. I s ee hi m i n the curves of certai n l i nes , i n the
l ovel i nes s and the s ubtl eti es of certai n col ors . That i s al l ”.
“Then why won’t you exhi bi t hi s portrai t?”
“Becaus e I have put i nto i t al l the extraordi nary romance of whi ch, of
cours e, I have never dared to s peak to hi m. He knows nothi ng about i t. He wi l l
never know anythi ng about i t. But the worl d mi ght gues s i t; and I wi l l not bare
my s oul to thei r s hal l ow, pryi ng eyes . M y heart s hal l never be put under
thei r mi cros cope. There i s too much of mys el f i n the thi ng, Harry – too much
of mys el f!”
“Poets are not s o s crupul ous as you are. They know how us eful pas s i on
i s for publ i cati on. Nowadays a broken heart wi l l run to many edi ti ons ”.
“I hate them for i t. An arti s t s houl d create beauti ful thi ngs , but
s houl d put nothi ng of hi s own l i fe i nto them. We l i ve i n an age when men
treat art as i f i t were meant to be a form of autobi ography. We have l os t the
abs tract s ens e of beauty. If I l i ve, I wi l l s how the worl d what i t i s ; and for that
reas on the worl d s hal l never s ee my portrai t of Dori an Gray”.
“I thi nk you are wrong, Bas i l , but I won’t argue wi th you. It i s onl y the
i ntel l ectual l y l os t who ever argue. Tel l me, i s Dori an Gray very fond of you?”
Hal l ward cons i dered for a few moments . “He l i kes me”, he ans wered,
after a paus e; “I know he l i kes me. Of cours e I fl atter hi m dreadful l y. I fi nd a
s trange pl eas ure i n s ayi ng thi ngs to hi m that I know I s hal l be s orry for
havi ng s ai d. I gi ve mys el f away. As a rul e, he i s charmi ng to me, and we
wal k home together from the cl ub arm i n arm, or s i t i n the s tudi o and tal k of a
thous and thi ngs . Now and then, however, he i s horri bl y thoughtl es s , and
s eems to take a real del i ght i n gi vi ng me pai n. Then I feel , Harry, that I have
gi ven away my whol e s oul to s ome one who treats i t as i f i t were a fl ower to put
i n hi s coat, a bi t of decorati on to charm hi s vani ty, an ornament for a
s ummer’s day”.
“Days i n s ummer, Bas i l , are apt to l i nger. Perhaps you wi l l ti re
s ooner than he wi l l . It i s a s ad thi ng to thi nk of, but there i s no doubt that
Geni us l as ts l onger than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we al l take
s uch pai ns to over-educate ours el ves . In the wi l d s truggl e for exi s tence, we
want to have s omethi ng that endures , and s o we fi l l our mi nds wi th rubbi s h
and facts , i n the s i l l y hope of keepi ng our pl ace. The thoroughl y wel l
i nformed man – that i s the modern i deal . And the mi nd of the thoroughl y wel l
i nformed man i s a dreadful thi ng. It i s l i ke a bri c-à-brac s hop, al l mons ters
and dus t, and everythi ng pri ced above i ts proper val ue. I thi nk you wi l l ti re
fi rs t, al l the s ame. Some day you wi l l l ook at Gray, and he wi l l s eem to you to
be a l i ttl e out of drawi ng, or you won’t l i ke hi s tone of col or, or s omethi ng. You
wi l l bi tterl y reproach hi m i n your own heart, and s eri ous l y thi nk that he has
behaved very badl y to you. The next ti me he cal l s , you wi l l be perfectl y col d
and i ndi fferent. It wi l l be a great pi ty, for i t wi l l al ter you. The wors t of havi ng
a romance i s that i t l eaves one s o unromanti c”.
“Harry, don’t tal k l i ke that. As l ong as I l i ve, the pers onal i ty of Dori an
Gray wi l l domi nate me. You can’t feel what I feel . You change too often”.
“Ah, my dear Bas i l , that i s exactl y why I can feel i t. Thos e who are
fai thful know onl y the pl eas ures of l ove: i t i s the fai thl es s who know l ove’s
tragedi es ”. And Lord Henry s truck a l i ght on a dai nty s i l ver cas e, and began to
s moke a ci garette wi th a s el f-cons ci ous and s el f-s ati s fi ed ai r, as i f he had
s ummed up l i fe i n a phras e. There was a rus tl e of chi rrupi ng s parrows i n
the i vy, and the bl ue cl oud-s hadows chas ed thems el ves acros s the gras s l i ke
s wal l ows . How l eas ant i t was i n the garden! And how del i ghtful other peopl e’s
emoti ons were! – much more del i ghtful than thei r i deas , i t s eemed to hi m.
One’s own s oul , and the pas s i ons of one’s fri ends – thos e were the
fas ci nati ng thi ngs i n l i fe. He thought wi th pl eas ure of the tedi ous l uncheon
that he had mi s s ed by s tayi ng s o l ong wi th Bas i l Hal l ward. Had he gone to hi s
aunt’s , he woul d have been s ure to meet Lord Goodbody there, and the whol e
convers ati on woul d have been about the hous i ng of the poor, and the neces s i ty
for model l odgi ng-hous es . It was charmi ng to have es caped al l that! As he
thought of hi s aunt, an i dea s eemed to s tri ke hi m. He turned to Hal l ward, and
s ai d, “M y dear fel l ow, I have j us t remembered”.
“Remembered what, Harry?”
“Where I heard the name of Dori an Gray”.
“Where was i t?” as ked Hal l ward, wi th a s l i ght frown.
“Don’t l ook s o angry, Bas i l . It was at my aunt’s , Lady Agatha’s . She tol d
me s he had di s covered a wonderful young man, who was goi ng to hel p her i n
the E as t E nd, and that hi s name was Dori an Gray. I am bound to s tate that
s he never tol d me he was good-l ooki ng. Women have no appreci ati on of good
l ooks . At l eas t, good women have not. She s ai d that he was very earnes t, and
had a beauti ful nature. I at once pi ctured to mys el f a creature wi th s pectacl es
and l ank hai r, horri dl y freckl ed, and trampi ng about on huge feet. I wi s h I
had known i t was your fri end”.
“I am very gl ad you di dn’t, Harry”.
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to meet hi m”.
“M r. Dori an Gray i s i n the s tudi o, s i r”, s ai d the butl er, comi ng i nto
the garden.
“You mus t i ntroduce me now”, cri ed Lord Henry, l aughi ng.
Bas i l Hal l ward turned to the s ervant, who s tood bl i nki ng i n the
s unl i ght. “As k M r. Gray to wai t, Parker: I wi l l be i n i n a few moments ”. The
man bowed, and went up the wal k.
Then he l ooked at Lord Henry. “Dori an Gray i s my deares t fri end”, he
s ai d. “He has a s i mpl e and a beauti ful nature. Your aunt was qui te ri ght i n
what s he s ai d of hi m. Don’t s poi l hi m for me. Don’t try to i nfl uence hi m. Your
i nfl uence woul d be bad. The worl d i s wi de, and has many marvel l ous peopl e
i n i t. Don’t take away from me the one pers on that makes l i fe abs ol utel y l ovel y
to me, and that gi ves to my art whatever wonder or charm i t pos s es s es . M i nd,
Harry, I trus t you”. He s poke very s l owl y, and the words s eemed wrung out of
hi m al mos t agai ns t hi s wi l l .
“What nons ens e you tal k!” s ai d Lord Henry, s mi l i ng, and, taki ng
Hal l ward by the arm, he al mos t l ed hi m i nto the hous e.
CHAPT E R 2
“I s uppos e you have heard the news , Bas i l ?” s ai d Lord Henry on the
fol l owi ng eveni ng, as Hal l ward was s hown i nto a l i ttl e pri vate room at the
Bri s tol where di nner had been l ai d for three.
“No, Harry”, ans wered Hal l ward, gi vi ng hi s hat and coat to the bowi ng
wai ter. “What i s i t? Nothi ng about pol i ti cs , I hope? They don’t i nteres t me.
There i s hardl y a s i ngl e pers on i n the Hous e of Commons worth pai nti ng;
though many of them woul d be the better for a l i ttl e whi tewas hi ng”.
“Dori an Gray i s engaged to be marri ed”, s ai d Lord Henry, watchi ng
hi m as he s poke.
Hal l ward turned perfectl y pal e, and a curi ous l ook fl as hed for a
moment i nto hi s eyes , and then pas s ed away, l eavi ng them dul l ”. Dori an
engaged to be marri ed!” he cri ed. “Impos s i bl e!”
“It i s perfectl y true”.
“To whom?”
“To s ome l i ttl e actres s or other”.
“I can’t bel i eve i t. Dori an i s far too s ens i bl e”.
“Dori an i s far too wi s e not to do fool i s h thi ngs now and then, my dear
Bas i l ”.
“M arri age i s hardl y a thi ng that one can do now and then, Harry”,
s ai d Hal l ward, s mi l i ng.
“E xcept i n Ameri ca. But I di dn’t s ay he was marri ed. I s ai d he was
engaged to be marri ed. There i s a great di fference. I have a di s ti nct
remembrance of bei ng marri ed, but I have no recol l ecti on at al l of bei ng
engaged. I am i ncl i ned to thi nk that I never was engaged”.
“But thi nk of Dori an’s bi rth, and pos i ti on, and weal th. It woul d be
abs urd for hi m to marry s o much beneath hi m”.
“If you want hi m to marry thi s gi rl , tel l hi m that, Bas i l . He i s s ure to
do i t then. Whenever a man does a thoroughl y s tupi d thi ng, i t i s al ways from
the nobl es t moti ves ”.
“I hope the gi rl i s good, Harry. I don’t want to s ee Dori an ti ed to s ome
vi l e creature, who mi ght degrade hi s nature and rui n hi s i ntel l ect”.
“Oh, s he i s more than good – s he i s beauti ful ”, murmured Lord
Henry, s i ppi ng a gl as s of vermouth and orange-bi tters .“Dori an s ays s he i s
beauti ful ; and he i s not often wrong about thi ngs of that ki nd. Your portrai t of
hi m has qui ckened hi s appreci ati on of the pers onal appearance of other
peopl e. It has had that excel l ent effect, among others . We are to s ee her
toni ght, i f that boy does n’t forget hi s appoi ntment”.
“But do you approve of i t, Harry?” as ked Hal l ward, wal ki ng up and down
the room, and bi ti ng hi s l i p. “You can’t approve of i t, real l y. It i s s ome s i l l y
i nfatuati on”.
“I never approve, or di s approve, of anythi ng now. It i s an abs urd
atti tude to take towards l i fe. We are not s ent i nto the worl d to ai r our moral
prej udi ces . I never take any noti ce of what common peopl e s ay, and I never
i nterfere wi th what charmi ng peopl e do. If a pers onal i ty fas ci nates me,
whatever the pers onal i ty choos es to do i s abs ol utel y del i ghtful to me. Dori an
Gray fal l s i n l ove wi th a beauti ful gi rl who acts Shakes peare, and propos es to
marry her. Why not? If he wedded M es s al i na he woul d be none the l es s
i nteres ti ng. You know I am not a champi on of marri age. The real drawback to
marri age i s that i t makes one uns el fi s h. And uns el fi s h peopl e are
col orl es s .They l ack i ndi vi dual i ty. Sti l l , there are certai n temperaments that
marri age makes more compl ex. They retai n thei r egoti s m, and add to i t many
other egos . They are forced to have more than one l i fe. They become more
hi ghl y organi zed. Bes i des , every experi ence i s of val ue, and, whatever one
may s ay agai ns t marri age, i t i s certai nl y an experi ence. I hope that Dori an
Gray wi l l make thi s gi rl hi s wi fe, pas s i onatel y adore her for s i x months , and
then s uddenl y become fas ci nated by s ome one el s e. He woul d be a wonderful
s tudy”.
“You don’t mean al l that, Harry; you know you don’t. If Dori an Gray’s
l i fe were s poi l ed, no one woul d be s orri er than yours el f. You are much better
than you pretend to be”.
Lord Henry l aughed. “The reas on we al l l i ke to thi nk s o wel l of others
i s that we are al l afrai d for ours el ves . The bas i s of opti mi s m i s s heer terror.
We thi nk that we are generous becaus e we credi t our nei ghbor wi th thos e
vi rtues that are l i kel y to benefi t ours el ves . We prai s e the banker that we may
overdraw our account, and fi nd good qual i ti es i n the hi ghwayman i n the hope
that he may s pare our pockets . I mean everythi ng that I have s ai d. I have the
greates t contempt for opti mi s m. And as for a s poi l ed l i fe, no l i fe i s s poi l ed but
one whos e growth i s arres ted. If you want to mar a nature, you have merel y to
reform i t. But here i s Dori an hi ms el f. He wi l l tel l you more than I can”.
“M y dear Harry, my dear Bas i l , you mus t both congratul ate me!” s ai d
the boy, throwi ng off hi s eveni ng cape wi th i ts s ati n-l i ned wi ngs , and
s haki ng each of hi s fri ends by the hand i n turn. “I have never been s o happy.
Of cours e i t i s s udden: al l real l y del i ghtful thi ngs are. And yet i t s eems to
me to be the one thi ng I have been l ooki ng for al l my l i fe”. He was fl us hed
wi th exci tement and pl eas ure, and l ooked extraordi nari l y hands ome.
“I hope you wi l l al ways be very happy, Dori an”, s ai d Hal l ward, “but I
don’t qui te forgi ve you for not havi ng l et me know of your engagement. You l et
Harry know”.
“And I don’t forgi ve you for bei ng l ate for di nner”, broke i n Lord Henry,
putti ng hi s hand on the l ad’s s houl der, and s mi l i ng as he s poke. “Come, l et
us s i t down and try what the new chef here i s l i ke, and then you wi l l tel l us
how i t al l came about”.
“There i s real l y not much to tel l ”, cri ed Dori an, as they took thei r s eats
at the s mal l round tabl e. “What happened was s i mpl y thi s . After I l eft you
yes terday eveni ng, Harry, I had s ome di nner at that curi ous l i ttl e Ital i an
res taurant i n Rupert Street, you i ntroduced me to, and went down afterwards to
the theatre.Si byl was pl ayi ng Ros al i nd. Of cours e the s cenery was dreadful ,
and the Orl ando abs urd. But Si byl ! You s houl d have s een her! When s he
came on i n her boy’s dres s s he was perfectl y wonderful . She wore a mos s -
col ored vel vet j erki n wi th ci nnamon s l eeves , s l i m brown cros s -gartered hos e,
a dai nty l i ttl e green cap wi th a hawk’s feather caught i n a j ewel , and a hooded
cl oak l i ned wi th dul l red. She had never s eemed to me more exqui s i te. She
had al l the del i cate grace of that Tanagra fi guri ne that you have i n your
s tudi o, Bas i l . Her hai r cl us tered round her face l i ke dark l eaves round a pal e
ros e. As for her acti ng – wel l , you wi l l s ee her toni ght. She i s s i mpl y a born
arti s t. I s at i n the di ngy box abs ol utel y enthral l ed. I forgot that I was i n London
and i n the ni neteenth century. I was away wi th my l ove i n a fores t that no
man had ever s een. After the performance was over I went behi nd, and s poke
to her. As we were s i tti ng together, s uddenl y there came a l ook i nto her eyes
that I had never s een there before. M y l i ps moved towards hers . We ki s s ed
each other. I can’t des cri be to you what I fel t at that moment. It s eemed to me
that al l my l i fe had been narrowed to one perfect poi nt of ros e-col ored j oy. She
trembl ed al l over, and s hook l i ke a whi te narci s s us . Then s he fl ung hers el f
on her knees and ki s s ed my hands . I feel that I s houl d not tel l you al l thi s ,
but I can’t hel p i t. Of cours e our engagement i s a dead s ecret. She has not even
tol d her own mother. I don’t know what my guardi ans wi l l s ay. Lord Radl ey i s
s ure to be furi ous . I don’t care. I s hal l be of age i n l es s than a year, and then
I can do what I l i ke. I have been ri ght, Bas i l , haven’t I, to take my l ove out of
poetry, and to fi nd my wi fe i n Shakes peare’s pl ays ? Li ps that Shakes peare
taught to s peak have whi s pered thei r s ecret i n my ear. I have had the arms of
Ros al i nd around me, and ki s s ed Jul i et on the mouth”.
“Yes , Dori an, I s uppos e you were ri ght”, s ai d Hal l ward, s l owl y.
“Have you s een her today?” as ked Lord Henry.
Dori an Gray s hook hi s head. “I l eft her i n the fores t of Arden, I s hal l
fi nd her i n an orchard i n Verona”.
Lord Henry s i pped hi s champagne i n a medi tati ve manner. “At what
parti cul ar poi nt di d you menti on the word marri age, Dori an? and what di d s he
s ay i n ans wer? Perhaps you forgot al l about i t”.
“M y dear Harry, I di d not treat i t as a bus i nes s trans acti on, and I di d
not make any formal propos al . I tol d her that I l oved her, and s he s ai d s he was
not worthy to be my wi fe. Not worthy! Why, the whol e worl d i s nothi ng to me
compared to her”.
“Women are wonderful l y practi cal ”, murmured Lord Henry – “much
more practi cal than we are. In s i tuati ons of that ki nd we often forget to s ay
anythi ng about marri age, and they al ways remi nd us ”.
Hal l ward l ai d hi s hand upon hi s arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have
annoyed Dori an. He i s not l i ke other men. He woul d never bri ng mi s ery upon
any one. Hi s nature i s too fi ne for that”.
Lord Henry l ooked acros s the tabl e. “Dori an i s never annoyed wi th me”,
he ans wered. “I as ked the ques ti on for the bes t reas on pos s i bl e, for the onl y
reas on, i ndeed, that excus es one for as ki ng any ques ti on – s i mpl e curi os i ty. I
have a theory that i t i s al ways the women who propos e to us , and not we who
propos e to the women, except, of cours e, i n mi ddl e-cl as s l i fe. But then the
mi ddl e cl as s es are not modern”.
Dori an Gray l aughed, and tos s ed hi s head. “You are qui te
i ncorri gi bl e, Harry; but I don’t mi nd. It i s i mpos s i bl e to be angry wi th you.
When you s ee Si byl Vane you wi l l feel that the man who coul d wrong her
woul d be a beas t wi thout a heart. I cannot unders tand how any one can wi s h to
s hame what he l oves . I l ove Si byl Vane. I wi s h to pl ace her on a pedes tal of
gol d, and to s ee the worl d wors hi p the woman who i s mi ne. What i s marri age?
An i rrevocabl e vow. And i t i s an i rrevocabl e vow that I want to take. Her trus t
makes me fai thful , her bel i ef makes me good. When I am wi th her, I regret
al l that you have taught me. I become di fferent from what you have known me
to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Si byl Vane’s hand makes me forget
you and al l your wrong, fas ci nati ng, poi s onous , del i ghtful theori es ”.
“You wi l l al ways l i ke me, Dori an”, s ai d Lord Henry. “Wi l l you have
s ome coffee, you fel l ows ? Wai ter, bri ng coffee, and fi ne-champagne, and
s ome ci garettes . No: don’t mi nd the ci garettes ; I have s ome. Bas i l , I can’t al l ow
you to s moke ci gars . You mus t have a ci garette. A ci garette i s the perfect type of
a perfect pl eas ure. It i s exqui s i te, and i t l eaves one uns ati s fi ed. What more
can you want? Yes , Dori an, you wi l l al ways be fond of me. I repres ent to you
al l the s i ns you have never had the courage to commi t”.
“What nons ens e you tal k, Harry!” cri ed Dori an Gray, l i ghti ng hi s
ci garette from a fi re-breathi ng s i l ver dragon that the wai ter had pl aced on the
tabl e. “Let us go down to the theatre. When you s ee Si byl you wi l l have a new
i deal of l i fe. She wi l l repres ent s omethi ng to you that you have never known”.
“I have known everythi ng”, s ai d Lord Henry, wi th a s ad l ook i n hi s
eyes , “but I am al ways ready for a new emoti on. I am afrai d that there i s no
s uch thi ng, for me at any rate. Sti l l , your wonderful gi rl may thri l l me. I l ove
acti ng. It i s s o much more real than l i fe. Let us go. Dori an, you wi l l come wi th
me. I am s o s orry, Bas i l , but there i s onl y room for two i n the brougham. You
mus t fol l ow us i n a hans om”.
They got up and put on thei r coats , s i ppi ng thei r coffee s tandi ng.
Hal l ward was s i l ent and preoccupi ed. There was a gl oom over hi m. He coul d
not bear thi s marri age, and yet i t s eemed to hi m to be better than many other
thi ngs that mi ght have happened. After a few moments , they al l pas s ed down-
s tai rs . He drove off by hi ms el f, as had been arranged, and watched the
fl as hi ng l i ghts of the l i ttl e brougham i n front of hi m. A s trange s ens e of l os s
came over hi m. He fel t that Dori an Gray woul d never agai n be to hi m al l that
he had been i n the pas t. Hi s eyes darkened, and the crowded fl ari ng s treets
became bl urred to hi m. When the cab drew up at the doors of the theatre, i t
s eemed to hi m that he had grown years ol der.
CHAPT E R 5
For s ome reas on or other, the hous e was crowded that ni ght, and the
fat Jew manager who met them at the door was beami ng from ear to ear wi th an
oi l y, tremul ous s mi l e. He es corted them to thei r box wi th a s ort of pompous
humi l i ty, wavi ng hi s fat j ewel l ed hands , and tal ki ng at the top of hi s voi ce.
Dori an Gray l oathed hi m more than ever. He fel t as i f he had come to l ook for
M i randa and had been met by Cal i ban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand,
rather l i ked hi m. At l eas t he decl ared he di d, and i ns i s ted on s haki ng hi m
by the hand, and as s ured hi m that he was proud to meet a man who had
di s covered a real geni us and gone bankrupt over Shakes peare. Hal l ward
amus ed hi ms el f wi th watchi ng the faces i n the pi t. The heat was terri bl y
oppres s i ve, and the huge s unl i ght fl amed l i ke a mons trous dahl i a wi th
petal s of fi re. The youths i n the gal l ery had taken off thei r coats and
wai s tcoats and hung them over the s i de. They tal ked to each other acros s the
theatre, and s hared thei r oranges wi th the tawdry pai nted gi rl s who s at by
them. Some women were l aughi ng i n the pi t; thei r voi ces were horri bl y s hri l l
and di s cordant. The s ound of the poppi ng of corks came from the bar.
“What a pl ace to fi nd one’s di vi ni ty i n!” s ai d Lord Henry.
“Yes !” ans wered Dori an Gray. “It was here I found her, and s he i s
di vi ne beyond al l l i vi ng thi ngs . When s he acts you wi l l forget everythi ng.
Thes e common peopl e here, wi th thei r coars e faces and brutal ges tures ,
become qui te di fferent when s he i s on the s tage. They s i t s i l entl y and watch
her. They weep and l augh as s he wi l l s them to do. She makes them as
res pons i ve as a vi ol i n. She s pi ri tual i zes them, and one feel s that they are of
the s ame fl es h and bl ood as one’s s el f”.
“Oh, I hope not!” murmured Lord Henry, who was s canni ng the
occupants of the gal l ery through hi s opera-gl as s .
“Don’t pay any attenti on to hi m, Dori an”, s ai d Hal l ward. “I unders tand
what you mean, and I bel i eve i n thi s gi rl . Any one you l ove mus t be
marvel l ous , and any gi rl that has the effect you des cri be mus t be fi ne and
nobl e. To s pi ri tual i ze one’s age – that i s s omethi ng worth doi ng. If thi s gi rl
can gi ve a s oul to thos e who have l i ved wi thout one, i f s he can create the s ens e
of beauty i n peopl e whos e l i ves have been s ordi d and ugl y, i f s he can s tri p
them of thei r s el fi s hnes s and l end them tears for s orrows that are not thei r
own, s he i s worthy of al l your adorati on, worthy of the adorati on of the worl d.
Thi s marri age i s qui te ri ght. I di d not thi nk s o at fi rs t, but I admi t i t now. God
made Si byl Vane for you. Wi thout her you woul d have been i ncompl ete”.
“Thanks , Bas i l ”, ans wered Dori an Gray, pres s i ng hi s hand. “I knew
that you woul d unders tand me. Harry i s s o cyni cal , he terri fi es me. But here
i s the orches tra. It i s qui te dreadful , but i t onl y l as ts for about fi ve mi nutes .
Then the curtai n ri s es , and you wi l l s ee the gi rl to whom I am goi ng to gi ve
al l my l i fe, to whom I have gi ven everythi ng that i s good i n me”.
A quarter of an hour afterwards , ami ds t an extraordi nary turmoi l of
appl aus e, Si byl Vane s tepped on to the s tage. Yes , s he was certai nl y l ovel y to
l ook at – one of the l ovel i es t creatures , Lord Henry thought, that he had ever
s een. There was s omethi ng of the fawn i n her s hy grace and s tartl ed eyes . A
fai nt bl us h, l i ke the s hadow of a ros e i n a mi rror of s i l ver, came to her cheeks
as s he gl anced at the crowded, enthus i as ti c hous e. She s tepped back a few
paces , and her l i ps s eemed to trembl e. Bas i l Hal l ward l eaped to hi s feet and
began to appl aud. Dori an Gray s at moti onl es s , gazi ng on her, l i ke a man i n a
dream. Lord Henry peered through hi s opera-gl as s , murmuri ng, “Charmi ng!
charmi ng!”
The s cene was the hal l of Capul et’s hous e, and Romeo i n hi s
pi l gri m’s dres s had entered wi th M ercuti o and hi s fri ends . The band, s uch
as i t was , s truck up a few bars of mus i c, and the dance began. Through the
crowd of ungai nl y, s habbi l y-dres s ed actors , Si byl Vane moved l i ke a creature
from a fi ner worl d. Her body s wayed, as s he danced, as a pl ant s ways i n the
water. The curves of her throat were l i ke the curves of a whi te l i l y. Her hands
s eemed to be made of cool i vory.
Yet s he was curi ous l y l i s tl es s . She s howed no s i gn of j oy when her
eyes res ted on Romeo. The few l i nes s he had to s peak,
was decl ai med wi th the pai nful preci s i on of a s chool -gi rl who has
been taught to reci te by s ome s econd-rate profes s or of el ocuti on.When s he
l eaned over the bal cony and came to thos e wonderful l i nes ,
Althoug h I j oy i n thee,
I have no j oy of thi s contract toni g ht:
It i s too rash, too unadvi sed, too sudden;
Too li ke the li g htni ng , w hi ch doth cease to be
Ere one can say, “ It li g htens” . Sw eet, g ood-ni g ht!
