[frontispiece: the tone masters. haydn, mozart, handel, beethoven. from painting by hans temple.] among the great masters of music scenes in the lives of famous musicians _thirty-two reproductions of famous paintings_ _with text by_ walter rowlands london e. grant richards to miss jane rowlands contents. st. cecilia palestrina lulli stradivarius tartini bach handel gluck mozart linley haydn weber beethoven schubert rouget de lisle paganini mendelssohn chopin meyerbeer wagner liszt list of illustrations. the tone masters . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ st. cecilia palestrina the young lulli stradivarius tartini's dream bach's preludes morning devotions in the family of bach frederick the great and bach the child handel handel and george i. gluck at the trianon mozart and his sister before maria theresa mozart and madame de pompadour mozart at the organ the last days of mozart sheridan at the linleys' haydn crossing the english channel the "last thoughts" of von weber beethoven at bonn beethoven in his study a symphony by beethoven beethoven's dream schubert at the piano rouget de lisle singing the marseillaise paganini in prison song without words chopin at prince radziwill's the death of chopin meyerbeer wagner at home a morning with liszt preface. the compiler's thanks are due to messrs. houghton, mifflin & co., and to mrs. elizabeth stuart phelps ward, for permission to use a selection from "the silent partner." music is the link between spiritual and sensual life.--_beethoven_. and while we hear the tides of music's golden sea setting toward eternity, uplifted high in heart and hope are we. --_tennyson_. music in the best sense has little need of novelty, on the contrary, the older it is, the more one is accustomed to it, the greater is the effect it produces.--_goethe_. music is a kind of inarticulate, unfathomable speech, which leads us to the edge of the infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that.--_carlyle_. among the great masters of music. st. cecilia. one of the most ancient legends handed down to us by the early church is that of st. cecilia, the patroness of music and musicians. she is known to have been honoured by christians as far back as the third century, in which she is supposed to have lived. doubtless much of fancy has been added, in all the ensuing years, to the facts of cecilia's life and death. let us, however, take the legend as it stands. it says that st. cecilia was a noble roman lady, who lived in the reign of the emperor alexander severus. her parents, who secretly professed christianity, brought her up in their own faith, and from her earliest childhood she was remarkable for her enthusiastic piety: she carried night and day a copy of the gospel concealed within the folds of her robe; and she made a secret but solemn vow to preserve her chastity, devoting herself to heavenly things, and shunning the pleasures and vanities of the world. as she excelled in music, she turned her good gift to the glory of god, and composed hymns, which she sang herself with such ravishing sweetness, that even the angels descended from heaven to listen to her, or to join their voices with hers. she played on all instruments, but none sufficed to breathe forth that flood of harmony with which her whole soul was filled; therefore she invented the organ, consecrating it to the service of god. when she was about sixteen, her parents married her to a young roman, virtuous, rich, and of noble birth, named valerian. he was, however, still in the darkness of the old religion. cecilia, in obedience to her parents, accepted the husband they had ordained for her; but beneath her bridal robes she put on a coarse garment of penance, and, as she walked to the temple, renewed her vow of chastity, praying to god that she might have strength to keep it. and it so fell out; for, by her fervent eloquence, she not only persuaded her husband, valerian, to respect her vow, but converted him to the true faith. she told him that she had a guardian angel who watched over her night and day, and would suffer no earthly lover to approach her. and when valerian desired to see this angel, she sent him to seek the aged st. urban, who, being persecuted by the heathen, had sought refuge in catacombs. after listening to the instructions of that holy man, the conversion of valerian was perfected, and he was baptised. returning then to his wife, he heard, as he entered, the most entrancing music; and, on reaching her chamber, beheld an angel, who was standing near her, and who held in his hand two crowns of roses gathered in paradise, immortal in their freshness and perfume, but invisible to the eyes of unbelievers. with these he encircled the brows of cecilia and valerian, as they knelt before him; and he said to valerian, "because thou hast followed the chaste counsel of thy wife, and hast believed her words, ask what thou wilt, it shall be granted to thee." and valerian replied, "i have a brother named tiburtius, whom i love as my own soul; grant that his eyes, also, may be opened to the truth." and the angel replied, with a celestial smile, "thy request, o valerian, is pleasing to god, and ye shall both ascend to his presence, bearing the palm of martyrdom." and the angel, having spoken these words, vanished. soon afterward tiburtius entered the chamber, and perceiving the fragrance of the celestial roses, but not seeing them, and knowing that it was not the season for flowers, he was astonished. then cecilia, turning to him, explained to him the doctrines of the gospel, and set before him all that christ had done for us,--contrasting his divine mission, and all he had done and suffered for men, with the gross worship of idols made of wood and stone; and she spoke with such a convincing fervour, such heaven-inspired eloquence, that tiburtius yielded at once, and hastened to urban to be baptised and strengthened in the faith. and all three went about doing good, giving alms, and encouraging those who were put to death for christ's sake, whose bodies were buried honourably. now there was in those days a wicked prefect of rome, named almachius, who governed in the emperor's absence; and he sent for cecilia and her husband and brother, and commanded them to desist from the practice of christian charity. and they said, "how can we desist from that which is our duty, for fear of anything that man can do unto us?" the two brothers were then thrown into a dungeon, and committed to the charge of a centurion named maximus, whom they converted, and all three, refusing to join in the sacrifice to jupiter, were put to death. and cecilia, having washed their bodies with her tears, and wrapped them in her robes, buried them together in the cemetery of calixtus. then the wicked almachius, covetous of the wealth which cecilia had inherited, sent for her, and commanded her to sacrifice to the gods, threatening her with horrible tortures in case of refusal. she only smiled in scorn, and those who stood by wept to see one so young and so beautiful persisting in what they termed obstinacy and rashness, and entreated her to yield; but she refused, and by her eloquent appeal so touched their hearts that forty persons declared themselves christians, and ready to die with her. then almachius, struck with terror and rage, exclaimed, "what art thou, woman?" and she answered, "i am a roman of noble race." he said, "i ask of thy religion;" and she said, "thou blind one, thou art already answered!" almachius, more and more enraged, commanded that they should carry her back to her own house, and fill her bath with boiling water, and cast her into it; but it had no more effect on her body than if she had bathed in a fresh spring. then almachius sent an executioner to put her to death with the sword; but his hand trembled, so that, after having given her three wounds in the neck and breast, he went his way, leaving her bleeding and half dead. she lived, however, for the space of three days, which she spent in prayers and exhortation to the converts, distributing to the poor all she possessed; and she called to her st. urban, and desired that her house, in which she then lay dying, should be converted into a place of worship for the christians. thus, full of faith and charity, and singing with her sweet voice praises and hymns to the last moment, she died at the end of three days. the christians embalmed her body, and she was buried by urban in the same cemetery with her husband. as the saint had wished, her house was consecrated as a church, and the chamber in which she had suffered martyrdom was regarded as a place especially sacred. in after years, the edifice fell into ruins, but was rebuilt by pope paschal i. in the ninth century. while this pious work was in progress, it is told that paschal had a dream, in which st. cecilia appeared to him and disclosed the spot where she had been buried. on a search being made, her body was found in the cemetery of st. calixtus, together with the remains of valerian, tiburtius, and maximus, and all were deposited in the same edifice, which has since been twice rebuilt and is now known as the church of st. cecilia in trastevere. at the end of the sixteenth century, the sarcophagus which held the remains of the saint was solemnly opened in the presence of several dignitaries of the church, among whom was cardinal baronius, who left an account of the appearance of the body. "she was lying," says baronius, "within a coffin of cypress-wood, enclosed in a marble sarcophagus; not in the manner of one dead and buried, that is, on her back, but on her right side, as one asleep, and in a very modest attitude; covered with a simple stuff of taffety, having her head bound with cloth, and at her feet the remains of the cloth of gold and silk which pope paschal had found in her tomb." the reigning pope, clement viii., ordered that the relics should be kept inviolate, and the coffin was enclosed in a silver shrine and replaced under the high altar, with great solemnity. a talented sculptor, stefano maderno, was commissioned to execute a marble statue of the saint lying dead, and this celebrated work, which fully corresponds with the description of baronius, is now beneath the high altar of the church, where ninety-six silver lamps burn constantly to the memory of cecilia. the accompanying inscription reads, "behold the image of the most holy virgin cecilia, whom i myself saw lying incorruptible in her tomb. i have in this marble expressed for thee the same saint in the very same posture of body." it seems hardly possible now to say when st. cecilia came to be considered as music's patron saint,--probably it was not until centuries after her death. we know that in a musical society was instituted in belgium, at louvain, which was placed under the patronage of st. cecilia. we know, also, that the custom of praising music by giving special musical performances on st. cecilia's day (november ) is an old one. the earliest known celebration of this nature took place at evreux, in normandy, in , when some of the best composers of the day, including orlando lasso, competed for the prizes which were offered. it is recorded that the first of these festivals to be held in england was in . for these occasions odes were written by dryden, shadwell, congreve, and other poets, and the music was supplied by such composers as purcell and blow. at the church of st. eustache, in paris, on st. cecilia's day, masses by adolphe adam, gounod, and ambroise thomas have been given their first performance. in germany, spohr and moritz hauptmann have composed works in honour of the day, and haydn's great "cecilia" mass must not be forgotten. mrs. jameson says that, before the beginning of the fifteenth century, st. cecilia was seldom represented in art with musical attributes, but carried the martyr's palm. later, she appears in painting, either accompanied by various instruments of music, or playing on them. domenichino, who was in rome when the sarcophagus of st. cecilia was opened, and painted numerous pictures of the saint, shows her in one of them as performing on the bass viol. this picture is in the louvre, where also is mignard's canvas, representing her accompanying her voice with a harp. many painters have depicted st. cecilia playing upon the organ, often a small, portable instrument, such as she bears in the celebrated picture by raphael, which we reproduce. for over six hundred years, from the time of cimabue to our own day, artists of all countries have vied with each other in representations of st. cecilia, but none have risen to the height of raphael's treatment of the theme. [illustration: st. cecilia. from painting by raphael] he shows us cecilia, standing with enraptured face lifted to heaven, where the parted clouds display six angels prolonging the melody which the saint has ceased to draw forth from the organ she holds. on her right, the majestic figure of st. paul appears as if in deep thought, leaning on his sword, and between him and st. cecilia we see the beautiful young face of the beloved disciple, john the evangelist. upon the other side, the foremost figure is that of mary magdalen, carrying the jar of ointment in her hand, and behind her stands st. augustine with a bishop's staff, looking toward john. at the feet of st. cecilia are scattered various instruments of music, a viol, cymbals, the triangle, flute, and others. they are broken, and some of the pipes of the regal held by st. cecilia are falling from their place,--all seeming to indicate the inferiority of earthly music to the celestial harmonies. of the five saints depicted, only cecilia looks upward, and it has been suggested that raphael meant that she, alone, hears and understands the heavenly strains. she is clothed in a garment of cloth of gold, st. paul in crimson and green, and the magdalen in violet. some writers claim that the face of the magdalen is that of raphael's love, the "farnarina," whom he frequently used as a model. the baker's daughter was a girl of the trastevere, and it is a coincidence that her home was near that church dedicated to cecilia, where the saint's remains have rested for hundreds of years. as mrs. jameson observed, sir joshua reynolds has given us a paraphrase of raphael's painting of music's patron saint in his fine picture of mrs. billington, the famous english singer of his last years, as st. cecilia. she holds a music book in her hand, but is listening to the carolling of some cherubs hovering above her. the composer haydn paid the singer a happy compliment suggested by this portrait when he said to sir joshua, "what have you done? you have made her listening to the angels, you should have represented the angels listening to her." mrs. billington was so delighted with this praise that she gave haydn a hearty kiss. this splendid portrait of the charming young singer is in the lenox library in new york. raphael's "st. cecilia" has, of course, a history. in october of the year , a noble lady of bologna, named elena duglioli dall olio, imagined that she heard supernatural voices bidding her to dedicate a chapel to st. cecilia in the church of s. giovanni in monte. upon telling this to a relative, antonio pucci of florence, he offered to fit up the chapel at his own expense, and induced his uncle, lorenzo pucci, then newly created a cardinal, to commission raphael to paint a picture for the altar. it was finished in . tradition relates that pucci had no ear for music, and was laughed at by his brother cardinals when chanting mass in the sistine chapel. he thereupon invoked the aid of st. cecilia, who rewarded the donor of her picture by remedying his harmonic deficiency. in , napoleon's conquering army carried the painting to paris, where it remained until , when it was returned to bologna. it was at a later date transferred to the art gallery of that city, where it now hangs. about the middle of the eighteenth century, when the agent of augustus iii., the elector of saxony, was negotiating the purchase of italian paintings for the royal gallery in dresden, the "st. cecilia" was offered to him for $ , , but the price was thought too high, and a copy by denis calvaert sufficed. this still hangs in the zwinger at dresden, the home of the sistine madonna. according to vasari, the organ and other musical instruments in this picture were painted by one of the master's pupils, giovanni da udine. raphael again designed a st. cecilia in the now ruined fresco of her martyrdom, which either the master or one of his pupils painted in the chapel of the pope's hunting castle of la magliana, near rome. fortunately, marc antonio's engraving has preserved for us the composition of this work. of the many tributes to this "st. cecilia," we will select the one by shelley. "we saw besides one picture of raphael--st. cecilia; this is in another and higher style; you forget that it is a picture as you look at it; and yet it is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. it is of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived and executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced among the ancients those perfect specimens of poetry and sculpture which are the baffling models of succeeding generations. there is a unity and a perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. the central figure, st. cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as produced her image in the painter's mind; her deep, dark, eloquent eyes lifted up; her chestnut hair flung back from her forehead--she holds an organ in her hands--her countenance, as it were, calmed by the depth of its passion and rapture, and penetrated throughout with the warm and radiant light of life. she is listening to the music of heaven, and, as i imagine, has just ceased to sing, for the four figures that surround her evidently point, by their attitudes, toward her; particularly st. john, who, with a tender yet impassioned gesture, bends his countenance toward her, languid with the depth of his emotion. at her feet lie various instruments of music, broken and unstrung. of the colouring i do not speak; it eclipses nature, yet has all her truth and softness." dryden's "song for st. cecilia's day, ," set to music by draghi, an italian composer, ends with this verse, apposite to our picture: "orpheus could lead the savage race, and trees uprooted left their place, sequacious of the lyre: but bright cecilia raised the wonder higher; when to her organ vocal breath was given, an angel heard, and straight appeared,-- mistaking earth for heaven!" ten years later he wrote his noble ode, "alexander's feast," in honour of st. cecilia's festival, at the close of which he again refers to the saint's wondrous powers: "thus long ago, ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, while organs yet were mute, timotheus to his breathing flute and sounding lyre, could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. at last divine cecilia came, inventress of the vocal frame; the sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, enlarged the former narrow bounds, and added length to solemn sounds, with nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. let old timotheus yield the prize, or both divide the crown; he raised a mortal to the skies, she drew an angel down." handel, in , produced his oratorio of "alexander's feast." pope's "ode on st. cecilia's day," was written in , and performed at cambridge, in , with music by maurice greene. in this composition the poet uses a similar image to dryden. he sings: "music the fiercest grief can charm, and fate's severest rage disarm; music can soften pain to ease, and make despair and madness please; our joys below it can improve, and antedate the bliss above. this the divine cecilia found, and to her maker's praise confin'd the sound. when the full organ joins the tuneful quire, th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear; borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, while solemn airs improve the sacred fire; and angels lean from heav'n to hear. of orpheus now no more let poets tell, to bright cecilia greater pow'r is given; his numbers rais'd a shade from hell, hers lift the soul to heav'n." palestrina. some twenty miles from rome, the insignificant but picturesquely situated town of palestrina, lies on the hillside. the praeneste of antiquity, it was once an important colony of rome, many of whose wealthy ones resorted thither in summer, for the sake of its bracing atmosphere, which horace extolled. excavations here have yielded a rich harvest, and the eternal city holds among its ancient treasures few of more interest or value than those recovered from the soil of palestrina. [illustration: palestrina. from painting by ferdinand heilbruth.] here, probably in , was born giovanni pierluigi da palestrina, who received his last name from that of his native town. his parents were of humble station in life, but, beyond this fact, we know little that is reliable about his youth or early education. in he went to rome, and became a pupil at the music school of claudio goudimel, a french composer, who turned protestant, and perished in the massacre of st. bartholomew's day. palestrina appears to have returned to his birthplace when he was about twenty years old, and to have been made organist and director of music in the cathedral. he married in , and had several sons, but in was again in rome, where he held the position of teacher of the boy singers in the capella giulia, in the vatican. while holding this office, he composed a set of masses, which he dedicated to julius iii., and which were issued in . before that time, flemish composers had supplied all the music of the church, and these masses are the first important work by an italian musician. the pope recognised their value by appointing palestrina one of the singers of the papal choir, which was against the rules of the church, married singers being debarred. nor was the composer's voice such as entitled him to a place in this splendid body of singers, and he conscientiously hesitated before accepting the position. he did not, however, hold it long, for julius iii. died within a few months, and his successor, marcellus ii., lived but twenty-three days after becoming pope. paul iv., who succeeded marcellus, was a reformer, and dismissed palestrina from the choir, which was a severe blow to the poor composer. but in october of the same year ( ) he was made director of the music at the lateran church, where he remained for over five years. during this time he produced several important works, among them being his volume of _improperia_ ("the reproaches"), an eight-voiced "crux fidelis," and the set of "lamentations" for four voices. these compositions gave him fame as the leader of a new school, the pure school of italian church-music. in the composer became director of music at the church of st. maria maggiore, where he remained ten years, during which period the event took place which gave him his greatest fame. for years church music had been lacking in that dignity which should be its main characteristic, and this fault was largely due to the flemish composers, who thought most of displaying their technical skill. they frequently selected some well-known secular tune around which to weave their counterpoint, many masses, for instance, having been written on the old provencal song of "l' homme armé." some of the melodies chosen as the basis for masses were nothing but drinking songs. at that time the tenor generally sang the melody, and, as in order to show on what foundation their work rested, the flemings retained the original words in his part, it was not uncommon to hear the tenors singing some bacchanalian verses, while the rest of the choir were intoning the sacred words of a "gloria" or an "agnus dei." these abuses lasted for an incredibly long time, but finally, in , the cardinals were brought together for the purification of all churchly matters, and the council of trent took note of the evil. all were agreed upon abolishing secular words from the mass, and some even urged the banishment of counterpoint itself, and a return to the plain song or chant, but fortunately this sweeping reform met with a vigorous protest from others. at last the whole matter was referred to a committee of eight cardinals, who wisely sought the aid of an equal number of the papal singers, and the outcome of their debate was a commission given palestrina to write a mass, which should employ counterpoint without irreverence, and prove that religion and music might be blended into one. the composer, in response to this signal mark of confidence, wrote three masses, which he submitted in . the third one was the celebrated "mass of pope marcellus," of which the pope ordered a special performance by the choir of the apostolical chapel. the rendition was followed by the complete acceptance of palestrina's work. a new office, that of "composer to the pontifical choir," was created for him, and in he became leader of the choir of st. peter's. although highly honoured and rewarded with many offices, palestrina received no great pecuniary recompense for his labours. his life was blessed, however, with the love of a devoted wife, and the friendship of many true admirers, especially cardinal carlo borromeo and filippo neri, the founder of oratorio, both of whom were afterward canonised. palestrina died in , and lies buried in st. peter's, where his works are still performed. to the end of his life he never ceased to produce, and left behind him over ninety masses, one hundred and seventy-nine motettes, forty-five sets of hymns for the entire year, and an immense quantity of other compositions. no composer, it is said, has ever existed at once so prolific and so sustainedly powerful. both the man and his work deserve our regard. elson says: "if ever the catholic church desires to canonise a musical composer, it will find devoutness, humility, and many other saintly characteristics in palestrina." palestrina, in reverend age, discoursing on his art to some pupils or friends, has been painted by ferdinand heilbuth ( - ), an artist who, born in germany of jewish parents, gained his greatest successes in france. he painted three classes of pictures,--those in which celebrated personages of other times are the central attraction, as in "palestrina;" others which portray aged ecclesiastics of the roman church, conversing with the orphan boys of some religious foundation, or the like; and lastly, charming transcripts from field or wood, in whose foreground he placed some fair dame in fashionable attire. lulli. that amazon of princesses, granddaughter of henry iv., and cousin of louis xiv., the duchesse de montpensier (better known, perhaps, by the name of "la grande mademoiselle"), once asked the chevalier de guise to bring her from italy "a young musician to enliven my house." the chevalier did not forget the great lady's whim, and noticing, one day in florence, a bright-eyed boy of twelve singing to the music of his guitar, said to him, "will you come with me to paris?" the lad, a poor miller's son, without hesitation answered, "yes;" and thus the young lulli got his start in the world. he soon gained experience of the uncertainty which attended the favour of royalty, for, after a few days, "la grande mademoiselle" grew tired of her new toy, and sent him to the kitchen, where he became a cook's boy. here, in the intervals of his work, surrounded by pots and pans, and eatables of all kinds, he often played upon his violin, or sang to his guitar. he is credited with having set some verses to music, at this time; among them the popular "au clair de la lune," which the numberless readers of "trilby" will remember was sung by la svengali, on that famous night at the cirque des bashibazoucks. some couplets reflecting on his mistress were sent to the young musician, and, composing a pretty air to the words, he sang them to the frequenters of the kitchen. this disrespectful act reached the ears of the duchess, who thereupon expelled lulli from her house. [illustration: the young lulli. from painting by h. de la charlerie.] his talent for the violin had, however, attracted the attention of some people of influence, and he was placed under tuition, and finally made one of the court musicians. at nineteen years old, he played for the first time before the king, who was much pleased, and appointed him inspector of the violins, and organised for him a band of young musicians, who were called _les petits violons_, to distinguish them from the _grande bande des violons du roi_. lulli was then chosen to compose dance-music for the ballets performed at court, and afterward the entire musical portion of these entertainments was entrusted to him. he became also a collaborator of molière, furnishing the music for many of the great dramatist's plays, and even acting in some of them. his greatest fame was won in the composition of operas, for which the poet quinault wrote the words, and he is justly considered to be the founder of french opera. among lulli's operas are "armide," "isis," "atys," "alceste," "psyche," "proserpine," and "bellerophon." the composer did not reach old age, but died in , about fifty-four years old, wealthy and honoured, and a great favourite of louis xiv., who had made him "superintendent of the king's music," and treated him with much liberality. his death was caused, one might say, by an illness of the king. when louis recovered from this sickness, lulli was commanded to write a te deum in grateful celebration of the event. at the first performance, the composer himself conducted, and while beating time with his baton, accidentally struck it against his foot, causing a bruise, which developed into an abscess of such a malignant character that the entire foot, and then the leg were affected. amputation was advised as the only hope of saving the patient's life, but lulli hesitated in giving his consent, and it was soon too late. from all accounts, the closing scene of lulli's life was not marked with that awe which generally attends a death-bed. he desired absolution, but his confessor would not absolve him, except on the condition that he would commit to flames the score of his latest opera. after many excuses, lulli at length acquiesced, and pointing to a drawer, where was the rough score of "achille et polixene," it was burned, the absolution granted, and the priest went home satisfied. lulli grew better, and one of the young princes visited him. "what, baptiste," said he, "have you burnt your opera? you were a fool for giving such credit to a gloomy confessor, and burning such good music." "hush! hush!" whispered lulli, "i knew well what i was about,--i have another copy of it!" but this was not all. unhappily, this joke was followed by a relapse, and the prospect of certain death caused him such dreadful remorse for his deceit to the priest, that he confessed all, and submitted to be laid on a heap of ashes, with a cord around his neck, which was the penance recommended him! he was then placed in bed, and expired singing, "_il faut mourir, pecheur, il faut mourir!