Chapter 2(1 / 1)

Chapter 2As they ehey saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumanns "Forest Ses." "You must lehese, Basil," he cried. "I want to learhey are perfectly charming.""That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian.""Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I dont want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the d, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petunt manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, aarted up. "I beg your pardon, Basil, but I didnt know you had any oh you.""This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything.""You have not spoiled my pleasure iing you, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, stepping forward aending his hand. "My aunt has often spoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of her victims also.""I am in Lady Agathas bck books at present," answered Dorian with a funny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapel with her st Tuesday, and I really fot all about it. We were to have pyed a duet together--three duets, I believe. I dont know what she will say to me. I am far thteo call.""Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I dont think it really matters about your not being there. The audience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people.""That is very horrid to her, and not very o me," answered Dorian, ughing.Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. There was something in his face that made orust him at once. All the dour of youth was there, as well as all youths passionate purity. Ohat he had kept himself unspotted from the world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him."You are too charming to go in for phinthropy, Mr. Gray--far too charming." And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case.The painter had been busy mixing his colours aing his brushes ready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henrys st remark, he g him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think it awfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?"Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to gray?" he asked."Oh, please dont, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulky moods, and I t bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why I should not go in for phinthropy.""I dont know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. You dont really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some oo chat to."Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorians whims are ws to everybody, except himself."Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. e and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five oclock. Write to me when you are ing. I should be sorry to miss you.""Basil," cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a ptform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.""Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me," said Hallward, gazing ily at his picture. "It is quite true, I alk when I am w, and never listeher, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortuters. I beg you to stay.""But what about my man at the Orleans?"The painter ughed. "I dont think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Doria up oform, and dont move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself."Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of distent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful trast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?""There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral--immoral from the stific point of view.""Why?""Because to influence a person is to give him ones own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He bees an echo of some one elses musi actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize ones nature perfectly--that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have fotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to ones self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Ce has go of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret ion--these are the two things that govern us. A--""Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy," said the painter, deep in his work and scious only that a look had e into the ds face that he had never seen there before."A," tinued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one mao live out his life fully and pletely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would fet all the madies of mediaevalism, aurn to the Hellenic ideal-- to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutition of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. unished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive tle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has doh its sin, for a is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recolle of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous ws have made monstrous and unwful. It has been said that the great events of the world take p the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take pce also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have fined you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--""Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I dont know what to say. There is some ao you, but I ot find it. Dont speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think."For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly scious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have e really from himself. The few words that Basils friend had said to him--words spoken by o doubt, and with wilful paradox in them-- had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articute. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. A what a subtle magic there was ihey seemed to be able to give a psti to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not uood. He uood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he not known it?With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He khe precise psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely ied. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray assing through a simir experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? How fasating the d was!Hallainted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refi and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate es only from strength. He was unscious of the silence."Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I must go out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here.""My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I t think of anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted-- the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. I dont know what Harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you pliments. You mustnt believe a word that he says.""He has certainly not been paying me pliments. Perhaps that is the reason that I dont believe anything he has told me.""You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him with his dreamy nguorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It is horribly hot iudio. Basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it.""Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker es I will tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I will join you ter on. Dont keep Dorian too long. I have never been ier form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands."Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his fa the great cool lis, feverishly drinking in their perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured. "Nothing cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing cure the senses but the soul."The d started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips ahem trembling."Yes," tinued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of life-- to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured fad worn expression ied him. There was something in his low nguid voice that was absolutely fasating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like musid seemed to have a nguage of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it bee for a strao reveal him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had e some one across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him lifes mystery. And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolbirl. It was absurd to be frightened."Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this gre, you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really must not allow yourself to bee sunburnt. It would be unbeing.""What it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, ughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden."It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.""Why?""Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the ohing worth having.""I dohat, Lord Henry.""No, you dont feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? . . . You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Dont frown. You have. Ay is a form of genius-- is higher, ihan genius, as it needs no expnation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the refle in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It ot be questioned. It has its divine right of snty. It makes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you wont smile. . . . People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearahe true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. . . . Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to tent yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter thas. Every month as it wanes brings you o something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will bee sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-99lib?eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it. Dont squahe gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, iving away your life to the ignorant, the on, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of e. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searg for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. . . . A new Hedonism-- that is what our tury wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season. . . . The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so mu you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought hic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will st--such a little time. The on hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The burnum will be as yellow June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty bees sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degee into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the ce to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!"Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and w. The spray of lic fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stelted globe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that straerest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some ion for which we ot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us ys suddeo the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stairumpet of a Tyrian volvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made staccato signs for them to e in. They turo each other and smiled."I am waiting," he cried. "Do e in. The light is quite perfect, and you bring your drinks."They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the er of the garden a thrush began to sing."Yd you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking at him."Yes, I am gd now. I wonder shall I always be gd?""Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it st for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only differeween a caprid a lifelong passion is that the caprice sts a little longer."As they ehe studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henrys arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up oform and resumed his pose.Lord Henry flung himself inte wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the vas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. Iing beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. The heavy st of the roses seemed to brood over everything.After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quite finished," he cried at st, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilioers on the left-hand er of the vas.Lord Henry came over and examihe picture. It was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well."My dear fellow, I gratute you most warmly," he said. "It is the fi portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, e over and look at yourself."The d started, as if awakened from some dream."Is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the ptform."Quite finished," said the painter. "And you have sat splendidly to-day. I am awfully obliged to you.""That is entirely due to me," broke in Lord Henry. "Isnt it, Mr. Gray?"Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turowards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had reized himself for the first time. He stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly scious that Hallward eaking to him, but not catg the meaning of his words. The sense of his owy came on him like a revetion. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallwards pliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. He had listeo them, ughed at them, fottehey had not influenced his nature. Then had e Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyri youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description fshed across him. Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would bee dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He felt as if a hand of ice had been id upon his heart."Dont you like it?" cried Hallward at st, stung a little by the ds silenot uanding what it meant."Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldnt like it? It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anything you like to ask for it. I must have it.""It is not my property, Harry.""Whose property is it?""Dorians, of course," answered the painter."He is a very lucky fellow.""How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particur day of June. . . . If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!""You would hardly care for su arra, Basil," cried Lord Henry, ughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work.""I should object very strongly, Harry," said Hallward.Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than a green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say."The paiared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushed and his cheeks burning."Yes," he tinued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or your silver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me? Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses ones good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growing old, I shall kill myself."Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "dont talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and I shall never have suother. You are not jealous of material things, are you?-- you who are fihan any of them!""I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could ge, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his fa the cushions, as though he raying."This is your doing, Harry," said the painter bitterly.Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray-- that is all.""It is not.""If it is not, what have I to do with it?""You should have gone away when I asked you," he muttered."I stayed when you asked me," was Lord Henrys answer."Harry, I t quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the fi piece of work I have ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but vas and colour? I will not let it e across our three lives and mar them."Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid fad tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beh the high curtained window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin bde of lithe steel. He had found it at st. He was going to rip up the vas.With a stifled sob the d leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to Hallward, tore the k of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "Dont, Basil, dont!" he cried. "It would be murder!""I am gd you appreciate my work at st, Dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I hought you would.""Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I feel that.""Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, a home. Then you do what you like with yourself." And he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to such simple pleasures?""I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the st refuge of the plex. But I dont like ses, except oage. What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am gd he is not, after all-- though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesnt really want it, and I really do.""If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never five you!" cried Dorian Gray; "and I dont allow people to call me a silly boy.""You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before it existed.""And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you dont really object to being remihat you are extremely young.""I should have objected very strongly this m, Lord Henry.""Ah! this m! You have lived sihen."There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a deray a down upon a small Japaable. There was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Geian urn. Two globe-shaped a dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered nguidly to the table and examined what was uhe covers."Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to di Whites, but it is only with an old friend, so I send him a wire to say that I am ill, or that I am prevented from ing in sequence of a subsequent e. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of dour.""It is such a bore putting on ones dress-clothes," muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid.""Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the e of the eenth tury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only real colour-eleme in modern life.""You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry.""Before which Dorian? The one who is p out tea for us, or the one in the picture?""Before either.""I should like to e to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said the d."Then you shall e; and you will e, too, Basil, wont you?""I t, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do.""Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray.""I should like that awfully."The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian," he said, sadly."Is it the real Dorian?" cried the inal of the portrait, strolling across to him. "Am I really like that?""Yes; you are just like that.""How wonderful, Basil!""At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighed Hallward. "That is something.""What a fuss people make about fidelity!" excimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and ot: that is all one say.""Dont go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and dih me.""I t, Basil.""Why?""Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him.""He wont like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go."Dorian Gray ughed and shook his head."I e you."The d hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, atg them from the tea-table with an amused smile."I must go, Basil," he answered."Very well," said Hallward, and he went over and id down his cup oray. "It is rather te, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. e and see me soon. e to-morrow.""Certainly.""You wont fet?""No, of course not," cried Dorian."And ... Harry!""Yes, Basil?""Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this m.""I have fotten it.""I trust you.""I wish I could trust myself," said Lord Henry, ughing. "e, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I drop you at your own pce. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most iing afternoon."As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.

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