Thi s bud of love by summer’s ri peni ng breath
May prove a beauteous flow er w hen next w e meet,
It was l ong pas t noon when he awoke. Hi s val et had crept s everal ti mes
i nto the room on ti ptoe to s ee i f he was s ti rri ng, and had wondered what made
hi s young mas ter s l eep s o l ate. Fi nal l y hi s bel l s ounded, and Vi ctor came i n
s oftl y wi th a cup of tea, and a pi l e of l etters , on a s mal l tray of ol d Sèvres
chi na, and drew back the ol i ve-s ati n curtai ns , wi th thei r s hi mmeri ng bl ue
l i ni ng, that hung i n front of the three tal l wi ndows .
“M ons i eur has wel l s l ept thi s morni ng”, he s ai d, s mi l i ng.
“What o’cl ock i s i t, Vi ctor?” as ked Dori an Gray, s l eepi l y.
“One hour and a quarter, mons i eur”.
How l ate i t was ! He s at up, and, havi ng s i pped s ome tea, turned over
hi s l etters . One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought by hand
that morni ng. He hes i tated for a moment, and then put i t as i de. The others he
opened l i s tl es s l y. They contai ned the us ual col l ecti on of cards , i nvi tati ons to
di nner, ti ckets for pri vate vi ews , programmes of chari ty concerts , and the l i ke,
that are s howered on fas hi onabl e young men every morni ng duri ng the
s eas on. here was a rather heavy bi l l , for a chas ed s i l ver Loui s -Qui nze toi l et-
s et, that he had not yet had the courage to s end on to hi s guardi ans , who were
extremel y ol d-fas hi oned peopl e and di d not real i ze that we l i ve i n an age
when onl y unneces s ary thi ngs are abs ol utel y neces s ary to us ; and there were
s everal very courteous l y worded communi cati ons from Jermyn Street money-
l enders offeri ng to advance any s um of money at a moment’s noti ce and at the
mos t reas onabl e rates of i nteres t.
After about ten mi nutes he got up, and, throwi ng on an el aborate
dres s i ng-gown, pas s ed i nto the onyx-paved bath-room. The cool water
refres hed hi m after hi s l ong s l eep. He s eemed to have forgotten al l that he
had gone through. A di m s ens e of havi ng taken part i n s ome s trange tragedy
came to hi m once or twi ce, but there was the unreal i ty of a dream about i t.
As s oon as he was dres s ed, he went i nto the l i brary and s at down to a
l i ght French breakfas t, that had been l ai d out for hi m on a s mal l round tabl e
cl os e to an open wi ndow. It was an exqui s i te day. The warm ai r s eemed l aden
wi th s pi ces . A bee fl ew i n, and buzzed round the bl ue-dragon bowl , fi l l ed wi th
s ul phur-yel l ow ros es , that s tood i n front of hi m. He fel t perfectl y happy.
Suddenl y hi s eye fel l on the s creen that he had pl aced i n front of the
portrai t, and he s tarted.
“Too col d for M ons i eur?” as ked hi s val et, putti ng an omel ette on the
tabl e. “I s hut the wi ndow?”
Dori an s hook hi s head. “I am not col d”, he murmured.
Was i t al l true? Had the portrai t real l y changed? Or had i t been
s i mpl y hi s own i magi nati on that had made hi m s ee a l ook of evi l where there
had been a l ook of j oy? Surel y a pai nted canvas coul d not al ter? The thi ng was
abs urd. It woul d s erve as a tal e to tel l Bas i l s ome day. It woul d make hi m
s mi l e.
And, yet, how vi vi d was hi s recol l ecti on of the whol e thi ng! Fi rs t i n
the di m twi l i ght, and then i n the bri ght dawn, he had s een the touch of
cruel ty i n the warped l i ps . He al mos t dreaded hi s val et l eavi ng the room. He
knew that when he was al one he woul d have to exami ne the portrai t. He was
afrai d of certai nty. When the coffee and ci garettes had been brought and the
man turned to go, he fel t a mad des i re to tel l hi m to remai n. As the door cl os ed
behi nd hi m he cal l ed hi m back. The man s tood wai ti ng for hi s orders . Dori an
l ooked at hi m for a moment. “I am not at home to any one, Vi ctor”, he s ai d, wi th
a s i gh. The man bowed and reti red.
He ros e from the tabl e, l i t a ci garette, and fl ung hi ms el f down on a
l uxuri ous l y-cus hi oned couch that s tood faci ng the s creen. The s creen was an
ol d one of gi l t Spani s h l eather, s tamped and wrought wi th a rather fl ori d
Loui s -Quatorze pattern. He s canned i t curi ous l y, wonderi ng i f i t had ever
before conceal ed the s ecret of a man’s l i fe.
Shoul d he move i t as i de, after al l ? Why not l et i t s tay there? What was
the us e of knowi ng? If the thi ng was true, i t was terri bl e. If i t was not true,
why troubl e about i t? But what i f, by s ome fate or deadl i er chance, other eyes
than hi s s pi ed behi nd, and s aw the horri bl e change? What s houl d he do i f
Bas i l Hal l ward came and as ked to l ook at hi s own pi cture? He woul d be s ure to
do that. No; the thi ng had to be exami ned, and at once. Anythi ng woul d be
better than thi s dreadful s tate of doubt.
He got up, and l ocked both doors . At l eas t he woul d be al one when he
l ooked upon the mas k of hi s s hame. Then he drew the s creen as i de, and s aw
hi ms el f face to face. It was perfectl y true. The portrai t had al tered.
As he often remembered afterwards , and al ways wi th no s mal l
wonder, he found hi ms el f at fi rs t gazi ng at the portrai t wi th a feel i ng of
al mos t s ci enti fi c i nteres t. That s uch a change s houl d have taken pl ace was
i ncredi bl e to hi m. And yet i t was a fact. Was there s ome s ubtl e affi ni ty
between the chemi cal atoms , that s haped thems el ves i nto form and col or on
the canvas , and the s oul that was wi thi n hi m? Coul d i t be that what that s oul
thought, they real i zed? – that what i t dreamed, they made true? Or was there
s ome other, more terri bl e reas on? He s huddered, and fel t afrai d, and, goi ng
back to the couch, l ay there, gazi ng at the pi cture i n s i ckened horror.
One thi ng, however, he fel t that i t had done for hi m. It had made hi m
cons ci ous how unj us t, how cruel , he had been to Si byl Vane. It was not too l ate
to make reparati on for that. She coul d s ti l l be hi s wi fe. Hi s unreal and s el fi s h
l ove woul d yi el d to s ome hi gher i nfl uence, woul d be trans formed i nto s ome
nobl er pas s i on, and the portrai t that Bas i l Hal l ward had pai nted of hi m woul d
be a gui de to hi m through l i fe, woul d be to hi m what hol i nes s was to s ome,
and cons ci ence to others , and the fear of God to us al l . There were opi ates for
remors e, drugs that coul d l ul l the moral s ens e to s l eep. But here was a vi s i bl e
s ymbol of the degradati on of s i n. Here was an ever-pres ent s i gn of the rui n
men brought upon thei r s oul s .
Three o’cl ock s truck, and four, and hal f-pas t four, but he di d not s ti r.
He was tryi ng to gather up the s carl et threads of l i fe, and to weave them i nto a
pattern; to fi nd hi s way through the s angui ne l abyri nth of pas s i on through
whi ch he was wanderi ng. He di d not know what to do, or what to thi nk. Fi nal l y,
he went over to the tabl e and wrote a pas s i onate l etter to the gi rl he had l oved,
i mpl ori ng her forgi venes s , and accus i ng hi ms el f of madnes s . He covered
page afterpage wi th wi l d words of s orrow, and wi l der words of pai n. There i s a
l uxury i n s el f-reproach. When we bl ame ours el ves we feel that no one el s e
has a ri ght to bl ame us . It i s the confes s i on, not the pri es t, that gi ves us
abs ol uti on. When Dori an Gray had fi ni s hed the l etter, he fel t that he had
been forgi ven.
Suddenl y there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry’s
voi ce outs i de. “M y dear Dori an, I mus t s ee you. Let me i n at once. I can’t bear
your s hutti ng yours el f up l i ke thi s ”.
He made no ans wer at fi rs t, but remai ned qui te s ti l l . The knocki ng
s ti l l conti nued, and grew l ouder. Yes , i t was better to l et Lord Henry i n, and to
expl ai n to hi m the new l i fe he was goi ng to l ead, to quarrel wi th hi m i f i t
became neces s ary to quarrel , to part i f parti ng was i nevi tabl e. He j umped up,
drew the s creen has ti l y acros s the pi cture, and unl ocked the door.
“I am s o s orry for i t al l , my dear boy”, s ai d Lord Henry, comi ng i n”. But
you mus t not thi nk about i t too much”.
“Do you mean about Si byl Vane?” as ked Dori an.
“Yes , of cours e”, ans wered Lord Henry, s i nki ng i nto a chai r, and
s l owl y pul l i ng hi s gl oves off. “It i s dreadful , from one poi nt of vi ew, but i t was
not your faul t. Tel l me, di d you go behi nd and s ee her after the pl ay was over?”
“Yes ”.
“I fel t s ure you had. Di d you make a s cene wi th her?”
“I was brutal , Harry, perfectl y brutal . But i t i s al l ri ght now. I am not
s orry for anythi ng that has happened. It has taught me to know mys el f better”.
“Ah, Dori an, I am s o gl ad you take i t i n that way! I was afrai d I woul d
fi nd you pl unged i n remors e, and teari ng your ni ce hai r”.
“I have got through al l that”, s ai d Dori an, s haki ng hi s head, and
s mi l i ng. “I am perfectl y happy now. I know what cons ci ence i s , to begi n wi th.
It i s not what you tol d me i t was . It i s the di vi nes t thi ng i n us . Don’t s neer at
i t, Harry, any more – at l eas t not before me. I want to be good. I can’t bear the
i dea of my s oul bei ng hi deous ”.
“A very charmi ng arti s ti c bas i s for ethi cs , Dori an! I congratul ate you
on i t. But how are you goi ng to begi n?”
“By marryi ng Si byl Vane”.
“M arryi ng Si byl Vane!” cri ed Lord Henry, s tandi ng up, and l ooki ng at
hi m i n perpl exed amazement. “But, my dear Dori an...”
“Yes , Harry, I know what you are goi ng to s ay. Somethi ng dreadful
about marri age. Don’t s ay i t. Don’t ever s ay thi ngs of that ki nd to me agai n. Two
days ago I as ked Si byl to marry me. I am not goi ng to break my word to her. She
i s to be my wi fe”.
“Your wi fe! Dori an!... Di dn’t you get my l etter? I wrote to you thi s
morni ng, and s ent the note down, by my own man”.
“Your l etter? Oh, yes , I remember. I have not read i t yet, Harry. I was
afrai d there mi ght be s omethi ng i n i t that I woul dn’t l i ke”.
Lord Henry wal ked acros s the room, and, s i tti ng down by Dori an Gray,
took both hi s hands i n hi s , and hel d them ti ghtl y. “Dori an”, he s ai d, “my
l etter – don’t be fri ghtened – was to tel l you that Si byl Vane i s dead”.
A cry of pai n ros e from the l ad’s l i ps , and he l eaped to hi s feet,
teari ng hi s hands away from Lord Henry’s gras p. “Dead! Si byl dead! It i s not
true! It i s a horri bl e l i e!”
“It i s qui te true, Dori an”, s ai d Lord Henry, gravel y. “It i s i n al l the
morni ng papers . I wrote down to you to as k you not to s ee any one ti l l I came.
There wi l l have to be an i nques t, of cours e, and you mus t not be mi xed up i n
i t. Thi ngs l i ke that make a man fas hi onabl e i n Pari s . But i n London peopl e
are s o prej udi ced. Here, one s houl d never make one’s début wi th a s candal .
One s houl d res erve that to gi ve an i nteres t to one’s ol d age. I don’t s uppos e
they know your name at the theatre. If they don’t, i t i s al l ri ght. Di d any one
s ee you goi ng round to her room? That i s an i mportant poi nt”.
Dori an di d not ans wer for a few moments . He was dazed wi th horror.
Fi nal l y he murmured, i n a s ti fl ed voi ce, “Harry, di d you s ay an i nques t?
What di d you mean by that? Di d Si byl ...? Oh, Harry, I can’t bear i t! But be
qui ck. Tel l me everythi ng at once”.
“I have no doubt i t was not an acci dent, Dori an, though i t mus t be put
i n that way to the publ i c. As s he was l eavi ng the theatre wi th her mother,
about hal f-pas t twel ve or s o, s he s ai d s he had forgotten s omethi ng up-s tai rs .
They wai ted s ome ti me for her, but s he di d not come down agai n. They
ul ti matel y found her l yi ng dead on the fl oor of her dres s i ng-room. She had
s wal l owed s omethi ng by mi s take, s ome dreadful thi ng they us e at theatres . I
don’t know what i t was , but i t had ei ther prus s i c aci d or whi te l ead i n i t. I
s houl d fancy i t was prus s i c aci d, as s he s eems to have di ed i ns tantaneous l y.
It i s very tragi c, of cours e, but you mus t not get yours el f mi xed up i n i t. I s ee
by the Standard that s he was s eventeen. I s houl d have thought s he was al mos t
younger than that. She l ooked s uch a chi l d, and s eemed to know s o l i ttl e about
acti ng. Dori an, you mus tn’t l et thi s thi ng get on your nerves . You mus t come
and di ne wi th me, and afterwards we wi l l l ook i n at the Opera. It i s a Patti
ni ght, and everybody wi l l be there. You can come to my s i s ter’s box. She has
got s ome s mart women wi th her”.
“So I have murdered Si byl Vane”, s ai d Dori an Gray, hal f to hi ms el f –
“murdered her as certai nl y as i f I had cut her l i ttl e throat wi th a kni fe. And
the ros es are not l es s l ovel y for al l that. The bi rds s i ng j us t as happi l y i n my
garden. And toni ght I am to di ne wi th you, and then go on to the Opera, and
s up s omewhere, I s uppos e, afterwards . How extraordi nari l y dramati c l i fe i s !
If I had read al l thi s i n a book, Harry, I thi nk I woul d have wept over i t.
Somehow, now that i t has happened actual l y, and to me, i t s eems far too
wonderful for tears . Here i s the fi rs t pas s i onate l ove-l etter I have ever wri tten
i n my l i fe. Strange, that my fi rs t pas s i onate l ove-l etter s houl d have been
addres s ed to a dead gi rl . Can they feel , I wonder, thos e whi te s i l ent peopl e we
cal l the dead? Si byl ! Can s he feel , or know, or l i s ten? Oh, Harry, how I l oved
her once! It s eems years ago to me now. She was everythi ng to me. Then came
that dreadful ni ght – was i t real l y onl y l as t ni ght? – when s he pl ayed s o
badl y, and my heart al mos t broke. She expl ai ned i t al l to me. It was terri bl y
patheti c. But I was not moved a bi t. I thought her s hal l ow. Then s omethi ng
happened that made me afrai d. I can’t tel l you what i t was , but i t was awful . I
s ai d I woul d go back to her. I fel t I had done wrong. And now s he i s dead. M y
God! my God! Harry, what s hal l I do? You don’t know the danger I am i n, and
there i s nothi ng to keep me s trai ght. She woul d have done that for me. She had
no ri ght to ki l l hers el f. It was s el fi s h of her”.
“M y dear Dori an, the onl y way a woman can ever reform a man i s by
bori ng hi m s o compl etel y that he l os es al l pos s i bl e i nteres t i n l i fe. If you had
marri ed thi s gi rl you woul d have been wretched. Of cours e you woul d have
treated her ki ndl y. One can al ways be ki nd to peopl e about whom one cares
nothi ng. But s he woul d have s oon found out that you were abs ol utel y
i ndi fferent to her. And when a woman fi nds that out about her hus band, s he
ei ther becomes dreadful l y dowdy, or wears very s mart bonnets that s ome other
woman’s hus band has to pay for. I s ay nothi ng about the s oci al mi s take, but I
as s ure you that i n any cas e the whol e thi ng woul d have been an abs ol ute
fai l ure”.
“I s uppos e i t woul d”, muttered the l ad, wal ki ng up and down the room,
and l ooki ng horri bl y pal e. “But I thought i t was my duty. It i s not my faul t that
thi s terri bl e tragedy has prevented my doi ng what was ri ght. I remember your
s ayi ng once that there i s a fatal i ty about good res ol uti ons , – that they are
al ways made too l ate. M i ne certai nl y were”.
“Good res ol uti ons are s i mpl y a us el es s attempt to i nterfere wi th
s ci enti fi c l aws . Thei r ori gi n i s pure vani ty. Thei r res ul t i s abs ol utel y ni l .
They gi ve us , now and then, s ome of thos e l uxuri ous s teri l e emoti ons that
have a certai n charm for us . That i s al l that can be s ai d for them”.
“Harry”, cri ed Dori an Gray, comi ng over and s i tti ng down bes i de hi m,
“why i s i t that I cannot feel thi s tragedy as much as I want to? I don’t thi nk I
am heartl es s . Do you?”
“You have done too many fool i s h thi ngs i n your l i fe to be enti tl ed to
gi ve yours el f that name, Dori an”, ans wered Lord Henry, wi th hi s s weet,
mel anchol y s mi l e.
The l ad frowned. “I don’t l i ke that expl anati on, Harry”, he rej oi ned,
“but I am gl ad you don’t thi nk I am heartl es s . I am nothi ng of the ki nd. I know
I am not. And yet I mus t admi t that thi s thi ng that has happened does not
affect me as i t s houl d. It s eems to me to be s i mpl y l i ke a wonderful endi ng to
a wonderful pl ay. It has al l the terri bl e beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy i n
whi ch I took part, but by whi ch I have not been wounded”.
“It i s an i nteres ti ng ques ti on”, s ai d Lord Henry, who found an
exqui s i te pl eas ure i n pl ayi ng on the l ad’s uncons ci ous egoti s m – “an
extremel y i nteres ti ng ques ti on. I fancy that the expl anati on i s thi s . It often
happens that the real tragedi es of l i fe occur i n s uch an i narti s ti c manner that
they hurt us by thei r crude vi ol ence, thei r abs ol ute i ncoherence, thei r abs urd
want of meani ng, thei r enti re l ack of s tyl e. They affect us j us t as vul gari ty
affects us . They gi ve us an i mpres s i on of s heer brute force, and we revol t
agai ns t that. Someti mes , however, a tragedy that has arti s ti c el ements of
beauty cros s es our l i ves . If thes e el ements of beauty are real , the whol e thi ng
s i mpl y appeal s to our s ens e of dramati c effect. Suddenl y we fi nd that we are
no l onger the actors , but the s pectators of the pl ay. Or rather we are both. We
watch ours el ves , and the mere wonder of the s pectacl e enthral l s us . In the
pres ent cas e, what i s i t that has real l y happened? Some one has ki l l ed hers el f
for l ove of you. I wi s h I had ever had s uch an experi ence. It woul d have made
me i n l ove wi th l ove for the res t of my l i fe. The peopl e who have adored me –
there have not been very many, but there have been s ome – have al ways
i ns i s ted on l i vi ng on, l ong after I had ceas ed to care for them, or they to care
for me. They have become s tout and tedi ous , and when I meet them they go i n
at once for remi ni s cences . That awful memory of woman! What a fearful
thi ng i t i s ! And what an utter i ntel l ectual s tagnati on i t reveal s ! One s houl d
abs orb the col or of l i fe, but one s houl d never remember i ts detai l s . Detai l s are
al ways vul gar.
“Of cours e, now and then thi ngs l i nger. I once wore nothi ng but vi ol ets
al l through one s eas on, as mourni ng for a romance that woul d not di e.
Ul ti matel y, however, i t di d di e. I forget what ki l l ed i t. I thi nk i t was her
propos i ng to s acri fi ce the whol e worl d for me. That i s al ways a dreadful
moment. It fi l l s one wi th the terror of eterni ty. Wel l – woul d you bel i eve i t? – a
week ago, at Lady Hamps hi re’s , I found mys el f s eated at di nner next the l ady
i n ques ti on, and s he i ns i s ted on goi ng over the whol e thi ng agai n, and
di ggi ng up the pas t, and raki ng up the future. I had buri ed my romance i n a
bed of poppi es . She dragged i t out agai n, and as s ured me that I had s poi l ed
her l i fe. I am bound to s tate that s he ate an enormous di nner, s o I di d not feel
any anxi ety. But what a l ack of tas te s he s howed! The one charm of the pas t i s
that i t i s the pas t. But women never know when the curtai n has fal l en. They
al ways want a s i xth act, and as s oon as the i nteres t of the pl ay i s enti rel y over
they propos e to conti nue i t. If they were al l owed to have thei r way, every comedy
woul d have a tragi c endi ng, and every tragedy woul d cul mi nate i n a farce.
They are charmi ngl y arti fi ci al , but they have no s ens e of art. You are more
fortunate than I am. I as s ure you, Dori an, that not one of the women I have
known woul d have done for me what Si byl Vane di d for you. Ordi nary women
al ways cons ol e thems el ves . Some of them do i t by goi ng i n for s enti mental
col ors . Never trus t a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a
woman over thi rty-fi ve who i s fond of pi nk ri bbons . It al ways means that they
have a hi s tory. Others fi nd a great cons ol ati on i n s uddenl y di s coveri ng the
good qual i ti es of thei r hus bands . They fl aunt thei r conj ugal fel i ci ty i n one’s
face, as i f i t was the mos t fas ci nati ng of s i ns . Rel i gi on cons ol es s ome. Its
mys teri es have al l the charm of a fl i rtati on, a woman once tol d me; and I can
qui te unders tand i t. Bes i des , nothi ng makes one s o vai n as bei ng tol d that one
i s a s i nner. There i s real l y no end to the cons ol ati ons that women fi nd i n
modern l i fe. Indeed, I have not menti oned the mos t i mportant one of al l ”.
“What i s that, Harry?” s ai d Dori an Gray, l i s tl es s l y.
“Oh, the obvi ous one. Taki ng s ome one el s e’s admi rer when one l os es
one’s own. In good s oci ety that al ways whi tewas hes a woman. But real l y,
Dori an, how di fferent Si byl Vane mus t have been from al l the women one
meets ! There i s s omethi ng to me qui te beauti ful about her death. I am gl ad I
am l i vi ng i n a century when s uch wonders happen. They make one bel i eve i n
the real i ty of the thi ngs that s hal l ow, fas hi onabl e peopl e pl ay wi th, s uch as
romance, pas s i on, and l ove”.
“I was terri bl y cruel to her. You forget that”.
“I bel i eve that women appreci ate cruel ty more than anythi ng el s e.
They have wonderful l y pri mi ti ve i ns ti ncts . We have emanci pated them, but
they remai n s l aves l ooki ng for thei r mas ters , al l the s ame. They l ove bei ng
domi nated. I am s ure you were s pl endi d. I have never s een you angry, but I
can fancy how del i ghtful you l ooked. And, after al l , you s ai d s omethi ng to me
the day before yes terday that s eemed to me at the ti me to be merel y fanci ful ,
but that I s ee now was abs ol utel y true, and i t expl ai ns everythi ng”.
“What was that, Harry?”
“You s ai d to me that Si byl Vane repres ented to you al l the heroi nes of
romance – that s he was Des demona one ni ght, and Ophel i a the other; that i f
s he di ed as Jul i et, s he came to l i fe as Imogen”.
“She wi l l never come to l i fe agai n now”, murmured the l ad, buryi ng
hi s face i n hi s hands .
“No, s he wi l l never come to l i fe. She has pl ayed her l as t part. But you
mus t thi nk of that l onel y death i n the tawdry dres s i ng-room s i mpl y as a
s trange l uri d fragment from s ome Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful s cene
from Webs ter or Ford or Cyri l Tourneur. The gi rl never real l y l i ved, and s o
s he has never real l y di ed. To you at l eas t s he was al ways a dream, a phantom
that fl i tted through Shakes peare’s pl ays and l eft them l ovel i er for i ts
pres ence, a reed through whi ch Shakes peare’s mus i c s ounded ri cher and
more ful l of j oy. The moment s he touched actual l i fe, s he marred i t, and i t
marred her, and s o s he pas s ed away. M ourn for Ophel i a, i f you l i ke. Put
as hes on your head becaus e Cordel i a was s trangl ed. Cry out agai ns t Heaven
becaus e the daughter of Brabanti o di ed. But don’t was te your tears over Si byl
Vane. She was l es s real than they are”.
There was a s i l ence. The eveni ng darkened i n the room. Noi s el es s l y,
and wi th s i l ver feet, the s hadows crept i n from the garden. The col ors faded
weari l y out of thi ngs .
After s ome ti me Dori an Gray l ooked up. “You have expl ai ned me to
mys el f, Harry”, he murmured, wi th s omethi ng of a s i gh of rel i ef. “I fel t al l
that you have s ai d, but s omehow I was afrai d of i t, and I coul d not expres s i t to
mys el f. How wel l you know me! But we wi l l not tal k agai n of what has
happened. It has been a marvel ous experi ence. That i s al l . I wonder i f l i fe
has s ti l l i n s tore for me anythi ng as marvel l ous ”.
“Li fe has everythi ng i n s tore for you, Dori an. There i s nothi ng that
you, wi th your extraordi nary good l ooks , wi l l not be abl e to do”.
“But s uppos e, Harry, I became haggard, and gray, and wri nkl ed?
What then?”
“Ah, then”, s ai d Lord Henry, ri s i ng to go, – “then, my dear Dori an, you
woul d have to fi ght for your vi ctori es . As i t i s , they are brought to you. No, you
mus t keep your good l ooks . We l i ve i n an age that reads too much to be wi s e,
and that thi nks too much to be beauti ful . We cannot s pare you. And now you
had better dres s , and dri ve down to the cl ub. We are rather l ate, as i t i s ”.
“I thi nk I s hal l j oi n you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too ti red to eat
anythi ng. What i s the number of your s i s ter’s box?”
“Twenty-s even, I bel i eve. It i s on the grand ti er. You wi l l s ee her
name on the door. But I am s orry you won’t come and di ne”.