_" to one of his own airs. many anecdotes are told about lulli, of which we will repeat one or two. so fatal was the influence of success and its attendant fortune upon lulli's career, that he entirely laid aside his violin, and refused to have such a thing in his house, nor could any one prevail upon him to play upon one. marshal de gramont, however, was his match. he determined not to be entirely deprived of his favourite treat, and devised the ingenious plan of making one of his servants, who could bring more noise than music out of the instrument, play upon the violin in lulli's presence; whereupon the ex-violinist would rush to the unfortunate tormentor, snatch the fiddle from him, and seek to allay his disturbed equanimity (which, much to the delight of those within hearing, always took him a long time to accomplish) by playing himself. at the first performance of "armide," at versailles, some delay prevented the raising of the curtain at the appointed hour. the king, thereupon, sent an officer of his guard, who said to lulli, "the king is waiting," and was answered with the words, "the king is master here, and nobody has the right to prevent him waiting as long as he likes!" hippolyte de la charlerie, who painted lulli as a boy in the kitchen of "la grande mademoiselle," was a belgian artist, who died young, in , the same year that he sent this picture to the paris salon. stradivarius. crowest, the english writer on musical subjects, says: "two hundred years ago, the finest violins that the world will probably ever have were being turned out from the italian workshops; while at about the same time, and subsequently, there was issuing from the homes of music in germany, the music for these superb instruments,--music not for any one age, 'but for all time.'" "in the chain of this creative skill, however, a link was wanting. nobody rose up who could marry the music to the instrument. for years and years the violin, and the music for it, marched steadily on, side by side, but not united. bach was writing far in advance of his time, while stradivarius and the amatis were 'rounding' and 'varnishing' for a people yet to come. it was not till the beginning of the present century that executive skill, tone, and culture stepped in, and were brought to bear upon an instrument that is, perhaps, more than any other, amenable to such influences. consequently, to us has fallen the happy fate to witness the very zenith of violin-playing. a future generation may equal, but can scarcely hope to surpass a joachim, a wilhelmj, or a strauss,--players who combine the skill of paganini with a purity of taste to which he was a stranger, and, moreover, with a freedom from those startling eccentricities which, more than anything else, have made the reputation of that strange performer." the greatest violin-maker that ever lived, antonio stradivari, or stradivarius, was born in cremona, probably in . no entry of his birth has been found in any church register at cremona, but among the violins which once belonged to a certain count cozio di salabue was one bearing a ticket in the handwriting of stradivarius, in which his name, his age, and the date of the violin were given. he was then ninety-two years old, and the date of the violin was . he was the pupil of another famous cremonese violin-maker, niccolo amati, and his first works are said to bear the name of his master, but in he began to sign instruments with his own name. his early history is quite unknown, but a record exists showing that in , when twenty-three years old, he married francesca ferraboschi. for about twenty years after his marriage, stradivarius appears to have produced but few instruments, and it is supposed that during this time he employed himself chiefly in making those scientific experiments and researches which he carried into practice in his famous works. it was about the year , when he was fifty-six years old, that stradivarius attained that perfection which distinguishes his finest instruments. the first quarter of the eighteenth century witnessed the production of his best violins,--the quality of those made after is less satisfactory. during his long life (he died in ), the great violin-maker worked industriously, and produced a large number of instruments, but a far greater number are attributed to him than he could possibly have made. his usual price for a violin was about twenty dollars, (haweis says fifty dollars), but a fine specimen from his hand now sells in the auction room for hundreds of dollars. in , a stradivarius violin brought the large sum of five thousand dollars, and double this sum was paid a few years since for the celebrated "messie" violin, made by stradivarius in , and still in perfect condition. count cozio di salabue had bought it in , but never allowed it to be played upon, and when he died (about ) it was purchased by that remarkable "violin hunter," luigi tarisio. thirty years later, he, too, passed over to the majority, and his friend, the parisian violin-maker vuillaume, bought the "messie" from tarisio's heirs, along with about two hundred and fifty other fiddles, many of which were of the greatest rarity and value. vuillaume kept the "messie" in a glass case and never allowed any one to touch it, and many anxious days he passed during the commune, fearing for his musical treasures. however, they luckily escaped the dangers of the time, and when, in , vuillaume died, the "messie" became the property of his daughter, who was the wife of m. alard, the celebrated teacher of the violin. from his executors it was bought in for , pounds, for the english gentleman who now possesses this most famous of all the works of stradivarius. charles reade, the novelist, who was a lover of the violin and an expert in such matters, in had thought this instrument to be worth pounds, so that its value had trebled in less than twenty years. the celebrated violinist, ole bull, owned a stradivarius violin, dated , and inlaid with ebony and ivory, which is said to have been made for a king of spain. in the "tales of a wayside inn" longfellow speaks of it: "the instrument on which he played was in cremona's workshop made, by a great master of the past ere yet was lost the art divine; * * * * "exquisite was it in design, perfect in each minutest part, a marvel of the lutist's art; and in its hollow chamber, thus, the maker from whose hands it came had written his unrivalled name,-- 'antonius stradivarius.'" haweis, in his admirable book on "old violins," reproduces for us "the atmosphere in which antonio stradivari worked for more than half a century. "i stood in the open loft at the top of his house, where still in the old beams stuck the rusty old nails upon which he hung up his violins. and i saw out upon the north the wide blue sky, just mellowing to rich purple, and flecked here and there with orange streaks prophetic of sunset. whenever stradivarius looked up from his work, if he looked north, his eye fell on the old towers of s. marcellino and s. antonio; if he looked west, the cathedral, with its tall campanile, rose dark against the sky, and what a sky! full of clear sun in the morning, full of pure heat all day, and bathed with ineffable tints in the cool of the evening, when the light lay low upon vinery and hanging garden, or spangled with ruddy gold the eaves, the roofs, and frescoed walls of the houses. "here, up in the high air, with the sun, his helper, the light, his minister, the blessed soft airs, his journeymen, what time the workaday noise of the city rose and the sound of matins and vespers was in his ears, through the long warm days worked antonio stradivari." [illustration: stradivarius. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] edouard jean conrad hamman, who painted the picture of stradivarius--deep in thought amid his violins--which accompanies this, was a belgian. born at ostend in , and a pupil of de keyser, he lived a long time in paris, won many medals and other honours, and died in , leaving behind him numerous pictures, several of which are reproduced in this book. his "erasmus reading to the young charles v." is in the luxembourg, and the brussels museum has his "dante at ravenna," and the "entry of albert and isabella into ostend." besides these he produced "the mass of adrien willaert," "the childhood of montaigne," "shakespeare and his family," "vesalius," "hamlet," and "murillo in his studio." one of his paintings, entitled "the women of siena, ," shows the women of that city working on the fortifications intended to resist the besieging army of charles v., and another depicts columbus first sighting land on october , . tartini. a few years ago the istrian town of pirano unveiled a statue, not exactly to _one_ of its illustrious sons, but to the _only one_ of its children who ever became famous, so far as we know. the pedestal of the statue is inscribed. _istria to giuseppe tartini, ._ the admirably conceived figure which surmounts the pedestal represents the master standing, violin and bow in hand, at the moment of his accidental discovery of the curious acoustic phenomenon known as the "third sound,"--_i. e._, the production of a third note in harmony when only two are struck with the bow. the statue was modelled by dal zotto, an able italian sculptor, whose work found so much favour with those present at its inauguration that they enthusiastically carried him about the piazza on their shoulders,--a tribute we judge to have been well deserved. the subject of dal zotto's statue was sent, while yet very young, from pirano, (where he was born of a good family in ) to capo d' istria, to study at the college of the "padri delle scuole." it was here that he received his first instruction in violin playing, and in fencing,--two accomplishments that were to play an important part in his future life. in spite of the fact that tartini's family had destined him to become a franciscan, he had the strongest antipathy to an ecclesiastical career. his relatives fought in vain against his unbending resistance, and finally sent him to pavia, to study law. learning cost him little effort, and he still found plenty of spare time for fencing. somewhat wild, and tired of serious study, he decided to take up his abode in paris or naples, and there establish himself as a fencing-master. a love-affair put an end to this project. tartini having won the heart of a young and beautiful girl, a niece of the cardinal and bishop of padua, george cornaro, the lovers were secretly married, but did not long succeed in keeping the knowledge of their union from their relatives. tartini's family, enraged at his conduct, withdrew at once the support they had hitherto given him, and to cap the climax, the bishop accused him of seduction and theft. warned in time, tartini fled to rome, leaving his young wife in padua without confiding to her the direction of his travels. reaching assisi, he ran across a monk in whom he recognised a near relation from his native city of pirano. this good-natured brother, who was a sacristan in the monastery at assisi, took pity on the refugee, and gave him an asylum in one of the cells. this is the time, and this is the cell in which the accompanying picture represents our hero. two years he passed in this monastery, making use of his involuntary seclusion to carry on with great zeal his musical studies. the story of tartini's dream, and his motive for writing the "devil's sonata" is told in various ways and with many additions. tartini told the tale himself to the astronomer lalande, who relates it in the following manner in his "italian travels." "one night in the year ," said tartini, "i dreamed that i had made a compact with the devil, and that he stood at my command. everything thrived according to my wish, and whatever i desired or longed for was immediately realised through the officiousness of my new vassal. a fancy seized me to give him my violin to see if he could, perchance, play some beautiful melodies for me. how surprised i was to hear a sonata, so beautiful and singular, rendered in such an intelligent and masterly manner as i had never heard before. astonishment and rapture overcame me so completely that i swooned away. on returning to consciousness, i hastily took up my violin, hoping to be able to play at least a part of what i had heard, but in vain. the sonata i composed at that time was certainly my best, and i still call it the 'devil's sonata,' but this composition is so far beneath the one i heard in my dream, that i would have broken my violin and given up music altogether, had i been able to live without it." the paris conservatory library owns the manuscript of the "devil's sonata," which was published many years later (in ), under the title of "il trillo del diavolo." this sonata has become one of the show-pieces of leading violinists, such as joachim, laub, and others. one writer speaks of it as a "piece in which a series of double shakes, and the satanic laugh with which it concludes, are so dear to lovers of descriptive music." its title alone almost ensures its success beforehand. the listener is, however, less impressed by the hidden diabolical inspiration than by the wonderful technic. [illustration: tartini's dream. from painting by james marshall.] strange to say, this composition actually aided tartini to obtain the position of director of the orchestra in the church of st. antony at padua, in . before this time, however, he heard in venice the famous violinist veracini, whose achievements in bowing impressed tartini so much, that he left venice the next morning for ancona, where he pursued the study of his art, unmolested, for seven years. it was here that he created a new method of playing, which, particularly as regards the bowing, was the one followed for half a century. let us, however, return to tartini at assisi, and tell how an unforeseen incident at last freed the young artist from his hiding-place and gave him back to his family. on a certain holiday, tartini was playing a violin solo, during services, in the choir of the church, when a sudden gust of wind blew aside the curtains which had concealed him from the assembly. a man from padua, who happened to be in the church at the time, recognised tartini, and betrayed his hiding-place. circumstances had fortunately changed in the course of two years, the anger of the bishop was pacified, and tartini was allowed to return to his wife at padua. in the year he was called to prague to perform during the festivities at the coronation of the emperor charles vi. he went with his friend, the violoncellist, antonio nardini, to prague, where they both accepted a position in the orchestra of count kinsky. after three years in this service, they returned to padua, which city tartini never left again. invitations flowed in from all the great capitals, but no terms tempted him to leave his native soil. among the first of these offers was one from lord middlesex, inviting tartini to london, and hinting that a visit to england would probably bring him in at least three thousand pounds; but it was declined in the following disinterested language: "i have a wife with the same sentiments as myself, and no children. we are perfectly contented with our position, and if we wish for anything, it is, certainly, not to possess more than we have at present." the remainder of his long and famous career passed quietly, dedicated to study, composition, and teaching. the school founded by him in soon became famous all over europe, and sent out some of the most noted violinists. padua was then the place of pilgrimage for all violinists, and it was not without cause that tartini's countrymen called him "il maestro delle nazioni." this period of tartini's labour is, above all, remarkable for his theoretic researches. already, in , he had discovered the combination tones (the so-called "third" or tartini's tone). this discovery, a lasting and valuable acquisition to all later investigations into acoustics, led him further and further, but apart from the exact road of natural science into the nebulous regions of mystic philosophy. tartini taught that with the problem of harmony would also be solved the mystery of creation, that divinity itself would be revealed in the mystical symbols of the tone relations. in these mystical investigations, the composer believed himself particularly favoured by the grace of god. the german composer, naumann, who became tartini's pupil at an early age, and who enjoyed his favour as no other did, has written down many remarkable facts concerning the master. to be initiated into the last secrets of the art of tone and the universe was naumann's most ardent wish, but he was always put off to some future time as not yet being quite mature and worthy enough. naumann's illustrations of tartini's teachings resemble more a mystic and ecstatic sermon than a musical theory. tartini died without having spoken his last word. his character in this last period of his life appears to have been amiable, mild, and benevolent. the sharp and violent disposition of his wife did not make him happy, but he nevertheless always remained considerate and tender toward her. he died in padua, at the age of seventy-eight, on the sixteenth of february, , and lies buried in the church of st. catherine. he perfected the art of bowing, composed eighteen concertos for five instruments, as well as several trios and a number of sonatas, and left a treatise on music. doctor burney translated and published, in , a long letter of instructions for playing the violin which tartini wrote from padua, in , to "my very much esteemed signora maddalena." it can also be found in the life of "ole bull," who had a very high opinion of what tartini must have been as a teacher. the splendid collection of modern german pictures owned by count von schack, at munich, includes "tartini's dream," which was painted by james marshall. he was born at amsterdam in , but studied in antwerp and paris, and at weimar under friedrich preller. most of marshall's life has been spent in germany. bach. bach's position as one of a numerous family of musicians is unique, for it cannot be said of any other composer that his forefathers, his contemporary relations, and his descendants were all musicians, and not only musicians, but holders of important offices as such. johann sebastian bach, the greatest of all that bore that name, considered the founder of his family to be veit bach, a thuringian musician who settled in pressburg in hungary as a baker and miller. later, because of religious persecution, he returned to his native country, where he lived at the village of wechmar near gotha, dying in . of his numerous musical descendants, johann ( - ) became organist at schweinfurt, and afterward director of the town musicians at erfurt. here, though the town suffered much from the effects of war, he founded a family which quickly increased and soon filled all the town musicians' places, so that for about a hundred and fifty years, and even after no more of the family lived there, the town musicians were known as "the bachs." [illustration: bach's preludes. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] heinrich bach ( - ) was organist of the franciscan church at arnstadt for fifty years, composed much, and had six children, three of whom were, in their day, noted musicians. of the twin brothers, johann ambrosius and johann christoph, born in , the first was town organist of eisenach, and the second court musician at arnstadt. these brothers were remarkably alike, not only in looks, but in character and temperament. they both played the violin in exactly the same way, they spoke alike, and it is said that their own wives could scarcely tell them apart. they suffered from the same illnesses, and died within a few months of one another. johann christoph once figured in an action for breach of promise of marriage brought before the consistory at arnstadt by anna cunigunda wiener, with whom he had once "kept company." the court decided that bach must marry her, but, with the independence of his family, he refused to do so, and he kept his word. another johann christoph, uncle of the great sebastian, was organist at eisenach for sixty years, and is, together with his brother michael, distinguished as a composer. maria barbara, the youngest daughter of michael, became sebastian bach's first wife. one johann jacob bach was an oboe-player in the swedish guard, and followed charles xii. to his defeat at pultowa, later becoming court-musician at stockholm. a vigorous, ambitious, and altogether remarkable family was this of the bachs, and one of the most notable things about it is the uniformly high moral character of its members. only one, of all those who flourished before sebastian, is spoken of as being given to drink. wilhelm friedemann, the oldest son of the greatest bach, unfortunately had the same failing, and died in berlin in , poor and miserable through intemperance. his musical talent was exceptional, authorities calling him the greatest organist in germany after his father. he is sometimes spoken of as the "halle bach," from having been music director of a church there. the "father of modern piano music" was also the father of a large family, not less than twenty children having been born to him. the most celebrated of his twelve sons was carl philipp emanuel, who is called the "berlin bach," having lived there in the court service for nearly thirty years. emanuel was a prolific composer in all styles, and occupies an important place in the history of music. another son, johann christoph friedrich, was a composer and also chamber musician to count von lippe at bückeburg, from which circumstance he is called the "bückeburger bach." sebastian's youngest boy, johann christian (the bach family evidently never wearied of the name of johann), called the "milanese" and afterward the "english" bach, composed a large number of works,--songs, operas, oratorios, what not. he lived and worked at one time in milan, where he was organist of the cathedral, and from there went to london, where he died in . the daughters of sebastian bach--there were only eight of them--mostly died young, nor did they exhibit any special musical talent, and, after his sons' careers were ended, no one bearing the name has, we believe, won distinction in the art. the bach family were as a rule both sincerely pious and fond of innocent pleasure. their tribal feeling was strong, and it was a custom to meet together once a year at erfurt, eisenach, or arnstadt, and spend a day in friendly intercourse, exchanging news and relating experiences. of course on these occasions they devoted some of the happy hours to music, and a favourite pastime was the singing of "quodlibets"--a kind of musical medley--wherein portions of several well-known songs would be dovetailed together. [illustration: morning devotions in the family of bach. from painting by toby e. rosenthal.] bach's home life was a happy one. both his marriage ventures turned out well, and he was beloved by children and pupils alike. his large family circle was often added to by friends and visitors, who enjoyed his never failing hospitality, especially toward musicians. in the midst of all his occupations, he found time for music in the family circle, and a german-american artist has produced a charming work showing the great composer seated at the clavichord and surrounded by his children, who are singing their morning hymn. this painting, which belongs to the museum of leipsic, the city where bach laboured so long and where he died, is by toby e. rosenthal, who was born in germany in , but was brought to the united states by his parents when but a few years old. he grew up here, but, at the age of seventeen returned to study art in the land of his birth, where he became a pupil of professor raupp and also of the celebrated piloty. most of his life since then has been spent in germany. the dead elaine, passing to lancelot on her funeral barge, and constance de beverley, before her judges in the vault of penitence, have been finely pictured by rosenthal, who has also treated lighter topics in "grandmother's