บทที่ บทที่ 15 · That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large

. That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large

button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady

Narborough’s drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was

throbbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his

manner as he bent over his hostess’s hand was as easy and graceful as

ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one’s ease as when one has to

play a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could

have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any

tragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never have

clutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on God

and goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of his

demeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a

double life.

It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who

was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as the

remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife

to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband

properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and

married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted

herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and

French _esprit_ when she could get it.

Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him that

she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. “I know, my

dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,” she used to say,

“and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is most

fortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, our

bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying to

raise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody.

However, that was all Narborough’s fault. He was dreadfully

short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband who

never sees anything.”

Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as she

explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her married

daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to make

matters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. “I think it

is most unkind of her, my dear,” she whispered. “Of course I go and

stay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an old

woman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake

them up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is

pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have

so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to

think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since

the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep

after dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me

and amuse me.”

Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:

it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen

before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those

middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,

but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an

overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always

trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to

her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against

her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and

Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy

dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once

seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,

white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the

impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of

ideas.

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the

great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the

mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be

so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised

faithfully not to disappoint me.”

It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door

opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some

insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.

But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away

untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an

insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and

now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence

and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass

with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.

“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being

handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out

of sorts.”

“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is

afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I

certainly should.”

“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in

love for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”

“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.

“I really cannot understand it.”

“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,

Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and

your short frocks.”

“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I

remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_

she was then.”

“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long

fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an

_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and

full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.

When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”

“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian.

“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her

third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?”

“Certainly, Lady Narborough.”

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Well, ask Mr. Gray. 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? Not one of you would ever be

married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,

that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like

bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.”

“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry.

“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess.

“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.

“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. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the

situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The

word _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared

from time to time between his explosions. 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.”

“Did you go to the club?”

“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I

didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How

inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been

doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at

half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my

latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any

corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let

us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.

Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not

yourself to-night.”

“Don’t mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall come

round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to Lady

Narborough. I shan’t go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home.”

“All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.

The duchess is coming.”

“I will try to be there, Harry,” he said, leaving the room. As he drove

back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terror he

thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry’s casual

questioning had made him lose his nerve for the moment, and he wanted

his nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He

winced. He hated the idea of even touching them.

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked the

door of his library, he opened the secret press into which he had

thrust Basil Hallward’s coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. He piled

another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burning

leather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume

everything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some

Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and

forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.

Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed

nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large

Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue

lapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and

make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yet

almost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He

lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the

long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the

cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,

went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring. A

triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively

towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small Chinese

box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides

patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with round

crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside

was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy and

persistent.

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his

face. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly

hot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes

to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did

so, and went into his bedroom.

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,

dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, crept

quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a good

horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address.

The man shook his head. “It is too far for me,” he muttered.

“Here is a sovereign for you,” said Dorian. “You shall have another if

you drive fast.”

“All right, sir,” answered the man, “you will be there in an hour,” and

after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidly

towards the river.