There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
“It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said
Lord Henry languidly. “You must certainly send it next year to the
Grosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I have
gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been
able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that
I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenor
is really the only place.”
“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head
back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at
Oxford. “No, I won’t send it anywhere.”
Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through
the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls
from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. “Not send it anywhere? My dear
fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you painters are! You
do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon as you have one,
you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is
only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is
not being talked about. A portrait like this would set you far above
all the young men in England, and make the old men quite jealous, if
old men are ever capable of any emotion.”
“I know you will laugh at me,” he replied, “but I really can’t exhibit
it. I have put too much of myself into it.”
Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
“Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same.”
“Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn’t know you
were so vain; and I really can’t see any resemblance between you, with
your rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this young
Adonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why,
my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you—well, of course you have an
intellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, ends
where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode
of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment one
sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something
horrid.
I like men who have a future and women who have a past.
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.
“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,”
cried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to
squabble upstairs.”
The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the
table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and
sat by Lord Henry. Mr.
The world is a stage and the play is badly cast.
He had lived the delicate
and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite
in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and
now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of
Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his
hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another
could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-red sign of
crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than chessmen,
moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy, for
honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt
that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly
called upon to bear an intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate.
They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether
they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it
is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which
they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and
our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the
play is badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he
started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow
colour. The two men’s eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.
‘The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked
me to bring it to her,’ said Mr. Podgers finally. ‘Ah, I see it on the
sofa! Good evening.’
‘Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to
a question I am going to put to you.’
‘Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid I
must go.’
‘You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.’
‘Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,’ said Mr. Podgers, with
his sickly smile. ‘The fair sex is apt to be impatient.’
Lord Arthur’s finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor
Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment. He
walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his
hand out.
‘Tell me what you saw there,’ he said.
There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating: people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.
”
“I am going to see the play through,” answered the lad, in a hard
bitter voice. “I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an
evening, Harry. I apologize to you both.”
“My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill,” interrupted
Hallward. “We will come some other night.”
“I wish she were ill,” he rejoined. “But she seems to me to be simply
callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great
artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress.”
“Don’t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more
wonderful thing than art.”
“They are both simply forms of imitation,” remarked Lord Henry. “But do
let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good
for one’s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don’t suppose you will
want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like
a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about
life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience.
There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating—people
who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing.
Good heavens, my dear boy, don’t look so tragic! The secret of
remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to
the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to
the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?”
“Go away, Harry,” cried the lad. “I want to be alone. Basil, you must
go. Ah! can’t you see that my heart is breaking?” The hot tears came to
his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he
leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands.
“Let us go, Basil,” said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his
voice, and the two young men passed out together.
A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose
on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale,
and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed
interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots
and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played
to almost empty benches.
Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the worlds original sin. If the cave-man had known how to laugh, History would have been different.
One should sympathize 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.
“Quite so,” answered the young lord. “It is the problem of slavery, and
we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.”
The politician looked at him keenly. “What change do you propose,
then?” he asked.
Lord Henry laughed. “I don’t desire to change anything in England
except the weather,” he answered. “I am quite content with philosophic
contemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through
an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal
to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions is that
they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it is not
emotional.”
“But we have such grave responsibilities,” ventured Mrs. Vandeleur
timidly.
“Terribly grave,” echoed Lady Agatha.
Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. “Humanity takes itself too
seriously. It is the world’s original sin. If the caveman had known how
to laugh, history would have been different.”
“You are really very comforting,” warbled the duchess. “I have always
felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no
interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look
her in the face without a blush.”
“A blush is very becoming, Duchess,” remarked Lord Henry.
“Only when one is young,” she answered. “When an old woman like myself
blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell
me how to become young again.”
He thought for a moment. “Can you remember any great error that you
committed in your early days, Duchess?” he asked, looking at her across
the table.
“A great many, I fear,” she cried.
“Then commit them over again,” he said gravely. “To get back one’s
youth, one has merely to repeat one’s follies.”
“A delightful theory!” she exclaimed. “I must put it into practice.”
“A dangerous theory!” came from Sir Thomas’s tight lips. Lady Agatha
shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr.
I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.
