by Oscar Wilde
Behind him, Helen was wiping the glass they’d drunk the absinthe from.
“Put her here,” she said, scooting out the wobbly chair. He hoisted the girl onto it. She groaned, her head swinging back, hanging from her neck like a rag doll. Dorian tilted her head forward and it slammed down on the table. Her face landed partially in the messy tins of makeup, setting off a small bomb of powder and rouge. Dorian and Helen coughed together.
Helen set the absinthe glass on the table and positioned Sybil Vane’s limp fingers around the stem. She moved the near-empty chalice in front of it.
“Poor girl drank herself into a stupor,” said Helen.
Dorian turned to her. He was wide awake, and his tiredness had turned into giddiness. He was hungry for more adventure.
“And now?” he asked.
“And now we go our separate ways,” said Helen, looking exhausted. As she was leaving she turned back to Dorian. “Remember,” she said, pointing at her eyes with two fingers and then at his. “Here.”
Dorian stood around for a few minutes, at a loss without Helen’s instructions. Then he remembered his belt, the only article of clothing he’d taken off. He found it coiled neatly on the floor beside the wardrobe where he’d dozed. Pity he hadn’t thought of it when he was . . . no, he glanced back at Sybil Vane, who was snoring in her dusty tins, a sliver of drool growing tiny puddles around them. No, the girl had suffered enough.
CHAPTER IX
As the dawn was just breaking, Dorian found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint light, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with lilies rumbled slowly down the empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers. Their beauty was a dull comfort. He followed them into the market and watched the men unloading their wagons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips and yellow and red roses filed in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Crowds formed around the swinging doors of the coffeehouse in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Pigeons ran about picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home.
Wishing to not attract attention from any servants, Dorian entered through a side door connecting to the main dining room. Lights were still burning from three flickering jets: Thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, his eye fell on the portrait Rosemary had painted of him. It was still propped against the mantle where they’d abandoned it in their passion. But the hasty wrapping was coming undone. His flawless face stared back at him. Only, no, it wasn’t flawless. Something was off. Something was horribly off.
In the dim light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange.
He turned around and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed on the face of the portrait seemed to linger there—to be more intensified, even. The ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty around the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.
He winced and took up from a side table a mirror set in ivory, one of Helen’s many presents to him in their weeks entangled with each other. He glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. But there was no snarling line like that warped in the red lips of his reflection. What did it mean?
He rubbed his eyes, came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent.
He threw himself into a chair and began to think. There flashed across his mind what he had said in Rosemary’s studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought; and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just-conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even to think of them. And yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth.
Cruelty! He had been cruel to Sybil Vane. A feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her bound in the wardrobe, sobbing like a little child. He remembered with what callousness he had watched as Helen tied her to the table. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him?
Less than a fortnight ago, he’d made love to Rosemary and had felt a true tenderness toward her. If only he could get himself back to that tenderness. But in all fairness, Rosemary had been terribly dramatic. He was reminded of some advice Helen had dispensed to him early in their friendship—that women lived on their emotions and when they took lovers, it was merely to have someone with whom they could have scenes.
But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again?
No. It was an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. There had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so. Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its gray eyes met his own with impenetrable darkness. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already and would alter more. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience.
He would not see Helen anymore—would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Rosemary’s garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would apologize to Sybil Vane—actually, no, that may be too risky considering the state they had left her in. He would have to let that matter be as it was and hope to forget it someday. He would go to Rosemary and face the fact that he was in love with her. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had in all this. Poor child! They could be happy together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure.
Desperate to avoid the sickening glare of his portrait, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to Rosemary, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. This was not the first contact he’d made with her since she’d stormed out in horror. But it was the first time he made himself so vulnerable, and made special effort not to condescend to her. He covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There was a luxury in his self-reproach, and when he finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven.
To complete the apology to himself, he resolved to hide the painting, at least for the time being. In the corner of the room stood yet another gift from Helen – an old screen of gilted Spanish leather that was stamped and wrought with a rather florid pattern. He hadn’t cared for it much, but had accepted it to be polite. It was even taller than he, measuring nearly seven feet. He wondered: Had it
ever before concealed the secret of a man’s life? It had lived at Helen’s house before, so it had probably concealed, at one time or another, a man, but the secret of his life? That was doubtful.
He picked up the portrait and set it behind the screen. As soon it was hidden, he felt romantic again and decided on a stroll in the garden. When he stepped out on the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his somber worries. He thought only of Rosemary. How wonderful the whole world became to one in love! Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There was something of a child about her.
It seemed to him that all his life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-colored joy. He remembered how, in his arms, as he’d plunged his cock into her, claiming her virginity, she trembled all over and shook like a white narcissus. How she flung herself over onto her stomach for him to take her as he pleased. Of course, he’d gotten carried away, but he would repair that.
“Rosemary . . .”
He repeated her name over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.
