One should always be in love. Thats the reason one should never marry.
ILLINGWORTH. Nothing refines but the intellect.
GERALD. Still, there are many different kinds of women, aren’t there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Only two kinds in society: the plain and the coloured.
GERALD. But there are good women in society, aren’t there?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Far too many.
GERALD. But do you think women shouldn’t be good?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should never tell them so, they’d all become good
at once. Women are a fascinatingly wilful sex. Every woman is a rebel,
and usually in wild revolt against herself.
GERALD. You have never been married, Lord Illingworth, have you?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Men marry because they are tired; women because they
are curious. Both are disappointed.
GERALD. But don’t you think one can be happy when one is married?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Perfectly happy. But the happiness of a married man,
my dear Gerald, depends on the people he has not married.
GERALD. But if one is in love?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. One should always be in love. That is the reason one
should never marry.
GERALD. Love is a very wonderful thing, isn’t it?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. When one is in love one begins by deceiving oneself.
And one ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a
romance. But a really _grande passion_ is comparatively rare nowadays.
It is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. That is the one
use of the idle classes in a country, and the only possible explanation
of us Harfords.
GERALD. Harfords, Lord Illingworth?
LORD ILLINGWORTH. That is my family name. You should study the Peerage,
Gerald. It is the one book a young man about town should know
thoroughly, and it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever
done. And now, Gerald, you are going into a perfectly new life with me,
and I want you to know how to live. [MRS. ARBUTHNOT _appears on terrace
behind_.] For the world has been made by fools that wise men should live
in it!
[_Enter_ L.C. LADY HUNSTANTON _and_ DR. DAUBENY.]
LADY HUNSTANTON. Ah! here you are, dear Lord Illingworth.
A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.
“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.
I really dont see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, Ill certainly try to forget the fact.
Got nice neighbours in your part of Shropshire?
JACK.
Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.
ALGERNON.
How immensely you must amuse them! [Goes over and takes sandwich.] By
the way, Shropshire is your county, is it not?
JACK.
Eh? Shropshire? Yes, of course. Hallo! Why all these cups? Why cucumber
sandwiches? Why such reckless extravagance in one so young? Who is
coming to tea?
ALGERNON.
Oh! merely Aunt Augusta and Gwendolen.
JACK.
How perfectly delightful!
ALGERNON.
Yes, that is all very well; but I am afraid Aunt Augusta won’t quite
approve of your being here.
JACK.
May I ask why?
ALGERNON.
My dear fellow, the way you flirt with Gwendolen is perfectly
disgraceful. It is almost as bad as the way Gwendolen flirts with you.
JACK.
I am in love with Gwendolen. I have come up to town expressly to
propose to her.
ALGERNON.
I thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . I call that business.
JACK.
How utterly unromantic you are!
ALGERNON.
I really don’t see anything romantic in proposing. It is very romantic
to be in love. But there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal.
Why, one may be accepted. One usually is, I believe. Then the
excitement is all over. The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If
ever I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.
JACK.
I have no doubt about that, dear Algy. The Divorce Court was specially
invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted.
ALGERNON.
Oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. Divorces are made in
Heaven—[Jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. Algernon at once
interferes.] Please don’t touch the cucumber sandwiches. They are
ordered specially for Aunt Augusta. [Takes one and eats it.]
JACK.
Well, you have been eating them all the time.
ALGERNON.
That is quite a different matter. She is my aunt. [Takes plate from
below.] Have some bread and butter. The bread and butter is for
Gwendolen. Gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter.
JACK.
[Advancing to table and helping himself.] And very good bread and
butter it is too.
ALGERNON.
Well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it
all. You behave as if you were married to her already. You are not
married to her already, and I don’t think you ever will be.
JACK.
Hearts Live By Being Wounded
Don’t, don’t! You cannot love me at all,
unless you love her also. You cannot honour me, unless she’s holier to
you. In her all womanhood is martyred. Not she alone, but all of us are
stricken in her house.
GERALD. Hester, Hester, what shall I do?
HESTER. Do you respect the man who is your father?
GERALD. Respect him? I despise him! He is infamous.
HESTER. I thank you for saving me from him last night.
