Complete Works of Oscar Wilde Read online

  ‘Oh, don’t be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of those silly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am not going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect happiness. We won’t quarrel. I know you would never harm any one I love, would you?’

  ‘Not as long as you love him, I suppose,’ was the sullen answer.

  ‘I shall love him for ever!’ she cried.

  ‘And he?’

  ‘For ever, too!’

  ‘He had better.’

  She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. He was merely a boy.

  At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o’clock, and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim insisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a scene, and he detested scenes of every kind.

  In Sibyl’s own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad’s heart, and a fierce, murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened, and kissed her with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs.

  His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table, and crawled over the stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him.

  After some time, he thrust away his plate, and put his head in his hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up, and went to the door. Then he turned back, and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him.

  ‘Mother, I have something to ask you,’ he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. ‘Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?’

  She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal.

  ‘No,’ she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life.

  ‘My father was a scoundrel then?’ cried the lad, clenching his fists.

  She shook her head. ‘I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don’t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed he was highly connected.’

  An oath broke from his lips. ‘I don’t care for myself,’ he exclaimed, ‘but don’t let Sibyl…It is a gentleman, isn’t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose.’

  For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. ‘Sibyl has a mother,’ she murmured; ‘I had none.’

  The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down he kissed her. ‘I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father,’ he said, ‘but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don’t forget that you will only have one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it.’

  The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down, and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day.

  6

  ‘I SUPPOSE you have heard the news, Basil?’ said Lord Henry, that evening, as Hall ward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol, where dinner had been laid for three.

  ‘No, Harry,’ answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. ‘What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don’t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting; though many of them would be the better for a little white-washing.’

  ‘Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,’ said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke.

  Hallward started, and then frowned. ‘Dorian engaged to be married!’ he cried. ‘Impossible!’

  ‘It is perfectly true.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To some little actress or other.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.’

  ‘Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil.’

  ‘Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.’

  ‘Except in America,’ rejoined Lord Henry, languidly. ‘But I didn’t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged.’

  ‘But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.’

  ‘If you want to make him marry this girl tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives.’

  ‘I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don’t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect.’

  ‘Oh, she is better than good – she is beautiful,’ murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange bitters. ‘Dorian says she is beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn’t forget his appointment.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment.’

  ‘But do you approve of it, Harry?’ asked the painter, walking up and down the room, and biting his lip. ‘You can’t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation.’

  ‘I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. Th
ey retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organised, and to be highly organised is, I should fancy, the object of man’s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study.’

  ‘You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t. If Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.’

  Lord Henry laughed. ‘The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can.’

  ‘My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!’ said the lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. ‘I have never been so happy. Of course it is sudden; all really delightful things are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my life.’ He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked extraordinarily handsome.

  ‘I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,’ said Hallward, ‘but I don’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. You let Harry know.’

  ‘And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,’ broke in Lord Henry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder, and smiling as he spoke. ‘Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, and then you will tell us how it all came about.’

  ‘There is really not much to tell,’ cried Dorian, as they took their seats at the small round table. ‘What happened was simply this. After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course the scenery was dreadful, and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl! You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes she was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim brown cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for her acting – well, you shall see her to-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London, and in the nineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of course our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I don’t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take my love out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the mouth.’

  ‘Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,’ said Hallward, slowly.

  ‘Have you seen her to-day?’ asked Lord Henry.

  Dorian Gray shook his head. ‘I left her in the forest of Arden, I shall find her in an orchard in Verona.’

  Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. ‘At what particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.’

  ‘My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is nothing to me compared with her.’

  ‘Women are wonderfully practical,’ murmured Lord Henry – ‘much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.’

  Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. ‘Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any one. His nature is too fine for that.’

  Lord Henry looked across the table. ‘Dorian is never annoyed with me,’ he answered. ‘I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any question – simply curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not modern.’

  Dorian Gray laughed and tossed his head. ‘You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don’t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could wrong her would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to place her on a pedestal of gold, and to see the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah! don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.’

  ‘And those are…?’ asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

  ‘Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.’

  ‘Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,’ he answered, in his slow, melodious voice. ‘But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.’

  ‘Ah! but what do you mean by good?’ cried Basil Hallward.

  ‘Yes,’ echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Lord Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the centre of the table, ‘what do you mean by good, Harry?’

  ‘To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,’ he replied, touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. ‘Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own life – that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral views about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides, Individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality.’

  ‘But, surely, if one lives mere
ly for one’s self, Harry, one pays a terrible price for doing so?’ suggested the painter.

  ‘Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege of the rich.’

  ‘One has to pay in other ways but money.’

  ‘What sort of ways, Basil?’

  ‘Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in…well, in the consciousness of degradation.’

  Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. ‘My dear fellow, mediæval art is charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever knows what a pleasure is.’

  ‘I know what pleasure is,’ cried Dorian Gray. ‘It is to adore some one.’

  ‘That is certainly better than being adored,’ he answered, toying with some fruits. ‘Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as Humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for them.’

  ‘I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to us,’ murmured the lad, gravely. ‘They create Love in our natures. They have a right to demand it back.’

  ‘That is quite true, Dorian,’ cried Hallward.

  ‘Nothing is ever quite true,’ said Lord Henry.

  ‘This is,’ interrupted Dorian. ‘You must admit, Harry, that women give to men the very gold of their lives.’

  ‘Possibly,’ he sighed, ‘but they invariably want it back in such very small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces, and always prevent us from carrying them out.’

  ‘Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.’

  ‘You will always like me, Dorian,’ he replied. ‘Will you have some coffee, you fellows? – Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and some cigarettes. No: don’t mind the cigarettes; I have some. Basil, I can’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.’