Complete Works of Oscar Wilde Read online

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘You won’t forget?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ cried Dorian.

  ‘And…Harry!’

  ‘Yes, Basil?’

  ‘Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning.’

  ‘I have forgotten it.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘I wish I could trust myself,’ said Lord Henry, laughing. ‘Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.’

  As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.

  3

  AT half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish, because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young, and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the Diplomatic Service in a capricious moment of annoyance at not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his despatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father’s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers, as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.

  When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot, and grumbling over The Times. ‘Well, Harry,’ said the old gentleman, ‘what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five.’

  ‘Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.’

  ‘Money, I suppose,’ said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. ‘Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Lord Henry, settling his buttonhole in his coat; ‘and when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information; not useful information, of course; useless information.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue-book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.’

  ‘Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue-books, Uncle George,’ said Lord Henry, languidly.

  ‘Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?’ asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows.

  ‘That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso’s grandson. His mother was a Devereux; Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.’

  ‘Kelso’s grandson!’ echoed the old gentleman. – ‘Kelso’s grandson!…Of course…I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux; and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow; a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa, a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public; paid him, sir, to do it, paid him; and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh yes; it was a bad business. The girl died too; died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother he must be a good-looking chap.’

  ‘He is very good looking,’ assented Lord Henry.

  ‘I hope he will fall into proper hands,’ continued the old man. ‘He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn’t dare to show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Lord Henry. ‘I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And…his mother was very beautiful?’

  ‘Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn’t a girl in London at the time who wasn’t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?’

  ‘It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.’

  ‘I’ll back English women against the world, Harry,’ said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist.

  ‘The betting is on the Americans.’

  ‘They don’t last, I am told,’ muttered his uncle.

  ‘A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don’t think Dartmoor has a chance.’

  ‘Who are her people?’ grumbled the old gentleman. ‘Has she got any?’

  Lord Henry shook his head. ‘American girls are as clever at concealing their parents as English women are at concealing their past,’ he said, rising to go.

  ‘They are pork-packers, I suppose?’

  ‘I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.’

  ‘Why can’t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the Paradise for women.’

  ‘It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, th
ey are so excessively anxious to get out of it,’ said Lord Henry. ‘Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.’

  ‘Where are you lunching, Harry?’

  ‘At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest protégé.’

  ‘Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads.’

  ‘All right, Uncle George, I’ll tell her, but it won’t have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic.’

  The old gentleman growled approvingly, and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street, and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.

  So that was the story of Dorian Gray’s parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow…And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as, with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure, he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow…There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one’s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one’s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one’s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume; there was a real joy in that – perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims…He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil’s studio; or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept for us. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade!…And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryad-like and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist in thought, who had first analysed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it was strange…Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him – had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.

  Suddenly he stopped, and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick, and passed into the dining-room.

  ‘Late as usual, Harry,’ cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.

  He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley – a lady of admirable good nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life, and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories, and thinking with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a Ministerial statement in the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape.

  ‘We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry,’ cried the Duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. ‘Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?’

  ‘I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.’

  ‘How dreadful!’ exclaimed Lady Agatha. ‘Really, some one should interfere.’

  ‘I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store,’ said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.

  ‘My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Dry goods! What are American dry-goods?’ asked the Duchess, raising her large hands in wonder, and accentuating the verb.

  ‘American novels,’ answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.

  The Duchess looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t mind him, my dear,’ whispered Lady Agatha. ‘He never means anything that he says.’

  ‘When America was discovered,’ said the Radical member, and he began to give some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. The Duchess sighed, and exercised her privilege of interruption. ‘I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!’ she exclaimed. ‘Really, our girls have no chance nowadays. It is most unfair.’

  ‘Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered,’ said Mr. Erskine. ‘I myself would say that it had merely been detected.’

  ‘Oh! But I have seen specimens of the inhabitants,’ answered the Duchess, vaguely. ‘I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same.’

  ‘They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris,’ chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour’s cast-off clothes.

  ‘Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?’ inquired the Duchess.

  ‘They go to America,’ murmured Lord Henry.

  Sir Thomas frowned. ‘I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country,’ he said to Lady Agatha. ‘I have travelled all over it, in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.’

  ‘But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?’ asked Mr. Erskine, plaintiv
ely. ‘I don’t feel up to the journey.’

  Sir Thomas waved his hand. ‘Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.’

  ‘How dreadful!’ cried Lord Henry. ‘I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.’

  ‘I do not understand you,’ said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.

  ‘I do, Lord Henry,’ murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.

  ‘Paradoxes are all very well in their way…’ rejoined the Baronet.

  ‘Was that a paradox?’ asked Mr. Erskine. ‘I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we must see it on the tight-rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can judge them.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said Lady Agatha, ‘how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing.’

  ‘I want him to play to me,’ cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance.

  ‘But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel,’ continued Lady Agatha.

  ‘I can sympathise with everything, except suffering,’ said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I cannot sympathise with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life’s sores the better.’

  ‘Still, the East End is a very important problem,’ remarked Sir Thomas, with a grave shake of the head.