“I don’t feel up to i t”, s ai d Dori an, weari l y. “But I am awful l y obl i ged to
you for al l that you have s ai d to me. You are certai nl y my bes t fri end. No one
has ever unders tood me as you have”.
“We are onl y at the begi nni ng of our fri ends hi p, Dori an”, ans wered
Lord Henry, s haki ng hi m by the hand. “Good-bye. I s hal l s ee you before ni ne-
thi rty, I hope. Remember, Patti i s s i ngi ng”.
As he cl os ed the door behi nd hi m, Dori an Gray touched the bel l , and
i n a few mi nutes Vi ctor appeared wi th the l amps and drew the bl i nds down.
He wai ted i mpati entl y for hi m to go. The man s eemed to take an i ntermi nabl e
ti me about everythi ng.
As s oon as he had l eft, he rus hed to the s creen, and drew i t back. No;
there was no further change i n the pi cture. It had recei ved the news of Si byl
Vane’s death before he had known of i t hi ms el f. It was cons ci ous of the events
of l i fe as they occurred. The vi ci ous cruel ty that marred the fi ne l i nes of the
mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the gi rl had drunk the
poi s on, whatever i t was . Or was i t i ndi fferent to res ul ts ? Di d i t merel y take
cogni zance of what pas s ed wi thi n the s oul ? he wondered, and hoped that s ome
day he woul d s ee the change taki ng pl ace before hi s very eyes , s hudderi ng as
he hoped i t.
Poor Si byl ! what a romance i t had al l been! She had often mi mi cked
death on the s tage, and at l as t Death hi ms el f had touched her, and brought
her wi th hi m. How had s he pl ayed that dreadful s cene? Had s he curs ed hi m,
as s he di ed? No; s he had di ed for l ove of hi m, and l ove woul d al ways be a
s acrament to hi m now. She had atoned for everythi ng, by the s acri fi ce s he had
made of her l i fe. He woul d not thi nk any more of what s he had made hi m go
through, that horri bl e ni ght at the theatre. When he thought of her, i t woul d
be as a wonderful tragi c fi gure to s how Love had been a great real i ty. A
wonderful tragi c fi gure? Tears came to hi s eyes as he remembered her chi l d-
l i ke l ook and wi ns ome fanci ful ways and s hy tremul ous grace. He wi ped
them away has ti l y, and l ooked agai n at the pi cture.
He fel t that the ti me had real l y come for maki ng hi s choi ce. Or had
hi s choi ce al ready been made? Yes , l i fe had deci ded that for hi m – l i fe, and
hi s own i nfi ni te curi os i ty about l i fe. E ternal youth, i nfi ni te pas s i on,
pl eas ures s ubtl e and s ecret, wi l d j oys and wi l der s i ns – he was to have al l
thes e thi ngs . The portrai t was to bear the burden of hi s s hame: that was al l .
A feel i ng of pai n came over hi m as he thought of the des ecrati on that
was i n s tore for the fai r face on the canvas . Once, i n boyi s h mockery of
Narci s s us , he had ki s s ed, or fei gned to ki s s , thos e pai nted l i ps that now
s mi l ed s o cruel l y at hi m. M orni ng after morni ng he had s at before the
portrai t wonderi ng at i ts beauty, al mos t enamoured of i t, as i t s eemed to hi m
at ti mes . Was i t to al ter now wi th every mood to whi ch he yi el ded? Was i t to
become a hi deous and l oaths ome thi ng, to be hi dden away i n a l ocked room, to
be s hut out from the s unl i ght that had s o often touched to bri ghter gol d the
wavi ng wonder of the hai r? The pi ty of i t! the pi ty of i t!
For a moment he thought of prayi ng that the horri bl e s ympathy that
exi s ted between hi m and the pi cture mi ght ceas e. It had changed i n ans wer to
a prayer; perhaps i n ans wer to a prayer i t mi ght remai n unchanged. And, yet,
who, that knew anythi ng about Li fe, woul d s urrender the chance of remai ni ng
al ways young, however fantas ti c that chance mi ght be, or wi th what fateful
cons equences i t mi ght be fraught? Bes i des , was i t real l y under hi s control ?
Had i t i ndeed been prayer that had produced the s ubs ti tuti on? M i ght there not
be s ome curi ous s ci enti fi c reas on for i t al l ? If thought coul d exerci s e i ts
i nfl uence upon a l i vi ng organi s m, mi ght not thought exerci s e an i nfl uence
upon dead and i norgani c thi ngs ? Nay, wi thout thought or cons ci ous des i re,
mi ght not thi ngs external to ours el ves vi brate i n uni s on wi th our moods and
pas s i ons , atom cal l i ng to atom, i n s ecret l ove or s trange affi ni ty? But the
reas on was of no i mportance. He woul d never agai n tempt by a prayer any
terri bl e power. If the pi cture was to al ter, i t was to al ter. That was al l . Why
i nqui re too cl os el y i nto i t?
For there woul d be a real pl eas ure i n watchi ng i t. He woul d be abl e to
fol l ow hi s mi nd i nto i ts s ecret pl aces . Thi s portrai t woul d be to hi m the mos t
magi cal of mi rrors . As i t had reveal ed to hi m hi s own body, s o i t woul d reveal
to hi m hi s own s oul . And when wi nter came upon i t, he woul d s ti l l be
s tandi ng where s pri ng trembl es on the verge of s ummer. When the bl ood
crept from i ts face, and l eft behi nd a pal l i d mas k of chal k wi th l eaden eyes ,
he woul d keep the gl amour of boyhood. Not one bl os s om of hi s l ovel i nes s woul d
ever fade. Not one pul s e of hi s l i fe woul d ever weaken. Li ke the gods of the
Greeks , he woul d be s trong, and fl eet, and j oyous . What di d i t matter what
happened to the col ored i mage on the canvas ? He woul d be s afe. That was
everythi ng.
He drew the s creen back i nto i ts former pl ace i n front of the pi cture,
s mi l i ng as he di d s o, and pas s ed i nto hi s bedroom, where hi s val et was
al ready wai ti ng for hi m. An hour l ater he was at the Opera, and Lord Henry
was l eani ng over hi s chai r.
CHAPT E R 7
As he was s i tti ng at breakfas t next morni ng, Bas i l Hal l ward was
s hown i nto the room.
“I am s o gl ad I have found you, Dori an”, he s ai d, gravel y. “I cal l ed l as t
ni ght, and they tol d me you were at the Opera. Of cours e I knew that was
i mpos s i bl e. But I wi s h you had l eft word where you had real l y gone to. I
pas s ed a dreadful eveni ng, hal f afrai d that one tragedy mi ght be fol l owed by
another. I thi nk you mi ght have tel egraphed for me when you heard of i t fi rs t.
I read of i t qui te by chance i n a l ate edi ti on of the Gl obe, that I pi cked up at the
cl ub. I came here at once, and was mi s erabl e at not fi ndi ng you. I can’t tel l
you how heart-broken I am about the whol e thi ng. I know what you mus t
s uffer. But where were you? Di d you go down and s ee the gi rl ’s mother? For a
moment I thought of fol l owi ng you there. They gave the addres s i n the paper.
Somewhere i n the E us ton Road, i s n’t i t? But I was afrai d of i ntrudi ng upon a
s orrow that I coul d not l i ghten. Poor woman! What a s tate s he mus t be i n! And
her onl y chi l d, too! What di d s he s ay about i t al l ?”
“M y dear Bas i l , how do I know?” murmured Dori an, s i ppi ng s ome
pal e-yel l ow wi ne from a del i cate gol d-beaded bubbl e of Veneti an gl as s , and
l ooki ng dreadful l y bored. “I was at the Opera. You s houl d have come on there. I
met Lady Gwendol en, Harry’s s i s ter, for the fi rs t ti me. We were i n her box.
She i s perfectl y charmi ng; and Patti s ang di vi nel y. Don’t tal k about horri d
s ubj ects . If one does n’t tal k about a thi ng, i t has never happened. It i s s i mpl y
expres s i on, as Harry s ays , that gi ves real i ty to thi ngs . Tel l me about yours el f
and what you are pai nti ng”.
“You went to the Opera?” s ai d Hal l ward, s peaki ng very s l owl y, and
wi th a s trai ned touch of pai n i n hi s voi ce. “You went to the Opera whi l e Si byl
Vane was l yi ng dead i n s ome s ordi d l odgi ng? You can tal k to me of other
women bei ng charmi ng, and of Patti s i ngi ng di vi nel y, before the gi rl you
l oved has even the qui et of a grave to s l eep i n? Why, man, there are horrors i n
s tore for that l i ttl e whi te body of hers !”
“Stop, Bas i l ! I won’t hear i t!” cri ed Dori an, l eapi ng to hi s feet”. You
mus t not tel l me about thi ngs . What i s done i s done. What i s pas t i s pas t”.
“You cal l yes terday the pas t?”
“What has the actual l aps e of ti me got to do wi th i t? It i s onl y s hal l ow
peopl e who requi re years to get ri d of an emoti on. A man who i s mas ter of
hi ms el f can end a s orrow as eas i l y as he can i nvent a pl eas ure. I don’t want to
be at the mercy of my emoti ons . I want to us e them, to enj oy them, and to
domi nate them”.
“Dori an, thi s i s horri bl e! Somethi ng has changed you compl etel y. You
l ook exactl y the s ame wonderful boy who us ed to come down to my s tudi o, day
after day, to s i t for hi s pi cture. But you were s i mpl e, natural , and affecti onate
then. You were the mos t uns poi l ed creature i n the whol e worl d. Now, I don’t
know what has come over you. You tal k as i f you had no heart, no pi ty i n you. It
i s al l Harry’s i nfl uence. I s ee that”.
The l ad fl us hed up, and, goi ng to the wi ndow, l ooked out on the
green, fl i ckeri ng garden for a few moments . “I owe a great deal to Harry,
Bas i l ”, he s ai d, at l as t – “more than I owe to you. You onl y taught me to be
vai n”.
“Wel l , I am puni s hed for that, Dori an – or s hal l be s ome day”.
“I don’t know what you mean, Bas i l ”, he excl ai med, turni ng round. “I
don’t know what you want. What do you want?”
“I want the Dori an Gray I us ed to know”.
“Bas i l ”, s ai d the l ad, goi ng over to hi m, and putti ng hi s hand on hi s
s houl der, “you have come too l ate. Yes terday when I heard that Si byl Vane had
ki l l ed hers el f...”
“Ki l l ed hers el f! Good heavens ! i s there no doubt about that?” cri ed
Hal l ward, l ooki ng up at hi m wi th an expres s i on of horror.
“M y dear Bas i l ! Surel y you don’t thi nk i t was a vul gar acci dent? Of
cours e s he ki l l ed hers el f It i s one of the great romanti c tragedi es of the age.
As a rul e, peopl e who act l ead the mos t commonpl ace l i ves . They are good
hus bands , or fai thful wi ves , or s omethi ng tedi ous . You know what I mean –
mi ddl e-cl as s vi rtue, and al l that ki nd of thi ng. How di fferent Si byl was ! She
l i ved her fi nes t tragedy. She was al ways a heroi ne. The l as t ni ght s he pl ayed
-- the ni ght you s aw her – s he acted badl y becaus e s he had known the real i ty
of l ove. When s he knew i ts unreal i ty, s he di ed, as Jul i et mi ght have di ed.
She pas s ed agai n i nto the s phere of art. There i s s omethi ng of the martyr
about her. Her death has al l the patheti c us el es s nes s of martyrdom, al l i ts
was ted beauty. But, as I was s ayi ng, you mus t not thi nk I have not s uffered. If
you had come i n yes terday at a parti cul ar moment – about hal f-pas t fi ve,
perhaps , or a quarter to s i x – you woul d have found me i n tears . E ven Harry,
who was here, who brought me the news , i n fact, had no i dea what I was goi ng
through. I s uffered i mmens el y, then i t pas s ed away. I cannot repeat an
emoti on. No one can, except s enti mental i s ts . And you are awful l y unj us t,
Bas i l . You come down here to cons ol e me. That i s charmi ng of you. You fi nd
me cons ol ed, and you are furi ous . How l i ke a s ympatheti c pers on! You remi nd
me of a s tory Harry tol d me about a certai n phi l anthropi s t who s pent twenty
years of hi s l i fe i n tryi ng to get s ome gri evance redres s ed, or s ome unj us t l aw
al tered – I forget exactl y what i t was . Fi nal l y he s ucceeded, and nothi ng coul d
exceed hi s di s appoi ntment. He had abs ol utel y nothi ng to do, al mos t di ed of
ennui , and became a confi rmed mi s anthrope. And bes i des , my dear ol d
Bas i l , i f you real l y want to cons ol e me, teach me rather to forget what has
happened, or to s ee i t from a proper arti s ti c poi nt of vi ew. Was i t not Gauti er
who us ed to wri te about l a cons ol ati on des arts ? I remember pi cki ng up a l i ttl e
vel l um-covered book i n your s tudi o one day and chanci ng on that del i ghtful
phras e. Wel l , I am not l i ke that young man you tol d me of when we were down
at M arl owe together, the young man who us ed to s ay that yel l ow s ati n coul d
cons ol e one for al l the mi s eri es of l i fe. I l ove beauti ful thi ngs that one can
touch and handl e. Ol d brocades , green bronzes , l acquer-work, carved i vori es ,
exqui s i te s urroundi ngs , l uxury, pomp – there i s much to be got from al l
thes e. But the arti s ti c temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal , i s
s ti l l more to me. To become the s pectator of one’s own l i fe, as Harry s ays , i s to
es cape the s ufferi ng of l i fe. I know you are s urpri s ed at my tal ki ng to you l i ke
thi s . You have not real i zed how I have devel oped. I was a s chool -boy when you
knew me. I am a man now. I have new pas s i ons , new thoughts , new i deas . I
am di fferent, but you mus t not l i ke me l es s . I am changed, but you mus t
al ways be my fri end. Of cours e I am very fond of Harry. But I know that you are
better than he i s . You are not s tronger – you are too much afrai d of l i fe – but
you are better. And how happy we us ed to be together! Don’t l eave me, Bas i l ,
and don’t quarrel wi th me. I am what I am. There i s nothi ng more to be s ai d”.
Hal l ward fel t s trangel y moved. Rugged and s trai ghtforward as he was ,
there was s omethi ng i n hi s nature that was purel y femi ni ne i n i ts
tendernes s . The l ad was i nfi ni tel y dear to hi m, and hi s pers onal i ty had been
the great turni ng-poi nt i n hi s art. He coul d not bear the i dea of reproachi ng
hi m any more. After al l , hi s i ndi fference was probabl y merel y a mood that
woul d pas s away. There was s o much i n hi m that was good, s o much i n hi m
that was nobl e.
“Wel l , Dori an”, he s ai d, at l ength, wi th a s ad s mi l e, “I won’t s peak to
you agai n about thi s horri bl e thi ng, after today. I onl y trus t your name won’t
be menti oned i n connecti on wi th i t. The i nques t i s to take pl ace thi s afternoon.
Have they s ummoned you?”
Dori an s hook hi s head, and a l ook of annoyance pas s ed over hi s face at
the menti on of the word “i nques t”. There was s omethi ng s o crude and vul gar
about everythi ng of the ki nd. “They don’t know my name”, he ans wered.
“But s urel y s he di d?”
“Onl y my Chri s ti an name, and that I am qui te s ure s he never
menti oned to any one. She tol d me once that they were al l rather curi ous to
l earn who I was , and that s he i nvari abl y tol d them my name was Pri nce
Charmi ng. It was pretty of her. You mus t do me a drawi ng of her, Bas i l . I
s houl d l i ke to have s omethi ng more of her than the memory of a few ki s s es
and s ome broken patheti c words ”.
“I wi l l try and do s omethi ng, Dori an, i f i t woul d pl eas e you. But you
mus t come and s i t to me yours el f agai n. I can’t get on wi thout you”.
“I wi l l never s i t to you agai n, Bas i l . It i s i mpos s i bl e!” he excl ai med,
s tarti ng back.
Hal l ward s tared at hi m, “M y dear boy, what nons ens e!” he cri ed. “Do
you mean to s ay you don’t l i ke what I di d of you? Where i s i t? Why have you
pul l ed the s creen i n front of i t? Let me l ook at i t. It i s the bes t thi ng I have ever
pai nted. Do take that s creen away, Dori an. It i s s i mpl y horri d of your s ervant
hi di ng my work l i ke that. I fel t the room l ooked di fferent as I came i n”.
“M y s ervant has nothi ng to do wi th i t, Bas i l . You don’t i magi ne I l et
hi m arrange my room for me? He s ettl es my fl owers for me s ometi mes – that
i s al l . No; I di d i t mys el f. The l i ght was too s trong on the portrai t”.
“Too s trong! Impos s i bl e, my dear fel l ow! It i s an admi rabl e pl ace for i t.
Let me s ee i t”. And Hal l ward wal ked towards the corner of the room.
A cry of terror broke from Dori an Gray’s l i ps , and he rus hed between
Hal l ward and the s creen. “Bas i l ”, he s ai d, l ooki ng very pal e, “you mus t not
l ook at i t. I don’t wi s h you to”.
“Not l ook at my own work! you are not s eri ous . Why s houl dn’t I l ook at
i t?” excl ai med Hal l ward, l aughi ng.
“If you try to l ook at i t, Bas i l , on my word of honor I wi l l never s peak to
you agai n as l ong as I l i ve. I am qui te s eri ous . I don’t offer any expl anati on,
and you are not to as k for any. But, remember, i f you touch thi s s creen,
everythi ng i s over between us ”.
Hal l ward was thunders truck. He l ooked at Dori an Gray i n abs ol ute
amazement. He had never s een hi m l i ke thi s before. The l ad was abs ol utel y
pal l i d wi th rage. Hi s hands were cl i nched, and the pupi l s of hi s eyes were
l i ke di s ks of bl ue fi re. He was trembl i ng al l over.
“Dori an!”
“Don’t s peak!”
“But what i s the matter? Of cours e I won’t l ook at i t i f you don’t want me
to”, he s ai d, rather col dl y, turni ng on hi s heel , and goi ng over towards the
wi ndow. “But, real l y, i t s eems rather abs urd that I s houl dn’t s ee my own work,
es peci al l y as I am goi ng to exhi bi t i t i n Pari s i n the autumn. I s hal l probabl y
have to gi ve i t another coat of varni s h before that, s o I mus t s ee i t s ome day,
and why not today?”
“To exhi bi t i t! You want to exhi bi t i t?” excl ai med Dori an Gray, a
s trange s ens e of terror creepi ng over hi m. Was the worl d goi ng to be s hown hi s
s ecret? Were peopl e to gape at the mys tery of hi s l i fe? That was i mpos s i bl e.
Somethi ng – he di d not know what – had to be done at once.
“Yes : I don’t s uppos e you wi l l obj ect to that. Georges Peti t i s goi ng to
col l ect al l my bes t pi ctures for a s peci al exhi bi ti on i n the Rue de Sèze, whi ch
wi l l open the fi rs t week i n October. The portrai t wi l l onl y be away a month. I
s houl d thi nk you coul d eas i l y s pare i t for that ti me. In fact, you are s ure to be
out of town. And i f you hi de i t al ways behi nd a s creen, you can’t care much
about i t”.
Dori an Gray pas s ed hi s hand over hi s forehead. There were beads of
pers pi rati on there. He fel t that he was on the bri nk of a horri bl e danger. “You
tol d me a month ago that you woul d never exhi bi t i t”, he s ai d. “Why have you
changed your mi nd? You peopl e who go i n for bei ng cons i s tent have j us t as
many moods as others . The onl y di fference i s that your moods are rather
meani ngl es s . You can’t have forgotten that you as s ured me mos t s ol emnl y
that nothi ng i n the worl d woul d i nduce you to s end i t to any exhi bi ti on. You
tol d Harry exactl y the s ame thi ng”. He s topped s uddenl y, and a gl eam of l i ght
came i nto hi s eyes . He remembered that Lord Henry had s ai d to hi m once,
hal f s eri ous l y and hal f i n j es t, “If you want to have an i nteres ti ng quarter of
an hour, get Bas i l to tel l you why he won’t exhi bi t your pi cture. He tol d me why
he woul dn’t, and i t was a revel ati on to me”. Yes , perhaps Bas i l , too, had hi s
s ecret. He woul d as k hi m and try.
“Bas i l ”, he s ai d, comi ng over qui te cl os e, and l ooki ng hi m s trai ght i n
the face, “we have each of us a s ecret. Let me know yours , and I wi l l tel l you
mi ne. What was your reas on for refus i ng to exhi bi t my pi cture?”
Hal l ward s huddered i n s pi te of hi ms el f. “Dori an, i f I tol d you, you
mi ght l i ke me l es s than you do, and you woul d certai nl y l augh at me. I coul d
not bear your doi ng ei ther of thos e two thi ngs . If you wi s h me never to l ook at
your pi cture agai n, I am content. I have al ways you to l ook at. If you wi s h the
bes t work I have ever done to be hi dden from the worl d, I am s ati s fi ed. Your
fri ends hi p i s dearer to me than any fame or reputati on”.
“No, Bas i l , you mus t tel l me”, murmured Dori an Gray. “I thi nk I have
a ri ght to know”. Hi s feel i ng of terror had pas s ed away, and curi os i ty had taken
i ts pl ace. He was determi ned to fi nd out Bas i l Hal l ward’s mys tery.
“Let us s i t down, Dori an”, s ai d Hal l ward, l ooki ng pal e and pai ned”. Let
us s i t down. I wi l l s i t i n the s hadow, and you s hal l s i t i n the s unl i ght. Our
l i ves are l i ke that. Jus t ans wer me one ques ti on. Have you noti ced i n the
pi cture s omethi ng that you di d not l i ke? – s omethi ng that probabl y at fi rs t di d
not s tri ke you, but that reveal ed i ts el f to you s uddenl y?”
“Bas i l !” cri ed the l ad, cl utchi ng the arms of hi s chai r wi th trembl i ng
hands , and gazi ng at hi m wi th wi l d, s tartl ed eyes .
“I s ee you di d. Don’t s peak. Wai t ti l l you hear what I have to s ay. It i s
qui te true that I have wors hi pped you wi th far more romance of feel i ng than a
man us ual l y gi ves to a fri end. Somehow, I had never l oved a woman. I s uppos e
I never had ti me. Perhaps , as Harry s ays , a real l y ‘grande pas s i on’ i s the
pri vi l ege of thos e who have nothi ng to do, and that i s the us e of the i dl e
cl as s es i n a country. Wel l , from the moment I met you, your pers onal i ty had
the mos t extraordi nary i nfl uence over me. I qui te admi t that I adored you
madl y, extravagantl y, abs urdl y. I was j eal ous of every one to whom you s poke.
I wanted to have you al l to mys el f. I was onl y happy when I was wi th you.
When I was away from you, you were s ti l l pres ent i n my art. It was al l wrong
and fool i s h. It i s al l wrong and fool i s h s ti l l . Of cours e I never l et you know
anythi ng about thi s . It woul d have been i mpos s i bl e. You woul d not have
unders tood i t; I di d not unders tand i t mys el f. One day I determi ned to pai nt a
wonderful portrai t of you. It was to have been my mas terpi ece. It i s my
mas terpi ece. But, as I worked at i t, every fl ake and fi l m of col or s eemed to me
to reveal my s ecret. I grew afrai d that the worl d woul d know of my i dol atry. I
fel t, Dori an, that I had tol d too much. Then i t was that I res ol ved never to al l ow
the pi cture to be exhi bi ted. You were a l i ttl e annoyed; but then you di d not
real i ze al l that i t meant to me. Harry, to whom I tal ked about i t, l aughed at me.
But I di d not mi nd that. When the pi cture was fi ni s hed, and I s at al one wi th
i t, I fel t that I was ri ght. Wel l , after a few days the portrai t l eft my s tudi o, and
as s oon as I had got ri d of the i ntol erabl e fas ci nati on of i ts pres ence i t s eemed
to me that I had been fool i s h i n i magi ni ng that I had s ai d anythi ng i n i t,
more than that you were extremel y good-l ooki ng and that I coul d pai nt. E ven
now I cannot hel p feel i ng that i t i s a mi s take to thi nk that the pas s i on one
feel s i n creati on i s ever real l y s hown i n the work one creates . Art i s more
abs tract than we fancy. Form and col or tel l us of form and col or – that i s al l . It
often s eems to me that art conceal s the arti s t far more compl etel y than i t ever
reveal s hi m. And s o when I got thi s offer from Pari s I determi ned to make your
portrai t the pri nci pal thi ng i n my exhi bi ti on. It never occurred to me that you
woul d refus e. I s ee now that you were ri ght. The pi cture mus t not be s hown.
You mus t not be angry wi th me, Dori an, for what I have tol d you. As I s ai d to
Harry, once, you are made to be wors hi pped”.
Dori an Gray drew a l ong breath. The col or came back to hi s cheeks ,
and a s mi l e pl ayed about hi s l i ps . The peri l was over. He was s afe for the
ti me. Yet he coul d not hel p feel i ng i nfi ni te pi ty for the young man who had
j us t made thi s s trange confes s i on to hi m. He wondered i f he woul d ever be s o
domi nated by the pers onal i ty of a fri end. Lord Harry had the charm of bei ng
very dangerous . But that was al l . He was too cl ever and too cyni cal to be real l y
fond of. Woul d there ever be s ome one who woul d fi l l hi m wi th a s trange
i dol atry? Was that one of the thi ngs that l i fe had i n s tore?
“It i s extraordi nary to me, Dori an”, s ai d Hal l ward, “that you s houl d
have s een thi s i n the pi cture. Di d you real l y s ee i t?”
“Of cours e I di d”.
“Wel l , you don’t mi nd my l ooki ng at i t now?”
Dori an s hook hi s head. “You mus t not as k me that, Bas i l . I coul d not
pos s i bl y l et you s tand i n front of that pi cture”.
“You wi l l s ome day, s urel y?”
“Never”.
“Wel l , perhaps you are ri ght. And now good-bye, Dori an. You have
been the one pers on i n my l i fe of whom I have been real l y fond. I don’t
s uppos e I s hal l often s ee you agai n. You don’t know what i t cos t me to tel l you
al l that I have tol d you”.
“M y dear Bas i l ”, cri ed Dori an, “what have you tol d me? Si mpl y that you
fel t that you l i ked me too much. That i s not even a compl i ment”.
“It was not i ntended as a compl i ment. It was a confes s i on”.
