The Picture of Dorian Gray Page #27

The Picture of Dorian Gray is a Gothic and philosophical novel by Oscar Wilde, first published complete in the July 1890 issue of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. Fearing the story was indecent, prior to publication the magazine's editor deleted roughly five hundred words without Wilde's knowledge.

• Fiction
• Philosophy

								


Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen.  The screen was an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern.  He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life.

Should he move it aside, after all?  Why not let it stay there?  What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible.  If it was not true, why trouble about it?  But what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change?  What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture?  Basil would be sure to do that.  No; the thing had to be examined, and at once.  Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt.

He got up and locked both doors.  At least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame.  Then he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face.  It was perfectly true.  The portrait had altered.

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest.  That such a change should have taken place was incredible to him.  And yet it was a fact.  Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him?  Could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true?  Or was there some other, more terrible reason?  He shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him.  It had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane.  It was not too late to make reparation for that.  She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all.  There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep.  But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin.  Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian Gray did not stir.  He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering.  He did not know what to do, or what to think.  Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness.  He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain.  There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us.  It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.  When Dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's voice outside.  "My dear boy, I must see you.  Let me in at once.  I can't bear your shutting yourself up like this."

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still.  The knocking still continued and grew louder.  Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable.  He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door.

"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian," said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it."

"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad.

"Yes, of course," answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves.  "It is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault.  Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?"

"Yes."

"I felt sure you had.  Did you make a scene with her?"

"I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal.  But it is all right now.  I am not sorry for anything that has happened.  It has taught me to know myself better."

"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way!  I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours."

"I have got through all that," said Dorian, shaking his head and smiling.  "I am perfectly happy now.  I know what conscience is, to begin with.  It is not what you told me it was.  It is the divinest thing in us.  Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not before me.  I want to be good.  I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous."

"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian!  I congratulate you on it.  But how are you going to begin?"

"By marrying Sibyl Vane."

"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement.  "But, my dear Dorian--"

"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say.  Something dreadful about marriage.  Don't say it.  Don't ever say things of that kind to me again.  Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me.  I am not going to break my word to her.  She is to be my wife."

"Your wife!  Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter?  I wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man."

"Your letter?  Oh, yes, I remember.  I have not read it yet, Harry.  I was afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like.  You cut life to pieces with your epigrams."

"You know nothing then?"

"What do you mean?"

Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly.  "Dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vane is dead."

A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp.  "Dead!  Sibyl dead! It is not true!  It is a horrible lie!  How dare you say it?"

"It is quite true, Dorian," said Lord Henry, gravely.  "It is in all the morning papers.  I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till I came.  There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it.  Things like that make a man fashionable in Paris.  But in London people are so prejudiced.  Here, one should never make one's debut with a scandal.  One should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age.  I suppose they don't know your name at the theatre?  If they don't, it is all right.  Did any one see you going round to her room?  That is an important point."
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