Good evening, Lady Chiltern! Good-night, Lord
Goring! I am at Claridge’s. Don’t you think you might leave a card?
LORD GORING. If you wish it, Mrs. Cheveley!
MRS. CHEVELEY. Oh, don’t be so solemn about it, or I shall be obliged to
leave a card on you. In England I suppose that would hardly be
considered _en règle_. Abroad, we are more civilised. Will you see me
down, Sir Robert? Now that we have both the same interests at heart we
shall be great friends, I hope!
[_Sails out on_ SIR ROBERT CHILTERN’S _arm_. LADY CHILTERN _goes to the
top of the staircase and looks down at them as they descend_. _Her
expression is troubled_. _After a little time she is joined by some of
the guests_, _and passes with them into another reception-room_.]
MABEL CHILTERN. What a horrid woman!
LORD GORING. You should go to bed, Miss Mabel.
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring!
LORD GORING. My father told me to go to bed an hour ago. I don’t see
why I shouldn’t give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice.
It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself.
MABEL CHILTERN. Lord Goring, you are always ordering me out of the room.
I think it most courageous of you. Especially as I am not going to bed
for hours. [_Goes over to the sofa_.] You can come and sit down if you
like, and talk about anything in the world, except the Royal Academy,
Mrs. Cheveley, or novels in Scotch dialect. They are not improving
subjects. [_Catches sight of something that is lying on the sofa half
hidden by the cushion_.] What is this? Some one has dropped a diamond
brooch! Quite beautiful, isn’t it? [_Shows it to him_.] I wish it was
mine, but Gertrude won’t let me wear anything but pearls, and I am
thoroughly sick of pearls. They make one look so plain, so good and so
intellectual. I wonder whom the brooch belongs to.
LORD GORING. I wonder who dropped it.
MABEL CHILTERN. It is a beautiful brooch.
LORD GORING. It is a handsome bracelet.
MABEL CHILTERN. It isn’t a bracelet. It’s a brooch.
LORD GORING. It can be used as a bracelet.
Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.
I
feel that every woman here sneers at me as she dances by with my husband.
What have I done to deserve this? I gave him all my life. He took
it—used it—spoiled it! I am degraded in my own eyes; and I lack
courage—I am a coward! [_Sits down on sofa_.]
LORD DARLINGTON. If I know you at all, I know that you can’t live with a
man who treats you like this! What sort of life would you have with him?
You would feel that he was lying to you every moment of the day. 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.
It is perfectly monstrous, he said, at last, the way people go about nowadays saying things against one behind ones back that are absolutely and entirely true.
He is one of her most intimate friends.”
“Is it true, Mr. Gray?”
“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her
whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and
hung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had
had any hearts at all.”
“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.”
“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian.
“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol
like? I don’t know him.”
“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,”
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.
Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all
surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.”
“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.
“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent
terms.”
“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady,
shaking her head.
Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly
monstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying
things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely
true.”
“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.
“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all
worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry
again so as to be in the fashion.”
“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry.
“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she
detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he
adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”
“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady.
“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the
rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,
they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never
ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,
but it is quite true.”
“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for
your defects, where would you all be?
In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.
That’s very forward of them.
GWENDOLEN.
Let us preserve a dignified silence.
CECILY.
Certainly. It’s the only thing to do now. [Enter Jack followed by
Algernon. They whistle some dreadful popular air from a British Opera.]
GWENDOLEN.
This dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect.
CECILY.
A most distasteful one.
GWENDOLEN.
But we will not be the first to speak.
CECILY.
Certainly not.
GWENDOLEN.
Mr. Worthing, I have something very particular to ask you. Much depends
on your reply.
CECILY.
Gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. Mr. Moncrieff, kindly
answer me the following question. Why did you pretend to be my
guardian’s brother?
ALGERNON.
In order that I might have an opportunity of meeting you.
CECILY.
[To Gwendolen.] That certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does
it not?
GWENDOLEN.
Yes, dear, if you can believe him.
CECILY.
I don’t. But that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer.
GWENDOLEN.
True. In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital
thing. Mr. Worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for
pretending to have a brother? Was it in order that you might have an
opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible?
JACK.
Can you doubt it, Miss Fairfax?