GERALD. Ah, that is nothing. I would die to save you. But you don’t
tell me what to do now!
HESTER. Have I not thanked you for saving _me_?
GERALD. But what should I do?
HESTER. Ask your own heart, not mine. I never had a mother to save, or
shame.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. He is hard—he is hard. Let me go away.
GERALD. [_Rushes over and kneels down bedside his mother_.] Mother,
forgive me: I have been to blame.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Don’t kiss my hands: they are cold. My heart is cold:
something has broken it.
HESTER. Ah, don’t say that. Hearts live by being wounded. Pleasure may
turn a heart to stone, riches may make it callous, but sorrow—oh, sorrow
cannot break it. Besides, what sorrows have you now? Why, at this
moment you are more dear to him than ever, _dear_ though you have _been_,
and oh! how dear you _have_ been always. Ah! be kind to him.
GERALD. You are my mother and my father all in one. I need no second
parent. It was for you I spoke, for you alone. Oh, say something,
mother. Have I but found one love to lose another? Don’t tell me that.
O mother, you are cruel. [_Gets up and flings himself sobbing on a
sofa_.]
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_To_ HESTER.] But has he found indeed another love?
HESTER. You know I have loved him always.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are very poor.
HESTER. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no one. I hate my riches. They
are a burden. Let him share it with me.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. But we are disgraced. We rank among the outcasts.
Gerald is nameless. The sins of the parents should be visited on the
children.
You have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you dont even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvelous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid
I thought that
I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly
it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to
me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love
such as ours? Take me away, Dorian—take me away with you, where we can
be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not
feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian,
Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it
would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me
see that.”
He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. “You have
killed my love,” he muttered.
She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came
across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt
down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a
shudder ran through him.
Then he leaped up and went to the door. “Yes,” he cried, “you have
killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don’t even
stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because
you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you
realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the
shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and
stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You
are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think
of you. I will never mention your name. You don’t know what you were to
me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! I wish I had
never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How
little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your
art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,
magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have
borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty
face.”
The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and
her voice seemed to catch in her throat. “You are not serious, Dorian?”
she murmured. “You are acting.”
“Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well,” he answered bitterly.
She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her
face, came across the room to him.
A kiss may ruin a human life
Say I am not at home. Show me the card. [_Takes card
from salver and looks at it_.] Say I will not see him.
[LORD ILLINGWORTH _enters_. MRS. ARBUTHNOT _sees him in the glass and
starts_, _but does not turn round_. _Exit_ ALICE.] What can you have to
say to me to-day, George Harford? You can have nothing to say to me.
You must leave this house.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. Rachel, Gerald knows everything about you and me now,
so some arrangement must be come to that will suit us all three. I
assure you, he will find in me the most charming and generous of fathers.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. My son may come in at any moment. I saved you last
night. I may not be able to save you again. My son feels my dishonour
strongly, terribly strongly. I beg you to go.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. [_Sitting down_.] Last night was excessively
unfortunate. That silly Puritan girl making a scene merely because I
wanted to kiss her. What harm is there in a kiss?
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. [_Turning round_.] A kiss may ruin a human life, George
Harford. _I_ know that. _I_ know that too well.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. We won’t discuss that at present. What is of
importance to-day, as yesterday, is still our son. I am extremely fond
of him, as you know, and odd though it may seem to you, I admired his
conduct last night immensely. He took up the cudgels for that pretty
prude with wonderful promptitude. He is just what I should have liked a
son of mine to be. Except that no son of mine should ever take the side
of the Puritans: that is always an error. Now, what I propose is this.
MRS. ARBUTHNOT. Lord Illingworth, no proposition of yours interests me.
LORD ILLINGWORTH. According to our ridiculous English laws, I can’t
legitimise Gerald. But I can leave him my property. Illingworth is
entailed, of course, but it is a tedious barrack of a place. He can have
Ashby, which is much prettier, Harborough, which has the best shooting in
the north of England, and the house in St. James Square. What more can a
gentleman require in this world?
My life-my whole life- take it, and do with it what you will. I love you-love you as I have never loved any living thing. From the moment I met you I loved you, loved you blindly, adoringly,madly!You didnt know it then-you know it now.
