The Picture of Dorian Gray Page #51

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

								


"I wish it were fin du globe," said Dorian with a sigh.  "Life is a great disappointment."

"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don't tell me that you have exhausted life.  When a man says that one knows that life has exhausted him.  Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you look so good.  I must find you a nice wife.  Lord Henry, don't you think that Mr. Gray should get married?"

"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a bow.

"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him.  I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies."

"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian.

"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited.  But nothing must be done in a hurry.  I want it to be what The Morning Post calls a suitable alliance, and I want you both to be happy."

"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord Henry.  "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her."

"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair and nodding to Lady Ruxton.  "You must come and dine with me soon again.  You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew prescribes for me.  You must tell me what people you would like to meet, though.  I want it to be a delightful gathering."

"I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered. "Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?"

"I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up.  "A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished your cigarette."

"Never mind, Lady Narborough.  I smoke a great deal too much.  I am going to limit myself, for the future."

"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry.  "Moderation is a fatal thing.  Enough is as bad as a meal.  More than enough is as good as a feast."

Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously.  "You must come and explain that to me some afternoon, Lord Henry.  It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured, as she swept out of the room.

"Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal," cried Lady Narborough from the door.  "If you do, we are sure to squabble upstairs."

The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the table and came up to the top.  Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry.  Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation in the House of Commons.  He guffawed at his adversaries. The word doctrinaire--word full of terror to the British mind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions.  An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory.  He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought.  The inherited stupidity of the race--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to be the proper bulwark for society.

A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian.

"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked.  "You seemed rather out of sorts at dinner."

"I am quite well, Harry.  I am tired.  That is all."

"You were charming last night.  The little duchess is quite devoted to you.  She tells me she is going down to Selby."

"She has promised to come on the twentieth."

"Is Monmouth to be there, too?"

"Oh, yes, Harry."

"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her.  She is very clever, too clever for a woman.  She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness.  It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious.  Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like.  They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens.  She has had experiences."

"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian.

"An eternity, she tells me.  I believe, according to the peerage, it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in.  Who else is coming?"

"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set.  I have asked Lord Grotrian."

"I like him," said Lord Henry.  "A great many people don't, but I find him charming.  He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type."

"I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry.  He may have to go to Monte Carlo with his father."

"Ah! what a nuisance people's people are!  Try and make him come.  By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night.  You left before eleven.  What did you do afterwards?  Did you go straight home?"

Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.

"No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three."

"Did you go to the club?"

"Yes," he answered.  Then he bit his lip.  "No, I don't mean that.  I didn't go to the club.  I walked about.  I forget what I did.... How inquisitive you are, Harry!  You always want to know what one has been doing.  I always want to forget what I have been doing.  I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time.  I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in.  If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him."

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.  "My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian.  Tell me what it is.  You are not yourself to-night."

"Don't mind me, Harry.  I am irritable, and out of temper.  I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day.  Make my excuses to Lady Narborough.  I shan't go upstairs.  I shall go home.  I must go home."

"All right, Dorian.  I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. The duchess is coming."

"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room.  As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him.  Lord Henry's casual questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still.  Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed.  He winced.  He hated the idea of even touching them.

Yet it had to be done.  He realized that, and when he had locked the door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag.  A huge fire was blazing.  He piled another log on it.  The smell of the singeing clothes and burning leather was horrible.  It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume everything.  At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.

Suddenly he started.  His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed nervously at his underlip.  Between two of the windows stood a large Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue lapis.  He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet almost loathed.  His breath quickened.  A mad craving came over him. He lit a cigarette and then threw it away.  His eyelids drooped till the long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek.  But he still watched the cabinet.  At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring.  A triangular drawer passed slowly out.  His fingers moved instinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something.  It was a small Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads.  He opened it. Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and persistent.
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