GWENDOLEN.
I have the gravest doubts upon the subject. But I intend to crush them.
This is not the moment for German scepticism. [Moving to Cecily.] Their
explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially Mr.
Worthing’s. That seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it.
CECILY.
I am more than content with what Mr. Moncrieff said. His voice alone
inspires one with absolute credulity.
GWENDOLEN.
Then you think we should forgive them?
CECILY.
Yes. I mean no.
GWENDOLEN.
True! I had forgotten. There are principles at stake that one cannot
surrender. Which of us should tell them? The task is not a pleasant
one.
CECILY.
Could we not both speak at the same time?
GWENDOLEN.
An excellent idea! I nearly always speak at the same time as other
people.
The only way a woman can ever reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible interest in life.
Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have been
addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent
people we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen? Oh,
Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. She was
everything to me. Then came that dreadful night—was it really only last
night?—when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She
explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was not moved a
bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened that made me
afraid. I can’t tell you what it was, but it was terrible. I said I
would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she is dead. My
God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don’t know the danger I am in,
and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would have done that for
me. She had no right to kill herself. It was selfish of her.”
“My dear Dorian,” answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his case
and producing a gold-latten matchbox, “the only way a woman can ever
reform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possible
interest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have been
wretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One can always
be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon
found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman
finds that out about her husband, she either becomes dreadfully dowdy,
or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman’s husband has to pay
for. I say nothing about the social mistake, which would have been
abject—which, of course, I would not have allowed—but I assure you that
in any case the whole thing would have been an absolute failure.”
“I suppose it would,” muttered the lad, walking up and down the room
and looking horribly pale. “But I thought it was my duty. It is not my
fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right.
I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good
resolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.”
“Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific
laws.
Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.
Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the shield of
Pallas, and shown him the Gorgon’s head. He seemed turned to stone, and
his face was like marble in its melancholy. He had lived the delicate
and luxurious life of a young man of birth and fortune, a life exquisite
in its freedom from sordid care, its beautiful boyish insouciance; and
now for the first time he became conscious of the terrible mystery of
Destiny, of the awful meaning of Doom.
How mad and monstrous it all seemed! Could it be that written on his
hand, in characters that he could not read himself, but that another
could decipher, was some fearful secret of sin, some blood-red sign of
crime? Was there no escape possible? Were we no better than chessmen,
moved by an unseen power, vessels the potter fashions at his fancy, for
honour or for shame? His reason revolted against it, and yet he felt
that some tragedy was hanging over him, and that he had been suddenly
called upon to bear an intolerable burden. Actors are so fortunate.
They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether
they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it
is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which
they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and
our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the
play is badly cast.
Suddenly Mr. Podgers entered the room. When he saw Lord Arthur he
started, and his coarse, fat face became a sort of greenish-yellow
colour. The two men’s eyes met, and for a moment there was silence.
‘The Duchess has left one of her gloves here, Lord Arthur, and has asked
me to bring it to her,’ said Mr. Podgers finally. ‘Ah, I see it on the
sofa! Good evening.’
‘Mr. Podgers, I must insist on your giving me a straightforward answer to
a question I am going to put to you.’
‘Another time, Lord Arthur, but the Duchess is anxious. I am afraid I
must go.’
‘You shall not go. The Duchess is in no hurry.’
‘Ladies should not be kept waiting, Lord Arthur,’ said Mr. Podgers, with
his sickly smile. ‘The fair sex is apt to be impatient.’
Lord Arthur’s finely-chiselled lips curled in petulant disdain. The poor
Duchess seemed to him of very little importance at that moment. He
walked across the room to where Mr. Podgers was standing, and held his
hand out.
Oh! it is absurd to have a hard-and-fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldnt. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldnt read.
Worthing left in the smoking-room the
last time he dined here.
LANE.
Yes, sir. [Lane goes out.]
JACK.
Do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? I wish
to goodness you had let me know. I have been writing frantic letters to
Scotland Yard about it. I was very nearly offering a large reward.
ALGERNON.
Well, I wish you would offer one. I happen to be more than usually hard
up.
JACK.
There is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found.
[Enter Lane with the cigarette case on a salver. Algernon takes it at
once. Lane goes out.]