You
would feel that the look in his eyes was false, his voice false, his
touch false, his passion false. He would come to you when he was weary
of others; you would have to comfort him. He would come to you when he
was devoted to others; you would have to charm him. You would have to be
to him the mask of his real life, the cloak to hide his secret.
LADY WINDERMERE. You are right—you are terribly right. But where am I
to turn? You said you would be my friend, Lord Darlington.—Tell me, what
am I to do? Be my friend now.
LORD DARLINGTON. Between men and women there is no friendship possible.
There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. I love you—
LADY WINDERMERE. No, no! [_Rises_.]
LORD DARLINGTON. Yes, I love you! You are more to me than anything in
the whole world. What does your husband give you? Nothing. Whatever is
in him he gives to this wretched woman, whom he has thrust into your
society, into your home, to shame you before every one. I offer you my
life—
LADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington!
LORD DARLINGTON. My life—my whole life. Take it, and do with it what
you will. . . . I love you—love you as I have never loved any living
thing. From the moment I met you I loved you, loved you blindly,
adoringly, madly! You did not know it then—you know it now! Leave this
house to-night. I won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the
world’s voice, or the voice of society. They matter a great deal. They
matter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose
between living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging
out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its
hypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose! Oh, my love,
choose.
LADY WINDERMERE. [_Moving slowly away from him_, _and looking at him
with startled eyes_.] I have not the courage.
LORD DARLINGTON. [_Following her_.] Yes; you have the courage. There
may be six months of pain, of disgrace even, but when you no longer bear
his name, when you bear mine, all will be well. Margaret, my love, my
wife that shall be some day—yes, my wife! You know it! What are you
now? This woman has the place that belongs by right to you. Oh! go—go
out of this house, with head erect, with a smile upon your lips, with
courage in your eyes.
When I like people immensely I never tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy.
You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you the truth.
There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction,
the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering
steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one’s fellows.
The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit
at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory,
they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. They live as we all
should live—undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. They
neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands.
Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are—my art,
whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks—we shall all suffer
for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”
“Dorian Gray? Is that his name?” asked Lord Henry, walking across the
studio towards Basil Hallward.
“Yes, that is his name. I didn’t intend to tell it to you.”
“But why not?”
“Oh, I can’t explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell their
names to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown
to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life
mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if
one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell my people where I
am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. It is a silly habit,
I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into
one’s life. I suppose you think me awfully foolish about it?”
“Not at all,” answered Lord Henry, “not at all, my dear Basil. You seem
to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it
makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I
never know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing.
When we meet—we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or go
down to the Duke’s—we tell each other the most absurd stories with the
most serious faces. My wife is very good at it—much better, in fact,
than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But
when she does find me out, she makes no row at all.
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
One’s regret is that society
should be constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a
groove in which he cannot freely develop what is wonderful, and
fascinating, and delightful in him—in which, in fact, he misses the true
pleasure and joy of living. He is also, under existing conditions, very
insecure. An enormously wealthy merchant may be—often is—at every moment
of his life at the mercy of things that are not under his control. If
the wind blows an extra point or so, or the weather suddenly changes, or
some trivial thing happens, his ship may go down, his speculations may go
wrong, and he finds himself a poor man, with his social position quite
gone. Now, nothing should be able to harm a man except himself. Nothing
should be able to rob a man at all. What a man really has, is what is in
him. What is outside of him should be a matter of no importance.
With the abolition of private property, then, we shall have true,
beautiful, healthy Individualism. Nobody will waste his life in
accumulating things, and the symbols for things. One will live. To live
is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
It is a question whether we have ever seen the full expression of a
personality, except on the imaginative plane of art. In action, we never
have. Cæsar, says Mommsen, was the complete and perfect man. But how
tragically insecure was Cæsar! Wherever there is a man who exercises
authority, there is a man who resists authority. Cæsar was very perfect,
but his perfection travelled by too dangerous a road. Marcus Aurelius
was the perfect man, says Renan. Yes; the great emperor was a perfect
man. But how intolerable were the endless claims upon him! He staggered
under the burden of the empire. He was conscious how inadequate one man
was to bear the weight of that Titan and too vast orb. What I mean by a
perfect man is one who develops under perfect conditions; one who is not
wounded, or worried or maimed, or in danger. Most personalities have
been obliged to be rebels. Half their strength has been wasted in
friction. Byron’s personality, for instance, was terribly wasted in its
battle with the stupidity, and hypocrisy, and Philistinism of the
English.