“A very di s appoi nti ng one”.
“Why, what di d you expect, Dori an? You di dn’t s ee anythi ng el s e i n
the pi cture, di d you? There was nothi ng el s e to s ee?”
“No: there was nothi ng el s e to s ee. Why do you as k? But you mus tn’t
tal k about not meeti ng me agai n, or anythi ng of that ki nd. You and I are
fri ends , Bas i l , and we mus t al ways remai n s o”.
“You have got Harry”, s ai d Hal l ward, s adl y.
“Oh, Harry!” cri ed the l ad, wi th a ri ppl e of l aughter. “Harry s pends
hi s days i n s ayi ng what i s i ncredi bl e, and hi s eveni ngs i n doi ng what i s
i mprobabl e. Jus t the s ort of l i fe I woul d l i ke to l ead. But s ti l l I don’t thi nk I
woul d go to Harry i f I was i n troubl e. I woul d s ooner go to you, Bas i l ”.
“But you won’t s i t to me agai n?”
“Impos s i bl e!”
“You s poi l my l i fe as an arti s t by refus i ng, Dori an. No man comes
acros s two i deal thi ngs . Few come acros s one”.
“I can’t expl ai n i t to you, Bas i l , but I mus t never s i t to you agai n. I wi l l
come and have tea wi th you. That wi l l be j us t as pl eas ant”.
“Pl eas anter for you, I am afrai d”, murmured Hal l ward, regretful l y”.
And now good-bye. I am s orry you won’t l et me l ook at the pi cture once agai n.
But that can’t be hel ped. I qui te unders tand what you feel about i t”.
As he l eft the room, Dori an Gray s mi l ed to hi ms el f. Poor Bas i l ! How
l i ttl e he knew of the true reas on! And how s trange i t was that, i ns tead of
havi ng been forced to reveal hi s own s ecret, he had s ucceeded, al mos t by
chance, i n wres ti ng a s ecret from hi s fri end! How much that s trange
confes s i on expl ai ned to hi m! Bas i l ’s abs urd fi ts of j eal ous y, hi s wi l d
devoti on, hi s extravagant panegyri cs , hi s curi ous reti cences , – he unders tood
them al l now, and he fel t s orry. There was s omethi ng tragi c i n a fri ends hi p
s o col ored by romance.
He s i ghed, and touched the bel l . The portrai t mus t be hi dden away at
al l cos ts . He coul d not run s uch a ri s k of di s covery agai n. It had been mad of
hi m to have the thi ng remai n, even for an hour, i n a room to whi ch any of hi s
fri ends had acces s .
CHAPT E R 8
INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS
An i nquest w as held thi s morni ng at the B ell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr.
Danby, the Di stri ct Coroner, on the body of Si byl Vane, a young actress recently
eng ag ed at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdi ct of death by mi sadventure
w as returned.Consi derable sympathy w as expressed for the mother of the
deceased, w ho w as g reatly affected duri ng the g i vi ng of her ow n evi dence,
and that of Dr. B i rrell, w ho had made the post-mortemexami nati on of the
deceased.
He frowned s l i ghtl y, and, teari ng the paper i n two, went acros s the
room and fl ung the pi eces i nto a gi l t bas ket. How ugl y i t al l was ! And how
horri bl y real ugl i nes s made thi ngs ! He fel t a l i ttl e annoyed wi th Lord Henry
for havi ng s ent hi m the account. And i t was certai nl y s tupi d of hi m to have
marked i t wi th red penci l . Vi ctor mi ght have read i t. The man knew more than
enough E ngl i s h for that.
Perhaps he had read i t, and had begun to s us pect s omethi ng. And,
yet, what di d i t matter? What had Dori an Gray to do wi th Si byl Vane’s death?
There was nothi ng to fear. Dori an Gray had not ki l l ed her.
Hi s eye fel l on the yel l ow book that Lord Henry had s ent hi m. What
was i t, he wondered. He went towards the l i ttl e pearl -col ored octagonal s tand,
that had al ways l ooked to hi m l i ke the work of s ome s trange E gypti an bees who
wrought i n s i l ver, and took the vol ume up. He fl ung hi ms el f i nto an arm-
chai r, and began to turn over the l eaves . After a few mi nutes , he became
abs orbed. It was the s tranges t book he had ever read. It s eemed to hi m that i n
exqui s i te rai ment, and to the del i cate s ound of fl utes , the s i ns of the worl d
were pas s i ng i n dumb s how before hi m. Thi ngs that he had di ml y dreamed
of were s uddenl y made real to hi m. Thi ngs of whi ch he had never dreamed
were gradual l y reveal ed.
It was a novel wi thout a pl ot, and wi th onl y one character, bei ng,
i ndeed, s i mpl y a ps ychol ogi cal s tudy of a certai n young Pari s i an, who s pent
hi s l i fe tryi ng to real i ze i n the ni neteenth century al l the pas s i ons and
modes of thought that bel onged to every century except hi s own, and to s um up,
as i t were, i n hi ms el f the vari ous moods through whi ch the worl d-s pi ri t had
ever pas s ed, l ovi ng for thei r mere arti fi ci al i ty thos e renunci ati ons that men
have unwi s el y cal l ed vi rtue, as much as thos e natural rebel l i ons that wi s e
men s ti l l cal l s i n. The s tyl e i n whi ch i t was wri tten was that curi ous j ewel ed
s tyl e, vi vi d and obs cure at once, ful l of argot and of archai s ms , of techni cal
expres s i ons and of el aborate paraphras es , that characteri zes the work of s ome
of the fi nes t arti s ts of the French s chool of Décadents . There were i n i t
metaphors as mons trous as orchi ds , and as evi l i n col or. The l i fe of the
s ens es was des cri bed i n the terms of mys ti cal phi l os ophy. One hardl y knew
at ti mes whether one was readi ng the s pi ri tual ecs tas i es of s ome medi aeval
s ai nt or the morbi d confes s i ons of a modern s i nner. It was a poi s onous book.
The heavy odor of i ncens e s eemed to cl i ng about i ts pages and to troubl e the
brai n. The mere cadence of the s entences , the s ubtl e monotony of thei r
mus i c, s o ful l as i t was of compl ex refrai ns and movements el aboratel y
repeated, produced i n the mi nd of the l ad, as he pas s ed from chapter to
chapter, a form of revery, a mal ady of dreami ng, that made hi m uncons ci ous
of the fal l i ng day and the creepi ng s hadows .
Cl oudl es s , and pi erced by one s ol i tary s tar, a copper-green s ky
gl eamed through the wi ndows . He read on by i ts wan l i ght ti l l he coul d read
no more. Then, after hi s val et had remi nded hi m s everal ti mes of the
l atenes s of the hour, he got up, and, goi ng i nto the next room, pl aced the book
on the l i ttl e Fl orenti ne tabl e that al ways s tood at hi s beds i de, and began to
dres s for di nner.
It was al mos t ni ne o’cl ock before he reached the cl ub, where he found
Lord Henry s i tti ng al one, i n the morni ng-room, l ooki ng very bored.
“I am s o s orry, Harry”, he cri ed, “but real l y i t i s enti rel y your faul t.
That book you s ent me s o fas ci nated me that I forgot what the ti me was ”.
“I thought you woul d l i ke i t”, repl i ed hi s hos t, ri s i ng from hi s chai r.
“I di dn’t s ay I l i ked i t, Harry. I s ai d i t fas ci nated me. There i s a great
di fference”.
“Ah, i f you have di s covered that, you have di s covered a great deal ”,
murmured Lord Henry, wi th hi s curi ous s mi l e. “Come, l et us go i n to di nner.
It i s dreadful l y l ate, and I am afrai d the champagne wi l l be too much i ced”.
CHAPT E R 9
For years , Dori an Gray coul d not free hi ms el f from the memory of
thi s book. Or perhaps i t woul d be more accurate to s ay that he never s ought to
free hi ms el f from i t. He procured from Pari s no l es s than fi ve l arge-paper
copi es of the fi rs t edi ti on, and had them bound i n di fferent col ors , s o that they
mi ght s ui t hi s vari ous moods and the changi ng fanci es of a nature over whi ch
he s eemed, at ti mes , to have al mos t enti rel y l os t control . The hero, the
wonderful young Pari s i an, i n whom the romanti c temperament and the
s ci enti fi c temperament were s o s trangel y bl ended, became to hi m a ki nd of
prefi guri ng type of hi ms el f. And, i ndeed, the whol e book s eemed to hi m to
contai n the s tory of hi s own l i fe, wri tten before he had l i ved i t.
In one poi nt he was more fortunate than the book’s fantas ti c hero. He
never knew – never, i ndeed, had any caus e to know – that s omewhat grotes que
dread of mi rrors , and pol i s hed metal s urfaces , and s ti l l water, whi ch came
upon the young Pari s i an s o earl y i n hi s l i fe, and was occas i oned by the
s udden decay of a beauty that had once, apparentl y, been s o remarkabl e. It
was wi th an al mos t cruel j oy – and perhaps i n nearl y every j oy, as certai nl y
i n every pl eas ure, cruel ty has i ts pl ace – that he us ed to read the l atter part of
the book, wi th i ts real l y tragi c, i f s omewhat over-emphas i zed, account of the
s orrow and des pai r of one who had hi ms el f l os t what i n others , and i n the
worl d, he had mos t val ued.
He, at any rate, had no caus e to fear that. The boyi s h beauty that had
s o fas ci nated Bas i l Hal l ward, and many others bes i des hi m, s eemed never to
l eave hi m. E ven thos e who had heard the mos t evi l thi ngs agai ns t hi m ( and
from ti me to ti me s trange rumors about hi s mode of l i fe crept through London
and became the chatter of the cl ubs ) coul d not bel i eve anythi ng to hi s di s honor
when they s aw hi m. He had al ways the l ook of one who had kept hi ms el f
uns potted from the worl d. M en who tal ked gros s l y became s i l ent when Dori an
Gray entered the room. There was s omethi ng i n the puri ty of hi s face that
rebuked them. Hi s mere pres ence s eemed to recal l to them the i nnocence that
they had tarni s hed. They wondered how one s o charmi ng and graceful as he
was coul d have es caped the s tai n of an age that was at once s ordi d and
s ens uous .
He hi ms el f, on returni ng home from one of thos e mys teri ous and
prol onged abs ences that gave ri s e to s uch s trange conj ecture among thos e who
were hi s fri ends , or thought that they were s o, woul d creep up-s tai rs to the
l ocked room, open the door wi th the key that never l eft hi m, and s tand, wi th a
mi rror, i n front of the portrai t that Bas i l Hal l ward had pai nted of hi m, l ooki ng
now at the evi l and agi ng face on the canvas , and now at the fai r young face
that l aughed back at hi m from the pol i s hed gl as s . The very s harpnes s of the
contras t us ed to qui cken hi s s ens e of pl eas ure. He grew more and more
enamoured of hi s own beauty, more and more i nteres ted i n the corrupti on of
hi s own s oul . He woul d exami ne wi th mi nute care, and often wi th a
mons trous and terri bl e del i ght, the hi deous l i nes that s eared the wri nkl i ng
forehead or crawl ed around the heavy s ens ual mouth, wonderi ng s ometi mes
whi ch were the more horri bl e, the s i gns of s i n or the s i gns of age. He woul d
pl ace hi s whi te hands bes i de the coars e bl oated hands of the pi cture, and
s mi l e. He mocked the mi s s hapen body and the fai l i ng l i mbs .
There were moments , i ndeed, at ni ght, when, l yi ng s l eepl es s i n hi s
own del i catel y-s cented chamber, or i n the s ordi d room of the l i ttl e i l l -famed
tavern near the Docks , whi ch, under an as s umed name, and i n di s gui s e, i t
was hi s habi t to frequent, he woul d thi nk of the rui n he had brought upon hi s
s oul , wi th a pi ty that was al l the more poi gnant becaus e i t was purel y s el fi s h.
But moments s uch as thes e were rare. That curi os i ty about l i fe that, many
years before, Lord Henry had fi rs t s ti rred i n hi m, as they s at together i n the
garden of thei r fri end, s eemed to i ncreas e wi th grati fi cati on. The more he
knew, the more he des i red to know. He had mad hungers that grew more
ravenous as he fed them.
Yet he was not real l y reckl es s , at any rate i n hi s rel ati ons to s oci ety.
Once or twi ce every month duri ng the wi nter, and on each Wednes day
eveni ng whi l e the s eas on l as ted, he woul d throw open to the worl d hi s
beauti ful hous e and have the mos t cel ebrated mus i ci ans of the day to charm
hi s gues ts wi th the wonders of thei r art. Hi s l i ttl e di nners , i n the s ettl i ng of
whi ch Lord Henry al ways as s i s ted hi m, were noted as much for the careful
s el ecti on and pl aci ng of thos e i nvi ted, as for the exqui s i te tas te s hown i n the
decorati on of the tabl e, wi th i ts s ubtl e s ymphoni c arrangements of exoti c
fl owers , and embroi dered cl oths , and anti que pl ate of gol d and s i l ver. Indeed,
there were many, es peci al l y among the very young men, who s aw, or fanci ed
that they s aw, i n Dori an Gray the true real i zati on of a type of whi ch they had
often dreamed i n E ton or Oxford days , a type that was to combi ne s omethi ng of
the real cul ture of the s chol ar wi th al l the grace and di s ti ncti on and perfect
manner of a ci ti zen of the worl d. To them he s eemed to bel ong to thos e whom
Dante des cri bes as havi ng s ought to “make thems el ves perfect by the wors hi p
of beauty”. Li ke Gauti er, he was one for whom “the vi s i bl e worl d exi s ted”.
And, certai nl y, to hi m l i fe i ts el f was the fi rs t, the greates t, of the
arts , and for i t al l the other arts s eemed to be but a preparati on. Fas hi on, by
whi ch what i s real l y fantas ti c becomes for a moment uni vers al , and
Dandyi s m, whi ch, i n i ts own way, i s an attempt to as s ert the abs ol ute
moderni ty of beauty, had, of cours e, thei r fas ci nati on for hi m. Hi s mode of
dres s i ng, and the parti cul ar s tyl es that he affected from ti me to ti me, had
thei r marked i nfl uence on the young exqui s i tes of the M ayfai r bal l s and
Pal l M al l cl ub wi ndows , who copi ed hi m i n everythi ng that he di d, and tri ed
to reproduce the acci dental charm of hi s graceful , though to hi m onl y hal f-
s eri ous , fopperi es .
For, whi l e he was but too ready to accept the pos i ti on that was al mos t
i mmedi atel y offered to hi m on hi s comi ng of age, and found, i ndeed, a s ubtl e
pl eas ure i n the thought that he mi ght real l y become to the London of hi s own
day what to i mperi al Neroni an Rome the author of the “Satyri con” had once
been, yet i n hi s i nmos t heart he des i red to be s omethi ng more than a mere
arbi ter el eganti arum, to be cons ul ted on the weari ng of a j ewel , or the knotti ng
of a neckti e, or the conduct of a cane. He s ought to el aborate s ome new s cheme
of l i fe that woul d have i ts reas oned phi l os ophy and i ts ordered pri nci pl es and
fi nd i n the s pi ri tual i zi ng of the s ens es i ts hi ghes t real i zati on.
The wors hi p of the s ens es has often, and wi th much j us ti ce, been
decri ed, men feel i ng a natural i ns ti nct of terror about pas s i ons and
s ens ati ons that s eem s tronger than ours el ves , and that we are cons ci ous of
s hari ng wi th the l es s hi ghl y organi zed forms of exi s tence. But i t appeared to
Dori an Gray that the true nature of the s ens es had never been unders tood,
and that they had remai ned s avage and ani mal merel y becaus e the worl d had
s ought to s tarve them i nto s ubmi s s i on or to ki l l them by pai n, i ns tead of
ai mi ng at maki ng them el ements of a new s pi ri tual i ty, of whi ch a fi ne
i ns ti nct for beauty was to be the domi nant characteri s ti c. As he l ooked back
upon man movi ng through Hi s tory, he was haunted by a feel i ng of l os s . So
much had been s urrendered! and to s uch l i ttl e purpos e! There had been mad
wi l ful rej ecti ons , mons trous forms of s el f-torture and s el f-deni al , whos e
ori gi n was fear, and whos e res ul t was a degradati on nfi ni tel y more terri bl e
than that fanci ed degradati on from whi ch, i n thei r i gnorance, they had s ought
to es cape, Nature i n her wonderful i rony dri vi ng the anchori te out to herd wi th
the wi l d ani mal s of the des ert and gi vi ng to the hermi t the beas ts of the fi el d
as hi s compani ons .
Yes , there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophes i ed, a new hedoni s m
that was to re-create l i fe, and to s ave i t from that hars h, uncomel y puri tani s m
that i s havi ng, i n our own day, i ts curi ous revi val . It was to have i ts s ervi ce of
the i ntel l ect, certai nl y; yet i t was never to accept any theory or s ys tem that
woul d i nvol ve the s acri fi ce of any mode of pas s i onate experi ence. Its ai m,
i ndeed, was to be experi ence i ts el f, and not the frui ts of experi ence, s weet or
bi tter as they mi ght be. Of the as ceti ci s m that deadens the s ens es , as of the
vul gar profl i gacy that dul l s them, i t was to know nothi ng. But i t was to teach
man to concentrate hi ms el f upon the moments of a l i fe that i s i ts el f but a
moment.
There are few of us who have not s ometi mes wakened before dawn,
ei ther after one of thos e dreaml es s ni ghts that make one al mos t enamoured of
death, or one of thos e ni ghts of horror and mi s s hapen j oy, when through the
chambers of the brai n s weep phantoms more terri bl e than real i ty i ts el f, and
i ns ti nct wi th that vi vi d l i fe that l urks i n al l grotes ques , and that l ends to
Gothi c art i ts enduri ng vi tal i ty, thi s art bei ng, one mi ght fancy, es peci al l y
the art of thos e whos e mi nds have been troubl ed wi th the mal ady of revery.
Gradual l y whi te fi ngers creep through the curtai ns , and they appear to
trembl e. Bl ack fantas ti c s hadows crawl i nto the corners of the room, and crouch
there. Outs i de, there i s the s ti rri ng of bi rds among the l eaves , or the s ound of
men goi ng forth to thei r work, or the s i gh and s ob of the wi nd comi ng down
from the hi l l s , and wanderi ng round the s i l ent hous e, as though i t feared to
wake the s l eepers . Vei l after vei l of thi n dus ky gauze i s l i fted, and by
degrees the forms and col ors of thi ngs are res tored to them, and we watch the
dawn remaki ng the worl d i n i ts anti que pattern. The wan mi rrors get back
thei r mi mi c l i fe. The fl amel es s tapers s tand where we have l eft them, and
bes i de them l i es the hal f-read book that we had been s tudyi ng, or the wi red
fl ower that we had worn at the bal l , or the l etter that we had been afrai d to
read, or that we had read too often. Nothi ng s eems to us changed. Out of the
unreal s hadows of the ni ght comes back the real l i fe that we had known. We
have to res ume i t where we had l eft off, and there s teal s over us a terri bl e
s ens e of the neces s i ty for the conti nuance of energy i n the s ame weari s ome
round of s tereotyped habi ts , or a wi l d l ongi ng, i t may be, that our eyel i ds
mi ght open s ome morni ng upon a worl d that had been re-fas hi oned anew for
our pl eas ure i n the darknes s , a worl d i n whi ch thi ngs woul d have fres h
s hapes and col ors , and be changed, or have other s ecrets , a worl d i n whi ch the
pas t woul d have l i ttl e or no pl ace, or s urvi ve, at any rate, i n no cons ci ous form
of obl i gati on or regret, the remembrance even of j oy havi ng i ts bi tternes s , and
the memori es of pl eas ure thei r pai n.
It was the creati on of s uch worl ds as thes e that s eemed to Dori an Gray
to be the true obj ect, or among the true obj ects , of l i fe; and i n hi s s earch for
s ens ati ons that woul d be at once new and del i ghtful , and pos s es s that
el ement of s trangenes s that i s s o es s enti al to romance, he woul d often adopt
certai n modes of thought that he knew to be real l y al i en to hi s nature,
abandon hi ms el f to thei r s ubtl e i nfl uences , and then, havi ng, as i t were,
caught thei r col or and s ati s fi ed hi s i ntel l ectual curi os i ty, l eave them wi th
that curi ous i ndi fference that i s not i ncompati bl e wi th a real ardor of
temperament, and that i ndeed, accordi ng to certai n modern ps ychol ogi s ts , i s
often a condi ti on of i t.
It was rumored of hi m once that he was about to j oi n the Roman
Cathol i c communi on; and certai nl y the Roman ri tual had al ways a great
attracti on for hi m. The dai l y s acri fi ce, more awful real l y than al l the
s acri fi ces of the anti que worl d, s ti rred hi m as much by i ts s uperb rej ecti on of
the evi dence of the s ens es as by the pri mi ti ve s i mpl i ci ty of i ts el ements and
the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that i t s ought to s ymbol i ze. He l oved to
kneel down on the col d marbl e pavement, and wi th the pri es t, i n hi s s ti ff
fl owered cope, s l owl y and wi th whi te hands movi ng as i de the vei l of the
tabernacl e, and rai s i ng al oft the j ewel l ed l antern-s haped mons trance wi th
that pal l i d wafer that at ti mes , one woul d fai n thi nk, i s i ndeed the “pani s
cael es ti s ”, the bread of angel s , or, robed i n the garments of the Pas s i on of
Chri s t, breaki ng the Hos t i nto the chal i ce, and s mi ti ng hi s breas t for hi s
s i ns . The fumi ng cens ers , that the grave boys , i n thei r l ace and s carl et,
tos s ed i nto the ai r l i ke great gi l t fl owers , had thei r s ubtl e fas ci nati on for hi m.
As he pas s ed out, he us ed to l ook wi th wonder at the bl ack confes s i onal s , and
l ong to s i t i n the di m s hadow of one of them and l i s ten to men and women
whi s peri ng through the tarni s hed grati ng the true s tory of thei r l i ves .
But he never fel l i nto the error of arres ti ng hi s i ntel l ectual
devel opment by any formal acceptance of creed or s ys tem, or of mi s taki ng, for
a hous e i n whi ch to l i ve, an i nn that i s but s ui tabl e for the s oj ourn of a ni ght,
or for a few hours of a ni ght i n whi ch there are no s tars and the moon i s i n
travai l . M ys ti ci s m, wi th i ts marvel l ous power of maki ng common thi ngs
s trange to us , and the s ubtl e anti nomi ani s m that al ways s eems to accompany
i t, moved hi m for a s eas on; and for a s eas on he i ncl i ned to the materi al i s ti c
doctri nes of the Darwi ni s mus movement i n Germany, and found a curi ous
pl eas ure i n traci ng the thoughts and pas s i ons of men to s ome pearl y cel l i n
the brai n, or s ome whi te nerve i n the body, del i ghti ng i n the concepti on of the
abs ol ute dependence of the s pi ri t on certai n phys i cal condi ti ons , morbi d or
heal thy, normal or di s eas ed. Yet, as has been s ai d of hi m before, no theory of
l i fe s eemed to hi m to be of any i mportance compared wi th l i fe i ts el f. He fel t
keenl y cons ci ous of how barren al l i ntel l ectual s pecul ati on i s when s eparated
from acti on and experi ment. He knew that the s ens es , no l es s than the s oul ,
have thei r mys teri es to reveal .
And s o he woul d now s tudy perfumes , and the s ecrets of thei r
manufacture, di s ti l l i ng heavi l y-s cented oi l s , and burni ng odorous gums
from the E as t. He s aw that there was no mood of the mi nd that had not i ts
counterpart i n the s ens uous l i fe, and s et hi ms el f to di s cover thei r true
rel ati ons , wonderi ng what there was i n franki ncens e that made one mys ti cal ,
and i n ambergri s that s ti rred one’s pas s i ons , and i n vi ol ets that woke the
memory of dead romances , and i n mus k that troubl ed the brai n, and i n
champak that s tai ned the i magi nati on; and s eeki ng often to el aborate a real
ps ychol ogy of perfumes , and to es ti mate the s everal i nfl uences of s weet-
s mel l i ng roots , and s cented pol l en-l aden fl owers , of aromati c bal ms , and of
dark and fragrant woods , of s pi kenard that s i ckens , of hoveni a that makes
men mad, and of al oes that are s ai d to be abl e to expel mel anchol y from the
s oul .
At another ti me he devoted hi ms el f enti rel y to mus i c, and i n a l ong
l atti ced room, wi th a vermi l i on-and-gol d cei l i ng and wal l s of ol i ve-green
l acquer, he us ed to gi ve curi ous concerts i n whi ch mad gyps i es tore wi l d
mus i c from l i ttl e zi thers , or grave yel l ow-s hawl ed Tuni s i ans pl ucked at the
s trai ned s tri ngs of mons trous l utes , whi l e gri nni ng negroes beat
monotonous l y upon copper drums , or turbaned Indi ans , crouchi ng upon
s carl et mats , bl ew through l ong pi pes of reed or bras s , and charmed, or
fei gned to charm, great hooded s nakes and horri bl e horned adders . The hars h
i nterval s and s hri l l di s cords of barbari c mus i c s ti rred hi m at ti mes when
Schubert’s grace, and Chopi n’s beauti ful s orrows , and the mi ghty harmoni es
of Beethoven hi ms el f, fel l unheeded on hi s ear. He col l ected together from al l
parts of the worl d the s tranges t i ns truments that coul d be found, ei ther i n the
tombs of dead nati ons or among the few s avage tri bes that have s urvi ved contact
wi th Wes tern ci vi l i zati ons , and l oved to touch and try them. He had the
mys teri ous j urupari s of the Ri o Negro Indi ans , that women are not al l owed to
l ook at, and that even youths may not s ee ti l l they have been s ubj ected to
fas ti ng and s courgi ng, and the earthen j ars of the Peruvi ans that have the
s hri l l cri es of bi rds , and fl utes of human bones s uch as Al fons o de Oval l e
heard i n Chi l i , and the s onorous green s tones that are found near Cuzco and
gi ve forth a note of s i ngul ar s weetnes s . He had pai nted gourds fi l l ed wi th
pebbl es that rattl ed when they were s haken; the l ong cl ari n of the M exi cans ,
i nto whi ch the performer does not bl ow, but through whi ch he i nhal es the ai r;
the hars h turé of the Amazon tri bes , that i s s ounded by the s enti nel s who s i t
al l day l ong i n trees , and that can be heard, i t i s s ai d, at a di s tance of three
l eagues ; the teponaztl i , that has two vi brati ng tongues of wood, and i s beaten
wi th s ti cks that are s meared wi th an el as ti c gum obtai ned from the mi l ky
j ui ce of pl ants ; the yotl -bel l s of the Aztecs , that are hung i n cl us ters l i ke
grapes ; and a huge cyl i ndri cal drum, covered wi th the s ki ns of great
s erpents , l i ke the one that Bernal Di az s aw when he went wi th Cortes i nto the
M exi can templ e, and of whos e dol eful s ound he has l eft us s o vi vi d a
des cri pti on. The fantas ti c character of thes e i ns truments fas ci nated hi m, and
he fel t a curi ous del i ght i n the thought that Art, l i ke Nature, has her
mons ters , thi ngs of bes ti al s hape and wi th hi deous voi ces . Yet, after s ome
ti me, he weari ed of them, and woul d s i t i n hi s box at the Opera, ei ther al one
or wi th Lord Henry, l i s teni ng i n rapt pl eas ure to “Tannhäus er” and s eei ng i n
that great work of art a pres entati on of the tragedy of hi s own s oul .