dancing-lesson," "the alarmed boarding-school," and "the cardinal's portrait." the last visit which bach ever made was to the court of frederick the great at potsdam, in . his son emanuel had been capellmeister to frederick since , and the king had frequently, and always with more insistence, thrown out hints that he would like to hear the great artist. bach, being much occupied, and disinclined for travelling, did not accede to the king's wishes until they amounted to a positive command. then, taking friedemann with him, he started for potsdam, which he reached early in may. the story of the meeting with frederick is variously told. we will tell it in friedemann's own words: "when frederick ii. had just prepared his flute, in the presence of the whole orchestra, for the evening's concert, the list of strangers who had arrived was brought him. holding his flute in his hand, he glanced through the list. then he turned around with excitement to the assembled musicians, and, laying down his flute, said, 'gentlemen, old bach is come.' bach, who was at his son's house, was immediately invited to the castle. he had not even time allowed him to take off his travelling clothes and put on his black court dress. he appeared, with many apologies for the state of his dress, before the great prince, who received him with marked attention, and threw a deprecating look toward the court gentlemen, who were laughing at the discomposure and numerous compliments of the old man. the flute concerto was given up for this evening; and the king led his famous visitor into all the rooms of the castle, and begged him to try the silbermann pianos, which he (the king) thought very highly of, and of which he possessed seven. the musicians accompanied the king and bach from one room to another; and after the latter had tried all the pianos, he begged the king to give him a fugue subject, that he could at once extemporise upon. frederick thereupon wrote out the subject, and bach developed this in the most learned and interesting manner, to the great astonishment of the king, who, on his side, asked to hear a fugue in six parts. but since every subject is not adapted for so full a working out, bach chose one for himself, and astounded those present by his performance. the king, who was not easily astonished, was completely taken by surprise at the unapproachable mastery of the old cantor. several times he cried, 'there is only one bach!' on the following day bach played on all the organs in the churches of potsdam." [illustration: frederick the great and bach. from painting by herman kaulbach.] rosenthal portrayed the composer making music among his family; hermann kaulbach has depicted him playing before frederick. the artist has given such a look of naturalness to the scene, that we are quite satisfied to accept his presentment and believe that thus the king and his court listened "while the majestic organ rolled contrition from its mouths of gold." hermann kaulbach is a son of the renowned painter, wilhelm von kaulbach. a pupil of piloty, he was born at munich in , and has produced some works of a historic character, such as "lucrezia borgia," "voltaire at paris," "louis xi. and his barber," and "the last days of mozart," but is perhaps still more successful with his admirable pictures of childhood. we must not forget to mention his "madonna," a work which should add much to his fame. handel. like many other children who grew up to fame, handel was not intended by his parents to follow the art in which he is renowned. his father, who was body surgeon to the prince of saxony, wished him to become a lawyer. all accounts of handel's childhood "agree in representing him as bright, clever, energetic, and singularly tenacious of purpose. these qualities he inherited; the special genius on which they were brought to bear was all his own. unlike bach, the flower and crown of a race of born musicians, there seems no record in handel's case of his having a single musical or artistic progenitor. from infancy, however, he lived in music, its attraction for him was irresistible, and he began to 'musicise' for himself (to quote chrysander's expression) almost as soon as he could walk, and before he could speak. this inspired all the family and friends with wonder and admiration, in which his parents at first shared; but, as time went on, the thing began to wear a different aspect, and the father grew alarmed. the boy was a curiosity, no doubt, and music as a pastime was all very well, but it had never occurred to the worthy surgeon to look on it as a serious profession for a child of his, least of all for this, his last, most promising and favourite son. for the others he had been contented with situations in his own station of life; for this one he nourished more ambitious designs. he was to be a doctor of laws, a learned man, and the child's intelligence and thirst for knowledge favoured the hope. "the father set to work to stifle his son's musical proclivities in every possible way, to separate him from musical society, to banish all music from the house, to prevent him even from going to school, for fear he should learn notes as well as letters there. he had set himself a difficult task, for the boy's inclination was obstinate, and among his doting admirers were some who conspired in his behalf so successfully as to convey into the house, undiscovered, a little clavichord, or dumb spinet. this instrument, much used at that time in convent cells, is so tiny that a man can carry it under his arm, and as the strings are muffled with strips of cloth, the tone is diminutive in proportion. it was safely established in a garret under the roof, and here, while the household slept, the boy taught himself to play. if the master of the house ever suspected what was going on, he connived at it, thinking that probably no very dangerous amount of art-poison could be imbibed under such difficulties. it proved, however, but the thin edge of the wedge, and resulted before long in a collision between the wills of father and son, in which the former sustained his first real defeat. he had occasion to visit weissenfels, where a grandson of his first marriage was chamberlain to the reigning duke. george, who was seven or eight years old, and was very fond of this grown-up nephew of his, begged to be taken, too; but his father refused, turned a deaf ear to all his entreaties, and set off alone. not to be baffled, the pertinacious boy followed the carriage on foot, and after a considerable time overtook it. the father's vexation and wrath were extreme, but futile; scolding and threats were thrown away on this child. he owned his fault, cried bitterly, promised endless good behaviour in the future, but stuck all the time to his original point, which was that this time he must go. the end was that the father had to give in and take him, and this journey practically decided handel's career. "music at weissenfels was held in high esteem. the duke, a generous and enlightened prince, was a friend to musicians. and though heinrich schütz had been twenty years dead, his long life and noble labours were fresh in the memory of his fellow townsmen, who were justly proud of their burgomaster's son. he, too, had been educated for the law, and not till after long doubts and severe struggles did he abandon it to follow his true vocation. "little handel soon found allies. the choir of the ducal chapel admitted him to their practices, and encouraged him to try his hand at the organ. finding him soon quite able to manage it, they lifted him up to the organ-stool, one sunday afternoon at the conclusion of the service, and let him play away as best he could. this attracted the notice of the duke, who listened with astonishment to the performance, and, at its close, inquired who the brave little organist might be. on hearing the whole story from his chamberlain, he summoned father and son to his presence. with the former he expostulated on the folly of coercing a child in the choice of a profession, and assured him, with all due respect for his conscientious scruples, that to restrain the activity of a heaven-born genius like this was to sin against nature and the public good. as to the boy, he filled his pockets with gold pieces, and exhorted him to be industrious. here was a change! music was to be not only suffered, but furthered; his father was to lose no time in finding him a good teacher. often as old handel must have stopped his ears to these very same arguments before, he could not choose but listen, now that they fell from ducal lips. he did not change his mind,--a doctorship of law remained the goal of his ambition,--but he practically acquiesced, and, on his return to halle, sent his son to study music with zachau, organist of the frauenkirche." [illustration: the child handel. from painting by margaret dicksee.] the legend that accompanied, in the catalogue of the royal academy of , miss dicksee's picture of the boy handel, varied somewhat from the version just quoted. it says that the father forbade the child following his bent, and banished all the musical instruments in the house to the attic, where, however, the little musician discovered them, and, under cover of night, resumed his beloved pursuit. the sounds thus produced, and the flitting of the little white-clad figure over the stairs, started the story that the house was haunted, which was believed until the truth was revealed, as shown in the picture. miss dicksee, an englishwoman, and the sister of frank dicksee, r. a., has painted several deservedly popular pictures, having for their subjects episodes in the lives of those who have reared themselves above the common mass of humanity. such are her "swift and stella," "the first audience--goldsmith and the misses horenck," and "sheridan at the linleys." handel, whom the elector of hanover had made his capellmeister, first came to england in the autumn of , having been granted a year's leave of absence by his royal patron. in the following february his opera of "rinaldo" was produced in london with great success, and at once established the composer's reputation with the english public. at the close of the season he returned to hanover, where he remained over a year, but was back in england again toward the end of . in july of the following year, his te deum and jubilate, for the service of thanksgiving held in celebration of the peace of utrecht, was performed in st. paul's, and queen anne bestowed a life pension of pounds a year upon him. in august, , the queen died, and handel, who had long out-stayed his leave of absence from hanover, felt some qualms of conscience while awaiting the coming of his master, who arrived within six weeks after anne's death to be crowned as george i. george had some reason to be vexed with both "his principal musicians: with the capellmeister for neglect, with farinelli, the concert-master at hanover, for obtrusiveness. in the thick of all the bustle consequent on the court's leaving hanover, this gentleman wrote and thrust into the elector's notice a composition to the words, 'lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.' handel was somewhat afraid to go near his injured master, who, however, could not help hearing of him. the new royal family cared for music, and for no other form of art. they were not edified by entertainments in a language they did not understand, and the english drama drooped while the italian opera revived, the prince and princess of wales being present nearly every night. "'rinaldo' was remounted, with nicolini, who had returned, in the principal part. 'amadigi,' by handel, was produced toward the end of the season, and repeated four times. at the second performance the concerto now known as the 'fourth hautboy concerto' was played between the acts. a great deal of the opera is adapted from 'silla;' the whole stands high among the series to which it belongs. it may be an indirect testimony to its popularity that parodies and burlesques in imitation of it drew crowded audiences to other theatres. meanwhile, the awkwardness of the situation between the king and handel increased every day. the account of the manner in which a reconciliation was at last brought about has been repeated and believed by every biographer since mainwaring, including chrysander, in his first volume, who, however, by the time he wrote his third volume had discovered some evidence tending to throw doubt on its veracity. the story goes that baron kielmansegge, the common friend of both king and capellmeister, took occasion of a grand water-party, attended by the whole court, to engage handel to compose some music expressly for this festivity, the result being the celebrated 'water music,' of which handel secretly conducted the performance in a boat that followed the royal barge. the king, as delighted as he was surprised by this concert, inquired at once as to the author of the music, and then heard all about it from kielmansegge, who took upon himself to apologise most humbly for handel's bad behaviour, and to beg in his name for condonation of his offence. whereupon his majesty made no difficulties, but at once restored him to favour, and 'honoured his compositions with the most flattering marks of royal approbation.' "a water-party did take place in august, , but the brilliant occasion when a concert of music was given, for which special music was written 'by mr. handel,' and when kielmansegge was present, and when probably, therefore, the 'water music' was produced, only happened in , when peace had long been made, and pardon sealed with a grant to handel of pounds a year. the ice was, perhaps, broken by geminiani, the great violinist, who, when he was to play his concertos at court, requested to be accompanied on the harpsichord by handel, as he considered no one else capable of doing it. the petition was powerfully seconded by kielmansegge, and acceded to by george i." [illustration: handel and george i. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] handel was not only honoured by those who were kings by birth, but also by the rulers in his own art. beethoven always declared that handel was "the monarch of the musical kingdom;" haydn said of him, "he is the father of us all," and at another time, "there is not a note of him but draws blood." scarlatti followed handel all over italy, and in after years, when speaking of the great master, would cross himself in token of admiration; and mozart said, "handel knows better than any of us what will produce a grand effect." gluck. marie antoinette, married at fourteen and queen of france at eighteen, found herself wearied and annoyed by the excessive etiquette of the french court, so different from the comparatively simple life she had led at vienna. while dauphiness, she often expressed a wish for a country-house of her own where she could find freedom at times from the pomp and intrigues of the court, and very soon after his accession louis xvi. offered her little trianon, which she joyfully accepted. built by louis xv. for madame du barry, this charming residence lay in the midst of a park which was intended to serve both as a school of gardening and as a botanical garden, and united the various kinds of gardens then known,--french, italian, and english. marie antoinette sacrificed the botanical garden, for which she did not much care, in order to improve and extend the english gardens, which she most admired, and which were then becoming the fashion on the continent. the world was taxed to furnish specimens of trees and plants for her garden. from north america alone came two hundred and thirty-nine kinds of trees and shrubs. besides these, there were everywhere and always flowers; in the spring, lilacs, then syringas, snowballs, tuberoses, irises, tulips, hyacinths, and so through the floral calendar. in addition to these beauties, the park of trianon was enhanced by all that the art of the landscape gardener could devise. architecture added its gifts in the theatre, the temple of love, the belvedere, and the palace, where the art of lagrenée, of gouthière, houdon, and clodion found expression. and there still remained the queen's favourite creation, the little hamlet of eight cottages, where she and her ladies played at farming, with its dairy, its mill, and its poultry yard. "at trianon there was no ceremony, no etiquette, no household, only friends. when the queen entered the salon, the ladies did not quit their work nor the men interrupt their game of billiards or of _trictrac_. it was the life of the château, with all its agreeable liberty, such as marie antoinette had always dreamed, such as was practised in that patriarchal family of the hapsburgs, which was, as goethe has said, 'only the first _bourgeoise_ family of the empire.'" in spite of marie antoinette's many kindnesses to authors, it seems doubtful if she really cared for literature, but of music she was a constant lover. as a child she had played with mozart and had received lessons from gluck, and when she became queen she still took lessons both in music and singing. gluck was to her not only a great composer, he was one of the dear memories of her youth, her home, and her country, and also a hope for reform in french music, which she found monotonous. it was to please her that the directors of the grand opera invited gluck to come to paris and produce some of his works. the great reformer of opera had long wished for this opportunity, which he seized with alacrity, and set out from vienna for paris in the autumn of . he was received with every kindness and encouragement by marie antoinette and the court, and proceeded to rehearse his "iphigenia in aulis"--not without difficulties, as he found the french singers and musicians even less inclined to reforms than those of vienna. gluck, however, supported by the protection of the dauphiness, made short work of those who held back. to the lady who sang the music of "iphigenia," and who refused to obey him at rehearsal, he said, "mademoiselle, i am here to bring out 'iphigenia.' if you will sing, nothing can be better; if not, very well, i will go the queen and say, 'it is impossible to have my opera performed;' then i will take my seat in my carriage and return to vienna." doubtless this result would have been much to the prima donna's liking, but she had to submit. [illustration: gluck at the trianon. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] "iphigenia" was produced on april , , and marie antoinette applauded from the royal box without ceasing. on the first representation, opinions were divided, but at the second performance the approval was unanimous. when marie antoinette became queen shortly afterward, she gave the composer a pension of six thousand francs, with the entrée to her morning receptions. he often visited her at trianon, where the daughter of maria theresa was always gracious to the forester's gifted son. the next work of gluck to be given in paris was his "orpheus and eurydice," whose success was greater than that of the "iphigenia," and caused rousseau to publicly acknowledge that he was mistaken in asserting that the french language was unsuitable to set to music. he also said that the music of "orpheus" had reconciled him to existence, and met the reproach that gluck's work was lacking in melody with the words, "i believe that melody proceeds from every pore." when the composer's next opera, "alcestis," was produced, in , the queen gave it her decided approbation, and loyally supported gluck against the king's preference for the older form of opera, and the partisans of the italian composer piccini, who was gluck's rival for the favour of the parisians. great was the battle between the warring factions, the "gluckists" and the "piccinists," whose differences of opinion sometimes even resulted in personal encounters in the theatre. between the two composers themselves, matters were more pleasant. when piccini's "roland" was being studied, the composer, unused to conducting and unfamiliar with the french language, became confused at a rehearsal. gluck happened to be present, and, rushing into the orchestra, threw off his wig and coat, and led the performance with such energy and skill that all went smooth again. on the other hand, piccini, when he learned of the death of his whilom rival, expressed his respect for gluck by starting a subscription for the establishment of an annual concert to be given upon the anniversary of the composer's death, at which nothing but his music should be performed. gluck's "armida" was given its first presentation in , and increased his fame so much that his bust was placed in the grand opera beside those of lulli, rameau, and quinault. "iphigenia in tauris" was produced in , with great success, but "echo and narcissus," the last opera which gluck gave in paris, was a failure. he left france for vienna in the same year, never to return, though his royal pupil pressed him to do so in the most flattering manner. before taking leave of gluck, let us read the eloquent words with which ernest newman closes his book on "gluck and the opera." "the musician speaks a language that is in its very essence more impermanent than the speech of any other art. painting, sculpture, architecture, and poetry know no other foe than external nature, which may, indeed, destroy their creations and blot out the memory of the artist. but the musician's material is such that, however permanent may be the written record of his work, it depends not upon this, but upon the permanency in other men of the spirit that gave his music birth, whether it shall live in the minds of future generations. year after year the language of the art grows richer and more complex, and work after work sinks into ever-deepening oblivion, until music that once thrilled men with delirious ecstasy becomes a dead thing, which here and there a student looks back upon in a mood of scarcely tolerant antiquarianism. in the temple of the art a hundred statues of the gods are overthrown; and a hundred others stand with arrested lips and inarticulate tongues, pale symbols of a vanished dominion which men no longer own. yet here and there, through the ghostly twilight, comes the sound of some clear voice that has defied the courses of the years and the mutations of taste; and we hear the rich canorous tones of gluck, not, perhaps, with all the vigour and the passion that once was theirs, but with the mellowed splendour given by the touch of time. alone among his fellows he speaks our modern tongue, and chants the eternal passions of the race. he was, indeed, as sophie arnould called him, 'the musician of the soul;' and if we have added new strings to our lyre, and wrung from them a more poignant eloquence than ever stirred within the heart of gluck, none the less do we perceive that music such as his comes to us from the days when there were giants in the land." mozart. it was in that leopold mozart, father of the two musical prodigies, maria anna and wolfgang amadeus mozart, first began to turn to account his children's talent. wolfgang was then six years old, and his sister between four and five years older. by easy stages the family journeyed to vienna in the month of september, and it is told that upon their arrival the wonderful boy-musician saved his father the payment of customs duties. he made friends with the custom-house officer, showed him his harpsichord, played him a minuet on his little fiddle, and the thing was done,--"pass--free of duty." the imperial family were sincere lovers of music. charles vi., the father of maria theresa, had two passions, hunting and music, and was an accomplished musician. he used to accompany operatic or other performances at court upon the clavier, and also composed pieces. at one time he wrote an opera, which was performed with great splendour in the theatre of his palace. on this occasion the emperor led the orchestra, and his two daughters, maria theresa and maria anne, danced in the ballet. lady mary wortley montagu speaks of an opera which she saw at vienna in , the decorations and dresses of which cost the emperor thirty thousand pounds. he called metastasio from italy to compose the operas for his court. maria theresa inherited this love of music, and in , when only seven years old, sang in an opera by fux, at a fête given in honour of her mother, the empress elizabeth. alluding to this, she once said in a joking way to the celebrated singer, faustina hasse, that she believed herself to be the first of living vocalists. in she sang a duet with senesino so beautifully that the famous old singer was melted to tears. her husband, francis i., was also a lover of music, and her daughters were carefully instructed in singing, and often appeared in operatic performances at court. maria theresa's son, afterward the emperor joseph, also sang well, and played both the harpsichord and the violoncello. [illustration: mozart and his sister before maria teresa. from painting by a. borckmann.] "with a court so favourably disposed toward music, it is not surprising that leopold, a few days only after his arrival, should have received a command to bring his children on the th of october to schönbrunn, an imperial palace near vienna, and this without any solicitation on his part. the children remained three hours with the court, and were then obliged to repeat their performance. the emperor francis i., the husband of maria theresa, took a peculiar interest in the little 'sorcerer.' "he made the little fellow play with only one finger, in which he perfectly succeeded. an attempt which little mozart made at the special request of the emperor, to play with the keys covered by a piece of cloth, was also a brilliant success. it was, perhaps, owing to the imperial fancy that this species of artistic trick obtained considerable celebrity, and played a not unimportant part in the little 'sorcerer's' repertoire on all his long journeys. wolfgang entered readily into any joke that was made with him, but sometimes he could be very serious, as, for instance, when he called for the court composer, georg christoph wagenseil, a thorough connoisseur of the harpsichord, and himself a performer. the emperor stepped back and made wagenseil come forward, to whom mozart said, quite seriously, 'i play a concerto by you: you must turn over the pages for me.' the emperor ordered a hundred ducats to be paid to his father. the empress was very kind to the mozarts, and sent them costly dresses. 'would you like to know,' writes leopold to hagenauer, his host at salzburg, 'what wolferl's (a pet name for wolfgang) dress is like? it is of the finest cloth, lilac-coloured, the vest of moire of the same colour. coat and top-coat with a double broad border of gold. it was made for the hereditary duke maximilian franz.' in the picture which is preserved in the mozart collection at salzburg, mozart is painted in this dress. wolfgang never showed the least embarrassment in the society of the great." "at court, as elsewhere, mozart was a bright, happy child. he would spring on the empress's lap, throw his arms around her neck, and kiss her, and play with the princesses on a footing of equality. he was especially devoted to the archduchess marie antoinette. once, when he fell on the polished floor, she lifted him from the ground and consoled him, while one of her sisters stood by. 'you are good,' said wolfgang, i will marry you.' the empress asked him why. 