ALGERNON.
I think that is rather mean of you, Ernest, I must say. [Opens case and
examines it.] However, it makes no matter, for, now that I look at the
inscription inside, I find that the thing isn’t yours after all.
JACK.
Of course it’s mine. [Moving to him.] You have seen me with it a
hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written
inside. It is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette
case.
ALGERNON.
Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should
read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends
on what one shouldn’t read.
JACK.
I am quite aware of the fact, and I don’t propose to discuss modern
culture. It isn’t the sort of thing one should talk of in private. I
simply want my cigarette case back.
ALGERNON.
Yes; but this isn’t your cigarette case. This cigarette case is a
present from some one of the name of Cecily, and you said you didn’t
know any one of that name.
JACK.
Well, if you want to know, Cecily happens to be my aunt.
ALGERNON.
Your aunt!
JACK.
Yes. Charming old lady she is, too. Lives at Tunbridge Wells. Just give
it back to me, Algy.
ALGERNON.
[Retreating to back of sofa.] But why does she call herself little
Cecily if she is your aunt and lives at Tunbridge Wells? [Reading.]
‘From little Cecily with her fondest love.’
JACK.
[Moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] My dear fellow, what on earth is
there in that? Some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. That is a
matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. You
seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt!
Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.Yes, murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; and when they grow older they know it.
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 button-hole 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.
Why cant 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, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it.
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, they 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.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
Cecily, you will read your Political Economy
in my absence. The chapter on the Fall of the Rupee you may omit. It is
somewhat too sensational. Even these metallic problems have their
melodramatic side.
[Goes down the garden with Dr. Chasuble.]
CECILY.
[Picks up books and throws them back on table.] Horrid Political
Economy! Horrid Geography! Horrid, horrid German!
[Enter Merriman with a card on a salver.]
MERRIMAN.
Mr. Ernest Worthing has just driven over from the station. He has
brought his luggage with him.
CECILY.
[Takes the card and reads it.] ‘Mr. Ernest Worthing, B. 4, The Albany,
W.’ Uncle Jack’s brother! Did you tell him Mr. Worthing was in town?
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss. He seemed very much disappointed. I mentioned that you and
Miss Prism were in the garden. He said he was anxious to speak to you
privately for a moment.
CECILY.
Ask Mr. Ernest Worthing to come here. I suppose you had better talk to
the housekeeper about a room for him.
MERRIMAN.
Yes, Miss.
[Merriman goes off.]
CECILY.
I have never met any really wicked person before. I feel rather
frightened. I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.
[Enter Algernon, very gay and debonnair.] He does!
ALGERNON.
[Raising his hat.] You are my little cousin Cecily, I’m sure.
CECILY.
You are under some strange mistake. I am not little. In fact, I believe
I am more than usually tall for my age. [Algernon is rather taken
aback.] But I am your cousin Cecily. You, I see from your card, are
Uncle Jack’s brother, my cousin Ernest, my wicked cousin Ernest.
ALGERNON.
Oh! I am not really wicked at all, cousin Cecily. You mustn’t think
that I am wicked.
CECILY.
If you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very
inexcusable manner. I hope you have not been leading a double life,
pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would
be hypocrisy.
ALGERNON.
[Looks at her in amazement.] Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless.
CECILY.
I am glad to hear it.
ALGERNON.
In fact, now you mention the subject, I have been very bad in my own
small way.
CECILY.
I don’t think you should be so proud of that, though I am sure it must
have been very pleasant.
The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her if she is pretty, and to someone else if she is plain.
You
don’t think there is any chance of Gwendolen becoming like her mother
in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, Algy?
ALGERNON.
All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man
does. That’s his.
JACK.
Is that clever?
ALGERNON.
It is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in
civilised life should be.
JACK.
I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You
can’t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become
an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools
left.
ALGERNON.
We have.
JACK.
I should extremely like to meet them. What do they talk about?
ALGERNON.
The fools? Oh! about the clever people, of course.
JACK.
What fools!
ALGERNON.
By the way, did you tell Gwendolen the truth about your being Ernest in
town, and Jack in the country?
JACK.
[In a very patronising manner.] My dear fellow, the truth isn’t quite
the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What
extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!