The aim of life is self-development. To realize ones nature perfectly - that is what each of us is here for.
And now, Dorian, get up on the platform,
and don’t move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry
says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single
exception of myself.”
Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek
martyr, and made a little _moue_ of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom
he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a
delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few
moments he said to him, “Have you really a very bad influence, Lord
Henry? As bad as Basil says?”
“There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is
immoral—immoral from the scientific point of view.”
“Why?”
“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does
not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His
virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as
sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an
actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is
self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly—that is what each
of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have
forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s
self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe
the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone
out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society,
which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of
religion—these are the two things that govern us. And yet—”
“Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good
boy,” said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look
had come into the lad’s face that he had never seen there before.
“And yet,” continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with
that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of
him, and that he had even in his Eton days, “I believe that if one man
were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to
every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream—I
believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we
would forget all the maladies of mediævalism, and return to the
Hellenic ideal—to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it
may be.
I wont tell you that the world matters nothing, or the worlds voice, or the voice of society. They matter a good deal. They matter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose between living ones own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose!
LADY WINDERMERE. You are right—you are terribly right. But where am I
to turn? You said you would be my friend, Lord Darlington.—Tell me, what
am I to do? Be my friend now.
LORD DARLINGTON. Between men and women there is no friendship possible.
There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. I love you—
LADY WINDERMERE. No, no! [_Rises_.]
LORD DARLINGTON. Yes, I love you! You are more to me than anything in
the whole world. What does your husband give you? Nothing. Whatever is
in him he gives to this wretched woman, whom he has thrust into your
society, into your home, to shame you before every one. I offer you my
life—
LADY WINDERMERE. Lord Darlington!
LORD DARLINGTON. My life—my whole life. Take it, and do with it what
you will. . . . I love you—love you as I have never loved any living
thing. From the moment I met you I loved you, loved you blindly,
adoringly, madly! You did not know it then—you know it now! Leave this
house to-night. I won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the
world’s voice, or the voice of society. They matter a great deal. They
matter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose
between living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging
out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its
hypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose! Oh, my love,
choose.
LADY WINDERMERE. [_Moving slowly away from him_, _and looking at him
with startled eyes_.] I have not the courage.
LORD DARLINGTON. [_Following her_.] Yes; you have the courage. There
may be six months of pain, of disgrace even, but when you no longer bear
his name, when you bear mine, all will be well. Margaret, my love, my
wife that shall be some day—yes, my wife! You know it! What are you
now? This woman has the place that belongs by right to you. Oh! go—go
out of this house, with head erect, with a smile upon your lips, with
courage in your eyes. All London will know why you did it; and who will
blame you? No one. If they do, what matter? Wrong? What is wrong?
It’s wrong for a man to abandon his wife for a shameless woman. It is
wrong for a wife to remain with a man who so dishonours her. You said
once you would make no compromise with things. Make none now. Be brave!
Be yourself!
LADY WINDERMERE. I am afraid of being myself.
The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.
No gentleman dines before
seven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to
him?”
“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather
horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful
frame, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous
of the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit
that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want
to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good
advice.”
Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away what they need
most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”
“Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit
of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered
that.”
“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his
work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his
prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I
have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good
artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly
uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is
the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely
fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they
look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets
makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot
write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some
perfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle that
stood on the table. “It must be, if you say it. And now I am off.
Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good-bye.”
As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began
to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as
Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused
him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by
it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled
by the methods of natural science, but the ordinary subject-matter of
that science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had
begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others.
Human life—that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating.
Compared to it there was nothing else of any value. It was true that as
one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one
could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous
fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with
monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams.
To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.
The
important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to
do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and
incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to
make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance.
The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.