'from gratitude,' answered he; 'she was good to me, but her sister stood by and did nothing.'" nor was he shy with the crown prince joseph, who, in after years, when emperor, reminded him of his playing duets with wagenseil, and of mozart's standing in the audience and calling out, "fie!" or "that was false!" or "bravo!" as the case might be. as was to be expected, the children became the rage in society, and all the ladies fell in love with little mozart. no musical entertainments could be given without him and maria anna, and they appeared in company with the most celebrated performers, being everywhere petted, feasted, and flattered, and receiving many costly gifts. their successes induced leopold mozart to plan a more extended tour, and in the summer of the next year he and his children set out on a journey which was intended to include visits to paris and london. the trio arrived in paris in november, and were greatly befriended by their countryman, grimm, the encyclopaedist, secretary to the duke of orleans. leopold wrote home thus, about the help this powerful friend had been to them: "he has done everything; he has introduced the matter at court, and arranged the first concert. he, alone, paid me eighty louis-d'ors, then sold three hundred and twenty tickets, and, moreover, bore the expense of lighting with wax. we burnt more than sixty candles. it was he who obtained permission for the concert, and now he is getting up a second, for which a hundred tickets have already been distributed. you see what one man can do, who possesses sense and a kind heart. he is a native of ratisbon, but has been more than fifteen years in paris, and knows how to guide everything in the right direction, so that all must happen as he intends." [illustration: mozart and madame de pompadour. from painting by v. de paredes.] little wolfgang had played before maria theresa; now he performed before her ally, madame de pompadour, then within a few months of her end, for the all-powerful favourite of louis xv. died in the following april. leopold mozart, writing home to salzburg, speaks thus of the pompadour; "she must have been very beautiful, for she is still comely. she is tall and stately; stout, but well proportioned, with some likeness to her imperial majesty about the eyes. she is proud, and has a remarkable mind." mozart's sister remembered in after days how she placed little wolfgang on the table before her, but pushed him aside when he bent forward to kiss her, on which he indignantly asked: "who is this that does not want to kiss me? the empress kissed me." the king's daughters were much more friendly, and, contrary to all etiquette, kissed and played with the children, both in their own apartments and in the public corridors. as before at vienna and afterward in london, the little mozarts made a great hit in paris, and performed before the most distinguished audiences. grimm relates in his correspondence "a truly astonishing instance of the boy's genius." wolfgang accompanied a lady in an italian air without seeing the music, supplying the harmony for the passage which was to follow from that which he had just heard. this could not be done without some mistakes, but when the song was ended he begged the lady to sing it again, played the accompaniment and the melody itself with perfect correctness, and repeated it ten times, altering the character of the accompaniment for each. on a melody being dictated to him, he supplied the bass and the parts without using the clavier at all; he showed himself in all ways so accomplished that his father was convinced he would obtain service at court on his return home. leopold mozart now thought the time was come for introducing the boy as a composer, and he printed four sonatas for the piano and violin, rejoicing at the idea of the noise which they would make in the world, appearing with the announcement on the title-page that they were the work of a child of seven years old. he thought well of these sonatas, independently of their childish authorship; one andante especially "shows remarkable taste." when it happened that, in the last trio of opus , a mistake of the young master, which his father had corrected (consisting of three consecutive fifths for the violin), was printed, he consoled himself by reflecting that "they can serve as a proof that wolfgangerlf wrote the sonatas himself, which, naturally, not everyone would believe." [illustration: mozart at the organ. from painting by carl herpfer.] less than thirty years had passed since these triumphant days in the life of the child mozart, when there came the end of that wonderful career. in the summer of mozart's last year,-- ,--he was at work on the concluding portions of "the magic flute," when one day he received a visit from a stranger. this man, tall, gaunt, and solemn in manner, clad all in gray, handed the composer an anonymous letter, sealed in black, requesting him to write a "requiem" as quickly as possible, and asking the price. mozart agreed to do the work and received from the messenger fifty (some say a hundred) ducats, with a promise of more upon completion of the piece, he agreeing to make no effort to discover who his patron was. the unknown messenger then went away, saying, "i shall return when it is time." it is known now that this mysterious go-between was leutgeb, the steward of count franz von walsegg of stuppach, who often obtained musical compositions in this way, copied them, and had them performed as his own. the count desired the "requiem" for his wife, who had died in the preceding february, and it was sung as his own production and under his direction on the th of december, . but mozart knew nothing of patron or steward; his spirits were depressed by trouble, and he grew superstitious over the strange affair. near the end of august, he was about to set out for prague to attend the coronation of leopold ii., upon which occasion the composer's music to metastasio's festival opera was to be performed. just as he was stepping into the carriage the mysterious messenger appeared suddenly and inquired as to the "requiem," to which mozart answered by excuses. "when will it be ready?" "i will work on it without ceasing on my return." "good," said the stranger, "i shall rely on your promise." true to his word, upon again reaching home, mozart, though feeling melancholy and far from well, worked steadily upon the "requiem." always cheerful until now, his low spirits increased, and he imagined that he was writing his own death-mass. in november, his illness grew alarming, and a consultation of physicians was held. "mozart's only consolation during his suffering was to hear of the repeated performances of 'die zauberflöte.' he would follow the representations in spirit, laying his watch beside him, and saying, 'now the first act is over. now they are come to the place, "the great queen of night,"' etc. only the day before his death he expressed a wish that he might hear 'die zauberflöte' once more. he hummed to himself the song, 'der vogelfänger bin ich ja.' capellmeister roser, who happened to be with him, went to the harpsichord and played and sang the song, which appeared greatly to cheer mozart. nevertheless, the 'requiem' occupied him continually. as soon as he had finished a piece, he had it rehearsed by the friends who happened to be present. at two o'clock in the afternoon of the day before his death, schack, who was the first 'tamino,' sang soprano, mozart himself contralto, hofer, his brother-in-law, tenor, and geri, who was the first 'sarastro,' bass. at the 'lacrymosa' mozart began to weep violently, and laid down the score. toward evening, when his sister-in-law, sophie haibl, came in, mozart begged her to remain and help constance, as he felt death approaching. she went out again just to tell her mother and to fetch a priest. when she returned she found mozart in lively conversation with süssmayer. 'did i not say that i was writing the "requiem" for myself?' he said; and then, with a sure presentiment of approaching death, he charged his wife instantly to inform albrechtsberger, on whom his post at st. stephen's would devolve. late in the evening he lost consciousness. but the 'requiem' still seemed to occupy him, and he puffed out his cheeks as if he would imitate a wind instrument, the 'tuba mirum spar gens sonum.' toward midnight his eyes became fixed. then he appeared to fall into slumber, and about one o'clock in the morning of the th of december he died." [illustration: the last days of mozart. from painting by herman kaulbach.] the "requiem" was left incomplete, and mozart's widow entrusted to süssmayer the task of finishing the imperfect portions. but the greatest part of it is the work of mozart. linley. while making a tour of italy with his father in , mozart stayed a few days in florence, and there formed a warm friendship with thomas linley, an english boy of about his own age, who was studying under nardini, the celebrated violinist, and played so finely as almost to surpass his teacher. the two boys met at the house of signora maddelena morelli, who was famed as an improvisatrice under the name of corilla, and had been crowned as a poetess on the capitol in , and when they parted, tommasino, as linley was called in italy, gave the young mozart, for a souvenir, a poem which corilla had written for him. linley was unfortunately drowned a few years after his return to england, but not before he had given proof of the possession of talent as composer as well as musician. his father, thomas linley the elder, was born at wells in , and was by trade a carpenter. but being one day at work at badminton, the seat of the duke of beaufort, he heard thomas chilcot, the organist of bath abbey church, play and sing, and, feeling that he had now found his true vocation in life, determined to become a musician. at first he received instruction from chilcot at bath, and then proceeded to italy and studied under paradies. upon his return to england, he set up in bath as a singing-master, and he became a leader in his profession. with the aid of his children, he carried on a series of concerts at the bath assembly rooms, paying special attention to the rendition of the works of handel. linley removed to london in , and was manager with doctor arnold of the drury lane oratorios. with his son thomas, he composed the music for his son-in-law sheridan's comic opera of "the duenna," and his other works include the music for "the camp," and other pieces by tickell, another son-in-law, for a version of allan ramsay's "gentle shepherd," and for "selima and azor," and "richard coeur de lion," two adaptions from gretry. he wrote new accompaniments to the airs in the "beggar's opera," also various elegies, ballads, anthems, glees, and madrigals. doctor burney praised him as a masterly performer on the harpsichord, and his music, which is distinguished by admirable taste and simplicity of design, gained for him a high place among english composers. during his last years his health was undermined by money difficulties and grief at the loss of his children,--of whom he had twelve, only three surviving him,--especially thomas. he died suddenly, in london in , and was buried in wells cathedral, where a monument was erected to him and his two daughters. several of his children made their mark in music, especially his youngest son, william linley. a younger daughter, maria, a favourite at the bath concerts, died at an early age from brain fever. after one severe paroxysm, she rose up in bed and began to sing the air, "i know that my redeemer liveth," in as full and clear a tone as when in perfect health. mary, the second daughter, who was also an excellent vocalist, married sheridan's friend, richard tickell, a wit, author, and man of pleasure, and, after her older sister's retirement, filled her place in concert and oratorio. the sisters were very fond of each other, and one of gainsborough's finest paintings is that in the dulwich gallery, which shows them together. in the same collection are the same artist's portraits of the father and the son thomas. little elizabeth ann linley, the composer's eldest daughter, used to stand at the pump-room door, in bath, with a basket, selling tickets, when only a girl of nine. she was very lovely, gentle, and good, and came to be known as the "maid of bath." after she sang before the king and queen at buckingham house in , george iii. told her father that he never in his life heard so fine a voice as his daughter's, nor one so well instructed. her beauty was praised in high terms by john wilkes, horace walpole, and miss burney, and the bishop of meath styled her "the connecting link between woman and angel." of course she had many admirers. the duke of clarence persecuted her with his attentions, and her parents wished her to marry mr. long, an old gentleman of considerable fortune. the latter, when elizabeth told him she could not love him, had the magnanimity to take upon himself the burden of breaking the engagement, and settled , pounds on her as an indemnity for his supposed breach of covenant. a certain rascally captain mathews, a married rake, and a so-called friend of her father, had the effrontery to follow her with his solicitations, from which she was rescued by the young sheridan, who fell in love with elizabeth and persuaded her to fly with him to france. there, at calais, they went through a formal ceremony of marriage, separating immediately afterward, the lady entering a convent, and sheridan returning to england. here he fought two duels with captain mathews, in the second of which he was quite seriously wounded. mr. linley went to france and brought his daughter home, and finally, about a year from the time of the calais episode, the young couple were married again, this time in full sight of the world. the future author of "the rivals" and "the school for scandal," addressed to his eliza, among other early productions, this pretty snatch of song: "dry be that tear, my gentlest love, be hush'd that struggling sigh; nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove more fix'd, more true than i. hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear; cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear; dry be that tear. "ask'st thou how long my love will stay, when all that's new is past? how long, ah! delia, can i say how long my life will last? dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh; at least i'll love thee till i die. hush'd be that sigh. "and does that thought affect thee too, the thought of sylvio's death, that he who only breath'd for you must yield his faithful breath? hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, nor let us lose our heaven here. dry be that tear." for some eighteen years the sheridans lived together,--elizabeth never sang in public again after her marriage,--and then their union was broken by death. the devoted wife to this brilliant, but selfish, unreliable, and extravagant genius died in , of consumption. "music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory," and surely during the years of life left to richard brinsley sheridan, he must often have recalled the happy days when he listened in delight to the music of his loved one's voice. [illustration: sheridan at the linleys. from painting by margaret dicksee.] sir joshua reynolds painted her as st. cecilia in a lovely picture which he sent to the royal academy exhibition in ,--the year of "the rivals." it remained in the artist's possession till , when sheridan bought it for one hundred and fifty guineas. it is now owned by the marquis of lansdowne. haydn. in haydn had been capellmeister at esterhaz, the magnificent palace which prince nicolaus esterhazy had created in imitation of versailles. for nearly a quarter of a century, esterhaz, though built on an unhealthy site, was the favourite residence of the prince, who never tired of altering, extending, and improving the palace and grounds, and whose greatest ambition was to make the musical and theatrical entertainments given there the best of their kind. in many ways haydn was most happily situated at esterhaz, and though his isolated position there became more irksome to him as time went on, he would not, though frequently approached with flattering offers from abroad, leave his well-beloved master, of whom he wrote, in , "my dearest wish is to live and die with him." the king of naples, an ardent admirer of the composer, had urged him to go to naples with him. haydn's presence was also much desired in paris, and from london, especially, he had received many overtures. cramer, the violinist, had written to haydn in , offering to engage him at his own figure for the professional concerts, and gallini, the owner and manager of the king's theatre in drury lane, urged him to compose an opera for him. salomon, still more enterprising, in , sent bland, a well-known music publisher, to treat with haydn, but without success. the composer gave him the copyright of several of his productions, among them the "stabat mater" and "ariadne," and the "razirmesser" quartette. this composition is said to derive its name from haydn's exclaiming one morning, while shaving, "i would give my best quartette for a good razor!" bland happened to enter the room at that moment, and at once hurried back to his lodgings and, returning with his own razors of good english steel, gave them to haydn, who thereupon kept his word by tendering in exchange his latest quartette. the death of prince esterhazy, in september, , gave haydn the opportunity he had long wished for, as prince anton, who succeeded nicolaus, had little taste for music, and dismissed most of the performers, at the same time, however, increasing haydn's pension of a thousand florins a year, left him by prince nicolaus, by the addition of four hundred florins. haydn, being now his own master, went to live at vienna, with his old friend bamberger, and, declining an invitation to become capellmeister to count grassalcovics, was working with his usual industry when, one day, a visitor was announced. he turned out to be salomon, the london manager, who, on his way back from italy, whither he had been to engage singers for the italian opera in london, had heard of the prince's death, and hastened at once to vienna in the hope of inducing haydn to visit england. this, after much negotiation, was at last accomplished. mozart, to whom haydn was like a father, felt the separation deeply, and vainly strove to prevent it. he said to haydn: "papa, you have not been brought up for the great world; you know too few languages." haydn replied: "but my language is understood by the whole world." mozart spent the day of his departure with him, and bade him farewell in tears, saying, "we shall see each other no more in this world!" a presentiment which was sadly fulfilled. haydn and salomon left vienna on the th of december, , and journeyed by way of munich, bonn, and brussels to calais, where they arrived on the evening of december st. at half-past seven the next morning they embarked for dover, but, the wind being contrary, they had a stormy passage, and did not reach the english port until five in the afternoon. haydn, whose first voyage it was, remained on deck the whole time, in spite of the unfavourable weather. [illustration: haydn crossing the english channel. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] his first impressions of london, then a city of less than a million people, were of its great size and its noise. many times the composer must have longed for the comparative quiet of esterhaz, or of his own study in vienna. an amusing anecdote is told of haydn in london. one morning he came upon a music shop, and, going in, asked to be shown any novelties that might be for sale. "certainly," answered the salesman, who forthwith brought out "some sublime music of haydn's," as he termed it. "oh, i'll have nothing to do with that," said the customer. "why not?" asked the man, who happened to be a warm admirer of haydn's music. "have you any fault to find with it?" "yes," said the composer, "and if you can show me nothing better than that, i must go without making a purchase." "well, then, you had better go, for i've nothing that i can supply as suitable for such as you," and mr. shopman walked away. before haydn could reach the door, however, a gentleman entered, who was known not only to him, but to the music publisher. he greeted the composer by name, and began to congratulate him upon his latest symphony produced at salomon's concerts. the music seller turned around upon hearing the name of haydn, and said, "ah! here's a musician who does not like that composer's music." the gentleman at once saw the joke, and, explaining the matter to the dealer, they all had a hearty laugh over the incident. haydn was received with the warmest hospitality in london, and, like many other "lions," was at no little pains to secure sufficient time for his work amid the pressure of social engagements and the visits of celebrities of all kinds. doctor burney, the musical historian, with whom the composer had corresponded, wrote a poem in his honour. this appeared in the _monthly review_, and its concluding stanza runs as follows: "welcome, great master! to our favoured isle, already partial to thy name and style; long may thy fountain of invention run in streams as rapid as it first begun; while skill for each fantastic whim provides, and certain science ev'ry current guides! oh, may thy days, from human sufferings free, be blest with glory and felicity, with full fruition, to a distant hour, of all thy magic and creative power! blest in thyself, with rectitude of mind, and blessing, with thy talents, all mankind." less pleasant than such tributes was an experience haydn had with a noble pupil, who called upon him, saying that he was passionately fond of music, and would be grateful if the composer would give him a few lessons in harmony and counterpoint, at a guinea a lesson. "oh, willingly!" answered haydn; "when shall we begin?" "immediately, if you see no objection," and the nobleman took out of his pocket one of haydn's quartettes. "for the first lesson," said he, taking the initiative, "let us examine this quartette, and you tell me the reason of some modulations which i will point out to you, together with some progressions which are contrary to all rules of composition." haydn did not object to this course, and the gentleman proceeded. the initial bar of the quartette was first attacked, and but few of the succeeding ones escaped the critical comments of the _dilettante_. the composer's reply as to why he did this or that was very simple. "i did it," he said, "because i thought it would have a good effect." such a reply did not satisfy "my lord," who declared that his opinion of the composition as ungrammatical and faulty would be unchanged unless haydn could give him some better reason for his innovations and errors. this nettled haydn, who suggested that the pupil (?) should rewrite the quartette after his own fashion. but, like many other would-be critics, he declined to undertake the task, contenting himself with impugning the correctness of haydn's work. "how can yours, which is contrary to the rules, be the best?" he repeatedly asked haydn. at last the composer's patience was exhausted. "i see, my lord," said he, "it is you who are so good as to give lessons to me. i do not want your lessons, for i feel that i do not merit the honour of having such a master as yourself. good morning." haydn then left the room, and sent his servant to show the man out. one of haydn's biographers says that the composer soon gauged the musical taste of the english public, and rearranged most of his compositions written earlier, before producing them in london. "our national manners in the concert-room would seem to have descended to us from our grandfathers, for we find haydn doubting as to which of two evils he shall choose: whether to insist on his stipulated composition being placed in the first or the second part of each concert's programme. in the former case its effect would be marred by the continual noisy entrance of late comers, while in the latter case a considerable portion of the audience would probably be asleep before it began. haydn chose this, however, as the preferable alternative, and the loud chord (paukenschlag) of the andante in the 'surprise' symphony is said to have been the comical device he hit upon for rousing the slumberers." haydn was very desirous that one of his compositions should be performed at an ancient music concert in london, but one of their rules was to admit only work by composers who had been dead twenty years. the management would make no exception, even for haydn, and it was not until forty-one years later that they produced a composition by him,--the "let there be light," from the "creation." one of the pleasantest incidents of haydn's visit to england occurred in november, when he made a visit of three days to oatlands park as a guest of the duke of york, who was spending his honeymoon there with his young bride, the princess of prussia. "the sight of the kind german face and the familiar sound of the german tongue of the musician, whose name had been a household word to her ever since she could speak, must have been more than welcome to the little transplanted bride (she was only seventeen), and haydn writes tenderly to frau v. genzinger (december th) how the 'liebe kleine' sat close by his side all the time he was playing his symphony, humming the familiar airs to herself, and urging him to go on playing until long past midnight." upon his second visit to london, haydn received many attentions from the royal family, especially from the prince and princess of wales. the prince had a taste for music at once genuine and intelligent. he played the violoncello, and took his place in the orchestra in the concerts given at carlton house, his brothers, the dukes of gloucester and cumberland, playing the violin and viola. when haydn returned to vienna, he carried with him, besides the substantial sum gained by his art, many presents from friends and admirers. one of the most original souvenirs was received from william gardiner, a leicester manufacturer and a great lover of music, who wrote a book entitled "music and friends." his gift consisted of six pairs of stockings, into which were woven airs from haydn's compositions, the "emperor's hymn," the "surprise" andante, and others. weber. the picture of weber sitting among the airy visions evoked by music's spell, which is known as "weber's last thoughts," and is supposed to represent him as composing the waltz so called, is based upon an error. for this popular piece, published in , is not the work of weber at all, but was written by reissiger. the probable cause of its being ascribed to weber is that a manuscript copy of it, given him by reissiger on the eve of the master's departure for london, was found among weber's papers after his death. [illustration: the "last thoughts" of von weber. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] weber's son, in his life of his father, tells us that when the composer was in london, miss stephens, of whose talent he was a great admirer, offered to appear at his concert. "the celebrated artist, however, was desirous of singing some new composition by the master; and weber, exhausted as he was, could not gainsay her wish. miss stephens herself chose the words from moore's 'lalla rookh;' and the composer set himself to work on 'from chindara's warbling fount i come.' but fearfully painful was the effort now. twice weber flung down his pen in utter despair. at last, on the morning of the th of may, the great artist's flitting genius came back to him, and for the last time gave him a farewell kiss upon that noble forehead, now bedewed with the cold sweat of death,--for the last time! the trembling hands were unable to write down more than the notes for the voice. weber rehearsed his last composition with the celebrated artist from this sketch, and accompanied the song from memory at his concert." here we have the true story of the master's last composition. the concert spoken of, at which he made his last appearance in public, was, unfortunately, not a pecuniary success, because of the indifference of the english aristocracy. this was a severe blow to the composer, who knew that he had not long to live, and who had hoped to realise from this concert a substantial sum, which he could add to that received from his opera of "oberon," and use all in providing for his wife and children. "the following day weber was somewhat better. he was still supported by the hopes of his benefit; he still found sufficient strength to write to his wife in such wise as to place in its least painful light his cruel disappointment. as yet, in spite of his bodily weakness, his handwriting had remained distinct and clear. in this letter, it displays the utter ruin of his strength. 'writing is somewhat painful to me,' runs one phrase of it; 'my hands tremble so.' fürstenau saw only too clearly the sinking state of the poor man, and generously offered to give up his own concert, in order to hasten the departure of his friend. 'what a word of comfort you have spoken!' gasped weber, clutching the hand of the kind fellow. he wrote again to his wife, with a last gleam of his spirit: 'you will not have many more letters from me; and so receive now my high and mighty commands. do not answer this to london, but to the _poste restante_, frankfurt. you are astounded! well! i am not coming home through paris. what should i do there? i cannot walk--i cannot speak. i will have nothing more to do with business for years to come. so it is far better i should take the straight way home by calais, through brussels, cologne, coblentz, and thus by the rhine to frankfurt. what a charming journey! i must travel very slowly, however, and probably rest for half a day, now and then. i shall gain a good fortnight thus; and by the end of june i hope to be in your arms.' at this time he was still resolved to keep his promise of conducting at miss paton's concert. but he came home in a state of such feverish agitation and complete exhaustion that his friends came around him, and wrung from him the promise that he would conduct no more, and even give up his own benefit. this resolution, strange to say, appeared to bestow fresh spirits on him; it enabled him to hasten his return. now that all last earthly interests were laid aside, love and affection for the dear ones at home had alone possession of his mind. one thought alone occupied his whole soul,--to be at home again, amongst his own--to see them, if but once--but once! with this feeling, in which gleamed one last ray of cheerfulness, he wrote: 'how will you receive me? in heaven's name, alone. let no one disturb my joy of looking again upon my wife, my children, my dearest and my best. . . . thank god! the end of all is fast approaching.' . . . the end of all _was_ fast approaching. on the st of june, every painful symptom of the poor sufferer had so increased that his friends held counsel with doctor kind, who considered his state highly precarious. fürstenau was desirous of watching by his bedside. 'no, no,' replied weber, 'i am not so ill as you want to make me out.' he refused even the attendance of sir george smart's servant in his anteroom. blisters were applied to his chest, and he noted in his diary, 'thank god, my sleep was sweet!' he fixed his departure for the th, arranged all his pecuniary affairs with minuteness, and employed his friends in purchasing presents for his family and friends in dresden. he was strongly urged by his friends to postpone his journey until he could have recovered some degree of strength. but this solicitation only irritated him. 'i must go back to my own--i must!' he sobbed, incessantly. 'let me see them once more--and then god's will be done!' the attempt appeared impossible to all. with great unwillingness he yielded to his friends' request to have a consultation of physicians. 'be it so!' he answered. 'but come of it what may, i go!' his only thought, his only word, was 'home!' on the d of june he wrote his last letter to his beloved wife,--the last lines his hand ever traced. 'what a joy, my own dear darling, your letter gave me! what a happiness to me to know that you are well! . . . as this letter requires no answer, it will be but a short one. what a comfort it is not to have to answer! . . . god bless you all, and keep you well! oh, were i but amongst you all again! i kiss you with all my heart and soul, my dearest one! preserve all your love for me, and think with pleasure on him who loves thee above all, thy karl.' what an outpouring of the truest affection there was in that last loving prayer! "weber's only thoughts were now concentrated on his journey, and he even reproached fürstenau with caballing with the others to prevent his undertaking it. 'you may do what you will, it is of no avail,' he said. on the evening of the d of june he asked his friend göschen, with a smile, 'have you anything to say to your father? at all events i shall tell him that his son has been a dear kind friend to me in london.' 'but you leave many friends and admirers here,' said göschen. 'hush! hush!' replied weber, still smiling softly; 'that's not the same thing, you know.' when, on the evening of the th, he sat panting in his easy chair, with sir george smart, göschen, fürstenau, and moscheles grouped around him, he could speak only of his journey. at ten o'clock they urged him to retire to bed. but he firmly declined to have any one watch by his bedside, and even to forego his custom of barring his chamber door. when he had given his white, transparent, trembling hand to all, murmuring gently, but in earnest tones, the words, 'god reward you all for your kind love to me!' he was led by sir george smart and fürstenau into his bedroom. fürstenau, from whom alone he would accept such services, helped him to undress; the effort was a painful one to himself. with his own hand, however, weber wound up his watch, with his usual punctilious care; then, with all that charm of amiability for which he was conspicuous through life, he murmured his thanks to his friend, and said, 'now let me sleep.' these were the last words that mortal ear heard the great artist utter. it is clear, however, that weber must have left his bed later, for, the next morning, the door through which fürstenau had passed, was barred. for a long time the friends sat together in sir george smart's room, filled with sorrowful presentiments, and earnestly consulting what means might best be taken to prevent the journey. about midnight they parted. on their leaving the house, all was dark in weber's window. his light had been extinguished. "the next morning, at the early hour when weber generally required his aid, sir george smart's servant knocked at his chamber door; no answer came; he knocked again, and louder. it was strange, for weber's sleep had always been light. the alarmed servant rushed to sir george, who sprang out of bed and hurried to the room. still, to his repeated knocking, no answer was returned. fürstenau was sent for. he came half dressed, already anticipating the worst. it was now resolved to force the door. it was burst open. all was still within. the watch, which the last movement of the great hand which had written 'der freischütz,' 'euryanthe,' and 'oberon,' had wound up, alone ticked with painful distinctness. the bed-curtains were torn back. there lay the beloved friend and master dead. his head rested on his left hand, as if in tranquil sleep,--not the slightest trace of pain or suffering on his features. the soul, yearning for the dear objects of its love, had burst its earthly covering and fled. the immortal master was not dead,--he had gone home." weber died in london in , but it was not until , and then mainly through the efforts of wagner, that his remains were taken to his native land. they now rest in dresden, where a statue was raised in in honour of carl maria von weber, who has been called "the operatic liberator of germany." beethoven. "no one can conceive," beethoven wrote to the baroness droszdick, "the intense happiness i feel in getting into the country, among the woods, my dear trees, shrubs, hills, and dales. i am convinced that no one loves country life as i do. it is as if every tree and every bush could understand my mute inquiries and respond to them." it was this rage for fresh air and fields which made him such a bad stay-at-home bird, whether he was sheltered amid the palatial surroundings of some princely patron, or whether sojourning in the less luxurious and comfortless atmosphere of some one of his frequently changed lodgings. he disliked any control, and truly meant it when, at intervals, growing impatient with the constant requests for his company, he complained outright that he was forced too much into society. his favourite places for ruralising were mödling, döbling, hentzendorf, and baden; while there is still cherished in the royal garden of schönbrunn a favourite spot, between two ash-trees, where the master is reputed to have composed some of the music of "fidelio." a french artist, paul leyendecker, has painted the master thus at work amid nature's peace. beethoven is sitting on the outskirts of a wood near his native city of bonn, absorbed in composition. a funeral procession is coming up the road, with the coffin borne upon the shoulders of the mourners, and preceded by the priest, who recognises the composer and bids the choristers cease chanting for a while in order not to disturb his labours. turning from the master at work in the open air to him at home, we find that carl schloesser, a german painter long settled in london, exhibited at the royal academy, a few years ago, a striking picture showing beethoven at the piano absorbed in composition, amid a litter of manuscripts and music-sheets. it was thus he must have looked when weber called upon him in . [illustration: beethoven at bonn. from painting by paul leyendecker.] "all lay in the wildest disorder--music, money, clothing, on the floor--linen from the wash upon the dirty bed--broken coffee-cups upon the table. the open pianoforte was covered thickly with dust. beethoven entered to greet his visitors. benedict has thus described him: 'just so must have looked lear, or one of ossian's bards. his thick gray hair was flung upwards, and disclosed the sanctuary of his lofty vaulted forehead. his nose was square, like that of a lion; his chin broad, with those remarkable folds which all his portraits show; his jaws formed as if purposely to crack the hardest nuts; his mouth noble and soft. over the broad face, seamed with scars from the smallpox, was spread a dark redness. from under the thick, closely compressed eyebrows gleamed a pair of small flashing eyes. the square, broad form of a cyclops was wrapped in a shabby dressing-gown, much torn about the sleeves.' beethoven recognised weber without a word, embraced him energetically, shouting out, 'there you are, my boy; you are a devil of a fellow! god bless you!' handed him at once his famous tablets, then pushed a heap of music from the old sofa, threw himself upon it, and, during a flow of conversation, commenced dressing himself to go out. beethoven began with a string of complaints about his own position; about the theatres, the public, the italians, the talk of the day, and, more especially, about his own ungrateful nephew. weber, who was nervous and agitated, counselled him to tear himself from vienna, and to take a journey through germany to convince himself of the world's judgment of him, and more especially to go to england, where his works were more reverenced than in any other country. 'too late! too late!' cried beethoven, making the pantomime of playing on the piano, and shaking his head sadly. then he seized on weber's arm, and dragged him away to the sauerhof, where he was wont to dine. 'here,' wrote weber afterward, 'we dined together in the happiest mood. the rough repulsive man paid me as much attention as if i were a lady to whom he was making court, and served me at table with the most delicate care. how proud i felt to receive all this kindness and affectionate regard from the great master spirit! the day will remain for ever impressed on my mind, as well as on that of all who were present.'" [illustration: beethoven in his study. from painting by carl schloesser.] three years later the swedish poet, atterbom, being in vienna, went to visit beethoven. atterbom was accompanied by his friend, doctor jeitteles, who has left this account of their odd experience. he says: "we went one hot afternoon to the alservorstadt, and mounted to the second story of the so-called schwarzspanier house. we rang, no one answered; we lifted the latch, the door was open, the anteroom empty. we knocked at the door of beethoven's room, and, receiving no reply, repeated our knock more loudly. but we got no answer, although we could hear there was some one inside. we entered, and what a scene presented itself! the wall facing us was hung with huge sheets of paper covered with charcoal marks; beethoven was standing before it, with his back turned toward us, but in what a condition! oppressed by the excessive heat, he had divested himself of everything but his shirt, and was busily employed writing notes on the wall with a lead-pencil, beating time, and striking a few chords on his stringless pianoforte. he did not once turn toward the door. we looked at each other in amused perplexity. it was no use trying to attract the deaf master's attention by making a noise; and he would have felt embarrassed had we gone up to him. i said to atterbom, 'would you, as a poet, like to take away with you to the north the consciousness of having, perhaps, arrested the loftiest flight of genius? you can at least say, "i have seen beethoven create." let us leave, unseen and unheard!' we departed." [illustration: a symphony by beethoven. from painting by a. graefle.] another german artist, graefle, has produced an interesting work depicting beethoven playing to his friends. "at the pianoforte beethoven seemed a god--at times in the humour to play, at others not. if he happened not to be in the humour, it required pressing and reiterated entreaties to get him to the instrument. before he began in earnest, he used sportively to strike the keys with the palm of his hand, draw his fingers along the keyboard from one end to the other, and play all manner of gambols, at which he laughed heartily. once at the pianoforte, and in a genial mood with his surroundings, he would extemporise for one and two hours at a stretch, amid the solemn silence of his listeners. he demanded absolute silence from conversation whenever he put his fingers upon the pianoforte keys to play. if this was not forthcoming, he rose up, publicly upbraided the offenders, and left the room. this mode of resenting a nuisance--one not yet extinct--was once illustrated at count browne's, where beethoven and ries were engaged in playing a duet, yet during which one of the guests started an animated conversation with a lady. exasperated at such an affront to his artistic honour, beethoven rose up, glared at the pair, and shouted out, 'i play no more for such hogs,'--nor would he touch another note or allow ries to do so, although earnestly entreated by the company. 'his improvisation,' czerny tells us, 'was most brilliant and striking; in whatever company he might chance to be, he knew how to produce such an effect upon every hearer that frequently not an eye remained dry, while many would break out into loud sobs, for there was something wonderful in his expression in addition to the beauty and originality of his ideas and his spirited style of rendering them.' ries says: 'no artist that i ever heard came at all near the height beethoven attained in this branch of playing. the wealth of ideas which forced themselves on him, the caprices to which he surrendered himself, the variety of treatment, the difficulties, were inexhaustible. even the abbé vogler's admirers were compelled to admit as much.'" tomaschek was greatly impressed by beethoven. he writes: "it was in , when i was studying law, that beethoven, that giant among players, came to prague. . . . his grand style of playing, and especially his bold improvisation, had an extraordinary effect upon me. i felt so shaken that for several days i could not bring myself to touch the piano." "his manner was to sit in a quiet way at the instrument, commanding his feelings; but occasionally, and especially when extemporising, it was hard to maintain the pose. at extreme moments he warmed into great passions, so that it was impossible for him to hide from his listeners the sacred fires that were raging within him. czerny declares that his playing of slow movements was full of the greatest expression,--an experience to be remembered. he used the pedal largely, and was most particular in the placing of the hands and the drift of the fingers upon the keys. as a pianist, he was surnamed 'giant among players,' and men like vogler, hummel, and wölffl were of a truth great players; but as sir george grove aptly says, in speaking of beethoven's _tours de force_ in performance, his transposing and playing at sight, etc., 'it was no quality of this kind that got him the name, but the loftiness and elevation of his style, and his great power of expression in slow movements, which, when exercised on his noble music, fixed his hearers, and made them insensible to any fault of polish or mere mechanism.'" beethoven has often served as a subject for painters, but, among the numerous pictures dedicated to him, we recall none more impressive than aimé de lemud's "beethoven's dream." de lemud, a frenchman who died at the age of seventy years, in , first won success as a painter, and then studied engraving. at the salon of he received a medal for his engraving of this picture, which was then entitled, simply, "beethoven." [illustration: beethoven's dream. from painting by aimé de lemud.] elizabeth stuart phelps, in her story of "the silent partner," tells how "a line engraving after de lemud could make a 'forgetting' in the life of a factory girl. "an engraving that lay against a rich easel in a corner of the room attracted the girl's attention presently. she went down on her knees to examine it. it chanced to be lemud's dreaming beethoven. sip was very still about it. "'what is that fellow doing?' she asked, after a while. 'him with the stick in his hand.' "she pointed to the leader of the shadowy orchestra, touching the baton through the glass, with her brown fingers. "'i have always supposed,' said perley, 'that he was only floating with the rest; you see the orchestra behind him.' "'floating after those women with their arms up? no, he isn't.' "'what is he doing?' "it's riding over him--the orchestra. he can't master it. don't you see? it sweeps him along. he can't help himself. they come and come. how fast they come! how he fights and falls! oh, i know how they come! that's the way things come to me; things i could do, things i could say, things i could get rid of if i had the chance; they come in the mills mostly; they tumble over me just so; i never have the chance. how he fights! i didn't know there was any such picture in the world. i'd like to look at that picture day and night. see! oh, i know how they come!' "'miss kelso--' after another silence, and still upon her knees before the driving dream and the restless dreamer. 'you see, that's it. that's like your pretty things. i'd keep your pretty things if i was you. it ain't that there shouldn't be music anywhere. it's only that the music shouldn't ride over the master. seems to me it is like that.'" schubert. in the währing cemetery in vienna three monuments of varying design stand side by side. the central one honours mozart, the name of beethoven is inscribed upon the second, and the last bears that of franz schubert. schubert died aged but thirty-one, in , the year after beethoven had passed beyond. he had the greatest reverence for the sublime master, and on the day before his own death spoke of him in a touching manner in his delirium. schubert was one of the torch-bearers at the grave of beethoven, and after the funeral went with some friends to a tavern, where he filled two glasses of wine. the first he drank to the memory of the great man who had just been laid to rest, and the other to the memory of him who should be first to follow beethoven to the grave. in less than two years he himself lay beside him. schubert, in his youth, once asked a friend, after the performance of some of his own songs, whether he thought that he (schubert) would ever become anything. his friend replied that he was already something. "i say so to myself, sometimes," said schubert, "but who can do anything after beethoven?" at a later day he said of the master, "mozart stands in the same relation to him as schiller does to shakespeare. schiller is already understood, shakespeare still far from being fully comprehended. every one understands mozart; no one thoroughly comprehends beethoven." although beethoven lived in vienna during nearly the whole life of schubert, and for some years very near to his house, the two composers were almost strangers. schindler, beethoven's biographer, does indeed state that they met in , but the story has been much doubted. schindler says that the younger composer, whose "variations on a french air" had just been published by diabelli and dedicated to beethoven, went with the publisher to present the offering in person. he received them kindly, but schubert was too confused to answer the master's questions, and on beethoven making some slight criticism upon the piece, fled from the room in dismay. huttenbrenner says, on the other hand, that beethoven was not at home when schubert called on him and that they never met. he, however, states that he, schubert, and the artist teltscher, went to beethoven's house during his last illness and stood for a long time around his bed. the dying man was told the names of his visitors and made signs to them with his hand which they could not comprehend. schubert was deeply touched, for his veneration for beethoven amounted almost to worship. schindler, during beethoven's last illness, brought him a collection of schubert's songs, and he expressed the greatest admiration for their beauty, coupled with regrets that he had not known more of him. how great must have been schubert's delight to learn that beethoven on this occasion said of him, "truly, schubert possesses a spark of the divine fire;" and again, "some day he will make a noise in the world." beethoven is said to have frequently played the "variations" which schubert dedicated to him. the extraordinary fertility and facility of schubert in composing are well known. elson tells the story of the creation of "hark, hark, the lark!" from "cymbeline." "it was a summer morning in that schubert was returning from a long walk in the suburbs of vienna, with a party of friends; they had been out to potzleindorf, and were walking through währing, when, as they passed the restaurant "zum biersack," schubert looked in and saw his friend tieze sitting at one of the tables; he at once suggested that the party enter and join him at breakfast, which was accordingly done. as they sat together at the table, schubert took up a book which tieze had brought with him; it was shakespeare's poems in a german translation; he began turning from page to page in his usual insatiable search for subjects for musical setting; suddenly he paused and read one of the poems over a few times. 