ALGERNON.
The only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is
pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain.
JACK.
Oh, that is nonsense.
ALGERNON.
What about your brother? What about the profligate Ernest?
JACK.
Oh, before the end of the week I shall have got rid of him. I’ll say he
died in Paris of apoplexy. Lots of people die of apoplexy, quite
suddenly, don’t they?
ALGERNON.
Yes, but it’s hereditary, my dear fellow. It’s a sort of thing that
runs in families. You had much better say a severe chill.
JACK.
You are sure a severe chill isn’t hereditary, or anything of that kind?
ALGERNON.
Of course it isn’t!
JACK.
Very well, then. My poor brother Ernest is carried off suddenly, in
Paris, by a severe chill. That gets rid of him.
ALGERNON.
But I thought you said that . . . Miss Cardew was a little too much
interested in your poor brother Ernest? Won’t she feel his loss a good
deal?
JACK.
Oh, that is all right. Cecily is not a silly romantic girl, I am glad
to say. She has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no
attention at all to her lessons.
Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people we personally dislike.
Cheveley, I
think it is right to tell you quite frankly that, had I known who you
really were, I should not have invited you to my house last night.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_With an impertinent smile_.] Really?
LADY CHILTERN. I could not have done so.
MRS. CHEVELEY. I see that after all these years you have not changed a
bit, Gertrude.
LADY CHILTERN. I never change.
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Elevating her eyebrows_.] Then life has taught you
nothing?
LADY CHILTERN. It has taught me that a person who has once been guilty
of a dishonest and dishonourable action may be guilty of it a second
time, and should be shunned.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Would you apply that rule to every one?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes, to every one, without exception.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Then I am sorry for you, Gertrude, very sorry for you.
LADY CHILTERN. You see now, I was sure, that for many reasons any
further acquaintance between us during your stay in London is quite
impossible?
MRS. CHEVELEY [_Leaning back in her chair_.] Do you know, Gertrude, I
don’t mind your talking morality a bit. Morality is simply the attitude
we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike. You dislike me. I
am quite aware of that. And I have always detested you. And yet I have
come here to do you a service.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Contemptuously_.] Like the service you wished to
render my husband last night, I suppose. Thank heaven, I saved him from
that.
MRS. CHEVELEY. [_Starting to her feet_.] It was you who made him write
that insolent letter to me? It was you who made him break his promise?
LADY CHILTERN. Yes.
MRS. CHEVELEY. Then you must make him keep it. I give you till
to-morrow morning—no more. If by that time your husband does not
solemnly bind himself to help me in this great scheme in which I am
interested—
LADY CHILTERN. This fraudulent speculation—
MRS. CHEVELEY. Call it what you choose. I hold your husband in the
hollow of my hand, and if you are wise you will make him do what I tell
him.
LADY CHILTERN. [_Rising and going towards her_.] You are impertinent.
What has my husband to do with you? With a woman like you?
You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.
I have never been
in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be my
masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands.”
Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying his
face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their
perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his hand
upon his shoulder. “You are quite right to do that,” he murmured.
“Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the
senses but the soul.”
The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves had
tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There
was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are
suddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and some
hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling.
“Yes,” continued Lord Henry, “that is one of the great secrets of
life—to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means
of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think
you know, just as you know less than you want to know.”
Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking
the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic,
olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was
something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His
cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved,
as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own.
But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why had it been
left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had known Basil
Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had never altered
him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life who seemed to
have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was there to be
afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to be
frightened.
“Let us go and sit in the shade,” said Lord Henry. “Parker has brought
out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will be
quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again.
The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. The nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by Turgenev, and completed by Dostoevsky. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the Peoples Palace rose out debris of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose.
The most
obvious and the vulgarest form in which this is shown is in the case of
the silly boys who, after reading the adventures of Jack Sheppard or Dick
Turpin, pillage the stalls of unfortunate apple-women, break into
sweet-shops at night, and alarm old gentlemen who are returning home from
the city by leaping out on them in suburban lanes, with black masks and
unloaded revolvers. This interesting phenomenon, which always occurs
after the appearance of a new edition of either of the books I have
alluded to, is usually attributed to the influence of literature on the
imagination. But this is a mistake. The imagination is essentially
creative, and always seeks for a new form. The boy-burglar is simply the
inevitable result of life’s imitative instinct. He is Fact, occupied as
Fact usually is, with trying to reproduce Fiction, and what we see in him
is repeated on an extended scale throughout the whole of life.