When first I was put into prison some people advised me to try and forget
who I was. It was ruinous advice. It is only by realising what I am
that I have found comfort of any kind. Now I am advised by others to try
on my release to forget that I have ever been in a prison at all. I know
that would be equally fatal. It would mean that I would always be
haunted by an intolerable sense of disgrace, and that those things that
are meant for me as much as for anybody else--the beauty of the sun and
moon, the pageant of the seasons, the music of daybreak and the silence
of great nights, the rain falling through the leaves, or the dew creeping
over the grass and making it silver--would all be tainted for me, and
lose their healing power, and their power of communicating joy. To
regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny
one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's own life. It
is no less than a denial of the soul.
For just as the body absorbs things of all kinds, things common and
unclean no less than those that the priest or a vision has cleansed, and
converts them into swiftness or strength, into the play of beautiful
muscles and the moulding of fair flesh, into the curves and colours of
the hair, the lips, the eye; so the soul in its turn has its nutritive
functions also, and can transform into noble moods of thought and
passions of high import what in itself is base, cruel and degrading; nay,
more, may find in these its most august modes of assertion, and can often
reveal itself most perfectly through what was intended to desecrate or
destroy.
The fact of my having been the common prisoner of a common gaol I must
frankly accept, and, curious as it may seem, one of the things I shall
have to teach myself is not to be ashamed of it. I must accept it as a
punishment, and if one is ashamed of having been punished, one might just
as well never have been punished at all. Of course there are many things
of which I was convicted that I had not done, but then there are many
things of which I was convicted that I had done, and a still greater
number of things in my life for which I was never indicted at all.
I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life.
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. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other
egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more
highly organized, and to be highly organized 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.
The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.
”
“No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkled and
ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passion
branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will
feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it
always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray.
Don’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius—is higher,
indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great
facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or the reflection in
dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be
questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. It makes princes of
those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won’t
smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That
may be so, but at least it is not so superficial as thought is. To me,
beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not
judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not
the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But
what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in
which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your
beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there
are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those
mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than
defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something
dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your
roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You
will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while you have it.
Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying
to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the
ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the
false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!
Let nothing be lost upon you.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
I say, Darlington, let us have some cards. You’ll play, Arthur,
won’t you?
LORD WINDERMERE. No, thanks, Cecil.
DUMBY. [_With a sigh_.] Good heavens! how marriage ruins a man! It’s
as demoralising as cigarettes, and far more expensive.
CECIL GRAHAM. You’ll play, of course, Tuppy?
LORD AUGUSTUS. [_Pouring himself out a brandy and soda at table_.]
Can’t, dear boy. Promised Mrs. Erlynne never to play or drink again.
CECIL GRAHAM. Now, my dear Tuppy, don’t be led astray into the paths of
virtue. Reformed, you would be perfectly tedious. That is the worst of
women. They always want one to be good. And if we are good, when they
meet us, they don’t love us at all. They like to find us quite
irretrievably bad, and to leave us quite unattractively good.
LORD DARLINGTON. [_Rising from R. table_, _where he has been writing
letters_.] They always do find us bad!
DUMBY. I don’t think we are bad. I think we are all good, except Tuppy.
LORD DARLINGTON. No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are
looking at the stars. [_Sits down at C. table_.]
DUMBY. We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the
stars? Upon my word, you are very romantic to-night, Darlington.
CECIL GRAHAM. Too romantic! You must be in love. Who is the girl?
LORD DARLINGTON. The woman I love is not free, or thinks she isn’t.
[_Glances instinctively at_ LORD WINDERMERE _while he speaks_.]
CECIL GRAHAM. A married woman, then! Well, there’s nothing in the world
like the devotion of a married woman. It’s a thing no married man knows
anything about.
LORD DARLINGTON. Oh! she doesn’t love me. She is a good woman. She is
the only good woman I have ever met in my life.
CECIL GRAHAM. The only good woman you have ever met in your life?
LORD DARLINGTON. Yes!
CECIL GRAHAM. [_Lighting a cigarette_.] Well, you are a lucky fellow!
Why, I have met hundreds of good women. I never seem to meet any but
good women. The world is perfectly packed with good women. To know them
is a middle-class education.