'if i only had music-paper here,' he cried, 'i have just the melody to fit this poem.' without a word, doppler, one of his friends, drew the musical staff on the back of the bill of fare, and handed it to the composer, and on this bill of fare, while waiting breakfast, amid the clatter and confusion of a viennese outdoor restaurant, schubert brought forth the beautiful aubade, or morning song, 'hark, hark, the lark!'" upon the same evening, he set two more of shakespeare's songs to music, "who is sylvia?" from the "two gentlemen of verona," and the drinking song from the second act of "antony and cleopatra." the composer played the piano with much expression, but could not be considered as a performer of great technical attainments. he once attempted to play his "fantasia in c, opus ," to some friends, but broke down twice, and finally sprang up from his chair in a fury, exclaiming: "the devil may play the stuff!" [illustration: schubert at the piano. from painting by gustav klimt.] "the subtle influence which schubert exercised over those with whom he was brought into close contact was not to be accounted for by any grace of person or manner. kreissle says that he was under the average height, round backed and shouldered, with plump arms and hands and short fingers. he had a round and puffy face, low forehead, thick lips, bushy eyebrows, and a short, turned-up nose, giving him something of a negro aspect. this description does not coincide with our ideas of one in whom either intellectual or imaginative qualities were strongly developed. only in animated conversation did his eye light up, and show by its fire and brilliancy the splendour of the mind within. add to this that in society schubert's manner was awkward, the result of an unconquerable diffidence and bashfulness, when in the presence of strangers. he was even less fitted than beethoven to shine in the salons of the viennese aristocracy, for his capacity as an executive musician was more limited. but he was far more companionable among his intimate acquaintances, and perhaps his greatest, and certainly his most frequent, pleasure was to discuss music over a friendly glass in some cosy tavern. it would be entirely unjust to say that he was a drunkard, but he was not overcautious in his potations, and frequently took more than was prudent or consistent with a regard to health. this weakness was purely the result of his fondness for genial society, for he was not a solitary drinker, and invariably devoted the early portion of the day to work. the enormous mass of his compositions sufficiently proves his capacity for hard and unremitting labour, and no diminution of energy was observable to the very last. it is not easy for us at this distance of time, and with our colder northern temperament, to comprehend the romantic feelings of attachment subsisting between schubert and some of his friends,--feelings which, however, are by no means rare among the impulsive youth of south germany,--but his naïve simplicity, cheerful and eminently sociable disposition, insensibility to envy, and incorruptible modesty, were qualities calculated to transform the respect due to his genius into a strong personal liking. schubert was, in truth, a child of nature, one whom to know was to love; for his faults might be summed up into a general incapacity to understand his own interests, and it might be said of him as truly as of any one that he was no man's enemy save his own, thus reversing shakespeare's words, the good which he did lives after him; the evil was interred with his bones." rouget de lisle. during the great english revolution of , lord wharton, as macaulay says, wrote "a satirical ballad on the administration of tyrconnel. in this little poem an irishman congratulates a brother irishman, in a barbarous jargon, on the approaching triumph of popery, and of the milesian race. the protestant heir will be excluded. the protestant officers will be broken. the great charter, and the praters who appeal to it, will be hanged in one rope. the good talbot will shower commissions on his countrymen, and will cut the throats of the english. these verses, which were in no respect above the ordinary standard of street poetry, had for burden some gibberish which was said to have been used as a watchword by the insurgents of ulster in . the verses and the tune caught the fancy of the nation. from one end of england to the other, all classes were constantly singing this idle rhyme. it was especially the delight of the english army. more than seventy years after the revolution, a great writer delineated, with exquisite skill, a veteran who had fought at the boyne and at namur. one of the characteristics of the good old soldier is his trick of whistling 'lillibullero.' "wharton afterward boasted that he had sung a king out of three kingdoms. but in truth the success of 'lillibullero' was the effect, and not the cause, of that excited state of public feeling which produced the revolution." the english revolution had its "lillibullero," the french revolution its "marseillaise." the former is never heard now; the latter, in which spirited words are wedded to inspiring music, is undying. lamartine said, "glory and crime, victory and death, are mingled in its strains." sir walter scott called it "the finest hymn to which liberty has ever given birth." heine exclaimed, "what a song! it thrills me with fiery delight, it kindles within me the glowing star of enthusiasm;" and carlyle pronounced it "the luckiest musical composition ever promulgated." in the spring of , a young officer of artillery was in garrison at strasburg. his name was rouget de lisle, and his talents as poet, singer, and musician had rendered him a welcome guest at the house of dietrich, the mayor of the city. famine reigned in strasburg, and one day, when the dietrich family could offer but a scanty repast to the youthful soldier, dietrich produced a bottle of wine, and said, "let us drink to liberty and to our country. there will soon be a patriotic celebration at strasburg; may these last drops inspire de lisle with one of those hymns which convey to the soul of the people the intoxication from whence they proceed." the wine was drunk and the friends separated for the night. de lisle went to his room and sought inspiration, "now in his patriotic soul, now in his harpsichord; sometimes composing the air before the words, sometimes the words before the air, and so combining them in his thoughts that he himself did not know whether the notes or the verses came first, and it was impossible to separate the poetry from the music, or the sentiment from the expression. he sang all and set down nothing." in the morning de lisle wrote down the words and music and went with them to dietrich's house. the old patriot invited some friends, who were as fond of music as himself, to listen, and his eldest daughter played the accompaniment, while rouget sang. "at the first stanza all faces turned pale; at the second tears ran down every cheek, and at the last all the madness of enthusiasm broke forth. the hymn of the country, destined also to be the hymn of terror, was found. a few months afterward the unfortunate dietrich went to the scaffold to the sound of the very notes which had their origin on his own hearth, in the heart of his friend, and in the voices of his children." [illustration: rouget de l'isle singing the marseillaise. from painting by i. a. a. pils.] it was on april th that de lisle's hymn was sung at dietrich's house. the next day it was copied and arranged for a military band, and on april th it was performed by the band of the garde nationale at a review. on june th, a singer named mireur sang it with so much effect at a civic banquet at marseilles that it was at once printed and distributed to the volunteers of the battalion just starting for paris, which they entered by the faubourg st. antoine on july th, singing their new hymn. it was heard again on august th, when the mob stormed the palace of the tuileries. from that time the "_chant de guerre pour l'armée du rhin_," as it had been christened, was known as the "chanson" or "chant de marseillais," and finally as "la marseillaise." the original edition contained only six couplets; the seventh was added by the journalist dubois. rouget de lisle's authorship of the music has been often contested, but it is proven by the conclusive evidence contained in the pamphlet on the subject, by his nephew, published in paris, in . schumann has used the "marseillaise" in the overture to "hermann and dorothea," and also in his song of the "two grenadiers." its author, claude joseph rouget de lisle, was born at montaigu, lous-le-saulnier, in . entering the school of royal engineers at mezières in , in he was a second lieutenant and quartered at besançon. here, a few days after the fall of the bastille, on july th, he wrote his first patriotic song to the tune of a favourite air. the next year found him at strasburg, where his "hymn to liberty," set to music by pleyel, was sung at the fête of september , . one of his pieces, "bayard en bresse," produced at paris in , was not successful. being the son of royalist parents and one of the constitutional party, rouget de lisle refused to take the oath to the constitution abolishing the crown, and was therefore cashiered, denounced, and imprisoned, not escaping until after the fall of robespierre. it is told that as he fled through a pass of the alps he heard his own song. "'what is the name of that hymn?' he asked his guide. 'the marseillaise,' was the peasant's reply. it was then that he learned the name of his own work. he was pursued by the enthusiasm which he had scattered behind him, and escaped death with difficulty. the weapon recoiled against the hand which had forged it; the revolution in its madness no longer recognised its own voice." de lisle afterward reëntered the army, made the campaign of la vendée under hoche, was wounded, and at length, under the consulate, returned to private life at montaigu. poor and alone, he remained there until the second restoration, when, his brother having sold the little family property, he came to paris. here he was unfortunate and would have starved but for a small pension granted by louis xviii., and continued by louis philippe, and for the care of his friends, the poet béranger and the sculptor david d'angers, and especially m. and madame voiart. at the house of the voiarts in choisy-le-roi, rouget de lisle died in . his other works include a volume of "essais en vers et en prose," issued in , "cinquante chants français" ( ), and "macbeth," a lyrical tragedy ( ). he also wrote a song called "roland at roncesvalles," and a "hymn to the setting sun." two statues, if no more, have been erected to him in france,--one at lous-le-saulnier, from the hand of bartholdi, and another at choisy-le-roi. pils, to whom we owe the picture of rouget de lisle singing his immortal chant, was a french artist, who died in , at the age of sixty-two, having gained many medals and a professorship of painting at the paris school of fine arts. his fame was mostly won by pictures of the war in the crimea, notably by his "battle of the alma," now in the gallery at versailles. the "rouget de lisle," painted in , belongs to the french nation. pils decorated the ceiling over the grand staircase in the paris opera house. paganini. earth's effective picture of the great violinist in prison is an instance of the use of that license which we are generally willing to allow the painter and the poet. among the many astounding fictions which were related about paganini is one which asserts that, during years spent in confinement on the charge of murdering his wife, he solaced himself and perfected his art by the constant use of his beloved instrument, and this story must serve as the artist's excuse. doubtless as many believers were found for this baseless tale as for these others. [illustration: paganini in prison. from painting by ferdinand barth.] some declared that he had a league with satan, and held interviews with him in an old florentine castle, much frequented by the artist, from which, they said, fearful sounds were heard proceeding on stormy nights, and where the great master was known to have lain as one dead for hours together, on different occasions. these persons believed that at such times paganini had only come back to life by magical agency. another swore to having seen a tall, dark shadow bending over him at one of his concerts, and directing his hand; while a third testified that he had seen nine or ten shadowy hands hovering about the strings of the great master's violin. many of his admirers warmly upheld it as their opinion that he was in reality an angel sent down to this world, in pity, for the purpose of lightening the miseries of earthly life by giving man a foretaste of what the heavenly harmonies will be hereafter. they said that it was as if a choir of sweet-voiced spirits lay hid within the instrument, and that at times it seemed as though this choir turned into a grand orchestra. it was not only paganini's wonderful playing, but his weird appearance which helped to gain credence for such surprising anecdotes. leigh hunt has left us a graphic description of the renowned fiddler. "paganini, the first time i saw and heard him, and the first time he struck a note, seemed literally to strike it, to give it a blow. the house was so crammed that, being among the squeezers in the standing-room at the side of the pit, i happened to catch the first glance of his face through the arm akimbo of a man who was perched up before me, which made a kind of frame for it; and there, on the stage in that frame, as through a perspective glass, were the face bent and the raised hand of the wonderful musician, with the instrument at his chin, just going to commence, and looking exactly as i described him: his hand, loading the air with dumb expectancy, suspending ere it fell a nation's breath, he smote, and clinging to the serious chords, with godlike ravishment drew forth a breath so deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, blissful yet laden as with twenty prayers, that juno yearned with no diviner soul to the first burthen of the lips of jove. th' exceeding mystery of the loveliness sadden'd delight, and with his mournful look, dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face 'twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd too feeble, or to melancholy eyes one that has parted with his soul for pride, and in the sable secret lived forlorn.' "to show the depth and identicalness of the impression which he made upon everybody, foreign or native, an italian, who stood near me, said to himself, after a sigh, o dio!' and this had not been said long when another person in the same manner exclaimed, 'o christ!' musicians pressed forward from behind the scenes to get as close to him as possible, and they could not sleep at night for thinking of him." another writer shows us paganini in his lodgings. "everything was lying in its usual disorder; here one violin, there another, one snuff-box on the bed, another under one of the boy's playthings. music, money, caps, letters, watches, and boots were scattered about in the utmost confusion. the chairs, tables, and even the bed had all been removed from their proper places. in the midst of the chaos sat paganini, his black silk nightcap covering his still blacker hair, a yellow handkerchief carelessly tied around his neck, and a chocolate-coloured jacket hanging loose upon his shoulders. on his knees he held achillino, his little son of four years of age, at that time in very bad humour because he had to allow his hands to be washed. his affectionate forbearance is truly wonderful. let the boy be ever so troublesome, he never gets angry, but merely turns around and observes to those present, 'the poor child is wearied; i do not know what i shall do, i am already quite worn out with playing with him. i have been fighting with him all the morning; i have carried him about; made him chocolate; i do not know what more to do!' "it was enough to make one die of laughing to see paganini in his slippers fighting with his little son, who reached to about his knee. sometimes the little achillino would get into a rage; draw his sabre upon his father, who would retreat into the corner of the room and call out, 'enough, enough! i am wounded already;' but the little fellow would never leave off until he had laid his gigantic adversary tottering and prostrate on the bed. paganini had now finished the dressing of his achillino, but was himself still in _dishabille_. and now arose the great difficulty, how to accomplish his own toilet, where to find his neckcloth, his boots, his coat. all were hid, and by whom?--by achillino. the urchin laughed when he saw his father pacing with long strides through the apartment, his searching looks glancing in all directions; and upon his asking him where he had put his things, the little wag pretended astonishment, and held his tongue, shrugged up his shoulders, shook his head, and signified by his gesture that he knew nothing about them. after a long search, the boots were found; they were hid under the trunk; the handkerchief lay in one of the boots; the coat in the box; and the waistcoat in the drawer of the table. every time that paganini had found one of his things, he drew it out in triumph, took a great pinch of snuff, and went with new zeal to search for the remaining articles, always followed by the little fellow, who enjoyed it vastly when he saw his papa searching in places where he knew nothing was hid. at last we went out, and paganini shut the door of the apartment, leaving behind him, lying about upon the tables and in the cupboards, rings, watches, gold, and what i most wondered at, his most precious violins. any idea of the insecurity of his property never entered his head; and, fortunately for him, in the lodgings which he occupied the people were honest." the famous violinist, like the rest of us, had his faults, but we can easily find instances to prove the kindness of his heart. one day, while walking in vienna, paganini came across a poor boy playing upon a violin. he went up to him and learned that he maintained his mother and a flock of little brothers and sisters by the money which he picked up as an itinerant musician. paganini turned out his pockets, gave the boy all the coins he could find, and then, taking the boy's violin, commenced playing. a crowd soon assembled, and, when he had finished playing, paganini went around with his hat, collected a goodly sum, and then gave it to the boy, amid loud acclamations from the bystanders. in the autumn of paganini was an invalid at paris, and seldom saw any one but nicette, a merry country girl who waited upon him, and often cheered him up in hours of sadness. one morning she appeared with weeping eyes, and waited upon the musician without saying a word. "what's the matter, child?" said the musician. "has any misfortune happened to you?" "alas! yes, sir." "speak! speak! what is it?" she was silent. "now, out with it," said he. "i see it all clearly enough. after he had made you a thousand promises he has forsaken you. is it not so?" "alas! poor fellow, he has indeed forsaken me, but he is quite innocent." "how has that happened?" "he has drawn a bad number in the conscription, and must go off for a soldier. i shall never see him again!" sobbed the poor girl. "but can't you buy a substitute for him?" "how could i get such a large sum? fifteen hundred francs is the lowest price, for there is a report that a war will soon break out," said she. paganini said no more, but when nicette had left the room, he took his pocketbook and wrote in it, "to think what can be done for poor nicette." it was toward christmas-time, and paganini's health was improved, when one afternoon nicette came into the room where he was, and announced that a box had come, addressed to signer paganini. it was brought in, and the first thing which he pulled out was a large wooden shoe. "a wooden shoe," said paganini, smiling. "some of these excellent ladies wish to compare me with a child, who always receives presents and never gives any. well, who knows but that this shoe may earn its weight in gold?" nothing now was seen of paganini for three days, during which time his clever hand had transformed the shoe into a well-sounding instrument. soon afterward appeared an advertisement announcing that, on new year's eve, paganini would give a concert, and play five pieces on the violin and five on a wooden shoe. a hundred tickets at twenty francs each were instantly sold. paganini duly appeared, and played on his old violin as he alone ever did. then, taking up the wooden shoe, he commenced a descriptive fantasia. there it was,--the departure of the conscript, the cries of his betrothed at the parting, the camp life, the battle and victory, the return-rejoicings, and marriage-bells, all were vividly portrayed. the company departed, but in the corner of the room stood nicette, sobbing bitterly. "here, nicette," said paganini, going up to her, "are two thousand francs,--five hundred more than you require to purchase a substitute for your betrothed. that you may be able to begin housekeeping at once, take this shoe-violin and sell it for as much as you can get for it." nicette did so, and a wealthy collector of curiosities gave her a very large sum indeed for paganini's wooden shoe. here is another anecdote of paganini, as related by one who took part in some of the frequent demands upon his goodness of heart. when paganini was in london, he resided at no. great pulteney street, in a house belonging to the novellos, next door to which was a "young ladies'" school, kept by a humpbacked old lady. the girls were perfectly aware who their next-door neighbour was, and, with the fondness of female youth for mischief, had nicknamed paganini "the devil." now, in order to avoid being heard from the street, "the devil" used to practise his violin in a back room, which happened to be divided only by a thin partition from the next house. the adjoining room was one devoted by the old lady to the most advanced of her pupils, and here they were allowed to do their needlework apart from the others, and were frequently left to themselves. when the cat's away, however, the mice will play. the temptation to make overtures to "the devil" was too great for the young ladies; and whenever they heard him in his room, while one kept a lookout at the door for the intrusions of "old humpback," there was a delicate "tat-tat-tat" at the partition, and a half-singing, half-speaking call, "pag-an-in-ee, pag-an-in-ee--the carnival--'carnival de venise';" whereupon he would go to his window, open it, and accede to the request, playing the piece exactly as he did in public, nor did the maestro ever once fail to gratify the wishes of his fair neighbours. "paganini received some enthusiastic receptions in his time, but probably never a more spontaneous outburst than that which came from a son of erin's isle, after one of his performances in dublin. on the occasion in question, paganini had just completed that successful effort, the rondo _à la sicilienne_ from 'la clochette,' in which was a silver bell accompaniment to the fiddle, producing a most original effect (one of those effects, we presume, which have tended to associate so much of the marvellous with the name of this genius). no sooner had the outburst of applause ended, than the excited paddy in the gallery shouted out as loud as he was able: "'arrah now, paganini, just take a drop o' whisky, my darling, and ring the bell again like that!' "at a soirée given by troupenas, the music publisher, in paris, in , paganini gave one of the most wonderful exhibitions of his skill. rossini, tamburini, lablache, rubini, de beriot, and malibran were of the party. malibran, after singing one of her spirited arias, challenged paganini, who said, 'madam, how could i dare, with all the advantages you possess in beauty and your incomparable voice, take up your glove?' his declining was of no avail; the whole company, aware that such an opportunity might never occur again, urged him most strongly, and finally persuaded him to send for his violin. after an introduction, in which gleamed now and then the motive of malibran's song, he gave the whole melody with additional _fiorituras_, so that the audience, amazed and overwhelmed, could not help confessing that he was the master. malibran herself was most emphatic of all in proclaiming him the victor." paganini's favourite violin was a joseph guarnerius. an italian amateur, who evidently knew its value, lent it to the great maestro, and, after hearing him play upon it, declared that no other hand should touch it, and presented it to paganini. he left it to his native city of genoa, where it is preserved in the town hall. ferdinand barth, who painted "paganini in prison," was the son of a carpenter, and was born in bavaria in the early forties. for some time he worked as a wood carver, and then began to paint, and studied at the munich academy, under piloty. probably his best known picture is "choosing the casket," in which he has depicted the familiar scene from the "merchant of venice." mendelssohn. like mozart, the composer of the "songs without words" had a sister, a few years older than himself, who was possessed of great musical talent. mendelssohn's sister, fanny, was born in . in she became the wife of wilhelm hensel, a noted historical and portrait painter. probably the most valuable and interesting of his works is the series of portraits of all the celebrities who, from time to time, were the guests of the mendelssohn family. they number more than a thousand drawings, and include, besides likenesses of poets, painters, and philosophers, portraits of many people famous in the annals of music,--weber, paganini, ernst, hiller, liszt, clara schumann, gounod, clara novello, lablache, and grisi. rockstro tells the story of fanny mendelssohn's early death in the following words: "on friday afternoon, the th of may, , madame hensel, the beloved sister fanny, to whom, from earliest infancy, felix, the child, the boy, the man, had committed every secret of his beautiful art life; the kindred spirit, with whom he had shared his every dream before his first attempt to translate it into sound; the faithful friend who had been more to him than any other member of the happy circle in the leipziger strasse, of which, from first to last, she was the very life and soul,--fanny hensel, the sister, the artist, the poet, while conducting a rehearsal of the music for the next bright sunday gathering, was suddenly seized with paralysis; suffered her hands to fall powerless from the piano at which she had so often presided; and, an hour before midnight, was called away to join the beloved parents whose death had been as sudden and painless as her own. she had hoped and prayed that she, too, might pass away as they had done, and her prayer was granted; to her exceeding gain, but to the endless grief of the brother who had loved her as himself. on sunday morning, in place of the piano, a coffin, covered with flowers, stood in the well-known hall in the garden house. and the life, of which that garden house had so long been the cherished home, became henceforth a memory of the past." an english lady, mrs. florence fenwick miller, known not only as a writer, but as an ardent advocate of woman suffrage, has in one of her books written a chapter which she entitles "a genius wasted--fanny mendelssohn." she says: "one of the saddest instances with which the world has ever become acquainted, of gifts repressed and faculties wasted because of the sex of their possessor, is that of fanny mendelssohn, the sister of the famous composer, felix mendelssohn. with natural powers apparently fully as great as her brother's, fanny was not, indeed, denied all opportunity of cultivating them, but was effectually prevented from utilising them, and, therefore, from fully developing her genius or from displaying its force." these two jewish children were members of a family in which both intellect, in its widest meaning, and musical talent, specifically, were hereditary. their mother began to teach music both to the boy and the girl in their early years. fanny, who was five years older than her brother, was naturally more advanced than he; and when the two children were allowed to show off their powers as pianists, it was fanny who always won the most applause. they passed from their mother's elementary tuition to that of superior teachers, l. berger and afterward zeiter, and the former of these indicated fanny as being, in his opinion, the future great musician. but a father and mother with a maiden of genius on their hands were like a hen whose duckling takes to the water. the difference of the training of fanny and felix mendelssohn, as distinguished from their musical education, is effectually indicated by the following letter from their father to fanny, written when she was fourteen years old. after referring in terms of satisfaction to the compositions of both his son and daughter, abraham mendelssohn proceeded to say to the latter of his two gifted children: "what you wrote to me about your musical occupations, with reference to and in comparison with felix, was both rightly thought and expressed. music will, perhaps, become _his_ profession (felix was at this time only nine years old. fanny was fourteen), whilst for _you_ it can and must be only an ornament, never the root of your being and doing. we may, therefore, pardon him some ambition and desire to be acknowledged in a pursuit which appears to him important, while it does you credit that you have always shown yourself good and sensible in these matters; and your very joy at the praise he earns proves that you might, in his place, have merited equal approval. remain true to these sentiments and to this line of conduct; they are feminine, and only what is truly feminine is an ornament to your sex." ten more precious years of youth, the years of training and of hope, passed by; the different ideal was persistently forced by the parents upon the two, although fanny, more fortunate than many girls, was, nevertheless, allowed to study her art as well as she could in intervals of housekeeping. on her twenty-third birthday, her father again felt it necessary to check his gifted daughter in her pursuit of her art. he wrote her a letter in which he praised her conduct in the household. "however," he added, "you must still improve. you must become still more steady and collected, and prepare more earnestly and eagerly for your real calling, the _only_ calling of a woman,--i mean the state of a housewife. women have a difficult task; the constant occupation with apparent trifles, the interception of each drop of rain, that it may not evaporate, but be conducted into the right channel, the unremitting attention to every detail,--all these are the weighty duties of a woman." the time came, at length, for fanny mendelssohn to love,--that crisis came which stimulates a man in his work, and nerves him to fresh efforts to make himself successful, that he may be worthy and able to establish a home. but to a woman this brings, only too often, yet another heavy barrier in the way of success in any art or occupation. so it was to fanny mendelssohn. "hensel was at first dreadfully jealous . . . even of fanny's art. . . . only _her_ letters have been preserved. with characteristic energy she refuses to sacrifice her brother to the jealousy with which hensel, in the beginning, regards her love for him, but she consents to give up her friends, and even her music. . . . she never, in her thoughts, loses sight of that letter of her father's, in which he calls the vocation of a housewife the only true aim and study of a young woman, and in thinking of the man of her choice she earnestly devotes herself to this aim." what reprobation and what just indignation would be showered upon a woman who should try to make the man of her choice give up his art, to attend to her private comforts! although fanny's good father and mother, yielding to the prejudices of their day, had struggled to make housekeeping her main interest, and music only her recreation, yet they had not denied her musical genius a complete education. fanny was not only taught to play the piano in her childhood, in company with felix, but she was also allowed to receive lessons in thorough bass and the theory of composition. she was thus rendered capable of the expression of her musical talents; and in between her household duties, after, as well as before she became a wife and mother, she often found time to compose. much of what she wrote was of so high a character that her brother felix felt no hesitation in putting it forth to the world as _his_ own composition! it is, apparently, impossible to discover which, amongst the works published as those of mendelssohn, were really those of his sister; but references now and again occur in his private letters to the fact, which thereby becomes incontrovertible, that he has claimed before the public compositions which are hers exclusively. the most famous of such passages is one that has became widely known in consequence of its quotation in sir theodore martin's "life of the prince consort." mendelssohn is telling of his visit to the queen, at buckingham palace, in . "the queen said she was very fond of singing my published songs. 