On another occas i on he took up the s tudy of j ewel s , and appeared at a
cos tume bal l as Anne de Joyeus e, Admi ral of France, i n a dres s covered wi th
fi ve hundred and s i xty pearl s . He woul d often s pend a whol e day s ettl i ng and
res ettl i ng i n thei r cas es the vari ous s tones that he had col l ected, s uch as the
ol i ve-green chrys oberyl that turns red by l ampl i ght, the cymophane wi th i ts
wi re-l i ke l i ne of s i l ver, the pi s tachi o-col ored peri dot, ros e-pi nk and wi ne-
yel l ow topazes , carbuncl es of fi ery s carl et wi th tremul ous four-rayed s tars ,
fl ame-red ci nnamon-s tones , orange and vi ol et s pi nel s , and amethys ts wi th
thei r al ternate l ayers of ruby and s apphi re. He l oved the red gol d of the
s uns tone, and the moons tone’s pearl y whi tenes s , and the broken rai nbow of
the mi l ky opal . He procured from Ams terdam three emeral ds of extraordi nary
s i ze and ri chnes s of col or, and had a turquoi s e de l a vi ei l l e roche that was the
envy of al l the connoi s s eurs .
He di s covered wonderful s tori es , al s o, about j ewel s . In Al phons o’s
“Cl eri cal i s Di s ci pl i na” a s erpent was menti oned wi th eyes of real j aci nth, and
i n the romanti c hi s tory of Al exander he was s ai d to have found s nakes i n the
val e of Jordan “wi th col l ars of real emeral ds growi ng on thei r backs ”. There was
a gem i n the brai n of the dragon, Phi l os tratus tol d us , and “by the exhi bi ti on
of gol den l etters and a s carl et robe” the mons ter coul d be thrown i nto a magi cal
s l eep, and s l ai n. Accordi ng to the great al chemi s t Pi erre de Boni face, the
di amond rendered a man i nvi s i bl e, and the agate of Indi a made hi m
el oquent. The cornel i an appeas ed anger, and the hyaci nth provoked s l eep,
and the amethys t drove away the fumes of wi ne. The garnet cas t out demons ,
and the hydropi cus depri ved the moon of her col or. The s el eni te waxed and
waned wi th the moon, and the mel oceus , that di s covers thi eves , coul d be
affected onl y by the bl ood of ki ds . Leonardus Cami l l us had s een a whi te s tone
taken from the brai n of a newl y-ki l l ed toad, that was a certai n anti dote agai ns t
poi s on. The bezoar, that was found i n the heart of the Arabi an deer, was a
charm that coul d cure the pl ague. In the nes ts of Arabi an bi rds was the
as pi l ates , that, accordi ng to Democri tus , kept the wearer from any danger by
fi re.
The Ki ng of Cei l an rode through hi s ci ty wi th a l arge ruby i n hi s
hand, as the ceremony of hi s coronati on. The gates of the pal ace of John the
Pri es t were “made of s ardi us , wi th the horn of the horned s nake i nwrought, s o
that no man mi ght bri ng poi s on wi thi n”. Over the gabl e were “two gol den
appl es , i n whi ch were two carbuncl es ”, s o that the gol d mi ght s hi ne by day,
and the carbuncl es by ni ght. In Lodge’s s trange romance “A M argari te of
Ameri ca” i t was s tated that i n the chamber of M argari te were s een “al l the
chas te l adi es of the worl d, i nchas ed out of s i l ver, l ooki ng through fai r
mi rrours of chrys ol i tes , carbuncl es , s apphi res , and greene emeraul ts ”.
M arco Pol o had watched the i nhabi tants of Zi pangu pl ace a ros e-col ored pearl
i n the mouth of the dead. A s ea-mons ter had been enamoured of the pearl that
the di ver brought to Ki ng Perozes , and had s l ai n the thi ef, and mourned for
s even moons over hi s l os s . When the Huns l ured the ki ng i nto the great pi t,
he fl ung i t away – Procopi us tel l s the s tory – nor was i t ever found agai n,
though the E mperor Anas tas i us offered fi ve hundred-wei ght of gol d pi eces for
i t. The Ki ng of M al abar had s hown a Veneti an a ros ary of one hundred and
four pearl s , one for every god that he wors hi pped.
When the Duke de Val enti noi s , s on of Al exander VI, vi s i ted Loui s
XII. of France, hi s hors e was l oaded wi th gol d l eaves , accordi ng to Brantôme,
and hi s cap had doubl e rows of rubi es that threw out a great l i ght. Charl es of
E ngl and had ri dden i n s ti rrups hung wi th three hundred and twenty-one
di amonds . Ri chard II. had a coat, val ued at thi rty thous and marks , whi ch was
covered wi th bal as rubi es . Hal l des cri bed Henry VIII, on hi s way to the Tower
previ ous to hi s coronati on, as weari ng “a j acket of rai s ed gol d, the pl acard
embroi dered wi th di amonds and other ri ch s tones , and a great bauderi ke about
hi s neck of l arge bal as s es ”. The favori tes of James I wore ear-ri ngs of
emeral ds s et i n gol d fi l i grane. E dward II gave to Pi ers Gaves ton a s ui t of red-
gol d armor s tudded wi th j aci nths , and a col l ar of gol d ros es s et wi th turquoi s e-
s tones , and a s kul l -cap pars emé wi th pearl s . Henry II. wore j ewel l ed gl oves
reachi ng to the el bow, and had a hawk-gl ove s et wi th twel ve rubi es and fi fty-
two great pearl s . The ducal hat of Charl es the Ras h, the l as t Duke of Burgundy
of hi s race, was s tudded wi th s apphi res and hung wi th pear-s haped pearl s .
How exqui s i te l i fe had once been! How gorgeous i n i ts pomp
anddecorati on! E ven to read of the l uxury of the dead was wonderful .
Then he turned hi s attenti on to embroi deri es , and to the tapes tri es
that performed the offi ce of fres cos i n the chi l l rooms of the Northern nati ons
of E urope. As he i nves ti gated the s ubj ect – and he al ways had an
extraordi nary facul ty of becomi ng abs ol utel y abs orbed for the moment i n
whatever he took up – he was al mos t s addened by the refl ecti on of the rui n that
ti me brought on beauti ful and wonderful thi ngs . He, at any rate, had es caped
that. Summer fol l owed s ummer, and the yel l ow j onqui l s bl oomed and di ed
many ti mes , and ni ghts of horror repeated the s tory of thei r s hame, but he
was unchanged. No wi nter marred hi s face or s tai ned hi s fl ower-l i ke bl oom.
How di fferent i t was wi th materi al thi ngs ! Where had they gone to? Where
was the great crocus -col ored robe, on whi ch the gods fought agai ns t the gi ants ,
that had been worked for Athena? Where the huge vel ari um that Nero had
s tretched acros s the Col os s eum at Rome, on whi ch were repres ented the s tarry
s ky, and Apol l o dri vi ng a chari ot drawn by whi te gi l t-rei ned s teeds ? He l onged
to s ee the curi ous tabl e-napki ns wrought for E l agabal us , on whi ch were
di s pl ayed al l the dai nti es and vi ands that coul d be wanted for a feas t; the
mortuary cl oth of Ki ng Chi l peri c, wi th i ts three hundred gol den bees ; the
fantas ti c robes that exci ted the i ndi gnati on of the Bi s hop of Pontus , and were
fi gured wi th “l i ons , panthers , bears , dogs , fores ts , rocks , hunters – al l , i n
fact, that a pai nter can copy from nature”; and the coat that Charl es of Orl eans
once wore, on the s l eeves of whi ch were embroi dered the vers es of a s ong
begi nni ng “M adame, j e s ui s tout j oyeux”, the mus i cal accompani ment of the
words bei ng wrought i n gol d thread, and each note, a s quare s hape i n thos e
days , formed wi th four pearl s . He read of the room that was prepared at the
pal ace at Rhei ms for the us e of Queen Joan of Burgundy, and was decorated
wi th “thi rteen hundred and twenty-one parrots , made i n broi dery, and
bl azoned wi th the ki ng’s arms , and fi ve hundred and s i xty-one butterfl i es ,
whos e wi ngs were s i mi l arl y ornamented wi th the arms of the queen, the
whol e worked i n gol d”. Catheri ne de M édi ci s had a mourni ng-bed made for
her of bl ack vel vet powdered wi th cres cents and s uns . Its curtai ns were of
damas k, wi th l eafy wreaths and garl ands , fi gured upon a gol d and s i l ver
ground, and fri nged al ong the edges wi th broi deri es of pearl s , and i t s tood i n
a room hung wi th rows of the queen’s devi ces i n cut bl ack vel vet upon cl oth of
s i l ver. Loui s XIV. had gol d-embroi dered caryati des fi fteen feet hi gh i n hi s
apartment. The s tate bed of Sobi es ki , Ki ng of Pol and, was made of Smyrna gol d
brocade embroi dered i n turquoi s es wi th vers es from the Koran. Its s upports
were of s i l ver gi l t, beauti ful l y chas ed, and profus el y s et wi th enamel l ed and
j ewel l ed medal l i ons . It had been taken from the Turki s h camp before
Vi enna, and the s tandard of M ohammed had s tood under i t.
And s o, for a whol e year, he s ought to accumul ate the mos t exqui s i te
s peci mens that he coul d fi nd of texti l e and embroi dered work, getti ng the
dai nty Del hi mus l i ns , fi nel y wrought, wi th gol d-threat pal mates , and
s ti tched over wi th i ri des cent beetl es ’ wi ngs ; the Dacca gauzes , that from thei r
trans parency are known i n the E as t as “woven ai r”, and “runni ng water”, and
“eveni ng dew; ” s trange fi gured cl oths from Java; el aborate yel l ow Chi nes e
hangi ngs ; books bound i n tawny s ati ns or fai r bl ue s i l ks and wrought wi th
fl eurs de l ys , bi rds , and i mages ; vei l s of l aci s worked i n Hungary poi nt;
Si ci l i an brocades , and s ti ff Spani s h vel vets ; Georgi an work wi th i ts gi l t coi ns ,
and Japanes e Foukous as wi th thei r green-toned gol ds and thei r marvel l ous l y-
pl umaged bi rds .
He had a s peci al pas s i on, al s o, for eccl es i as ti cal ves tments , as
i ndeed he had for everythi ng connected wi th the s ervi ce of the Church. In the
l ong cedar ches ts that l i ned the wes t gal l ery of hi s hous e he had s tored away
many rare and beauti ful s peci mens of what i s real l y the rai ment of the Bri de
of Chri s t, who mus t wear purpl e and j ewel s and fi ne l i nen that s he may hi de
the pal l i d macerated body that i s worn by the s ufferi ng that s he s eeks for, and
wounded by s el f-i nfl i cted pai n. He had a gorgeous cope of cri ms on s i l k and
gol d-thread damas k, fi gured wi th a repeati ng pattern of gol den pomegranates
s et i n s i x-petal l ed formal bl os s oms , beyond whi ch on ei ther s i de was the
pi ne-appl e devi ce wrought i n s eed-pearl s . The orphreys were di vi ded i nto
panel s repres enti ng s cenes from the l i fe of the Vi rgi n, and the coronati on of
the Vi rgi n was fi gured i n col ored s i l ks upon the hood. Thi s was Ital i an work of
the fi fteenth century. Another cope was of green vel vet, embroi dered wi th
heart-s haped groups of acanthus -l eaves , from whi ch s pread l ong-s temmed
whi te bl os s oms , the detai l s of whi ch were pi cked out wi th s i l ver thread and
col ored crys tal s . The mors e bore a s eraph’s head i n gol d-thread rai s ed work.
The orphreys were woven i n a di aper of red and gol d s i l k, and were s tarred
wi th medal l i ons of many s ai nts and martyrs , among whom was St. Sebas ti an.
He had chas ubl es , al s o, of amber-col ored s i l k, and bl ue s i l k and gol d
brocade, and yel l ow s i l k damas k and cl oth of gol d, fi gured wi th
repres entati ons of the Pas s i on and Cruci fi xi on of Chri s t, and embroi dered
wi th l i ons and peacocks and other embl ems ; dal mati cs of whi te s ati n and
pi nk s i l k damas k, decorated wi th tul i ps and dol phi ns and fl eurs de l ys ; al tar
frontal s of cri ms on vel vet and bl ue l i nen; and many corporal s , chal i ce-vei l s ,
and s udari a. In the mys ti c offi ces to whi ch thes e thi ngs were put there was
s omethi ng that qui ckened hi s i magi nati on.
For thes e thi ngs , and everythi ng that he col l ected i n hi s l ovel y
hous e, were to be to hi m means of forgetful nes s , modes by whi ch he coul d
es cape, for a s eas on, from the fear that s eemed to hi m at ti mes to be al mos t too
great to be borne. Upon the wal l s of the l onel y l ocked room where he had s pent
s o much of hi s boyhood, he had hung wi th hi s own hands the terri bl e portrai t
whos e changi ng features s howed hi m the real degradati on of hi s l i fe, and
had draped the purpl e-and-gol d pal l i n front of i t as a curtai n. For weeks he
woul d not go there, woul d forget the hi deous pai nted thi ng, and get back hi s
l i ght heart, hi s wonderful j oyous nes s , hi s pas s i onate pl eas ure i n mere
exi s tence. Then, s uddenl y, s ome ni ght he woul d creep out of the hous e, go
down to dreadful pl aces near Bl ue Gate Fi el ds , and s tay there, day after day,
unti l he was dri ven away. On hi s return he woul d s i t i n front of the pi cture,
s ometi mes l oathi ng i t and hi ms el f, but fi l l ed, at other ti mes , wi th that pri de
of rebel l i on that i s hal f the fas ci nati on of s i n, and s mi l i ng, wi th s ecret
pl eas ure, at the mi s s hapen s hadow that had to bear the burden that s houl d
have been hi s own.
After a few years he coul d not endure to be l ong out of E ngl and, and
gave up the vi l l a that he had s hared at Trouvi l l e wi th Lord Henry, as wel l as
the l i ttl e whi te wal l ed-i n hous e at Al gi ers where he had more than once s pent
hi s wi nter. He hated to be s eparated from the pi cture that was s uch a part of
hi s l i fe, and he was al s o afrai d that duri ng hi s abs ence s ome one mi ght gai n
acces s to the room, i n s pi te of the el aborate bol ts and bars that he had caus ed to
be pl aced upon the door.
He was qui te cons ci ous that thi s woul d tel l them nothi ng. It was true
that the portrai t s ti l l pres erved, under al l the foul nes s and ugl i nes s of the
face, i ts marked l i kenes s to hi ms el f; but what coul d they l earn from that? He
woul d l augh at any one who tri ed to taunt hi m. He had not pai nted i t. What
was i t to hi m how vi l e and ful l of s hame i t l ooked? E ven i f he tol d them, woul d
they bel i eve i t?
Yet he was afrai d. Someti mes when he was down at hi s great hous e i n
Notti nghams hi re, entertai ni ng the fas hi onabl e young men of hi s own rank
who were hi s chi ef compani ons , and as toundi ng the county by the wanton
l uxury and gorgeous s pl endor of hi s mode of l i fe, he woul d s uddenl y l eave
hi s gues ts and rus h back to town to s ee that the door had not been tampered
wi th and that the pi cture was s ti l l there. What i f i t s houl d be s tol en? The
mere thought made hi m col d wi th horror. Surel y the worl d woul d know hi s
s ecret then. Perhaps the worl d al ready s us pected i t.
For, whi l e he fas ci nated many, there were not a few who di s trus ted
hi m. He was bl ackbal l ed at a Wes t E nd cl ub of whi ch hi s bi rth and s oci al
pos i ti on ful l y enti tl ed hi m to become a member, and on one occas i on, when
he was brought by a fri end i nto the s moki ng-room of the Carl ton, the Duke of
Berwi ck and another gentl eman got up i n a marked manner and went out.
Curi ous s tori es became current about hi m after he had pas s ed hi s twenty-
fi fth year. It was s ai d that he had been s een brawl i ng wi th forei gn s ai l ors i n
a l ow den i n the di s tant parts of Whi techapel , and that he cons orted wi th
thi eves and coi ners and knew the mys teri es of thei r trade. Hi s extraordi nary
abs ences became notori ous , and, when he us ed to reappear agai n i n s oci ety,
men woul d whi s per to each other i n corners , or pas s hi m wi th a s neer, or l ook
at hi m wi th col d s earchi ng eyes , as i f they were determi ned to di s cover hi s
s ecret.
Of s uch i ns ol ences and attempted s l i ghts he, of cours e, took no
noti ce, and i n the opi ni on of mos t peopl e hi s frank debonai r manner, hi s
charmi ng boyi s h s mi l e, and the i nfi ni te grace of that wonderful youth that
s eemed never to l eave hi m, were i n thems el ves a s uffi ci ent ans wer to the
cal umni es ( for s o they cal l ed them) that were ci rcul ated about hi m. It was
remarked, however, that thos e who had been mos t i nti mate wi th hi m
appeared, after a ti me, to s hun hi m. Of al l hi s fri ends , or s o-cal l ed fri ends ,
Lord Henry Wotton was the onl y one who remai ned l oyal to hi m. Women who
had wi l dl y adored hi m, and for hi s s ake had braved al l s oci al cens ure and s et
conventi on at defi ance, were s een to grow pal l i d wi th s hame or horror i f Dori an
Gray entered the room.
Yet thes e whi s pered s candal s onl y l ent hi m, i n the eyes of many,
hi s s trange and dangerous charm. Hi s great weal th was a certai n el ement of
s ecuri ty. Soci ety, ci vi l i zed s oci ety at l eas t, i s never very ready to bel i eve
anythi ng to the detri ment of thos e who are both ri ch and charmi ng. It feel s
i ns ti ncti vel y that manners are of more i mportance than moral s , and the
hi ghes t res pectabi l i ty i s of l es s val ue i n i ts opi ni on than the pos s es s i on of a
good chef. And, after al l , i t i s a very poor cons ol ati on to be tol d that the man who
has gi ven one a bad di nner, or poor wi ne, i s i rreproachabl e i n hi s pri vate l i fe.
E ven the cardi nal vi rtues cannot atone for col d entrées , as Lord Henry
remarked once, i n a di s cus s i on on the s ubj ect; and there i s pos s i bl y a good
deal to be s ai d for hi s vi ew. For the canons of good s oci ety are, or s houl d be, the
s ame as the canons of art. Form i s abs ol utel y es s enti al to i t. It s houl d have
the di gni ty of a ceremony, as wel l as i ts unreal i ty, and s houl d combi ne the
i ns i ncere character of a romanti c pl ay wi th the wi t and beauty that make s uch
pl ays charmi ng. Is i ns i nceri ty s uch a terri bl e thi ng? I thi nk not. It i s merel y
a method by whi ch we can mul ti pl y our pers onal i ti es .
Such, at any rate, was Dori an Gray’s opi ni on. He us ed to wonder at the
s hal l ow ps ychol ogy of thos e who concei ve the E go i n man as a thi ng s i mpl e,
permanent, rel i abl e, and of one es s ence. To hi m, man was a bei ng wi th
myri ad l i ves and myri ad s ens ati ons , a compl ex mul ti form creature that bore
wi thi n i ts el f s trange l egaci es of thought and pas s i on, and whos e very fl es h
was tai nted wi th the mons trous mal adi es of the dead. He l oved to s trol l through
the gaunt col d pi cture-gal l ery of hi s country-hous e and l ook at the vari ous
portrai ts of thos e whos e bl ood fl owed i n hi s vei ns . Here was Phi l i p Herbert,
des cri bed by Franci s Os borne, i n hi s “M emoi res on the Rei gns of Queen
E l i zabeth and Ki ng James ”, as one who was “cares s ed by the court for hi s
hands ome face, whi ch kept hi m not l ong company”. Was i t young Herbert’s
l i fe that he s ometi mes l ed? Had s ome s trange poi s onous germ crept from body
to body ti l l i t had reached hi s own? Was i t s ome di m s ens e of that rui ned grace
that had made hi m s o s uddenl y, and al mos t wi thout caus e, gi ve utterance, i n
Bas i l Hal l ward’s s tudi o, to that mad prayer that had s o changed hi s l i fe? Here,
i n gol d-embroi dered red doubl et, j ewel l ed s urcoat, and gi l t-edged ruff and
wri s t-bands , s tood Si r Anthony Sherard, wi th hi s s i l ver-and-bl ack armor pi l ed
at hi s feet. What had thi s man’s l egacy been? Had the l over of Gi ovanna of
Napl es bequeathed hi m s ome i nheri tance of s i n and s hame? Were hi s own
acti ons merel y the dreams that the dead man had not dared to real i ze? Here,
from the fadi ng canvas , s mi l ed Lady E l i zabeth Devereux, i n her gauze hood,
pearl s tomacher, and pi nk s l as hed s l eeves . A fl ower was i n her ri ght hand,
and her l eft cl as ped an enamel l ed col l ar of whi te and damas k ros es . On a
tabl e by her s i de l ay a mandol i n and an appl e. There were l arge green
ros ettes upon her l i ttl e poi nted s hoes . He knew her l i fe, and the s trange
s tori es that were tol d about her l overs . Had he s omethi ng of her temperament
i n hi m? Thos e oval heavy-l i dded eyes s eemed to l ook curi ous l y at hi m. What
of George Wi l l oughby, wi th hi s powdered hai r and fantas ti c patches ? How evi l
he l ooked! The face was s aturni ne and s warthy, and the s ens ual l i ps s eemed
to be twi s ted wi th di s dai n. Del i cate l ace ruffl es fel l over the l ean yel l ow
hands that were s o overl aden wi th ri ngs . He had been a macaroni of the
ei ghteenth century, and the fri end, i n hi s youth, of Lord Ferrars . What of the
s econd Lord Sherard, the compani on of the Pri nce Regent i n hi s wi l des t days ,
and one of the wi tnes s es at the s ecret marri age wi th M rs . Fi tzherbert? How
proud and hands ome he was , wi th hi s ches tnut curl s and i ns ol ent pos e! What
pas s i ons had he bequeathed? The worl d had l ooked upon hi m as i nfamous .
He had l ed the orgi es at Carl ton Hous e. The s tar of the Garter gl i ttered upon
hi s breas t. Bes i de hi m hung the portrai t of hi s wi fe, a pal l i d, thi n-l i pped
woman i n bl ack. Her bl ood, al s o, s ti rred wi thi n hi m. How curi ous i t al l
s eemed!
Yet one had ances tors i n l i terature, as wel l as i n one’s own race,
nearer perhaps i n type and temperament, many of them, and certai nl y wi th
an i nfl uence of whi ch one was more abs ol utel y cons ci ous . There were ti mes
when i t s eemed to Dori an Gray that the whol e of hi s tory was merel y the record
of hi s own l i fe, not as he had l i ved i t i n act and ci rcums tance, but as hi s
i magi nati on had created i t for hi m, as i t had been i n hi s brai n and i n hi s
pas s i ons . He fel t that he had known them al l , thos e s trange terri bl e fi gures
that had pas s ed acros s the s tage of the worl d and made s i n s o marvel l ous and
evi l s o ful l of wonder. It s eemed to hi m that i n s ome mys teri ous way thei r
l i ves had been hi s own.
The hero of the dangerous novel that had s o i nfl uenced hi s l i fe had
hi ms el f had thi s curi ous fancy. In a chapter of the book he tel l s how, crowned
wi th l aurel , l es t l i ghtni ng mi ght s tri ke hi m, he had s at, as Ti beri us , i n a
garden at Capri , readi ng the s hameful books of E l ephanti s , whi l e dwarfs and
peacocks s trutted round hi m and the fl ute-pl ayer mocked the s wi nger of the
cens er; and, as Cal i gul a, had carous ed wi th the green-s hi rted j ockeys i n
thei r s tabl es , and s upped i n an i vory manger wi th a j ewel -frontl eted hors e;
and, as Domi ti an, had wandered through a corri dor l i ned wi th marbl e
mi rrors , l ooki ng round wi th haggard eyes for the refl ecti on of the dagger that
was to end hi s days , and s i ck wi th that ennui , that taedi um vi tae, that comes
on thos e to whom l i fe deni es nothi ng; and had peered through a cl ear emeral d
at the red s hambl es of the Ci rcus , and then, i n a l i tter of pearl and purpl e
drawn by s i l ver-s hod mul es , been carri ed through the Street of Pomegranates
to a Hous e of Gol d, and heard men cry on Nero Caes ar as he pas s ed by; and,
as E l agabal us , had pai nted hi s face wi th col ors , and pl i ed the di s taff among
the women, and brought the M oon from Carthage, and gi ven her i n mys ti c
marri age to the Sun.