At some point, he staggered back upstairs and into his bedroom where he collapsed on top of the bed, his heart still aflutter with a love song for Rosemary. He no longer felt he would die if he slept. No, he would live if he slept! Fatigue sunk his teeth into him, then swallowed him whole.
It was long past noon when he awoke. He rang his bell for his valet, who came in softly with a cup of tea and a pile of letters on a small tray of antique china, and drew back the olive satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows.
“Monsieur has slept well this morning,” said Victor, smiling.
Dorian grunted and got up. He sipped some tea and turned over his mail. There was a package from Helen that had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The other letters he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programs of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every day.
After about ten minutes, he got up and, throwing on his elaborate silk-embroidered robe, went into his marble-floored bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. He felt all that he had gone through to that point was happily forgotten. A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. As soon as he was dressed, he went downstairs to the main dining hall. The upper dining room was small and got poor light at this hour. He sat down to a light French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulfur-yellow roses, stood before him. Dorian felt perfectly happy. Then his eye fell on the screen, and he started with a shiver.
“Too cold for Monsieur?” asked Victor, refilling his teacup. “Shall I shut the window?”
Dorian shook his head. “I am not cold,” he murmured, eager for Victor to leave so that he may examine the portrait alone.
Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter? And yet how vivid his recollection was of the whole thing! First in the dim twilight and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty around the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait, and he was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called him back. Victor stood, awaiting orders.
“I am not at home to anyone, Victor,” he said.
The old man bowed and left.
Dorian rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen.
Should he check behind it? What was the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. And if it was true, why worry about it? But then again, what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change? What should he do if Rosemary—not just the painter of the picture, but the woman he loved—came and asked to look at her own picture? The thing had to be examined—and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. He got up and locked the front doors, as well as the one connecting to the rest of the house. At least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. He drew the screen aside and saw himself face-to-face. It was perfectly true. The portrait had altered. As he often remembered afterward, 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 color on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it be that what the 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 was make him conscious of how unjust, how cruel, he had been last night. 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, then four, then the half-hour rang its double chime, but Dorian did not stir. He was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and weave them into a pattern, to find his way through the labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think.
There came a rapid knocking on the front door, and Dorian leaped up in fright. The punishment to which of his ghastly deeds awaited him? His recent sins fanned through his mind, rotating and colliding into one another like the twisting of a depraved kaleidoscope.
Victor’s padded shoes came shuffling down the hall toward the door. Dorian thought to hide, but where and from what? He thought of Sybil Vane, her neck blackened by his greedy hands. She wore the very fingerprints of his corruption. What if she had not awoken? Far more frightening than the idea of a haunted portrait soaking up his evil was the idea of the police after him. They would not work so subtly or poetically. They’d put him away for murder.
The knocking continued and grew louder. He secured the portrait behind the screen and passed into the library, where he paced the room in tight, paranoid circles as Victor answered the door.
In rolled Helen in bright garbs, chattering away. Dorian was frozen beside the screen.
“And so I am sorry I am late, my dear,” she went on. “I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays, people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
She looked like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain. Then, as she moved past Dorian, she just looked like a bird, flitting around the room in a bright chartreuse dress, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her Roman nose like a beak. Her perfume cast a false flowery aura on everything. Lighting a cigarette, she flung herself down on the sofa in front of him. What would he do now? Throw her back onto the street? No, it was better to speak with her calmly and explain to her the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with her if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable.
“How upset you look” she said, looking at Dorian at last, while sucking on her cigarette. “Have you been crying? Dear Dorian, you must not get so invested in emotions. You’ll go bankrupt!”
Seeing her again, after hours of solitude and a brief vortex of sleep, he felt powerf
ully contrite. There was a need to talk in him he hadn’t known since boyhood, when at confession he had sobbed of his misbehavior.
“I was brutal, Helen, perfectly brutal,” he said.
“Is this about Sybil Vane?”
“Yes, Helen,” he said, sitting down across from her. “This is about Sybil Vane. And the other women whom I’ve made my submissive slaves so as to indulge my dark fancies. But I think that most of all, this is about Rosemary.”
“Ah, of course it is. Precious Rosemary. Her maidenhead shattered! Listen, my boy, you did the girl a favor.”
Helen sunk into the cushions and, clamping her cigarette between her freshly painted lips, pulled off her long pearl-white gloves.
“Helen, I don’t want to be cruel to Rosemary anymore. I love her and I must make her love me again. She is divine beyond all living things. She spiritualizes me. My God, Helen, how I worship her! She is a genius and yet has no pretentious notion of her powers. She is pure and generous and loving. She could give me everything.”
Helen was silent, folding and unfolding her gloves in her lap. Dorian searched her face for anger or sadness, but there was nothing to be found. Then she settled into a wicked smile.
“Yes, Rosemary is very generous. People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”
“Ah! Helen, your views terrify me.”
“Thank you.”
Dorian couldn’t help but laugh.
“You are incorrigible, Helen! It is impossible to be angry with you, but angry or not, I love Rosemary. 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 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 Rosemary Hall’s hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories.”