'you should sing one to him,' said prince albert, and after a little begging she said she would. and what did she choose? 'schöner und schöner schmuckt sich;' sang it quite charmingly, in strict time and tune, and with very good execution. then i was obliged to confess that fanny had written that song (which i found very hard, but pride must have a fall), and to beg her to sing one of my own also." as her father had kept her from appearing before the public when she was young, so her brother strenuously opposed her wish to publish her work in her maturity. in the spring of , fanny, in defiance of him, did issue one song with her own name to it. it had a great success, and felix himself graciously wrote to her after it had been performed at a concert; "i thank you, in the name of the public, for publishing it against my wish." fanny's husband urged her to follow up this success by issuing more of her works. "her mother was of the same opinion, and begged felix to persuade fanny to publish. the success had not altered felix's views, however, and he declined to persuade his sister; and fanny, who had herself no desire to appear in print, readily gave up the idea." felix's influence sufficed to debar fanny from all further attempt to obtain recognition, after that one song, until the year , when she was forty-one years old. then the persuasions of another musical friend led her to publish a small selection of her best work. "felix had not altered his views, and it went against his wishes when he heard that she had made up her mind to publish. some time passed before he wrote on the subject at all, but on august th the following entry appears in her diary: 'at last felix has written, and given me his professional blessing in the kindest manner. i know that he is not satisfied in his heart of hearts, but i am glad he has said a kind word to me about it.'" this little volume, too, was warmly received. encouraged by the success of her published work,--delayed till so sadly late in life,--tasting the stimulating elixir of appreciation, and knowing the fascinating encouragement of public applause, she now began composition on a larger scale than anything she had before attempted. "i am working a good deal," she wrote, "and feel that i get on,--a consciousness which, added to the glorious weather, gives me a feeling of content and happiness such as i have, perhaps, never before experienced." alas! it came too late. in the spring of the next year, fanny mendelssohn died, aged forty-two. her grand playing, "which made people afraid to perform in her presence," went down with her into the silence of her grave; and the musical genius and originality which should have left a lasting mark in the world faded, too, leaving but a few small tokens of what might have been. the "songs without words" are more closely associated with mendelssohn than any other of his works. the composer considered that music is more definite than words, and these lovely songs had as exact an intention as those which were written to accompany poetry. it was in a letter of fanny mendelssohn's, dated december , , that their title first appeared, and they are referred to as if mendelssohn had but lately begun to write them. on the day after his arrival in london, april , , he played the first six to moscheles. the earliest one is no. , of book , which felix sent to his sister fanny in . "in a gondola," the last song in the first book, is said to be the earliest of the six, in date. a few only were given titles by the composer. six books, each containing six songs, were published during his life, and the seventh and eighth after his early death. [illustration: song without words. from painting by r. poetzelberger.] we reproduce the charming picture by a german painter, which, entitled "song without words," is said to represent the young mendelssohn and his sister fanny seated at the piano, side by side. poetzelberger's other works, which he has named "con amore," "old songs," and "trifling," are also distinguished by their graceful sentiment. chopin. liszt, the friend and rival of chopin, wrote a biography of him which may almost be ranked among the curiosities of literature. liszt was a genius, but not a good biographer, and his life of chopin is largely a rhapsody. for instance, liszt writes thus about chopin's short-lived passion for the singer constantia gladkowska. "the tempest, which, in one of its sudden gusts, tore chopin from his native soil, like a bird dreamy and abstracted, surprised by the storm, upon the branches of a foreign tree, sundered the ties of this first love and robbed the exile of a faithful and devoted wife, as well as disinherited him of a country." and the same tendency to "gush" is here again apparent. "chopin," he says, "could easily read the hearts which were attracted to him by friendship and the grace of his youth, and thus was enabled early to learn of what a strange mixture of leaven and cream of roses, of gunpowder and tears of angels, the poetic ideal of his nation is formed. when his wandering fingers ran over the keys, suddenly touching some moving chords, he could see how the furtive tears coursed down the cheeks of the loving girl, or the young, neglected wife; how they moistened the eyes of the young man, enamoured of and eager for glory. can we not fancy some young beauty asking him to play a simple prelude, then, softened by the tones, leaning her rounded arms upon the instrument to support her dreaming head, while she suffered the young artist to divine in the dewy glitter of her lustrous eyes the song sung by her youthful heart?" it has been asserted both by liszt and others that chopin owed his musical education to the generosity of prince anton radziwill, but the statement is untrue. that wealthy and cultured nobleman was, however, always a warm friend and helpful patron of the great polish pianist, who often visited the prince at his country-seat. prince radziwill was a musician himself,--a good singer and "cellist," and the composer of numerous pieces, among them being the first portions of goethe's "faust." to him chopin dedicated his first trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, published in . chopin seems to have passed a very pleasant time with the prince and his family, and, indeed, not to have been blind to the fascinations of the prince's charming daughters, one of whom was an excellent pianist. the prince himself was no mean performer on the violoncello, and he and chopin played a good deal together. writing from antonin, chopin says: "i have written during my stay here an _alla polacca_ with violoncello. it is nothing more than a brilliant salon piece, such as pleases ladies. i should like the princess wanda to practise it. she is only seventeen years of age, and very beautiful; it would be delightful to have the pleasure of placing her pretty fingers upon the keys." chopin was a susceptible being and ever a victim to the latest impression, so it is not strange that the lovely wanda was soon forgotten. [illustration: chopin at prince radziwill's. from painting by h. siemiradski.] a countryman of chopin's, the distinguished artist, siemiradski, has produced a picture of the young pianist playing in the salon of prince radziwill, which itself convinces us of its truthfulness. the painter (born in , and a pupil of piloty) secured a wide renown through his painting of "the living torches of nero." from a long list of notable pictures by siemiradski, we select for mention "phryne at eleusis," "the sword dance," and "the cremation of a russian chieftain in the tenth century." twenty years from the time at which siemiradski has painted chopin, the great pianist lay on his death-bed in paris. "his sister never left him for a moment. his dearest friend and pupil, gutmann, was also now constantly with him, and both friend and sister felt that the end was not far off. on the th of october, his friend, the comtesse delphine potocka, arrived in paris, having hastened from nice, where she was at the time, directly she heard of the master's illness. no sooner was he made aware of her presence than he implored her to sing to him." says liszt; "who could have ventured to oppose his wish? the piano was rolled to the door of his chamber, while with sobs in her voice and tears streaming down her cheeks his gifted countrywoman sang. she sang the famous 'canticle to the virgin,' which, it is said, once saved the life of stradella. 'how beautiful it is!' he exclaimed. 'my god, how very beautiful! again, again!' though overwhelmed with emotion, the countess had the noble courage to comply with the last wish of a friend and compatriot. she again took a seat at the piano, and sang a hymn from marcello. chopin now feeling worse, everybody was seized with fright; by a spontaneous impulse all who were present threw themselves upon their knees--no one ventured to speak; the sacred silence was only broken by the voice of the singer floating, like a melody from heaven, above the sighs and sobs which formed its mournful earth accompaniment." since the publication of professor niecks's biography, considerable doubt must be felt as to the accuracy of liszt's statement touching upon what the lady sang; for he states that "gutmann positively asserted that she sang a psalm by marcello, and an air by pergolesi, while franchomme insisted on her having sung an air from bellini's 'beatrice di tenda,' and that only once, and nothing else." we know that both the authors of these statements were present, whereas liszt was not; but while that leaves no doubt as to the incorrectness of the abbé in this particular, it does not help us in deciding between the relative statements of the two witnesses. this, of course, is impossible, as there is nothing whatever to guide us to a trustworthy decision. to professor niecks, also, do we owe much of interest concerning these last hours of the master, inasmuch as he has brought to light much new testimony of a further witness, m. gavard, who relates how, on the day following, chopin called around him those friends who were with him in his apartment. to the princess czartoryska and mlle. gavard, he said, "you will play together, you will think of me, and i shall listen to you." beckoning to franchomme, he said to the princess, "i recommend franchomme to you; you will play mozart together, and i shall listen to you!" how well he was cared for, and how much devotion and tenderness were lavished upon him, we can judge from another letter of m. gavard, quoted by professor niecks, in which he says: "in the back room lay the poor sufferer, tormented by fits of breathlessness, and only sitting in bed resting in the arms of a friend could he procure air for his oppressed lungs. it was gutmann, the strongest amongst us, who knew best how to manage the patient, and who mostly thus supported him. at the head of his bed sat princess czartoryska; she never left him, guessing his most secret wishes, nursing him like a sister of mercy, with a serene countenance which did not betray her deep sorrow. other friends gave a helping hand to relieve her,--every one according to his power; but most of them stayed in the two adjoining rooms. every one had assumed a part; every one helped as much as he could,--one ran to the doctor's, to the apothecary; another introduced the persons asked for; a third shut the door on intruders. "but, alas! the door was not to be shut upon the greatest of all intruders, and on the evening of the th of october the abbé alexander jelowicki, the polish priest, was sent for, as chopin, saying that he had not confessed for many years, wished to do so now. after the confession was over, and the absolution pronounced, chopin, embracing his confessor, exclaimed, 'thanks! thanks to you, i shall not now die like a pig.' the same evening two doctors examined him. his difficulty in breathing now seemed intense; but on being asked whether he still suffered, he replied, 'no longer.' his face had already assumed the pure serenity of death, and every minute was expected to be the last. just before the end--at two o'clock of the morning of the seventeenth--he drank some wine handed to him by gutmann, who held the glass to his lips. '_cher ami_!' he said, and, kissing his faithful pupil's hands, he died. 'he died as he had lived,' says liszt, 'in loving.'" [illustration: the death of chopin. from painting by felix joseph barrias.] barrias has worthily painted the last scene in the life of chopin. a native of paris, where he was born in , this artist has to his credit a long list of meritorious works which have secured him many honours. they include the "exiles under tiberius," in the luxembourg, "the death of socrates," "sappho," "dante at ravenna," "the fairy of the pearls," "the sirens," "the triumph of venus," and "camille desmoulins at the palais royal," in addition to a number of important decorative works. the "death of chopin" was exhibited in . a gold medal was bestowed upon barrias at the paris exposition of , when the artist was in his sixty-seventh year. the critic, roger ballu, said of him: "a painter of style, very careful of the dignity of his art, he has never made a compromise with the taste of the day." meyerbeer. among the chief mourners at chopin's funeral was meyerbeer, who, though german by birth and training, passed the most important years of his life in paris, as did the gifted pole. in our picture hamman has represented the composer enthroned amid the characters of his chief operas, doubtless as real to him as creatures of flesh and blood. [illustration: mayerbeer. from painting by e. j. c. hamman.] in the foreground, at meyerbeer's right hand, are seen nelusko and selika, from "l'africaine," his last opera, which was not produced until the year after his death. "vasco da gama, the famous discoverer, is the betrothed lover of a maiden named inez, the daughter of don diego, a portuguese grandee. when the opera opens he is still at sea, and has not been heard of for years. don pedro, the president of the council, takes advantage of his absence to press his own suit for the hand of inez, and obtains the king's sanction to his marriage on the ground that vasco must have been lost at sea. at this moment the long-lost hero returns, accompanied by two swarthy slaves, selika and nelusko, whom he has brought home from a distant isle in the indian ocean. he recounts the wonders of the place, and entreats the government to send out a pioneer expedition to win an empire across the sea. his suggestions are rejected, and he himself, through the machinations of don pedro, is cast into prison. there he is tended by selika, who loves her gentle captor passionately, and has need of all her regal authority--for in the distant island she was a queen--to prevent the jealous nelusko from slaying him in his sleep. inez now comes to the prison to announce to vasco that she has purchased his liberty at the price of giving her hand to don pedro. in the next act don pedro, who has stolen a march on vasco, is on his way to the african island, taking with him inez and selika. the steering of the vessel is entrusted to nelusko. vasco da gama, who has fitted out a vessel at his own expense, overtakes don pedro in mid-ocean, and generously warns his rival of the treachery of nelusko, who is steering the vessel upon the rocks of his native shore. don pedro's only reply is to order vasco to be tied to the mast and shot, but before the sentence can be carried out, the vessel strikes upon the rocks, and the aborigines swarm over the sides. selika, once more a queen, saves the lives of vasco and inez from the angry natives. in the next act the nuptials of selika and vasco are on the point of being celebrated, with great pomp, when the hero, who has throughout the opera wavered between the two women who love him, finally makes up his mind in favour of inez. selika thereupon magnanimously despatches them home in vasco's ship, and poisons herself with the fragrance of the deadly manchineel tree." behind selika appear robert and bertram, from "robert le diable," the first work of the composer's french period, produced in . its libretto, by scribe, tells how "robert, duke of normandy, the son of the duchess bertha by a fiend who donned the shape of man to prosecute his amour, arrives in sicily to compete for the hand of the princess isabella, which is to be awarded as the prize at a magnificent tournament. robert's dare-devil gallantry and extravagance soon earn him the sobriquet of 'le diable,' and he puts the coping-stone to his folly by gambling away all his possessions at a single sitting, even to his horse and the armour on his back. robert has an _âme damnée_ in the shape of a knight named bertram, to whose malign influence most of his crimes and follies are due. bertram is in reality his demon-father, whose every effort is directed to making a thorough-paced villain of his son, so that he may have the pleasure of enjoying his society for all eternity. in strong contrast to the fiendish malevolence of bertram stands the gentle figure of alice, robert's foster-sister, who has followed him from normandy with a message from his dead mother. isabella supplies robert with a fresh horse and arms; nevertheless, he is beguiled away from palermo by some trickery of bertram's, and fails to put in an appearance at the tournament. the only means, therefore, left to him of obtaining the hand of isabella is to visit the tomb of his mother, and there to pluck a magic branch of cypress, which will enable him to defeat his rivals. the cypress grows in a deserted convent haunted by the spectres of profligate nuns, and there, amidst infernal orgies, robert plucks the branch of power. by its aid, he sends the guards of the princess into a deep sleep, and is only prevented by her passionate entreaties from carrying her off by force. yielding to her prayers, he breaks the branch, and his magic power at once deserts him. he seeks sanctuary from his enemies in the cathedral, and there the last and fiercest strife for the possession of his soul is waged between the powers of good and evil. on the one hand is bertram, whose term of power on earth expires at midnight. he has now discovered himself as robert's father, and produced an infernal compact of union, which he entreats his son to sign. on the other is alice, pleading and affectionate, bearing the last words of robert's dead mother, warning him against the fiend who had seduced her. while robert is hesitating between the two, midnight strikes, and bertram sinks with thunder into the pit. the scene changes, and a glimpse is given of the interior of the cathedral, where the marriage of robert and isabella is being celebrated." next to the evil bertram is portrayed, in his coronation robes, john of leyden, the chief character in "le prophète," which had its first representation in . "john, an innkeeper of leyden, loves bertha, a village maiden, who dwells near dordrecht. unfortunately, her liege lord, the count of oberthal, has designs upon the girl himself, and refuses his consent to the marriage. bertha escapes from his clutches and flies to the protection of her lover, but oberthal secures the person of fidès, john's old mother, and, by threats of putting her to death, compels him to give up bertha. wild with rage against the vice and lawlessness of the nobles, john joins the ranks of the anabaptists, a revolutionary sect pledged to the destruction of the powers that be. their leaders recognise him as a prophet promised by heaven, and he is installed as their chief. the anabaptists lay siege to munster, which falls into their hands, and in the cathedral john is solemnly proclaimed the son of god. during the ceremony he is recognised by fidès, who, believing him to have been slain by the false prophet, has followed the army to munster in hopes of revenge. she rushes forward to claim her son, but john pretends not to know her. to admit an earthly relationship would be to prejudice his position with the populace, and he compels her to confess that she is mistaken. the coronation ends with john's triumph, while the hapless fidès is carried off to be immured in a dungeon. john visits her in her cell, and obtains her pardon by promising to renounce his deceitful splendour, and to fly with her. later he discovers that a plot against himself has been hatched by some of the anabaptist leaders, and he destroys himself and them by blowing up the palace of munster." in front of john of leyden are the leading personages in "les huguenots." raoul is kneeling to valentine, while the wounded marcel stands by, sword in hand. eugene scribe was the author of the words of this opera, which dates from , and is thus summarised: "marguerite de valois, the beautiful queen of navarre, who is anxious to reconcile the bitterly hostile parties of catholics and huguenots, persuades the comte de saint bris, a prominent catholic, to allow his daughter valentine to marry raoul de nangis, a young huguenot noble. valentine is already betrothed to the gallant and amorous comte de nevers, but she pays him a nocturnal visit in his own palace, and induces him to release her from her engagement. during her interview with nevers, she is perceived by raoul, and recognised as a lady whom he lately rescued from insult and has loved passionately ever since. in his eyes there is only one possible construction to be put upon her presence in nevers's palace, and he hastens to dismiss her from his mind. immediately upon his decision comes a message from the queen, bidding him hasten to her palace in touraine upon important affairs of state. when he arrives she unfolds her plan, and he, knowing valentine only by sight, not by name, gladly consents. when, in the presence of the assembled nobles, he recognises in his destined bride the presumed mistress of nevers, he casts her from him, and vows to prefer death to such intolerable disgrace. the scene of the next act is in the pré aux clercs, in the outskirts of paris. valentine, who is to be married that night to nevers, obtains leave to pass some hours in prayer in a chapel. while she is there she overhears the details of a plot devised by saint bris for the assassination of raoul, in order to avenge the affront put upon himself and his daughter. valentine contrives to warn marcel, raoul's old servant, of this, and he assembles his huguenot comrades hard by, who rush in at the first _cliquetis_ of steel and join the general _mêlée_. the fight is interrupted by the entrance of the queen. when she finds out who are the principal combatants, she reproves them sharply, and _en passant_ tells raoul the real story of valentine's visit to nevers. the act ends with the marriage festivities, while raoul is torn by an agony of love and remorse. in the next act raoul contrives to gain admittance to nevers's house, and there has an interview with valentine. they are interrupted by the entrance of saint bris and his followers, whereupon valentine conceals raoul behind the arras. from his place of concealment he hears saint bris unfold the plan of the massacre of saint bartholomew, which is to be carried out that night. the conspirators swear a solemn oath to exterminate the huguenots, and their daggers are consecrated by attendant priests. nevers alone refuses to take part in the butchery. when they all have left, raoul comes out of his hiding-place, and, in spite of the prayers and protestations of valentine, leaps from the window at the sound of the fatal tocsin, and hastens to join his friends. in the last act, raoul first warns henry of navarre and the huguenot nobles, assembled at the hôtel de sens, of the massacre, and then joins the _mêlée_ in the streets. valentine has followed him, and, after vainly endeavouring to make him don the white scarf, which is worn that night by all catholics, she throws in her lot with him, and dies in his arms, after they have been solemnly joined in wedlock by the wounded and dying marcel." wagner. "had it not been for meyerbeer, my wife and i would have starved in paris," wagner once told a friend, in speaking of his dark days, and he always esteemed the composer as a man, though his honesty in art matters forced him to condemn meyerbeer's music. wagner wandered over europe for many years. born in leipsic and dying in venice, he lived in many cities during the years between. his youth was spent at leipsic and dresden; then he was choir-master at wurzburg; next musical director at the magdeburg theatre, conductor at königsberg and at riga. proceeding thence by way of london to paris, in , he remained in the french capital until the spring of , thence going to dresden, where he served as court conductor for seven years. forced to fly from dresden because of his part in the uprising of , he at first went to liszt at weimar, and then to zurich by way of paris. at zurich he stayed, with some intermission, until , when he received permission to return to germany. the misfortunes he met there decided him, after three years, to return to switzerland, and he was on his way thither when ludwig ii. ascended the throne of bavaria, and invited him to go to munich and work. the end of found wagner at the lovely villa triebschen, on lake lucerne, where he composed the "meistersinger," and worked on the "nibelungen." in , wagner settled in bayreuth, where, soon after, the house which he called "wahnfried" was built for him. at last the great composer's wanderings were coming to an end, but, as we have said, he died in venice, and not at his own home. he