Over and over agai n Dori an us ed to read thi s fantas ti c chapter, and the
chapter i mmedi atel y fol l owi ng, i n whi ch the hero des cri bes the curi ous
tapes tri es that he had had woven for hi m from Gus tave M oreau’s des i gns ,
and on whi ch were pi ctured the awful and beauti ful forms of thos e whom Vi ce
and Bl ood and Weari nes s had made mons trous or mad: Fi l i ppo, Duke of
M i l an, who s l ew hi s wi fe, and pai nted her l i ps wi th a s carl et poi s on; Pi etro
Barbi , the Veneti an, known as Paul the Second, who s ought i n hi s vani ty to
as s ume the ti tl e of Formos us , and whos e ti ara, val ued at two hundred
thous and fl ori ns , was bought at the pri ce of a terri bl e s i n; Gi an M ari a
Vi s conti , who us ed hounds to chas e l i vi ng men, and whos e murdered body
was covered wi th ros es by a harl ot who had l oved hi m; the Borgi a on hi s whi te
hors e, wi th Fratri ci de ri di ng bes i de hi m, and hi s mantl e s tai ned wi th the
bl ood of Perotto; Pi etro Ri ari o, the young Cardi nal Archbi s hop of Fl orence, chi l d
and mi ni on of Si xtus IV, whos e beauty was equal l ed onl y by hi s debauchery,
and who recei ved Leonora of Aragon i n a pavi l i on of whi te and cri ms on s i l k,
fi l l ed wi th nymphs and centaurs , and gi l ded a boy that he mi ght s erve her at
the feas t as Ganymede or Hyl as ; E zzel i n, whos e mel anchol y coul d be cured
onl y by the s pectacl e of death, and who had a pas s i on for red bl ood, as other
men have for red wi ne – the s on of the Fi end, as was reported, and one who
had cheated hi s father at di ce when gambl i ng wi th hi m for hi s own s oul ;
Gi ambatti s ta Ci bo, who i n mockery took the name of Innocent, and i nto whos e
torpi d vei ns the bl ood of three l ads was i nfus ed by a Jewi s h doctor; Si gi s mondo
M al ates ta, the l over of Is otta, and the l ord of Ri mi ni , whos e effi gy was
burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who s trangl ed Pol ys s ena wi th
a napki n, and gave poi s on to Gi nevra d’E s te i n a cup of emeral d, and i n honor
of a s hameful pas s i on bui l t a pagan church for Chri s ti an wors hi p; Charl es
VI, who had s o wi l dl y adored hi s brother’s wi fe that a l eper had warned hi m of
the i ns ani ty that was comi ng on hi m, and who coul d onl y be s oothed by
Saracen cards pai nted wi th the i mages of Love and Death and M adnes s ; and,
i n hi s tri mmed j erki n and j ewel l ed cap and acanthus -l i ke curl s , Gri fonetto
Bagl i oni , who s l ew As torre wi th hi s bri de, and Si monetto wi th hi s page, and
whos e comel i nes s was s uch that, as he l ay dyi ng i n the yel l ow pi azza of
Perugi a, thos e who had hated hi m coul d not choos e but weep, and Atal anta,
who had curs ed hi m, bl es s ed hi m.
There was a horri bl e fas ci nati on i n them al l . He s aw them at ni ght,
and they troubl ed hi s i magi nati on i n the day. The Renai s s ance knew of
s trange manners of poi s oni ng – poi s oni ng by a hel met and a l i ghted torch, by
an embroi dered gl ove and a j ewel l ed fan, by a gi l ded pomander and by an
amber chai n. Dori an Gray had been poi s oned by a book. There were moments
when he l ooked on evi l s i mpl y as a mode through whi ch he coul d real i ze hi s
concepti on of the beauti ful .
CHAPT E R 10
It was on the 7th of November, the eve of hi s own thi rty-s econd
bi rthday, as he often remembered afterwards .
But Hal l ward had s een hi m. Dori an heard hi m fi rs t s toppi ng, and
then hurryi ng after hi m. In a few moments hi s hand was on hi s arm.
“Dori an! What an extraordi nary pi ece of l uck! I have been wai ti ng for
you ever s i nce ni ne o’cl ock i n your l i brary. Fi nal l y I took pi ty on your ti red
s ervant, and tol d hi m to go to bed, as he l et me out. I am off to Pari s by the
mi dni ght trai n, and I wanted parti cul arl y to s ee you before I l eft. I thought i t
was you, or rather your fur coat, as you pas s ed me. But I was n’t qui te s ure.
Di dn’t you recogni ze me?”
“In thi s fog, my dear Bas i l ? Why, I can’t even recogni ze Gros venor
Square. I bel i eve my hous e i s s omewhere about here, but I don’t feel at al l
certai n about i t. I am s orry you are goi ng away, as I have not s een you for ages .
But I s uppos e you wi l l be back s oon?”
“No: I am goi ng to be out of E ngl and for s i x months . I i ntend to take a
s tudi o i n Pari s , and s hut mys el f up ti l l I have fi ni s hed a great pi cture I have
i n my head. However, i t was n’t about mys el f I wanted to tal k. Here we are at
your door. Let me come i n for a moment. I have s omethi ng to s ay to you”.
“I s hal l be charmed. But won’t you mi s s your trai n?” s ai d Dori an Gray,
l angui dl y, as he pas s ed up the s teps and opened the door wi th hi s l atch-key.
The l amp-l i ght s truggl ed out through the fog, and Hal l ward l ooked at
hi s watch. “I have heaps of ti me”, he ans wered. “The trai n does n’t go ti l l
twel ve-fi fteen, and i t i s onl y j us t el even. In fact, I was on my way to the cl ub
to l ook for you, when I met you. You s ee, I s han’t have any del ay about
l uggage, as I have s ent on my heavy thi ngs . Al l I have wi th me i s i n thi s
bag, and I can eas i l y get to Vi ctori a i n twenty mi nutes ”.
Dori an l ooked at hi m and s mi l ed. “What a way for a fas hi onabl e
pai nter to travel ! A Gl ads tone bag, and an ul s ter! Come i n, or the fog wi l l get
i nto the hous e. And mi nd you don’t tal k about anythi ng s eri ous . Nothi ng i s
s eri ous nowadays . At l eas t nothi ng s houl d be”.
Hal l ward s hook hi s head, as he entered, and fol l owed Dori an i nto the
l i brary. There was a bri ght wood fi re bl azi ng i n the l arge open hearth. The
l amps were l i t, and an open Dutch s i l ver s pi ri t-cas e s tood, wi th s ome s i phons
of s oda-water and l arge cut-gl as s tumbl ers , on a l i ttl e tabl e.
“You s ee your s ervant made me qui te at home, Dori an. He gave me
everythi ng I wanted, i ncl udi ng your bes t ci garettes . He i s a mos t hos pi tabl e
creature. I l i ke hi m much better than the Frenchman you us ed to have. What
has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?”
Dori an s hrugged hi s s houl ders . “I bel i eve he marri ed Lady As hton’s
mai d, and has es tabl i s hed her i n Pari s as an E ngl i s h dres s maker.
Angl omani e i s very fas hi onabl e over there now, I hear. It s eems s i l l y of the
French, does n’t i t? But – do you know? – he was not at al l a bad s ervant. I never
l i ked hi m, but I had nothi ng to compl ai n about. One often i magi nes thi ngs
that are qui te abs urd. He was real l y very devoted to me, and s eemed qui te
s orry when he went away. Have another brandy-and-s oda? Or woul d you l i ke
hock-and-s el tzer? I al ways take hock-and-s el tzer mys el f. There i s s ure to be
s ome i n the next room”.
“Thanks , I won’t have anythi ng more”, s ai d Hal l ward, taki ng hi s cap
and coat off, and throwi ng them on the bag that he had pl aced i n the corner.
“And now, my dear fel l ow, I want to s peak to you s eri ous l y. Don’t frown l i ke
that. You make i t s o much more di ffi cul t for me”.
“What i s i t al l about?” cri ed Dori an, i n hi s petul ant way, fl i ngi ng
hi ms el f down on the s ofa. “I hope i t i s not about mys el f. I am ti red of mys el f
toni ght. I s houl d l i ke to be s omebody el s e”.
“It i s about yours el f”, ans wered Hal l ward, i n hi s grave, deep voi ce,
“and I mus t s ay i t to you. I s hal l onl y keep you hal f an hour”.
Dori an s i ghed, and l i t a ci garette. “Hal f an hour!” he murmured.
“It i s not much to as k of you, Dori an, and i t i s enti rel y for your own
s ake that I am s peaki ng. I thi nk i t ri ght that you s houl d know that the mos t
dreadful thi ngs are bei ng s ai d about you i n London – thi ngs that I coul d
hardl y repeat to you”.
“I don’t wi s h to know anythi ng about them. I l ove s candal s about other
peopl e, but s candal s about mys el f don’t i nteres t me. They have not got the
charm of novel ty”.
“They mus t i nteres t you, Dori an. E very gentl eman i s i nteres ted i n
hi s good name. You don’t want peopl e to tal k of you as s omethi ng vi l e and
degraded. Of cours e you have your pos i ti on, and your weal th, and al l that ki nd
of thi ng. But pos i ti on and weal th are not everythi ng. M i nd you, I don’t bel i eve
thes e rumors at al l . At l eas t, I can’t bel i eve them when I s ee you. Si n i s a
thi ng that wri tes i ts el f acros s a man’s face. It cannot be conceal ed. Peopl e tal k
of s ecret vi ces . There are no s uch thi ngs as s ecret vi ces . If a wretched man
has a vi ce, i t s hows i ts el f i n the l i nes of hi s mouth, the droop of hi s eyel i ds ,
the moul di ng of hi s hands even. Somebody – I won’t menti on hi s name, but
you know hi m – came to me l as t year to have hi s portrai t done. I had never
s een hi m before, and had never heard anythi ng about hi m at the ti me,
though I have heard a good deal s i nce. He offered an extravagant pri ce. I
refus ed hi m. There was s omethi ng i n the s hape of hi s fi ngers that I hated. I
know now that I was qui te ri ght i n what I fanci ed about hi m. Hi s l i fe i s
dreadful . But you, Dori an, wi th your pure, bri ght, i nnocent face, and your
marvel l ous untroubl ed youth – I can’t bel i eve anythi ng agai ns t you. And yet I
s ee you very s el dom, and you never come down to the s tudi o now, and when I
am away from you, and I hear al l thes e hi deous thi ngs that peopl e are
whi s peri ng about you, I don’t know what to s ay. Why i s i t, Dori an, that a man
l i ke the Duke of Berwi ck l eaves the room of a cl ub when you enter i t? Why i s i t
that s o many gentl emen i n London wi l l nei ther go to your hous e nor i nvi te you
to thei rs ? You us ed to be a fri end of Lord Cawdor. I met hi m at di nner l as t week.
Your name happened to come up i n convers ati on, i n connecti on wi th the
mi ni atures you have l ent to the exhi bi ti on at the Dudl ey. Cawdor curl ed hi s
l i p, and s ai d that you mi ght have the mos t arti s ti c tas tes , but that you were a
man whom no pure-mi nded gi rl s houl d be al l owed to know, and whom no
chas te woman s houl d s i t i n the s ame room wi th. I remi nded hi m that I was a
fri end of yours , and as ked hi m what he meant. He tol d me. He tol d me ri ght
out before everybody. It was horri bl e! Why i s your fri ends hi p s o fateful to
young men? There was that wretched boy i n the Guards who commi tted
s ui ci de. You were hi s great fri end. There was Si r Henry As hton, who had to
l eave E ngl and, wi th a tarni s hed name. You and he were i ns eparabl e. What
about Adri an Si ngl eton, and hi s dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s onl y
s on, and hi s career? I met hi s father yes terday i n St. James Street. He s eemed
broken wi th s hame and s orrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What s ort
of l i fe has he got now? What gentl eman woul d as s oci ate wi th hi m? Dori an,
Dori an, your reputati on i s i nfamous . I know you and Harry are great fri ends . I
s ay nothi ng about that now, but s urel y you need not have made hi s s i s ter’s
name a by-word. When you met Lady Gwendol en, not a breath of s candal had
ever touched her. Is there a s i ngl e decent woman i n London now who woul d
dri ve wi th her i n the Park? Why, even her chi l dren are not al l owed to l i ve wi th
her. Then there are other s tori es – s tori es that you have been s een creepi ng at
dawn out of dreadful hous es and s l i nki ng i n di s gui s e i nto the foul es t dens
i n London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I fi rs t heard them, I
l aughed. I hear them now, and they make me s hudder. What about your
country-hous e, and the l i fe that i s l ed there? Dori an, you don’t know what i s
s ai d about you. I won’t tel l you that I don’t want to preach to you. I remember
Harry s ayi ng once that every man who turned hi ms el f i nto an amateur curate
for the moment al ways s ai d that, and then broke hi s word. I do want to preach to
you. I want you to l ead s uch a l i fe as wi l l make the worl d res pect you. I want
you to have a cl ean name and a fai r record. I want you to get ri d of the dreadful
peopl e you as s oci ate wi th. Don’t s hrug your s houl ders l i ke that. Don’t be s o
i ndi fferent. You have a wonderful i nfl uence. Let i t be for good, not for evi l .
They s ay that you corrupt every one whom you become i nti mate wi th, and that
i t i s qui te s uffi ci ent for you to enter a hous e, for s hame of s ome ki nd to fol l ow
after you. I don’t know whether i t i s s o or not. How s houl d I know? But i t i s s ai d
of you. I am tol d thi ngs that i t s eems i mpos s i bl e to doubt. Lord Gl ouces ter was
one of my greates t fri ends at Oxford. He s howed me a l etter that hi s wi fe had
wri tten to hi m when s he was dyi ng al one i n her vi l l a at M entone. Your name
was i mpl i cated i n the mos t terri bl e confes s i on I ever read. I tol d hi m that i t
was abs urd – that I knew you thoroughl y, and that you were i ncapabl e of
anythi ng of the ki nd. Know you? I wonder do I know you? Before I coul d ans wer
that, I s houl d have to s ee your s oul ”.
“To s ee my s oul !” muttered Dori an Gray, s tarti ng up from the s ofa and
turni ng al mos t whi te from fear.
“Yes ”, ans wered Hal l ward, gravel y, and wi th i nfi ni te s orrow i n hi s
voi ce “to s ee your s oul . But onl y God can do that”.
A bi tter l augh of mockery broke from the l i ps of the younger man”. You
s hal l s ee i t yours el f, toni ght!” he cri ed, s ei zi ng a l amp from the tabl e. “Come:
i t i s your own handi work. Why s houl dn’t you l ook at i t? You can tel l the worl d
al l about i t afterwards , i f you choos e. Nobody woul d bel i eve you. If they di d
bel i eve you, they’d l i ke me al l the better for i t. I know the age better than you
do, though you wi l l prate about i t s o tedi ous l y. Come, I tel l you. You have
chattered enough about corrupti on. Now you s hal l l ook on i t face to face”.
There was the madnes s of pri de i n every word he uttered. He s tamped
hi s foot upon the ground i n hi s boyi s h i ns ol ent manner. He fel t a terri bl e j oy
at the thought that s ome one el s e was to s hare hi s s ecret, and that the man
who had pai nted the portrai t that was the ori gi n of al l hi s s hame was to be
burdened for the res t of hi s l i fe wi th the hi deous memory of what he had
done.
“Yes ”, he conti nued, comi ng cl os er to hi m, and l ooki ng s teadfas tl y
i nto hi s s tern eyes , “I wi l l s how you my s oul . You s hal l s ee the thi ng that you
fancy onl y God can s ee”.
Hal l ward s tarted back. “Thi s i s bl as phemy, Dori an!” he cri ed”. You
mus t not s ay thi ngs l i ke that. They are horri bl e, and they don’t mean
anythi ng”.
“You thi nk s o?” He l aughed agai n.
“I know s o. As for what I s ai d to you toni ght, I s ai d i t for your good. You
know I have been al ways devoted to you”.
“Don’t touch me. Fi ni s h what you have to s ay”.
A twi s ted fl as h of pai n s hot acros s Hal l ward’s face. He paus ed for a
moment, and a wi l d feel i ng of pi ty came over hi m. After al l , what ri ght had
he to pry i nto the l i fe of Dori an Gray? If he had done a ti the of what was
rumored about hi m, how much he mus t have s uffered! Then he s trai ghtened
hi ms el f up, and wal ked over to the fi repl ace, and s tood there, l ooki ng at the
burni ng l ogs wi th thei r fros t-l i ke as hes and thei r throbbi ng cores of fl ame.
“I am wai ti ng, Bas i l ”, s ai d the young man, i n a hard, cl ear voi ce.
He turned round. “What I have to s ay i s thi s ”, he cri ed. “You mus t gi ve
me s ome ans wer to thes e horri bl e charges that are made agai ns t you. If you
tel l me that they are abs ol utel y untrue from begi nni ng to end, I wi l l bel i eve
you. Deny them, Dori an, deny them! Can’t you s ee what I am goi ng through?
M y God! don’t tel l me that you are i nfamous !”
Dori an Gray s mi l ed. There was a curl of contempt i n hi s l i ps . “Come
up-s tai rs , Bas i l ”, he s ai d, qui etl y. “I keep a di ary of my l i fe from day to day,
and i t never l eaves the room i n whi ch i t i s wri tten. I wi l l s how i t to you i f you
come wi th me”.
“I wi l l come wi th you, Dori an, i f you wi s h i t. I s ee I have mi s s ed my
trai n. That makes no matter. I can go tomorrow. But don’t as k me to read
anythi ng toni ght. Al l I want i s a pl ai n ans wer to my ques ti on”.
“That wi l l be gi ven to you up-s tai rs . I coul d not gi ve i t here. You won’t
have to read l ong. Don’t keep me wai ti ng”.
CHAPT E R 11
He pas s ed out of the room, and began the as cent, Bas i l Hal l ward
fol l owi ng cl os e behi nd. They wal ked s oftl y, as men i ns ti ncti vel y do at ni ght.
The l amp cas t fantas ti c s hadows on the wal l and s tai rcas e. A ri s i ng wi nd
made s ome of the wi ndows rattl e.
When they reached the top l andi ng, Dori an s et the l amp down on the
fl oor, and taki ng out the key turned i t i n the l ock. “You i ns i s t on knowi ng,
Bas i l ?” he as ked, i n a l ow voi ce.
“Yes ”.
“I am del i ghted”, he murmured, s mi l i ng. Then he added, s omewhat
bi tterl y, “You are the one man i n the worl d who i s enti tl ed to know everythi ng
about me. You have had more to do wi th my l i fe than you thi nk”. And, taki ng
up the l amp, he opened the door and went i n. A col d current of ai r pas s ed
them, and the l i ght s hot up for a moment i n a fl ame of murky orange. He
s huddered. “Shut the door behi nd you”, he s ai d, as he pl aced the l amp on the
tabl e.
Hal l ward gl anced round hi m, wi th a puzzl ed expres s i on. The room
l ooked as i f i t had not been l i ved i n for years . A faded Fl emi s h tapes try, a
curtai ned pi cture, an ol d Ital i an cas s one, and an al mos t empty bookcas e – that
was al l that i t s eemed to contai n, bes i des a chai r and a tabl e. As Dori an Gray
was l i ghti ng a hal f-burned candl e that was s tandi ng on the mantel -s hel f, he
s aw that the whol e pl ace was covered wi th dus t, and that the carpet was i n
hol es . A mous e ran s cuffl i ng behi nd the wai ns coti ng. There was a damp odor
of mi l dew.
“So you thi nk that i t i s onl y God who s ees the s oul , Bas i l ? Draw that
curtai n back, and you wi l l s ee mi ne”.
The voi ce that s poke was col d and cruel . “You are mad, Dori an, or
pl ayi ng a part”, muttered Hal l ward, frowni ng.
“You won’t? Then I mus t do i t mys el f”, s ai d the young man; and he
tore the curtai n from i ts rod, and fl ung i t on the ground.
An excl amati on of horror broke from Hal l ward’s l i ps as he s aw i n the
di m l i ght the hi deous thi ng on the canvas l eeri ng at hi m. There was
s omethi ng i n i ts expres s i on that fi l l ed hi m wi th di s gus t and l oathi ng. Good
heavens ! i t was Dori an Gray’s own face that he was l ooki ng at! The horror,
whatever i t was , had not yet enti rel y marred that marvel l ous beauty. There
was s ti l l s ome gol d i n the thi nni ng hai r and s ome s carl et on the s ens ual
l i ps . The s odden eyes had kept s omethi ng of the l ovel i nes s of thei r bl ue, the
nobl e curves had not yet pas s ed enti rel y away from chi s el l ed nos tri l s and
from pl as ti c throat. Yes , i t was Dori an hi ms el f. But who had done i t? He
s eemed to recogni ze hi s own brus h-work, and the frame was hi s own des i gn.
The i dea was mons trous , yet he fel t afrai d. He s ei zed the l i ghted candl e, and
hel d i t to the pi cture. In the l eft-hand corner was hi s own name, traced i n l ong
l etters of bri ght vermi l i on.
It was s ome foul parody, s ome i nfamous , i gnobl e s ati re. He had never
done that. Sti l l , i t was hi s own pi cture. He knew i t, and he fel t as i f hi s bl ood
had changed from fi re to s l uggi s h i ce i n a moment. Hi s own pi cture! What di d
i t mean? Why had i t al tered? He turned, and l ooked at Dori an Gray wi th the
eyes of a s i ck man. Hi s mouth twi tched, and hi s parched tongue s eemed
unabl e to arti cul ate. He pas s ed hi s hand acros s hi s forehead. It was dank wi th
cl ammy s weat.
The young man was l eani ng agai ns t the mantel -s hel f, watchi ng
hi m wi th that s trange expres s i on that i s on the faces of thos e who are abs orbed
i n a pl ay when a great arti s t i s acti ng. There was nei ther real s orrow i n i t nor
real j oy. There was s i mpl y the pas s i on of the s pectator, wi th perhaps a fl i cker
of tri umph i n the eyes . He had taken the fl ower out of hi s coat, and was
s mel l i ng i t, or pretendi ng to do s o.
“What does thi s mean?” cri ed Hal l ward, at l as t. Hi s own voi ce s ounded
s hri l l and curi ous i n hi s ears .
“Years ago, when I was a boy”, s ai d Dori an Gray, “you met me, devoted
yours el f to me, fl attered me, and taught me to be vai n of my good l ooks . One
day you i ntroduced me to a fri end of yours , who expl ai ned to me the wonder of
youth, and you fi ni s hed a portrai t of me that reveal ed to me the wonder of
beauty. In a mad moment, that I don’t know, even now, whether I regret or not,
I made a wi s h. Perhaps you woul d cal l i t a prayer...”.
“I remember i t! Oh, how wel l I remember i t! No! the thi ng i s
i mpos s i bl e. The room i s damp. The mi l dew has got i nto the canvas . The
pai nts I us ed had s ome wretched mi neral poi s on i n them. I tel l you the thi ng
i s i mpos s i bl e”.
“Ah, what i s i mpos s i bl e?” murmured the young man, goi ng over to the
wi ndow, and l eani ng hi s forehead agai ns t the col d, mi s t-s tai ned gl as s .
“You tol d me you had des troyed i t”.
“I was wrong. It has des troyed me”.
“I don’t bel i eve i t i s my pi cture”.
“Can’t you s ee your romance i n i t?” s ai d Dori an, bi tterl y.
“M y romance, as you cal l i t...”.
“As you cal l ed i t”.
“There was nothi ng evi l i n i t, nothi ng s hameful . Thi s i s the face of a
s atyr”.
“It i s the face of my s oul ”.
“God! what a thi ng I mus t have wors hi pped! Thi s has the eyes of a
devi l ”.
“E ach of us has Heaven and Hel l i n hi m, Bas i l ”, cri ed Dori an, wi th a
wi l d ges ture of des pai r.
Hal l ward turned agai n to the portrai t, and gazed at i t. “M y God! If i t i s
true”, he excl ai med, “and thi s i s what you have done wi th your l i fe, why, you
mus t be wors e even than thos e who tal k agai ns t you fancy you to be!” He hel d
the l i ght up agai n to the canvas , and exami ned i t. The s urface s eemed to be
qui te undi s turbed, and as he had l eft i t. It was from wi thi n, apparentl y, that
the foul nes s and horror had come. Through s ome s trange qui ckeni ng of i nner
l i fe the l epros i es of s i n were s l owl y eati ng the thi ng away. The rotti ng of a
corps e i n a watery grave was not s o fearful .
Hi s hand s hook, and the candl e fel l from i ts s ocket on the fl oor, and
l ay there s putteri ng. He pl aced hi s foot on i t and put i t out. Then he fl ung
hi ms el f i nto the ri ckety chai r that was s tandi ng by the tabl e and buri ed hi s
face i n hi s hands .
“Good God, Dori an, what a l es s on! what an awful l es s on!” There was
no ans wer, but he coul d hear the young man s obbi ng at the wi ndow.
“Pray, Dori an, pray”, he murmured. “What i s i t that one was taught to
s ay i n one’s boyhood? ‘Lead us not i nto temptati on. Forgi ve us our s i ns . Was h
away our i ni qui ti es . ‘Let us s ay that together. The prayer of your pri de has
been ans wered. The prayer of your repentance wi l l be ans wered al s o. I
wors hi pped you too much. I am puni s hed for i t. You wors hi pped yours el f too
much. We are both puni s hed”.
Dori an Gray turned s l owl y around, and l ooked at hi m wi th tear-
di mmed eyes . “It i s too l ate, Bas i l ”, he murmured.
“It i s never too l ate, Dori an. Let us kneel down and try i f we can
remember a prayer. Is n’t there a vers e s omewhere, ‘Though your s i ns be as
s carl et, yet I wi l l make them as whi te as s now’?”
“Thos e words mean nothi ng to me now”.
“Hus h! don’t s ay that. You have done enough evi l i n your l i fe. M y
God! don’t you s ee that accurs ed thi ng l eeri ng at us ?”
Dori an Gray gl anced at the pi cture, and s uddenl y an uncontrol l abl e
feel i ng of hatred for Bas i l Hal l ward came over hi m. The mad pas s i ons of a
hunted ani mal s ti rred wi thi n hi m, and he l oathed the man who was s eated at
the tabl e, more than he had ever l oathed anythi ng i n hi s whol e l i fe. He
gl anced wi l dl y around. Somethi ng gl i mmered on the top of the pai nted ches t
that faced hi m. Hi s eye fel l on i t. He knew what i t was . It was a kni fe that he
had brought up, s ome days before, to cut a pi ece of cord, and had forgotten to
take away wi th hi m. He moved s l owl y towards i t, pas s i ng Hal l ward as he di d
s o. As s oon as he got behi nd hi m, he s ei zed i t, and turned round. Hal l ward
moved i n hi s chai r as i f he was goi ng to ri s e. He rus hed at hi m, and dug the
kni fe i nto the great vei n that i s behi nd the ear, crus hi ng the man’s head
down on the tabl e, and s tabbi ng agai n and agai n.
