บทที่ บทที่ 6 · “I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that

. “I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?” said Lord Henry that

evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol

where dinner had been laid for three.

“No, Harry,” answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing

waiter. “What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don’t

interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons

worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little

whitewashing.”

“Dorian Gray is engaged to be married,” said Lord Henry, watching him

as he spoke.

Hallward started and then frowned. “Dorian engaged to be married!” he

cried. “Impossible!”

“It is perfectly true.”

“To whom?”

“To some little actress or other.”

“I can’t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible.”

“Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear

Basil.”

“Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry.”

“Except in America,” rejoined Lord Henry languidly. “But I didn’t say

he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great

difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have

no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I

never was engaged.”

“But think of Dorian’s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be

absurd for him to marry so much beneath him.”

“If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. 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. I

hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore

her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one

else. He would be a wonderful study.”

“You don’t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don’t.

If Dorian Gray’s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than

yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be.”

Lord Henry laughed. “The reason we all like to think so well of others

is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer

terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour

with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to

us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find

good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our

pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest

contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but

one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have

merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly,

but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I

will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being

fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I

can.”

“My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!” said the

lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and

shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. “I have never been so

happy. Of course, it is sudden—all really delightful things are. And

yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all my

life.” He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and looked

extraordinarily handsome.

“I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian,” said Hallward, “but I

don’t quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement.

You let Harry know.”

“And I don’t forgive you for being late for dinner,” broke in Lord

Henry, putting his hand on the lad’s shoulder and smiling as he spoke.

“Come, let us sit down and try what the new _chef_ here is like, and

then you will tell us how it all came about.”

“There is really not much to tell,” cried Dorian as they took their

seats at the small round table. “What happened was simply this. After I

left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that

little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and

went down at eight o’clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind.

Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!

You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy’s clothes, she

was perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin with

cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty little

green cap with a hawk’s feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak

lined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. She had

all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have in your

studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leaves round

a pale rose. As for her acting—well, you shall see her to-night. She is

simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I

forgot that I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away

with my love in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the

performance was over, I went behind and spoke to her. As we were

sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had

never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each

other. I can’t describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to

me that all my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of

rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shook like a white

narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I

feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can’t help it. Of

course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even told her own

mother. I don’t know what my guardians will say. Lord Radley is sure to

be furious. I don’t care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and

then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven’t I, to take

my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare’s plays? Lips

that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear.

I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed Juliet on the

mouth.”

“Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right,” said Hallward slowly.

“Have you seen her to-day?” asked Lord Henry.

Dorian Gray shook his head. “I left her in the forest of Arden; I shall

find her in an orchard in Verona.”

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. “At what

particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what

did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it.”

“My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I did

not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and she said

she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the whole world is

nothing to me compared with her.”

“Women are wonderfully practical,” murmured Lord Henry, “much more

practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to

say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.”

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. “Don’t, Harry. You have annoyed

Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any

one. His nature is too fine for that.”

Lord Henry looked across the table. “Dorian is never annoyed with me,”

he answered. “I asked the question for the best reason possible, for

the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any

question—simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the women

who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of

course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are not

modern.”

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. “You are quite incorrigible,

Harry; but I don’t mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. When

you see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong her

would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how any

one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I want to

place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship the woman

who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock at it for

that. Ah! don’t mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her

trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When I am with her,

I regret all that you have taught me. I become different from what you

have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl Vane’s

hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous,

delightful theories.”

“And those are ...?” asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad.

“Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theories

about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry.”

“Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about,” he answered

in his slow melodious voice. “But I am afraid I cannot claim my theory

as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature’s test,

her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, but when

we are good, we are not always happy.”

“Ah! but what do you mean by good?” cried Basil Hallward.

“Yes,” echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at Lord

Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in the

centre of the table, “what do you mean by good, Harry?”

“To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self,” he replied, touching

the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers.

“Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One’s own

life—that is the important thing. As for the lives of one’s neighbours,

if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt one’s moral

views about them, but they are not one’s concern. Besides,

individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in

accepting the standard of one’s age. I consider that for any man of

culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest

immorality.”

“But, surely, if one lives merely for one’s self, Harry, one pays a

terrible price for doing so?” suggested the painter.

“Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy that

the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but

self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilege

of the rich.”

“One has to pay in other ways but money.”

“What sort of ways, Basil?”

“Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in the

consciousness of degradation.”

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, mediæval art is

charming, but mediæval emotions are out of date. One can use them in

fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in

fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,

no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man ever

knows what a pleasure is.”

“I know what pleasure is,” cried Dorian Gray. “It is to adore some

one.”

“That is certainly better than being adored,” he answered, toying with

some fruits. “Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as

humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us

to do something for them.”

“I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to

us,” murmured the lad gravely. “They create love in our natures. They

have a right to demand it back.”

“That is quite true, Dorian,” cried Hallward.

“Nothing is ever quite true,” said Lord Henry.

“This is,” interrupted Dorian. “You must admit, Harry, that women give

to men the very gold of their lives.”

“Possibly,” he sighed, “but they invariably want it back in such very

small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once

put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always

prevent us from carrying them out.”

“Harry, you are dreadful! I don’t know why I like you so much.”

“You will always like me, Dorian,” he replied. “Will you have some

coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and _fine-champagne_, and

some cigarettes. No, don’t mind the cigarettes—I have some. Basil, I

can’t allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A cigarette

is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it

leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will

always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never

had the courage to commit.”

“What nonsense you talk, Harry!” cried the lad, taking a light from a

fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table.

“Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you will

have a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that you

have never known.”

“I have known everything,” said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his

eyes, “but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however,

that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, your wonderful

girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more real than life.

Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but

there is only room for two in the brougham. You must follow us in a

hansom.”

They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. The

painter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. He

could not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better

than many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes,

they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had been

arranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham in

front of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt that

Dorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in the

past. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and the crowded

flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drew up at the

theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older.