A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.
A man is called affected,
nowadays, if he dresses as he likes to dress. But in doing that he is
acting in a perfectly natural manner. Affectation, in such matters,
consists in dressing according to the views of one’s neighbour, whose
views, as they are the views of the majority, will probably be extremely
stupid. Or a man is called selfish if he lives in the manner that seems
to him most suitable for the full realisation of his own personality; if,
in fact, the primary aim of his life is self-development. But this is
the way in which everyone should live. Selfishness is not living as one
wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live. And
unselfishness is letting other people’s lives alone, not interfering with
them. Selfishness always aims at creating around it an absolute
uniformity of type. Unselfishness recognises infinite variety of type as
a delightful thing, accepts it, acquiesces in it, enjoys it. It is not
selfish to think for oneself. A man who does not think for himself does
not think at all. It is grossly selfish to require of ones neighbour
that he should think in the same way, and hold the same opinions. Why
should he? If he can think, he will probably think differently. If he
cannot think, it is monstrous to require thought of any kind from him. A
red rose is not selfish because it wants to be a red rose. It would be
horribly selfish if it wanted all the other flowers in the garden to be
both red and roses. Under Individualism people will be quite natural and
absolutely unselfish, and will know the meanings of the words, and
realise them in their free, beautiful lives. Nor will men be egotistic
as they are now. For the egotist is he who makes claims upon others, and
the Individualist will not desire to do that. It will not give him
pleasure. When man has realised Individualism, he will also realise
sympathy and exercise it freely and spontaneously. Up to the present man
has hardly cultivated sympathy at all. He has merely sympathy with pain,
and sympathy with pain is not the highest form of sympathy.
But we never get back our youth… The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.
Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying
to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the
ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the
false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you!
Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations.
Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism—that is what our century wants.
You might be its visible symbol. With your personality there is nothing
you could not do. The world belongs to you for a season.... The moment
I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are,
of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me
that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how
tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time
that your youth will last—such a little time. The common hill-flowers
wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next
June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the
clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold
its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy
that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses
rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the
passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite
temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!
There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!”
Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fell
from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round it for
a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellated globe
of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interest in
trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make
us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we
cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays
sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time the
bee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian
convolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently to and
fro.
Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and made
staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other and
smiled.
“I am waiting,” he cried. “Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and
you can bring your drinks.
What fire does not destroy, it hardens
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.
I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.
Ernest Worthing who is your guardian?
CECILY.
Quite sure. [A pause.] In fact, I am going to be his.
GWENDOLEN.
[Inquiringly.] I beg your pardon?
CECILY.
[Rather shy and confidingly.] Dearest Gwendolen, there is no reason why
I should make a secret of it to you. Our little county newspaper is
sure to chronicle the fact next week. Mr. Ernest Worthing and I are
engaged to be married.
GWENDOLEN.
[Quite politely, rising.] My darling Cecily, I think there must be some
slight error. Mr. Ernest Worthing is engaged to me. The announcement
will appear in the _Morning Post_ on Saturday at the latest.
CECILY.
[Very politely, rising.] I am afraid you must be under some
misconception. Ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [Shows
diary.]
GWENDOLEN.
[Examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] It is certainly very
curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. If
you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [Produces diary of
her own.] I never travel without my diary. One should always have
something sensational to read in the train. I am so sorry, dear Cecily,
if it is any disappointment to you, but I am afraid I have the prior
claim.
CECILY.
It would distress me more than I can tell you, dear Gwendolen, if it
caused you any mental or physical anguish, but I feel bound to point
out that since Ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind.
GWENDOLEN.
[Meditatively.] If the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish
promise I shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a
firm hand.
CECILY.
[Thoughtfully and sadly.] Whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy
may have got into, I will never reproach him with it after we are
married.
GWENDOLEN.
Do you allude to me, Miss Cardew, as an entanglement? You are
presumptuous. On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral
duty to speak one’s mind. It becomes a pleasure.
CECILY.
Do you suggest, Miss Fairfax, that I entrapped Ernest into an
engagement? How dare you? This is no time for wearing the shallow mask
of manners.