There was a s ti fl ed groan, and the horri bl e s ound of s ome one
choki ng wi th bl ood. The outs tretched arms s hot up convul s i vel y three ti mes ,
wavi ng grotes que s ti ff-fi ngered hands i n the ai r. He s tabbed hi m once more,
but the man di d not move. Somethi ng began to tri ckl e on the fl oor. He wai ted for
a moment, s ti l l pres s i ng the head down. Then he threw the kni fe on the
tabl e, and l i s tened.
He coul d hear nothi ng, but the dri p, dri p on the threadbare carpet. He
opened the door, and went out on the l andi ng. The hous e was qui te qui et. No
one was s ti rri ng.
He took out the key, and returned to the room, l ocki ng hi ms el f i n as
he di d s o.
The thi ng was s ti l l s eated i n the chai r, s trai ni ng over the tabl e wi th
bowed head, and humped back, and l ong fantas ti c arms . Had i t not been for
the red j agged tear i n the neck, and the cl otted bl ack pool that s l owl y wi dened
on the tabl e, one woul d have s ai d that the man was s i mpl y as l eep.
How qui ckl y i t had al l been done! He fel t s trangel y cal m, and,
wal ki ng over to the wi ndow, opened i t, and s tepped out on the bal cony. The
wi nd had bl own the fog away, and the s ky was l i ke a mons trous peacock’s tai l ,
s tarred wi th myri ads of gol den eyes . He l ooked down, and s aw the pol i ceman
goi ng hi s rounds and fl as hi ng a bul l ’s -eye l antern on the doors of the s i l ent
hous es . The cri ms on s pot of a prowl i ng hans om gl eamed at the corner, and
then vani s hed. A woman i n a ragged s hawl was creepi ng round by the
rai l i ngs , s taggeri ng as s he went. Now and then s he s topped, and peered back.
Once, s he began to s i ng i n a hoars e voi ce. The pol i ceman s trol l ed over and
s ai d s omethi ng to her. She s tumbl ed away, l aughi ng. A bi tter bl as t s wept
acros s the Square. The gas -l amps fl i ckered, and became bl ue, and the
l eafl es s trees s hook thei r bl ack i ron branches as i f i n pai n. He s hi vered, and
went back, cl os i ng the wi ndow behi nd hi m.
He pas s ed to the door, turned the key, and opened i t. He di d not even
gl ance at the murdered man. He fel t that the s ecret of the whol e thi ng was not
to real i ze the s i tuati on. The fri end who had pai nted the fatal portrai t, the
portrai t to whi ch al l hi s mi s ery had been due, had gone out of hi s l i fe. That
was enough.
Then he remembered the l amp. It was a rather curi ous one of
M oori s h workmans hi p, made of dul l s i l ver i nl ai d wi th arabes ques of
burni s hed s teel . Perhaps i t mi ght be mi s s ed by hi s s ervant, and ques ti ons
woul d be as ked. He turned back, and took i t from the tabl e. How s ti l l the man
was ! How horri bl y whi te the l ong hands l ooked! He was l i ke a dreadful wax
i mage.
He l ocked the door behi nd hi m, and crept qui etl y down-s tai rs . The
wood-work creaked, and s eemed to cry out as i f i n pai n. He s topped s everal
ti mes , and wai ted. No: everythi ng was s ti l l . It was merel y the s ound of hi s
own foots teps .
When he reached the l i brary, he s aw the bag and coat i n the corner.
They mus t be hi dden away s omewhere. He unl ocked a s ecret pres s that was
i n the wai ns coti ng, and put them i nto i t. He coul d eas i l y burn them
afterwards . Then he pul l ed out hi s watch. It was twenty mi nutes to two.
He s at down, and began to thi nk. E very year – every month, al mos t –
men were s trangl ed i n E ngl and for what he had done. There had been a
madnes s of murder i n the ai r. Some red s tar had come too cl os e to the earth.
E vi dence? What evi dence was there agai ns t hi m? Bas i l Hal l ward had
l eft the hous e at el even. No one had s een hi m come i n agai n. M os t of the
s ervants were at Sel by Royal . Hi s val et had gone to bed.
Pari s ! Yes . It was to Pari s that Bas i l had gone, by the mi dni ght trai n,
as he had i ntended. Wi th hi s curi ous res erved habi ts , i t woul d be months
before any s us pi ci ons woul d be arous ed. M onths ? E verythi ng coul d be
des troyed l ong before then.
A s udden thought s truck hi m. He put on hi s fur coat and hat, and
went out i nto the hal l . There he paus ed, heari ng the s l ow heavy tread of the
pol i ceman outs i de on the pavement, and s eei ng the fl as h of the l antern
refl ected i n the wi ndow. He wai ted, hol di ng hi s breath.
After a few moments he opened the front door, and s l i pped out,
s hutti ng i t very gentl y behi nd hi m. Then he began ri ngi ng the bel l . In about
ten mi nutes hi s val et appeared, hal f dres s ed, and l ooki ng very drows y.
“I am s orry to have had to wake you up, Franci s ”, he s ai d, s teppi ng i n;
“but I had forgotten my l atch-key. What ti me i s i t?”
“Fi ve mi nutes pas t two, s i r”, ans wered the man, l ooki ng at the cl ock
and yawni ng.
“Fi ve mi nutes pas t two? How horri bl y l ate! You mus t wake me at ni ne
tomorrow. I have s ome work to do”.
“Al l ri ght, s i r”.
“Di d any one cal l thi s eveni ng?”
“M r. Hal l ward, s i r. He s tayed here ti l l el even, and then he went
away to catch hi s trai n”.
“Oh! I am s orry I di dn’t s ee hi m. Di d he l eave any mes s age?”
“No, s i r, except that he woul d wri te to you”.
“That wi l l do, Franci s . Don’t forget to cal l me at ni netomorrow”.
“No, s i r”.
The man s hambl ed down the pas s age i n hi s s l i ppers .
Dori an Gray threw hi s hat and coat upon the yel l ow marbl e tabl e, and
pas s ed i nto the l i brary. He wal ked up and down the room for a quarter of an
hour, bi ti ng hi s l i p, and thi nki ng. Then he took the Bl ue Book down from one
of the s hel ves , and began to turn over the l eaves . “Al an Campbel l , 152, Hertford
Street, M ayfai r”. Yes ; that was the man he wanted.
CHAPT E R 12
How exqui s i te they were! As one read them, one s eemed to be fl oati ng
down the green water-ways of the pi nk and pearl ci ty, l yi ng i n a bl ack gondol a
wi th s i l ver prow and trai l i ng curtai ns . The mere l i nes l ooked to hi m l i ke
thos e s trai ght l i nes of turquoi s e-bl ue that fol l ow one as one pus hes out to the
Li do. The s udden fl as hes of col or remi nded hi m of the gl eam of the opal -and-
i ri s -throated bi rds that fl utter round the tal l honey-combed Campani l e, or
s tal k, wi th s uch s tatel y grace, through the di m arcades . Leani ng back wi th
hal f- cl os ed eyes , he kept s ayi ng over and over to hi ms el f...
Devant une façade rose,
Sur le marbre d’un escali er.
The whol e of Veni ce was i n thos e two l i nes . He remembered the
autumn that he had pas s ed there, and a wonderful l ove that had s ti rred hi m to
del i ghtful fantas ti c fol l i es . There was romance i n every pl ace. But Veni ce,
l i ke Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and background was
everythi ng, or al mos t everythi ng. Bas i l had been wi th hi m part of the ti me,
and had gone wi l d over Ti ntoret. Poor Bas i l ! what a horri bl e way for a man to
di e!
He s i ghed, and took up the book agai n, and tri ed to forget. He read of
the s wal l ows that fl y i n and out of the l i ttl e café at Smyrna where the Hadj i s
s i t counti ng thei r amber beads and the turbaned merchants s moke thei r l ong
tas s el l ed pi pes and tal k gravel y to each other; of the Obel i s k i n the Pl ace de l a
Concorde that weeps tears of grani te i n i ts l onel y s unl es s exi l e, and l ongs to
be back by the hot l otus -covered Ni l e, where there are Sphi nxes , and ros e-red
i bi s es , and whi te vul tures wi th gi l ded cl aws , and crocodi l es , wi th s mal l beryl
eyes , that crawl over the green s teami ng mud; and of that curi ous s tatue that
Gauti er compares to a contral to voi ce, the “mons tre charmant” that couches i n
the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a ti me the book fel l from hi s hand.
He grew nervous , and a horri bl e fi t of terror came over hi m. What i f Al an
Campbel l s houl d be out of E ngl and? Days woul d el aps e before he coul d come
back. Perhaps he mi ght refus e to come. What coul d he do then? E very moment
was of vi tal i mportance.
They had been great fri ends once, fi ve years before – al mos t
i ns eparabl e, i ndeed. Then the i nti macy had come s uddenl y to an end. When
they met i n s oci ety now, i t was onl y Dori an Gray who s mi l ed: Al an Campbel l
never di d.
He was an extremel y cl ever young man, though he had no real
appreci ati on of the vi s i bl e arts , and whatever l i ttl e s ens e of the beauty of
poetry he pos s es s ed he had gai ned enti rel y from Dori an. Hi s domi nant
i ntel l ectual pas s i on was for s ci ence. At Cambri dge he had s pent a great deal
of hi s ti me worki ng i n the Laboratory, and had taken a good cl as s i n the
Natural Sci ence tri pos of hi s year. Indeed, he was s ti l l devoted to the s tudy of
chemi s try, and had a l aboratory of hi s own, i n whi ch he us ed to s hut hi ms el f
up al l day l ong, greatl y to the annoyance of hi s mother, who had s et her heart
on hi s s tandi ng for Parl i ament and had a vague i dea that a chemi s t was a
pers on who made up pres cri pti ons . He was an excel l ent mus i ci an, however,
as wel l , and pl ayed both the vi ol i n and the pi ano better than mos t amateurs .
In fact, i t was mus i c that had fi rs t brought hi m and Dori an Gray together, –
mus i c and that i ndefi nabl e attracti on that Dori an s eemed to be abl e to exerci s e
whenever he wi s hed, and i ndeed exerci s ed often wi thout bei ng cons ci ous of i t.
They had met at Lady Berks hi re’s the ni ght that Rubi ns tei n pl ayed there, and
after that us ed to be al ways s een together at the Opera, and wherever good
mus i c was goi ng on. For ei ghteen months thei r i nti macy l as ted. Campbel l
was al ways ei ther at Sel by Royal or i n Gros venor Square. To hi m, as to many
others , Dori an Gray was the type of everythi ng that i s wonderful and
fas ci nati ng i n l i fe. Whether or not a quarrel had taken pl ace between them no
one ever knew. But s uddenl y peopl e remarked that they s carcel y s poke when
they met, and that Campbel l s eemed al ways to go away earl y from any party at
whi ch Dori an Gray was pres ent. He had changed, too, was s trangel y
mel anchol y at ti mes , appeared al mos t to di s l i ke heari ng mus i c of any
pas s i onate character, and woul d never hi ms el f pl ay, gi vi ng as hi s excus e,
when he was cal l ed upon, that he was s o abs orbed i n s ci ence that he had no
ti me l eft i n whi ch to practi s e. And thi s was certai nl y true. E very day he
s eemed to become more i nteres ted i n bi ol ogy, and hi s name appeared once or
twi ce i n s ome of the s ci enti fi c revi ews , i n connecti on wi th certai n curi ous
experi ments .
Thi s was the man that Dori an Gray was wai ti ng for, paci ng up and
down the room, gl anci ng every moment at the cl ock, and becomi ng horri bl y
agi tated as the mi nutes went by. At l as t the door opened, and hi s s ervant
entered.
“M r. Al an Campbel l , s i r”.
A s i gh of rel i ef broke from hi s parched l i ps , and the col or came back to
hi s cheeks .
“As k hi m to come at once, Franci s ”.
The man bowed, and reti red. In a few moments Al an Campbel l
wal ked i n, l ooki ng very s tern and rather pal e, hi s pal l or bei ng i ntens i fi ed by
hi s coal -bl ack hai r and dark eyebrows .
“Al an! thi s i s ki nd of you. I thank you for comi ng”.
“I had i ntended never to enter your hous e agai n, Gray. But you s ai d i t
was a matter of l i fe and death”. Hi s voi ce was hard and col d. He s poke wi th
s l ow del i berati on. There was a l ook of contempt i n the s teady s earchi ng gaze
that he turned on Dori an. He kept hi s hands i n the pockets of hi s As trakhan
coat, and appeared not to have noti ced the ges ture wi th whi ch he had been
greeted.
“It i s a matter of l i fe and death, Al an, and to more than one pers on. Si t
down”.
Campbel l took a chai r by the tabl e, and Dori an s at oppos i te to hi m. The
two men’s eyes met. In Dori an’s there was i nfi ni te pi ty. He knew that what he
was goi ng to do was dreadful .
After a s trai ned moment of s i l ence, he l eaned acros s and s ai d, very
qui etl y, but watchi ng the effect of each word upon the face of the man he had
s ent for, “Al an, i n a l ocked room at the top of thi s hous e, a room to whi ch
nobody but mys el f has acces s , a dead man i s s eated at a tabl e. He has been
dead ten hours now. Don’t s ti r, and don’t l ook at me l i ke that. Who the man i s ,
why he di ed, how he di ed, are matters that do not concern you. What you have
to do i s thi s ...”
“Stop, Gray. I don’t want to know anythi ng further. Whether what you
have tol d me i s true or not true, does n’t concern me. I enti rel y decl i ne to be
mi xed up i n your l i fe. Keep your horri bl e s ecrets to yours el f. They don’t
i nteres t me any more”.
“Al an, they wi l l have to i nteres t you. Thi s one wi l l have to i nteres t
you. I am awful l y s orry for you, Al an. But I can’t hel p mys el f. You are the one
man who i s abl e to s ave me. I am forced to bri ng you i nto the matter. I have no
opti on. Al an, you are a s ci enti s t. You know about chemi s try, and thi ngs of that
ki nd. You have made experi ments . What you have got to do i s to des troy the
thi ng that i s up-s tai rs – to des troy i t s o that not a ves ti ge wi l l be l eft of i t.
Nobody s aw thi s pers on come i nto the hous e. Indeed, at the pres ent moment
he i s s uppos ed to be i n Pari s . He wi l l not be mi s s ed for months . When he i s
mi s s ed, there mus t be no trace of hi m found here. You, Al an, you mus t
change hi m, and everythi ng that bel ongs to hi m, i nto a handful of as hes that
I may s catter i n the ai r”.
“You are mad, Dori an”.
“Ah! I was wai ti ng for you to cal l me Dori an”.
“You are mad, I tel l you, – mad to i magi ne that I woul d rai s e a fi nger
to hel p you, mad to make thi s mons trous confes s i on. I wi l l have nothi ng to do
wi th thi s matter, whatever i t i s . Do you thi nk I am goi ng to peri l my reputati on
for you? What i s i t to me what devi l ’s work you are up to?”
“It was a s ui ci de, Al an”.
“I am gl ad of that. But who drove hi m to i t? You, I s houl d fancy”.
“Do you s ti l l refus e to do thi s , for me?”
“Of cours e I refus e. I wi l l have abs ol utel y nothi ng to do wi th i t. I don’t
care what s hame comes on you. You des erve i t al l . I s houl d not be s orry to s ee
you di s graced, publ i cl y di s graced. How dare you as k me, of al l men i n the
worl d, to mi x mys el f up i n thi s horror? I s houl d have thought you knew more
about peopl e’s characters . Your fri end Lord Henry Wotton can’t have taught you
much about ps ychol ogy, whatever el s e he has taught you. Nothi ng wi l l i nduce
me to s ti r a s tep to hel p you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to s ome of
your fri ends . Don’t come to me”.
“Al an, i t was murder. I ki l l ed hi m. You don’t know what he had made
me s uffer. Whatever my l i fe i s , he had more to do wi th the maki ng or the
marri ng of i t than poor Harry has had. He may not have i ntended i t, the res ul t
was the s ame”.
“M urder! Good God, Dori an, i s that what you have come to? I s hal l not
i nform upon you. It i s not my bus i nes s . Bes i des , you are certai n to be
arres ted, wi thout my s ti rri ng i n the matter. Nobody ever commi ts a murder
wi thout doi ng s omethi ng s tupi d. But I wi l l have nothi ng to do wi th i t”.
“Al l I as k of you i s to perform a certai n s ci enti fi c experi ment. You go to
hos pi tal s and dead-hous es , and the horrors that you do there don’t affect you.
If i n s ome hi deous di s s ecti ng-room or feti d l aboratory you found thi s man
l yi ng on a l eaden tabl e wi th red gutters s cooped out i n i t, you woul d s i mpl y
l ook upon hi m as an admi rabl e s ubj ect. You woul d not turn a hai r. You woul d
not bel i eve that you were doi ng anythi ng wrong. On the contrary, you woul d
probabl y feel that you were benefi ti ng the human race, or i ncreas i ng the s um
of knowl edge i n the worl d, or grati fyi ng i ntel l ectual curi os i ty, or s omethi ng of
that ki nd. What I want you to do i s s i mpl y what you have often done before.
Indeed, to des troy a body mus t be l es s horri bl e than what you are accus tomed
to work at. And, remember, i t i s the onl y pi ece of evi dence agai ns t me. If i t i s
di s covered, I am l os t; and i t i s s ure to be di s covered unl es s you hel p me”.
“I have no des i re to hel p you. You forget that. I am s i mpl y i ndi fferent
to the whol e thi ng. It has nothi ng to do wi th me”.
“Al an, I entreat you. Thi nk of the pos i ti on I am i n. Jus t before you
came I al mos t fai nted wi th terror. No! don’t thi nk of that. Look at the matter
purel y from the s ci enti fi c poi nt of vi ew. You don’t i nqui re where the dead
thi ngs on whi ch you experi ment come from. Don’t i nqui re now. I have tol d you
too much as i t i s . But I beg of you to do thi s . We were fri ends once, Al an”.
“Don’t s peak about thos e days , Dori an: they are dead”.
“The dead l i nger s ometi mes . The man up-s tai rs wi l l not go away. He
i s s i tti ng at the tabl e wi th bowed head and outs tretched arms . Al an! Al an! i f
you don’t come to my as s i s tance I am rui ned. Why, they wi l l hang me, Al an!
Don’t you unders tand? They wi l l hang me for what I have done”.
“There i s no good i n prol ongi ng thi s s cene. I refus e abs ol utel y to do
anythi ng i n the matter. It i s i ns ane of you to as k me”.
“You refus e abs ol utel y?”
“Yes ”.
The s ame l ook of pi ty came i nto Dori an’s eyes , then he s tretched out
hi s hand, took a pi ece of paper, and wrote s omethi ng on i t. He read i t over
twi ce, fol ded i t careful l y, and pus hed i t acros s the tabl e. Havi ng done thi s , he
got up, and went over to the wi ndow.
Campbel l l ooked at hi m i n s urpri s e, and then took up the paper, and
opened i t. As he read i t, hi s face became ghas tl y pal e, and he fel l back i n hi s
chai r. A horri bl e s ens e of s i cknes s came over hi m. He fel t as i f hi s heart was
beati ng i ts el f to death i n s ome empty hol l ow.
After two or three mi nutes of terri bl e s i l ence, Dori an turned round,
and came and s tood behi nd hi m, putti ng hi s hand upon hi s s houl der.
“I am s o s orry, Al an”, he murmured, “but you l eave me no al ternati ve.
I have a l etter wri tten al ready. Here i t i s . You s ee the addres s . If you don’t
hel p me, I mus t s end i t. You know what the res ul t wi l l be. But you are goi ng to
hel p me. It i s i mpos s i bl e for you to refus e now. I tri ed to s pare you. You wi l l do
me the j us ti ce to admi t that. You were s tern, hars h, offens i ve. You treated me
as no man has ever dared to treat me – no l i vi ng man, at any rate. I bore i t al l .
Now i t i s for me to di ctate terms ”.
Campbel l buri ed hi s face i n hi s hands , and a s hudder pas s ed
through hi m.
“Yes , i t i s my turn to di ctate terms , Al an. You know what they are. The
thi ng i s qui te s i mpl e. Come, don’t work yours el f i nto thi s fever. The thi ng has
to be done. Face i t, and do i t”.
A groan broke from Campbel l ’s l i ps , and he s hi vered al l over. The
ti cki ng of the cl ock on the mantel -pi ece s eemed to hi m to be di vi di ng ti me i nto
s eparate atoms of agony, each of whi ch was too terri bl e to be borne. He fel t as i f
an i ron ri ng was bei ng s l owl y ti ghtened round hi s forehead, and as i f the
di s grace wi th whi ch he was threatened had al ready come upon hi m. The hand
upon hi s s houl der wei ghed l i ke a hand of l ead. It was i ntol erabl e. It s eemed
to crus h hi m.
“Come, Al an, you mus t deci de at once”.
He hes i tated a moment. “Is there a fi re i n the room up-s tai rs ?” he
murmured.
“Yes , there i s a gas -fi re wi th as bes tos ”.
“I wi l l have to go home and get s ome thi ngs from the l aboratory”.
“No, Al an, you need not l eave the hous e. Wri te on a s heet of note-
paper what you want, and my s ervant wi l l take a cab and bri ng the thi ngs back
to you”.
Campbel l wrote a few l i nes , bl otted them, and addres s ed an envel ope
to hi s as s i s tant. Dori an took the note up and read i t careful l y. Then he rang
the bel l , and gave i t to hi s val et, wi th orders to return as s oon as pos s i bl e, and
to bri ng the thi ngs wi th hi m.
When the hal l door s hut, Campbel l s tarted, and, havi ng got up from
the chai r, went over to the chi mney-pi ece. He was s hi veri ng wi th a s ort of
ague. For nearl y twenty mi nutes , nei ther of the men s poke. A fl y buzzed
noi s i l y about the room, and the ti cki ng of the cl ock was l i ke the beat of a
hammer.
As the chi me s truck one, Campbel l turned around, and, l ooki ng at
Dori an Gray, s aw that hi s eyes were fi l l ed wi th tears . There was s omethi ng
i n the puri ty and refi nement of that s ad face that s eemed to enrage hi m. “You
are i nfamous , abs ol utel y i nfamous !” he muttered.
“Hus h, Al an: you have s aved my l i fe”, s ai d Dori an.
“Your l i fe? Good heavens ! what a l i fe that i s ! You have gone from
corrupti on to corrupti on, and now you have cul mi nated i n cri me. In doi ng what
I am goi ng to do, what you force me to do, i t i s not of your l i fe that I am
thi nki ng”.
“Ah, Al an”, murmured Dori an, wi th a s i gh, “I wi s h you had a
thous andth part of the pi ty for me that I have for you”. He turned away, as he
s poke, and s tood l ooki ng out at the garden. Campbel l made no ans wer.
After about ten mi nutes a knock came to the door, and the s ervant
entered, carryi ng a mahogany ches t of chemi cal s , wi th a s mal l el ectri c
battery s et on top of i t. He pl aced i t on the tabl e, and went out agai n, returni ng
wi th a l ong coi l of s teel and pl ati num wi re and two rather curi ous l y-s haped
i ron cl amps .
“Shal l I l eave the thi ngs here, s i r?” he as ked Campbel l .
“Yes ”, s ai d Dori an. “And I am afrai d, Franci s , that I have another
errand for you. What i s the name of the man at Ri chmond who s uppl i es Sel by
wi th orchi ds ?”
“Harden, s i r”.
“Yes , Harden. You mus t go down to Ri chmond at once, s ee Harden
pers onal l y, and tel l hi m to s end twi ce as many orchi ds as I ordered, and to
have as few whi te ones as pos s i bl e. In fact, I don’t want any whi te ones . It i s a
l ovel y day, Franci s , and Ri chmond i s a very pretty pl ace, otherwi s e I woul dn’t
bother you about i t”.
“No troubl e, s i r. At what ti me s hal l I be back?”
Dori an l ooked at Campbel l . “How l ong wi l l your experi ment take,
Al an?” he s ai d, i n a cal m, i ndi fferent voi ce. The pres ence of a thi rd pers on i n
the room s eemed to gi ve hi m extraordi nary courage.
Campbel l frowned, and bi t hi s l i p. “It wi l l take about fi ve hours ”, he
ans wered.
“It wi l l be ti me enough, then, i f you are back at hal f-pas t s even,
Franci s . Or s tay: j us t l eave my thi ngs out for dres s i ng. You can have the
eveni ng to yours el f. I am not di ni ng at home, s o I s hal l not want you”.
“Thank you, s i r”, s ai d the man, l eavi ng the room.
“Now, Al an, there i s not a moment to be l os t. How heavy thi s ches t i s !
I’l l take i t for you. You bri ng the other thi ngs ”. He s poke rapi dl y, and i n an
authori tati ve manner. Campbel l fel t domi nated by hi m. They l eft the room
together.
When they reached the top l andi ng, Dori an took out the key and
turned i t i n the l ock. Then he s topped, and a troubl ed l ook came i nto hi s eyes .
He s huddered. “I don’t thi nk I can go i n, Al an”, he murmured.
“It i s nothi ng to me. I don’t requi re you”, s ai d Campbel l , col dl y.
Dori an hal f opened the door. As he di d s o, he s aw the face of the
portrai t gri nni ng i n the s unl i ght. On the fl oor i n front of i t the torn curtai n
was l yi ng. He remembered that the ni ght before, for the fi rs t ti me i n hi s l i fe,
he had forgotten to hi de i t, when he crept out of the room.
But what was that l oaths ome red dew that gl eamed, wet and
gl i s teni ng, on one of the hands , as though the canvas had s weated bl ood? How
horri bl e i t was ! – more horri bl e, i t s eemed to hi m for the moment, than the
s i l ent thi ng that he knew was s tretched acros s the tabl e, the thi ng whos e
grotes que mi s s hapen s hadow on the s potted carpet s howed hi m that i t had not
s ti rred, but was s ti l l there, as he had l eft i t.
He opened the door a l i ttl e wi der, and wal ked qui ckl y i n, wi th hal f-
cl os ed eyes and averted head, determi ned that he woul d not l ook even once
upon the dead man. Then, s toopi ng down, and taki ng up the gol d-and-purpl e
hangi ng, he fl ung i t over the pi cture.
