by Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER VIII
[...58] When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, andwondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man wasquite impassive, and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette,[59] and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could seethe reflection of Victor's face perfectly. It was like a placid maskof servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet hethought it best to be on his guard.
Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that hewanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker's and ask him tosend two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the manleft the room he peered in the direction of the screen. Or was thatonly his fancy?
After a few moments, Mrs. Leaf, a dear old lady in a black silk dress,with a photograph of the late Mr. Leaf framed in a large gold brooch ather neck, and old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands,bustled into the room.
"Well, Master Dorian," she said, "what can I do for you? I beg yourpardon, sir,"--here came a courtesy,--"I shouldn't call you MasterDorian any more. But, Lord bless you, sir, I have known you since youwere a baby, and many's the trick you've played on poor old Leaf. Notthat you were not always a good boy, sir; but boys will be boys, MasterDorian, and jam is a temptation to the young, isn't it, sir?"
He laughed. "You must always call me Master Dorian, Leaf. I will bevery angry with you if you don't. And I assure you I am quite as fondof jam now as I used to be. Only when I am asked out to tea I am neveroffered any. I want you to give me the key of the room at the top ofthe house."
"The old school-room, Master Dorian? Why, it's full of dust. I mustget it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It's not fitfor you to see, Master Dorian. It is not, indeed."
"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key."
"Well, Master Dorian, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you goes intoit. Why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years,--not since hislordship died."
He winced at the mention of his dead uncle's name. He had hatefulmemories of him. "That does not matter, Leaf," he replied. "All Iwant is the key."
"And here is the key, Master Dorian," said the old lady, after goingover the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Hereis the key. I'll have it off the ring in a moment. But you don'tthink of living up there, Master Dorian, and you so comfortable here?"
"No, Leaf, I don't. I merely want to see the place, and perhaps storesomething in it,--that is all. Thank you, Leaf. I hope yourrheumatism is better; and mind you send me up jam for breakfast."
Mrs. Leaf shook her head. "Them foreigners doesn't understand jam,Master Dorian. They calls it 'compot.' But I'll bring it to youmyself some morning, if you lets me."
"That will be very kind of you, Leaf," he answered, looking at the key;and, having made him an elaborate courtesy, the old lady left the room,her face wreathed in smiles. She had a strong objection to the Frenchvalet. It was a poor thing, she felt, for any one to be born aforeigner.
[60] As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket, and lookedround the room. His eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet heavilyembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-centuryVenetian work that his uncle had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes,that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps servedoften as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had acorruption of its own, worse than the corruption of deathitself,--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die.What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted imageon the canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace.They would defile it, and make it shameful. And yet the thing wouldstill live on. It would be always alive.
He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basilthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basil wouldhave helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still morepoisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The love thathe bore him--for it was really love--had something noble andintellectual in it. It was not that mere physical admiration of beautythat is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. It wassuch love as Michael Angelo had known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann,and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it wastoo late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial,or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable. Therewere passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams thatwould make the shadow of their evil real.
He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture thatcovered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Wasthe face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that it wasunchanged; and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blueeyes, and rose-red lips,--they all were there. It was simply theexpression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty.Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil'sreproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what littleaccount! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas andcalling him to judgment. A look of pain came across him, and he flungthe rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to thedoor. He passed out as his servant entered.
"The persons are here, monsieur."
He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not beallowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There wassomething sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes.Sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to Lord Henry,asking him to send him round something to read, and reminding him thatthey were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.
"Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men inhere."
In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Ashtonhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came inwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Ashton was aflorid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art wasconsiderably [61] tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most ofthe artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. Hewaited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception infavor of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmedeverybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckledhands. "I thought I would do myself the honor of coming round inperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at asale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirablysuited for a religious picture, Mr. Gray."
"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr.Ashton. I will certainly drop in and look at the frame,--though Idon't go in much for religious art,--but to-day I only want a picturecarried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, so Ithought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men."
"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service toyou. Which is the work of art, sir?"
"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it,covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratchedgoing up-stairs."
"There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture fromthe long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, whereshall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?"
"I will show you the way, Mr. Ashton, if you will kindly follow me. Orperhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the topof the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider."
He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall andbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made thepicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequiousprotests of Mr. Ashton, who had a true tradesman's dislike of seeing agentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to it so as tohelp them.
"Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when theyreached the t
op landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.
"A terrible load to carry," murmured Dorian, as he unlocked the doorthat opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secretof his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men.
He had not entered the place for more than four years,--not, indeed,since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child and thenas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large,well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last LordSherard for the use of the little nephew whom, being himself childless,and perhaps for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keepat a distance. It did not appear to Dorian to have much changed.There was the huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically-paintedpanels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so oftenhidden himself as a boy. There was the satinwood bookcase filled withhis dog-eared school-books. On the wall behind it was hanging the same[62] ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playingchess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hoodedbirds on their gauntleted wrists. How well he recalled it all! Everymoment of his lonely childhood came back to him, as he looked round.He remembered the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemedhorrible to him that it was here that the fatal portrait was to behidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of allthat was in store for him!
But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes asthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath itspurple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden,and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himselfwould not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of hissoul? He kept his youth,--that was enough. And, besides, might nothis nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the futureshould be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, andpurify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be alreadystirring in spirit and in flesh,--those curious unpictured sins whosevery mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, someday, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitivemouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece.
No; that was impossible. The thing upon the canvas was growing old,hour by hour, and week by week. Even if it escaped the hideousness ofsin, the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks wouldbecome hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's-feet would creep round thefading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose itsbrightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross,as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, thecold blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in theuncle who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picture had tobe concealed. There was no help for it.
"Bring it in, Mr. Ashton, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "Iam sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else."
"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker, whowas still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"
"Oh, anywhere, Here, this will do. I don't want to have it hung up.Just lean it against the wall. Thanks."
"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"
Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Ashton," he said,keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and flinghim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging thatconcealed the secret of his life. "I won't trouble you any more now. Iam much obliged for your kindness in coming round."
"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you,sir." And Mr. Ashton tramped down-stairs, followed by the assistant,who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough,uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.
When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked [63] thedoor, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one wouldever look on the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see hisshame.
On reaching the library he found that it was just after five o'clock,and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table ofdark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from hisguardian's wife, Lady Radley, who had spent the preceding winter inCairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book boundin yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. A copyof the third edition of the St. James's Gazette had been placed on thetea-tray. It was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if hehad met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and hadwormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to missthe picture,--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been layingthe tea-things. The screen had not been replaced, and the blank spaceon the wall was visible. Perhaps some night he might find him creepingup-stairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horriblething to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who hadbeen blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter,or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, orfound beneath a pillow a withered flower or a bit of crumpled lace.
He sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry'snote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper,and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club ateight-fifteen. He opened the St. James's languidly, and looked throughit. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. He read thefollowing paragraph:
"INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.--An inquest was held this morning at the BellTavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body ofSibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre,Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerablesympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatlyaffected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr.Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased."
He frowned slightly, and, tearing the paper in two, went across theroom and flung the pieces into a gilt basket. How ugly it all was! Andhow horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed withLord Henry for having sent him the account. And it was certainlystupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might haveread it. The man knew more than enough English for that.
Perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. And, yet,what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane'sdeath? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her.
His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What wasit, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-colored octagonalstand, that had always looked to him like the work of some [64] strangeEgyptian bees who wrought in silver, and took the volume up. He flunghimself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. After afew minutes, he became absorbed. It was the strangest book he had everread. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicatesound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show beforehim. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real tohim. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed.
It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being,indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian, whospent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all thepassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except hisown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods throughwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mereartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue,as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. Thestyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vividand obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technicalexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the workof some of the finest artists of the French school of Decadents. Therewere in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as evil in color.The life of the senses was described in the terms of mysticalphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading thespiritual ecstasie
s of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessionsof a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odor ofincense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. Themere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, sofull as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated,produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter,a form of revery, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious ofthe falling day and the creeping shadows.
Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamedthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read nomore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of thelateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placedthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at hisbedside, and began to dress for dinner.
It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he foundLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very bored.
"I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely yourfault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot what thetime was."
"I thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair.
"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is agreat difference."
"Ah, if you have discovered that, you have discovered a great deal,"murmured Lord Henry, with his curious smile. "Come, let us go in todinner. It is dreadfully late, and I am afraid the champagne will betoo much iced."