Schopenhauer has analysed the pessimism that characterises modern
thought, but Hamlet invented it. The world has become sad because a
puppet was once melancholy. The Nihilist, that strange martyr who has no
faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he
does not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by
Tourgénieff, and completed by Dostoieffski. Robespierre came out of the
pages of Rousseau as surely as the People’s Palace rose out of the
_débris_ of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not
copy it, but moulds it to its purpose. The nineteenth century, as we
know it, is largely an invention of Balzac. Our Luciens de Rubempré, our
Rastignacs, and De Marsays made their first appearance on the stage of
the _Comédie Humaine_. We are merely carrying out, with footnotes and
unnecessary additions, the whim or fancy or creative vision of a great
novelist. I once asked a lady, who knew Thackeray intimately, whether he
had had any model for Becky Sharp. She told me that Becky was an
invention, but that the idea of the character had been partly suggested
by a governess who lived in the neighbourhood of Kensington Square, and
was the companion of a very selfish and rich old woman. I inquired what
became of the governess, and she replied that, oddly enough, some years
after the appearance of _Vanity Fair_, she ran away with the nephew of
the lady with whom she was living, and for a short time made a great
splash in society, quite in Mrs. Rawdon Crawley’s style, and entirely by
Mrs.
When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summers day. And so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different. One can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long hours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep heights that the soul is competent to gain. We think in eternity, but we move slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I need not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back into ones cell, and into the cell of ones heart, with such strange insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep ones house for their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave whose slave it is ones chance or choice to be.
On the occasion of which I am thinking I recall distinctly how I said to
her that there was enough suffering in one narrow London lane to show
that God did not love man, and that wherever there was any sorrow, though
but that of a child, in some little garden weeping over a fault that it
had or had not committed, the whole face of creation was completely
marred. I was entirely wrong. She told me so, but I could not believe
her. I was not in the sphere in which such belief was to be attained to.
Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible
explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the
world. I cannot conceive of any other explanation. I am convinced that
there is no other, and that if the world has indeed, as I have said, been
built of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because in no
other way could the soul of man, for whom the world was made, reach the
full stature of its perfection. Pleasure for the beautiful body, but
pain for the beautiful soul.
When I say that I am convinced of these things I speak with too much
pride. Far off, like a perfect pearl, one can see the city of God. It
is so wonderful that it seems as if a child could reach it in a summer's
day. And so a child could. But with me and such as me it is different.
One can realise a thing in a single moment, but one loses it in the long
hours that follow with leaden feet. It is so difficult to keep 'heights
that the soul is competent to gain.' We think in eternity, but we move
slowly through time; and how slowly time goes with us who lie in prison I
need not tell again, nor of the weariness and despair that creep back
into one's cell, and into the cell of one's heart, with such strange
insistence that one has, as it were, to garnish and sweep one's house for
their coming, as for an unwelcome guest, or a bitter master, or a slave
whose slave it is one's chance or choice to be.
And, though at present my friends may find it a hard thing to believe, it
is true none the less, that for them living in freedom and idleness and
comfort it is more easy to learn the lessons of humility than it is for
me, who begin the day by going down on my knees and washing the floor of
my cell. For prison life with its endless privations and restrictions
makes one rebellious. The most terrible thing about it is not that it
breaks one's heart--hearts are made to be broken--but that it turns one's
heart to stone. One sometimes feels that it is only with a front of
brass and a lip of scorn that one can get through the day at all. And he
who is in a state of rebellion cannot receive grace, to use the phrase of
which the Church is so fond--so rightly fond, I dare say--for in life as
in art the mood of rebellion closes up the channels of the soul, and
shuts out the airs of heaven. Yet I must learn these lessons here, if I
am to learn them anywhere, and must be filled with joy if my feet are on
the right road and my face set towards 'the gate which is called
beautiful,' though I may fall many times in the mire and often in the
mist go astray.