He s topped, feel i ng afrai d to turn round, and hi s eyes fi xed
thems el ves on the i ntri caci es of the pattern before hi m. He heard Campbel l
bri ngi ng i n the heavy ches t, and the i rons , and the other thi ngs that he had
requi red for hi s dreadful work. He began to wonder i f he and Bas i l Hal l ward
had ever met, and, i f s o, what they had thought of each other.
“Leave me now”, s ai d Campbel l .
He turned and hurri ed out, j us t cons ci ous that the dead man had
been thrus t back i nto the chai r and was s i tti ng up i n i t, wi th Campbel l gazi ng
i nto the gl i s teni ng yel l ow face. As he was goi ng downs tai rs he heard the key
bei ng turned i n the l ock.
It was l ong after s even o’cl ock when Campbel l came back i nto the
l i brary. He was pal e, but abs ol utel y cal m. “I have done what you as ked me to
do”, he muttered. “And now, good-bye. Let us never s ee each other agai n”.
“You have s aved me from rui n, Al an. I cannot forget that”, s ai d Dori an,
s i mpl y.
As s oon as Campbel l had l eft, he went up-s tai rs . There was a horri bl e
s mel l of chemi cal s i n the room. But the thi ng that had been s i tti ng at the
tabl e was gone.
CHAPT E R 13
“There i s no good tel l i ng me you are goi ng to be good, Dori an”, cri ed
Lord Henry, di ppi ng hi s whi te fi ngers i nto a red copper bowl fi l l ed wi th ros e-
water. “You are qui te perfect. Pray don’t change”.
Dori an s hook hi s head. “No, Harry, I have done too many dreadful
thi ngs i n my l i fe. I am not goi ng to do any more. I began my good acti ons
yes terday”.
“Where were you yes terday?”
“In the country, Harry. I was s tayi ng at a l i ttl e i nn by mys el f”.
“M y dear boy”, s ai d Lord Henry s mi l i ng, “anybody can be good i n the
country. There are no temptati ons there. That i s the reas on why peopl e who
l i ve out of town are s o unci vi l i zed. There are onl y two ways , as you know, of
becomi ng ci vi l i zed. One i s by bei ng cul tured, the other i s by bei ng corrupt.
Country-peopl e have no opportuni ty of bei ng ei ther, s o they s tagnate”.
“Cul ture and corrupti on”, murmured Dori an. “I have known s omethi ng
of both. It s eems to me curi ous now that they s houl d ever be found together. For
I have a new i deal , Harry. I am goi ng to al ter. I thi nk I have al tered”.
“You have not tol d me yet what your good acti on was . Or di d you s ay you
had done more than one?”
“I can tel l you, Harry. It i s not a s tory I coul d tel l to any one el s e. I
s pared s omebody. It s ounds vai n, but you unders tand what I mean. She was
qui te beauti ful and wonderful l y l i ke Si byl Vane. I thi nk i t was that whi ch
fi rs t attracted me to her. You remember Si byl , don’t you? How l ong ago that
s eems ! Wel l , Hetty was not one of our own cl as s , of cours e. She was s i mpl y a
gi rl i n a vi l l age. But I real l y l oved her. I am qui te s ure that I l oved her. Al l
duri ng thi s wonderful M ay that we have been havi ng, I us ed to run down and
s ee her two or three ti mes a week. Yes terday s he met me i n a l i ttl e orchard.
The appl e-bl os s oms kept tumbl i ng down on her hai r, and s he was l aughi ng.
We were to have gone away together thi s morni ng at dawn. Suddenl y I
determi ned to l eave her as fl ower-l i ke as I had found her”.
“I s houl d thi nk the novel ty of the emoti on mus t have gi ven you a thri l l
of real pl eas ure, Dori an”, i nterrupted Lord Henry. “But I can fi ni s h your i dyl
for you. You gave her good advi ce, and broke her heart. That was the begi nni ng
of your reformati on”.
“Harry, you are horri bl e! You mus tn’t s ay thes e dreadful thi ngs .
Hetty’s heart i s not broken. Of cours e s he cri ed, and al l that. But there i s no
di s grace upon her. She can l i ve, l i ke Perdi ta, i n her garden”.
“And weep over a fai thl es s Fl ori zel ”, s ai d Lord Henry, l aughi ng. “M y
dear Dori an, you have the mos t curi ous boyi s h moods . Do you thi nk thi s gi rl
wi l l ever be real l y contented now wi th any one of her own rank? I s uppos e s he
wi l l be marri ed s ome day to a rough carter or a gri nni ng pl oughman. Wel l ,
havi ng met you, and l oved you, wi l l teach her to des pi s e her hus band, and
s he wi l l be wretched. From a moral poi nt of vi ew I real l y don’t thi nk much of
your great renunci ati on. E ven as a begi nni ng, i t i s poor. Bes i des , how do you
know that Hetty i s n’t fl oati ng at the pres ent moment i n s ome mi l l -pond, wi th
water-l i l i es round her, l i ke Ophel i a?”
“I can’t bear thi s , Harry! You mock at everythi ng, and then s ugges t the
mos t s eri ous tragedi es . I am s orry I tol d you now. I don’t care what you s ay to
me, I know I was ri ght i n acti ng as I di d. Poor Hetty! As I rode pas t the farm
thi s morni ng, I s aw her whi te face at the wi ndow, l i ke a s pray of j as mi ne.
Don’t l et me tal k about i t any more, and don’t try to pers uade me that the fi rs t
good acti on I have done for years , the fi rs t l i ttl e bi t of s el f-s acri fi ce I have ever
known, i s real l y a s ort of s i n. I want to be better. I am goi ng to be better. Tel l
me s omethi ng about yours el f. What i s goi ng on i n town? I have not been to the
cl ub for days ”.
“The peopl e are s ti l l di s cus s i ng poor Bas i l ’s di s appearance”.
“I s houl d have thought they had got ti red of that by thi s ti me”, s ai d
Dori an, pouri ng hi ms el f out s ome wi ne, and frowni ng s l i ghtl y.
“M y dear boy, they have onl y been tal ki ng about i t for s i x weeks , and
the publ i c are real l y not equal to the mental s trai n of havi ng more than one
topi c every three months . They have been very fortunate l atel y, however. They
have had my own di vorce-cas e, and Al an Campbel l ’s s ui ci de. Now they have
got the mys teri ous di s appearance of an arti s t. Scotl and Yard s ti l l i ns i s ts that
the man i n the gray ul s ter who l eft Vi ctori a by the mi dni ght trai n on the 7th of
November was poor Bas i l , and the French pol i ce decl are that Bas i l never
arri ved i n Pari s at al l . I s uppos e i n about a fortni ght we wi l l be tol d that he
has been s een i n San Franci s co. It i s an odd thi ng, but every one who
di s appears i s s ai d to be s een at San Franci s co. It mus t be a del i ghtful ci ty,
and pos s es s al l the attracti ons of the next worl d”.
“What do you thi nk has happened to Bas i l ?” as ked Dori an, hol di ng up
hi s Burgundy agai ns t the l i ght, and wonderi ng how i t was that he coul d
di s cus s the matter s o cal ml y.
“I have not the s l i ghtes t i dea. If Bas i l choos es to hi de hi ms el f, i t i s no
bus i nes s of mi ne. If he i s dead, I don’t want to thi nk about hi m. Death i s the
onl y thi ng that ever terri fi es me. I hate i t. One can s urvi ve everythi ng
nowadays except that. Death and vul gari ty are the onl y two facts i n the
ni neteenth century that one cannot expl ai n away. Let us have our coffee i n the
mus i c-room, Dori an. You mus t pl ay Chopi n to me. The man wi th whom my
wi fe ran away pl ayed Chopi n exqui s i tel y. Poor Vi ctori a! I was very fond of her.
The hous e i s rather l onel y wi thout her”.
Dori an s ai d nothi ng, but ros e from the tabl e, and, pas s i ng i nto the
next room, s at down to the pi ano and l et hi s fi ngers s tray acros s the keys . After
the coffee had been brought i n, he s topped, and, l ooki ng over at Lord Henry,
s ai d, “Harry, di d i t ever occur to you that Bas i l was murdered?”
Lord Henry yawned. “Bas i l had no enemi es , and al ways wore a
Waterbury watch. Why s houl d he be murdered? He was not cl ever enough to
have enemi es . Of cours e he had a wonderful geni us for pai nti ng. But a man
can pai nt l i ke Vel as quez and yet be as dul l as pos s i bl e. Bas i l was real l y
rather dul l . He onl y i nteres ted me once, and that was when he tol d me, years
ago, that he had a wi l d adorati on for you”.
“I was very fond of Bas i l ”, s ai d Dori an, wi th a s ad l ook i n hi s eyes ”. But
don’t peopl e s ay that he was murdered?”
“Oh, s ome of the papers do. It does not s eem to be probabl e. I know
there are dreadful pl aces i n Pari s , but Bas i l was not the s ort of man to have
gone to them. He had no curi os i ty. It was hi s chi ef defect. Pl ay me a nocturne,
Dori an, and, as you pl ay, tel l me, i n a l ow voi ce, how you have kept your
youth. You mus t have s ome s ecret. I am onl y ten years ol der than you are, and
I am wri nkl ed, and bal d, and yel l ow. You are real l y wonderful , Dori an. You
have never l ooked more charmi ng than you do toni ght. You remi nd me of the
day I s aw you fi rs t. You were rather cheeky, very s hy, and abs ol utel y
extraordi nary. You have changed, of cours e, but not i n appearance. I wi s h you
woul d tel l me your s ecret. To get back my youth I woul d do anythi ng i n the
worl d, except take exerci s e, get up earl y, or be res pectabl e. Youth! There i s
nothi ng l i ke i t. It’s abs urd to tal k of the i gnorance of youth. The onl y peopl e
whos e opi ni ons I l i s ten to now wi th any res pect are peopl e much younger than
mys el f. They s eem i n front of me. Li fe has reveal ed to them her l as t wonder.
As for the aged, I al ways contradi ct the aged. I do i t on pri nci pl e. If you as k
them thei r opi ni on on s omethi ng that happened yes terday, they s ol emnl y
gi ve you the opi ni ons current i n 1820, when peopl e wore hi gh s tocks and knew
abs ol utel y nothi ng. How l ovel y that thi ng you are pl ayi ng i s ! I wonder di d
Chopi n wri te i t at M aj orca, wi th the s ea weepi ng round the vi l l a, and the s al t
s pray das hi ng agai ns t the panes ? It i s marvel ous l y romanti c. What a
bl es s i ng i t i s that there i s one art l eft to us that i s not i mi tati ve! Don’t s top. I
want mus i c toni ght. It s eems to me that you are the young Apol l o, and that I
am M ars yas l i s teni ng to you. I have s orrows , Dori an, of my own, that even you
know nothi ng of. The tragedy of ol d age i s not that one i s ol d, but that one i s
young. I am amazed s ometi mes at my own s i nceri ty. Ah, Dori an, how happy
you are! What an exqui s i te l i fe you have had! You have drunk deepl y of
everythi ng. You have crus hed the grapes agai ns t your pal ate. Nothi ng has
been hi dden from you. But i t has al l been to you no more than the s ound of
mus i c. It has not marred you. You are s ti l l the s ame.
“I wonder what the res t of your l i fe wi l l be. Don’t s poi l i t by
renunci ati ons . At pres ent you are a perfect type. Don’t make yours el f
i ncompl ete.You are qui te fl awl es s now. You need not s hake your head: you
know you are. Bes i des , Dori an, don’t decei ve yours el f. Li fe i s not governed by
wi l l or i ntenti on. Li fe i s a ques ti on of nerves , and fi bres , and s l owl y-bui l t-up
cel l s i n whi ch thought hi des i ts el f and pas s i on has i ts dreams . You may
fancy yours el f s afe, and thi nk yours el f s trong. But a chance tone of col or i n a
room or a morni ng s ky, a parti cul ar perfume that you had once l oved and that
bri ngs s trange memori es wi th i t, a l i ne from a forgotten poem that you had
come acros s agai n, a cadence from a pi ece of mus i c that you had ceas ed to pl ay
– I tel l you, Dori an, that i t i s on thi ngs l i ke thes e that our l i ves depend.
Browni ng wri tes about that s omewhere; but our own s ens es wi l l i magi ne them
for us . There are moments when the odor of hel i otrope pas s es s uddenl y acros s
me, and I have to l i ve the s tranges t year of my l i fe over agai n.
“I wi s h I coul d change pl aces wi th you, Dori an. The worl d has cri ed
out agai ns t us both, but i t has al ways wors hi pped you. It al ways wi l l wors hi p
you. You are the type of what the age i s s earchi ng for, and what i t i s afrai d i t
has found. I am s o gl ad that you have never done anythi ng, never carved a
s tatue, or pai nted a pi cture, or produced anythi ng outs i de of yours el f! Li fe has
been your art. You have s et yours el f to mus i c. Your days have been your
s onnets ”.
Dori an ros e up from the pi ano, and pas s ed hi s hand through hi s
hai r”. Yes , l i fe has been exqui s i te”, he murmured, “but I am not goi ng to
have the s ame l i fe, Harry. And you mus t not s ay thes e extravagant thi ngs to
me. You don’t know everythi ng about me. I thi nk that i f you di d, even you
woul d turn from me. You l augh. Don’t l augh”.
“Why have you s topped pl ayi ng, Dori an? Go back and pl ay the nocturne
over agai n. Look at that great honey-col ored moon that hangs i n the dus ky ai r.
She i s wai ti ng for you to charm her, and i f you pl ay s he wi l l come cl os er to the
earth. You won’t? Let us go to the cl ub, then. It has been a charmi ng eveni ng,
and we mus t end i t charmi ngl y. There i s s ome one at the cl ub who wants
i mmens el y to know you – young Lord Pool e, Bournmouth’s el des t s on. He has
al ready copi ed your neckti es , and has begged me to i ntroduce hi m to you. He
i s qui te del i ghtful , and rather remi nds me of you”.
“I hope not”, s ai d Dori an, wi th a touch of pathos i n hi s voi ce. “But I am
ti red toni ght, Harry. I won’t go to the cl ub. It i s nearl y el even, and I want to go
to bed earl y”.
“Do s tay. You have never pl ayed s o wel l as toni ght. There was
s omethi ng i n your touch that was wonderful . It had more expres s i on than I
had ever heard from i t before”.
“It i s becaus e I am goi ng to be good”, he ans wered, s mi l i ng. “I am a
l i ttl e changed al ready”.
“Don’t change, Dori an; at any rate, don’t change to me. We mus t
al ways be fri ends ”.
“Yet you poi s oned me wi th a book once. I s houl d not forgi ve that. Harry,
promi s e me that you wi l l never l end that book to any one. It does harm”.
“M y dear boy, you are real l y begi nni ng to moral i ze. You wi l l s oon be
goi ng about warni ng peopl e agai ns t al l the s i ns of whi ch you have grown ti red.
You are much too del i ghtful to do that. Bes i des , i t i s no us e. You and I are what
we are, and wi l l be what we wi l l be. Come round tomorrow. I am goi ng to ri de at
el even, and we mi ght go together. The Park i s qui te l ovel y now. I don’t thi nk
there have been s uch l i l acs s i nce the year I met you”.
“Very wel l . I wi l l be here at el even”, s ai d Dori an. “Good-ni ght, Harry”.
As he reached the door he hes i tated for a moment, as i f he had s omethi ng
more to s ay. Then he s i ghed and went out.
It was a l ovel y ni ght, s o warm that he threw hi s coat over hi s arm, and
di d not even put hi s s i l k s carf round hi s throat. As he s trol l ed home, s moki ng
hi s ci garette, two young men i n eveni ng dres s pas s ed hi m. He heard one of
them whi s per to the other, “That i s Dori an Gray”. He remembered how pl eas ed
he us ed to be when he was poi nted out, or s tared at, or tal ked about. He was
ti red of heari ng hi s own name now. Hal f the charm of the l i ttl e vi l l age where
he had been s o often l atel y was that no one knew who he was . He had tol d the
gi rl whom he had made l ove hi m that he was poor, and s he had bel i eved hi m.
He had tol d her once that he was wi cked, and s he had l aughed at hi m, and
tol d hi m that wi cked peopl e were al ways very ol d and very ugl y. What a l augh
s he had! – j us t l i ke a thrus h s i ngi ng. And how pretty s he had been i n her
cotton dres s es and her l arge hats ! She knew nothi ng, but s he had everythi ng
that he had l os t.
When he reached home, he found hi s s ervant wai ti ng up for hi m. He
s ent hi m to bed, and threw hi ms el f down on the s ofa i n the l i brary, and
began to thi nk over s ome of the thi ngs that Lord Henry had s ai d to hi m.
Was i t real l y true that one coul d never change? He fel t a wi l d l ongi ng
for the uns tai ned puri ty of hi s boyhood – hi s ros e-whi te boyhood, as Lord
Henry had once cal l ed i t. He knew that he had tarni s hed hi ms el f, fi l l ed hi s
mi nd wi th corrupti on, and gi ven horror to hi s fancy; that he had been an evi l
i nfl uence to others , and had experi enced a terri bl e j oy i n bei ng s o; and that of
the l i ves that had cros s ed hi s own i t had been the fai res t and the mos t ful l of
promi s e that he had brought to s hame. But was i t al l i rretri evabl e? Was there
no hope for hi m?
It was better not to thi nk of the pas t. Nothi ng coul d al ter that. It was of
hi ms el f, and of hi s own future, that he had to thi nk. Al an Campbel l had s hot
hi ms el f one ni ght i n hi s l aboratory, but had not reveal ed the s ecret that he
had been forced to know. The exci tement, s uch as i t was , over Bas i l Hal l ward’s
di s appearance woul d s oon pas s away. It was al ready wani ng. He was perfectl y
s afe there. Nor, i ndeed, was i t the death of Bas i l Hal l ward that wei ghed mos t
upon hi s mi nd. It was the l i vi ng death of hi s own s oul that troubl ed hi m.
Bas i l had pai nted the portrai t that had marred hi s l i fe. He coul d not forgi ve
hi m that. It was the portrai t that had done everythi ng. Bas i l had s ai d thi ngs to
hi m that were unbearabl e, and that he had yet borne wi th pati ence. The
murder had been s i mpl y the madnes s of a moment. As for Al an Campbel l ,
hi s s ui ci de had been hi s own act. He had chos en to do i t. It was nothi ng to
hi m.
A new l i fe! That was what he wanted. That was what he was wai ti ng
for. Surel y he had begun i t al ready. He had s pared one i nnocent thi ng, at any
rate. He woul d never agai n tempt i nnocence. He woul dbe good.
As he thought of Hetty M erton, he began to wonder i f the portrai t i n
the l ocked room had changed. Surel y i t was not s ti l l s o horri bl e as i t had been?
Perhaps i f hi s l i fe became pure, he woul d be abl e to expel every s i gn of evi l
pas s i on from the face. Perhaps the s i gns of evi l had al ready gone away. He
woul d go and l ook.
He took the l amp from the tabl e and crept up-s tai rs . As he unl ockedthe
door, a s mi l e of j oy fl i tted acros s hi s young face and l i ngered for a moment
about hi s l i ps . Yes , he woul d be good, and the hi deous thi ng that he had
hi dden away woul d no l onger be a terror to hi m. He fel t as i f the l oad had been
l i fted from hi m al ready.
He went i n qui etl y, l ocki ng the door behi nd hi m, as was hi s cus tom,
and dragged the purpl e hangi ng from the portrai t. A cry of pai n and
i ndi gnati on broke from hi m. He coul d s ee no change, unl es s that i n the eyes
there was a l ook of cunni ng and i n the mouth the curved wri nkl e of the
hypocri te. The thi ng was s ti l l l oaths ome – more l oaths ome, i f pos s i bl e, than
before – and the s carl et dew that s potted the hand s eemed bri ghter, and more
l i ke bl ood newl y s pi l t.
Had i t been merel y vani ty that had made hi m do hi s one good deed? Or
the des i re of a new s ens ati on, as Lord Henry had hi nted, wi th hi s mocki ng
l augh? Or that pas s i on to act a part that s ometi mes makes us do thi ngs fi ner
than we are ours el ves ? Or, perhaps , al l thes e?
Why was the red s tai n l arger than i t had been? It s eemed to have crept
l i ke a horri bl e di s eas e over the wri nkl ed fi ngers . There was bl ood on the
pai nted feet, as though the thi ng had dri pped, – bl ood even on the hand that
had not hel d the kni fe.
Confes s ? Di d i t mean that he was to confes s ? To gi ve hi ms el f up, and
be put to death? He l aughed. He fel t that the i dea was mons trous . Bes i des , who
woul d bel i eve hi m, even i f he di d confes s ? There was no trace of the murdered
man anywhere. E verythi ng bel ongi ng to hi m had been des troyed. He hi ms el f
had burned what had been bel ow-s tai rs . The worl d woul d s i mpl y s ay he was
mad. They woul d s hut hi m up i f he pers i s ted i n hi s s tory.
Yet i t was hi s duty to confes s , to s uffer publ i c s hame, and to make
publ i c atonement. There was a God who cal l ed upon men to tel l thei r s i ns to
earth as wel l as to heaven. Nothi ng that he coul d do woul d cl eans e hi m ti l l he
had tol d hi s own s i n. Hi s s i n? He s hrugged hi s s houl ders . The death of Bas i l
Hal l ward s eemed very l i ttl e to hi m. He was thi nki ng of Hetty M erton.
It was an unj us t mi rror, thi s mi rror of hi s s oul that he was l ooki ng at.
Vani ty? Curi os i ty? Hypocri s y? Had there been nothi ng more i n hi s
renunci ati on than that? There had been s omethi ng more. At l eas t he thought
s o. But who coul d tel l ?
And thi s murder – was i t to dog hi m al l hi s l i fe? Was he never to get
ri d of the pas t? Was he real l y to confes s ? No. There was onl y one bi t of
evi dence l eft agai ns t hi m. The pi cture i ts el f – that was evi dence.
He woul d des troy i t. Why had he kept i t s o l ong? It had gi ven hi m
pl eas ure once to watch i t changi ng and growi ng ol d. Of l ate he had fel t no
s uch pl eas ure. It had kept hi m awake at ni ght. When he had been away, he
had been fi l l ed wi th terror l es t other eyes s houl d l ook upon i t. It had brought
mel anchol y acros s hi s pas s i ons . Its mere memory had marred many
moments of j oy. It had been l i ke cons ci ence to hi m. Yes , i t had been
cons ci ence. He woul d des troy i t.
He l ooked round, and s aw the kni fe that had s tabbed Bas i l Hal l ward.
He had cl eaned i t many ti mes , ti l l there was no s tai n l eft upon i t. It was
bri ght, and gl i s tened. As i t had ki l l ed the pai nter, s o i t woul d ki l l the
pai nter’s work, and al l that that meant. It woul d ki l l the pas t, and when that
was dead he woul d be free. He s ei zed i t, and s tabbed the canvas wi th i t,
ri ppi ng the thi ng ri ght up from top to bottom.
There was a cry heard, and a cras h. The cry was s o horri bl e i n i ts
agony that the fri ghtened s ervants woke, and crept out of thei r rooms . Two
gentl emen, who were pas s i ng i n the Square bel ow, s topped, and l ooked up at
the great hous e. They wal ked on ti l l they met a pol i ceman, and brought hi m
back. The man rang the bel l s everal ti mes , but there was no ans wer. The
hous e was al l dark, except for a l i ght i n one of the top wi ndows . After a ti me,
he went away, and s tood i n the porti co of the next hous e and watched.
“Whos e hous e i s that, cons tabl e?” as ked the el der of the two
gentl emen.
“M r. Dori an Gray’s , s i r”, ans wered the pol i ceman.
They l ooked at each other, as they wal ked away, and s neered. One of
them was Si r Henry As hton’s uncl e.
Ins i de, i n the s ervants ’ part of the hous e, the hal f-cl ad domes ti cs
were tal ki ng i n l ow whi s pers to each other. Ol d M rs . Leaf was cryi ng, and
wri ngi ng her hands . Franci s was as pal e as death.
After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the
footmen and crept up-s tai rs . They knocked, but there was no repl y. They
cal l ed out. E verythi ng was s ti l l . Fi nal l y, after vai nl y tryi ng to force the door,
they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the bal cony. The wi ndows yi el ded
eas i l y: the bol ts were ol d.
When they entered, they found hangi ng upon the wal l a s pl endi d
portrai t of thei r mas ter as they had l as t s een hi m, i n al l the wonder of hi s
exqui s i te youth and beauty. Lyi ng on the fl oor was a dead man, i n eveni ng
dres s , wi th a kni fe i n hi s heart. He was wi thered, wri nkl ed, and l oaths ome of
vi s age. It was not ti l l they had exami ned the ri ngs that they recogni zed who i t
was .
FINIS
Oscar Wilde
“Não tenho nada a declarar além de minha genialidade”, disse uma vez Wilde
aos oficiais da alfândega, entretanto a imagem conhecida de Oscar Wilde como
um homem de conquistas pessoais sem esforços está longe da verdade. Nascido
em 16 de outubro de 1854, em Dublin, na Irlanda, e filho de uma poetisa
nacionalista, estudou no Trinity College, antes de se transferir para o Magdalen
College em Oxford. Foi em Oxford que ele se aliou ao movimento artístico do
Esteticismo, que possuía como lema “a Arte pela Arte”, e adotou suas
características únicas no vestir e no se comportar (baseados em uma fantasia que
ele usou em um baile de formatura).
Casado em 1884 com Constance Lloy d, teve dois filhos a quem Wilde se
devotava de corpo e alma e cujo afastamento, por decisão de Constance, após
sua prisão, foi devastador. Mesmo após o casamento, manteve-se muito
conhecido e requisitado em todas as rodas literárias, honrando todos os
compromissos aos quais era convidado. Tornou-se realmente uma pessoa
indispensável e comentada em toda sorte de eventos sociais, espalhando glamour
e comentários por onde passava. Possuía uma aparência que atraia os olhares:
vestia-se elegante e extravagantemente bem, com roupas e adereços que,
segundo suas próprias palavras, sempre refletiam o que de mais íntimo existia
dentro dele. Embora bem conhecido nos círculos sociais, Wilde recebeu pouco
reconhecimento por sua obra durante muitos anos até a estréia de “O Leque de
Lady Wildermere” que consolidou sua fama literária a partir de 1892. O
simulacro, o homem e seu retrato eram a maneira da qual o autor se utilizava
para relacionar-se com o mundo. Mas o período de sucesso foi extremamente
curto.