was, however, buried there, in the garden of the villa. it is at "wahnfried" that the artist has drawn wagner discussing some musical question with liszt, frau wagner seated near by. [illustration: wagner at home. from painting by w. beckmann.] wagner's first wife was a beautiful and talented actress and singer, by name wilhelmina planer, whom he married at riga in . she was a faithful helpmate for years, sacrificing to him her own career, but did not comprehend his genius, and as years went by they drifted apart. the composer's professional intercourse with hans von bülow led to an intimacy with the latter's wife, cosima von bülow, who was an illegitimate daughter of liszt by the countess d'agoult. in richard and wilhelmina wagner separated, and in she died. four years later, cosima, then divorced from von bülow, was married to wagner, whom she both worshipped and well understood. their union was a very happy one, blest with one son named siegfried, and madame wagner long survived her illustrious husband, and laboured indefatigably to carry on his work and increase his fame. wagner owed much to cosima, born liszt, and still more to her father, who was a never-failing friend. in a work published in , wagner says: "i was thoroughly disheartened from undertaking any artistic scheme. only recently i had proofs of the impossibility of making my art intelligible to the public, and all this deterred me from beginning new dramatic works. indeed, i thought that everything was at an end with artistic creativeness. from this state of mental dejection i was raised by a friend. by most evident and undeniable proofs, he made me feel that i was not deserted, but, on the contrary, understood deeply by those even who were otherwise most distant from me; in this way he gave me back my full artistic confidence. "this wonderful friend, franz liszt has been to me. i must enter a little more deeply into the character of this friendship, which to many has seemed paradoxical; indeed, i have been compelled to appear repellent and hostile on so many sides, that i almost feel the want of disclosing all that relates to this sympathetic intercourse. "i met liszt for the first time in paris, and at a period when i had renounced the hope, nay, even the wish, of a parisian reputation; and, indeed, was in a state of internal revolt against the artistic life i found there. at our meeting liszt appeared the most perfect contrast to my own being and situation. in the parisian society, to which it had been my desire to fly from my narrow circumstances, liszt had grown up from his earliest age, so as to be the object of general love and admiration, at a time when i was repulsed by general coldness and want of sympathy. in consequence, i looked upon him with suspicion. i had no opportunity of disclosing my being and work to him, and therefore the reception i met with on his part was altogether of a superficial kind, as indeed was quite natural in a man to whom every day the most divergent impressions claimed access. but i was not in a mood to look with unprejudiced eyes for the natural cause of his behaviour, which, friendly and obliging in itself, could not but hurt me in that state of my mind. i never repeated my first call on liszt, and, without knowing or even wishing to know him, i was prone to look upon him as strange and adverse to my nature. "my repeated expression of this feeling was afterward reported to liszt, just at the time when the performance of my 'rienzi,' at dresden, attracted general attention. he was surprised to find himself misunderstood with such violence by a man whom he had scarcely known, and whose acquaintance now seemed not without value to him. i am still touched at recollecting the repeated and eager attempts he made to change my opinion of him, even before he knew any of my works. he acted not from any artistic sympathy, but led by the purely human wish of discontinuing a casual disharmony between himself and a fellow creature; perhaps he also felt an infinitely tender misgiving of having hurt me unconsciously. he who knows the terrible selfishness and insensibility in our social life, and especially in the relations of modern artists to each other, cannot but be struck with wonder, nay, delight, by the treatment i experienced from this extraordinary man. "liszt soon afterward witnessed a performance of 'rienzi,' at dresden, on which he had almost to insist, and after that i heard from all the different corners of the world, where he had been on his artistic excursions, how he had everywhere expressed his delight with my music, and indeed had--i would rather believe unintentionally--canvassed people's opinions in my favour. "this happened at a time when it became more and more evident that my dramatic works would have no outward success. but just when the case seemed desperate, liszt succeeded by his own energy in opening a hopeful refuge to my art. he ceased his wanderings, settled down in the small and modest weimar, and took up the conductor's _bâton_, after having been at home so long in the splendour of the greatest cities of europe. at weimar i saw him for the last time, when i rested a few days in thuringia, not yet certain whether my threatening prosecution would compel me to continue my flight from germany. the very day when my personal danger became a certainty, i saw liszt conducting a rehearsal of my 'tannhäuser,' and was astonished at recognising my second self in his achievements. what i had felt in inventing the music, he felt in performing it; what i wanted to express in writing it down, he proclaimed in making it sound. strange to say, through the love of this rarest friend, i gained, at the moment of becoming homeless, a real home for my art, which i had longed and sought for always in the wrong place. "at the end of my last stay at paris, when ill, broken down, and despairing, i sat brooding over my fate, my eyes fell on the score of my 'lohengrin,' totally forgotten by me. suddenly i felt something like compassion that this music should never sound from off the death-pale paper. i wrote two lines to liszt; his answer was the news that preparations for the performance were being made on the largest scale the limited means of weimar would permit. everything that men and circumstances could do was done in order to make the work understood. . . . errors and misconceptions impeded the desired success. what was to be done to supply what was wanted, so as to further the true understanding on all sides, and with it the ultimate success of the work? liszt saw it at once and did it. he gave to the public his own impression of the work in a manner the convincing eloquence and overpowering efficacy of which remain unequalled. success was his reward, and with this success he now approaches me, saying: 'behold, we have come so far, now create us a new work that we may go still further.'" liszt. in a letter written to franz von schober, the poet and writer, and the intimate friend of schubert, in , liszt says: "most affectionate remembrances to kriehuber. his two portraits of me have been copied in london. they are without doubt the best." joseph kriehuber, whose fine drawing of liszt at the piano, playing beethoven's c sharp minor sonata to some friends, we reproduce, was a viennese artist of great talent, who made many excellent portraits in pencil, lithography, water-colours, and miniatures. in this work, kriehuber has introduced a portrait of himself seated at the left of the pianist, with pencil and sketchbook in hand. behind the piano stands berlioz, and next him is czerny, the celebrated music teacher and composer, and the teacher of liszt. [illustration: a morning with liszt. from drawing by joseph kriehuber.] we will quote here an interesting letter, written from paris by liszt to czerny. at this time liszt was but seventeen years old. "my very dear master:--when i think of all the immense obligations under which i am placed toward you, and at the same time consider how long i have left you without a sign of remembrance, i am perfectly ashamed and miserable, and in despair of ever being forgiven by you! 'yes,' i said to myself, with a deep feeling of bitterness, 'i am an ungrateful fellow, i have forgotten my benefactor, i have forgotten that good master to whom i owe both my talent and my success.' . . . at these words a tear starts to my eyes, and i assure you that no repentant tear was ever more sincere! receive it as an expiation, and pardon me, for i cannot any longer bear the idea that you have any ill-feeling toward me. you will pardon me, my dear master, won't you? embrace me then . . . good! now my heart is light. "you have doubtless heard that i have been playing your admirable works here with the greatest success, and all the glory ought to be given to you. i intended to have played your variations on the 'pirate' the day after to-morrow, at a very brilliant concert, that i was to have given at the theatre of h. r. h. madame, who was to have been present as well as the duchess of orleans; but man proposes and god disposes. i have suddenly caught the measles, and have been obliged to say farewell to the concert; but it is not given up because it is put off, and i hope, as soon as ever i am well again, to have the pleasure of making these beautiful variations known to a large public. "pixis and several other people have spoken much to me of four concertos that you have lately finished, and the reputation of which is already making a stir in paris. i should be very much pleased, my dear master, if you would commission me to get them sold. this would be quite easy for me to do, and i should also have the pleasure of playing them from first hand, either at the opera or at some big concerts. if my proposition pleases you, send them to me by the austrian embassy, marking the price that you would like to have for them. as regards any passages to be altered, if there are any, you need only mark them with a red pencil, according to your plan which i know so well, and i will point them out to the editor with the utmost care. give me at the same time some news about music and pianists in vienna; and finally tell me, dear master, which of your compositions you think would make the best effect in society. "i close by sending you my heartfelt greetings, and begging you once more to pardon the shameful silence i have kept toward you: be assured that it has given me as much pain as yourself! "your very affectionate and grateful pupil, "f. liszt. "_december , _. "p. s.--please answer me as soon as possible, for i am longing for a letter from you; and please embrace your excellent parents from me. i add my address (rue montholon, no. bis)." returning to kriehuber's picture, we see, on the master's right, ernst, the famous violinist. writing to his pupil and friend, franz kroll, from weimar in , liszt speaks thus of ernst: "ernst has just been spending a week here, during which he has played some hundred rubbers of whist at the 'erbprinz.' his is a noble, sweet, and delicate nature, and more than once during his stay i have caught myself regretting _you_ for him, and regretting _him_ for you. last monday he was good enough to play, in his usual and admirable manner, at the concert for the orchestral pension fund. the pieces he had selected were his new 'concerto pathétique' (in f sharp minor) and an extremely piquant and brilliant 'caprice on hungarian melodies.' (this latter piece is dedicated to me.) the public was in a good humour, even really warm, which is usually one of its least faults." the following epistle, written by liszt to ernst, and dated at weimar, may , , is of special interest because of its references to wagner. "dear friend:--weimar has not forgotten you, and i hope soon to be able, after the return of the hereditary prince, whom we expect for the day of his _fête_, by the th of may at the very latest, to forward to you the token of the distinguished remembrance in which you are held. it pleases me to think that it will be agreeable to you, and that it will tend to attach you more in the sequel to people worthy to appreciate you. "i should have desired to tell you sooner of this, but the inevitable delays in present circumstances postpone more than one wish. "after the deplorable days in dresden wagner came here, and only departed again in order to escape from a warrant (_lettre de cachet_) with which the saxon government is pursuing him. i hope that at the present moment he will have arrived safe and well in paris, where his career of dramatic composer cannot fail to be extended, and in grand proportions. he is a man of evident genius, who must of necessity obtrude himself on the general admiration, and hold a high place in contemporary art. i regret that you have not had the opportunity of hearing his 'tannhäuser,' which is for me the most lyric of dramas, the most remarkable, the most harmonious, the most complete, the most original and _selbstwürdig_ (the most worthy of his country), both in foundation and form, that germany has produced since weber. belloni has, i believe, written to you on the subject of wagner, to ask for information as to the actual state of the english opera in london. "i make no doubt that if it were possible for wagner to obtain from the directors a tour of performances in the course of the year for a new work ('lohengrin,' the subject of which, having reference to the knights of the round table who went to search for the holy grail, is of the most poetic interest), he would make a great sensation and large receipts by it. as soon as he tells me the news of his arrival in paris, allow me to induce him to write to you direct, if his plans do not change in this matter." as for berlioz, we find liszt in endeavouring to aid him in securing a production of "benvenuto cellini." liszt writes about it to wilhelm fischer, chorus director at dresden, thus: "dear sir and friend:--your letter has given me real pleasure, and i send you my warmest thanks for your artistic resolve to bring 'cellini' to a hearing in dresden. berlioz has taken the score with him to paris from weimar, in order to make some alterations and simplifications in it. i wrote to him the day before yesterday, and expect the score with the pianoforte edition, which i will immediately send you to dresden. tichatschek is just made for the title rôle, and will make a splendid effect with it; the same with mitterwurzer as fieramosca, and madame krebs as ascanio, a mezzo-soprano part. from your extremely effective choruses, with their thorough musicianly drilling, we may expect a force never yet attained in the great carnival scene (finale of the second act); and i am convinced that, when you have looked more closely into the score, you will be of my opinion that 'cellini,' with the exception of the wagner operas,--and they should never be put into comparison with one another,--is the most important, most original musical dramatic work of art which the last twenty years have to show. "i must also beg for a little delay in sending you the score and the pianoforte edition, as it is necessary entirely to revise the german text and to have it written out again. i think this work will be ready in a few weeks, so you may expect the pianoforte edition at the beginning of february. at easter berlioz is coming to dresden to conduct a couple of concerts in the theatre there. it would be splendid if you should succeed in your endeavours to make herr von luttichau fix an early date for the 'cellini' performance, and if you could get berlioz to conduct his own work when he is in dresden. in any case, i shall come to the first performance, and promise myself a very satisfactory and delightful result. "meanwhile, dear friend, accept my best thanks once more for this project, and for all that you will do to realise it successfully, and receive the assurance of the high esteem of yours very truly, "f. liszt, "_weimar, january ( )._" a few years later, in , liszt addresses his friend, dr. franz brendel, the writer on music, saying: "i have just received a few lines from berlioz. schuberth, whom i commissioned before i left to send the dedication copy of the 'faust' score to berlioz, has again in his incompetent _good nature_ forgotten it, and perhaps even from motives of economy has not had the _dedication plate_ engraved at all! forgive me, dear friend, if i trouble you once more with this affair, and beg you to put an _execution_ on schuberth in order to force a copy with the _dedication page_ from him. the dedication shall be just as simple as that of the dante symphony, containing only the name of the dedicatee, as follows: "'to hector berlioz.' "after this indispensable matter has been arranged, i beg that you will be so kind as to have a tasteful copy, _bound in red or dark green_, sent perhaps through pohl (?) to berlioz at baden (where he will be at the beginning of august)." liszt was always generous to a fault; he carried charity almost to excess. if it were possible that his art could be forgotten, his name would still be gratefully remembered for his numberless deeds of kindness. we have quoted wagner's acknowledgment of liszt's exertions in his cause, and his efforts on behalf of robert franz rescued that composer from poverty when old age was coming upon him. beethoven was always the object of liszt's worship, and the monument to the master at bonn was reared chiefly through his labours of love. the end. the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde , -chapter version contents chapter i: - chapter ii: - chapter iii: - chapter iv: - chapter v: - chapter vi: - chapter vii: - chapter viii: - chapter ix: - chapter x: - chapter xi: - chapter xii: - chapter xiii: - chapter i [ ] the studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. from the corner of the divan of persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerable cigarettes, lord henry wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters who, in an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. the sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the early june hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive, and the dim roar of london was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. in the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, basil hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. as he looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. but he suddenly started up, and, closing [ ] his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "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. the grosvenor is the only place." "i don't think i will 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 his long legs out on the divan and shook with laughter. "yes, i knew you would laugh; 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 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 an 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. look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. how perfectly hideous they are! except, of course, in the church. but then in the church they don't think. a bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and consequently he always looks absolutely delightful. your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. i feel quite sure of that. he is a brainless, beautiful thing, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. don't flatter yourself, basil: you are not in the least like him." "you don't understand me, harry. of course i am not like him. i know that perfectly well. indeed, i should be sorry to look like him. 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 quietly 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 fame, whatever it may be worth; dorian gray's good looks,--we will all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly." "dorian gray? is that his name?" said 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 seems like surrendering a part of them. you know how i love secrecy. it is the only thing that can make modern life wonderful or mysterious to us. the commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. when i leave town 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, laying his hand upon his shoulder; "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 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. i sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "i hate the way you talk about your married life, harry," said basil hallward, shaking his hand off, and strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "i believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. you are an extraordinary fellow. you never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. your cynicism is simply a pose." "being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know," cried lord henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together, and for a time they did not speak. after a long pause lord henry pulled out his watch. "i am afraid i must be going, basil," he murmured, "and before i go i insist on your answering a question i put to you some time ago." "what is that?" asked basil hallward, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "you know quite well." "i do not, harry." [ ] "well, i will tell you what it is." "please don't." "i must. i want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit dorian gray's picture. i want the real reason." "i told you the real reason." "no, you did not. you said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. now, that is childish." "harry," said basil hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. the sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. it is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the colored canvas, reveals himself. the reason i will not exhibit this picture is that i am afraid that i have shown with it the secret of my own soul." lord harry laughed. "and what is that?" he asked. "i will tell you," said hallward; and an expression of perplexity came over his face. "i am all expectation, basil," murmured his companion, looking at him. "oh, there is really very little to tell, harry," answered the young painter; "and i am afraid you will hardly understand it. perhaps you will hardly believe it." lord henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. "i am quite sure i shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, "and i can believe anything, provided that it is incredible." the wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. a grasshopper began to chirrup in the grass, and a long thin dragon-fly floated by on its brown gauze wings. lord henry felt as if he could hear basil hallward's heart beating, and he wondered what was coming. "well, this is incredible," repeated hallward, rather bitterly,--"incredible to me at times. i don't know what it means. the story is simply this. two months ago i went to a crush at lady brandon's. you know we poor painters have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. with an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. well, after i had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, i suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. i turned half-way round, and saw dorian gray for the first time. when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious instinct of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. i did not want any external influence in my life. you know yourself, harry, how independent i am by nature. my father destined me for the army. i insisted on [ ] going to oxford. then he made me enter my name at the middle temple. before i had eaten half a dozen dinners i gave up the bar, and announced my intention of becoming a painter. i have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till i met dorian gray. then--but i don't know how to explain it to you. something seemed to tell me that i was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. i had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. i knew that if i spoke to dorian i would become absolutely devoted to him, and that i ought not to speak to him. i grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. it was not conscience that made me do so: it was cowardice. i take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "conscience and cowardice are really the same things, basil. conscience is the trade-name of the firm. that is all." "i don't believe that, harry. however, whatever was my motive,--and it may have been pride, for i used to be very proud,--i certainly struggled to the door. there, of course, i stumbled against lady brandon. 'you are not going to run away so soon, mr. hallward?' she screamed out. you know her shrill horrid voice?" "yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said lord henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers. "i could not get rid of her. she brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and hooked noses. she spoke of me as her dearest friend. i had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. i believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. suddenly i found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. we were quite close, almost touching. our eyes met again. it was mad of me, but i asked lady brandon to introduce me to him. perhaps it was not so mad, after all. it was simply inevitable. we would have spoken to each other without any introduction. i am sure of that. dorian told me so afterwards. he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "and how did lady brandon describe this wonderful young man? i know she goes in for giving a rapid précis of all her guests. i remember her bringing me up to a most truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, something like 'sir humpty dumpty--you know--afghan frontier--russian intrigues: very successful man--wife killed by an elephant--quite inconsolable--wants to marry a beautiful american widow--everybody does nowadays--hates mr. gladstone--but very much interested in beetles: ask him what he thinks of schouvaloff.' i simply fled. i like to find out people for myself. but poor lady brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. she either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know. but what did she say about mr. dorian gray?" [ ] "oh, she murmured, 'charming boy--poor dear mother and i quite inseparable--engaged to be married to the same man--i mean married on the same day--how very silly of me! quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear mr. gray?' we could neither of us help laughing, and we became friends at once." "laughter is not a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is the best ending for one," said lord henry, plucking another daisy. hallward buried his face in his hands. "you don't understand what friendship is, harry," he murmured,--"or what enmity is, for that matter. you like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one." "how horribly unjust of you!" cried lord henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk. "yes; horribly unjust of you. i make a great difference between people. i choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their characters, and my enemies for their brains. a man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies. i have not got one who is a fool. they are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. is that very vain of me? i think it is rather vain." "i should think it was, harry. but according to your category i must be merely an acquaintance." "my dear old basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." "and much less than a friend. a sort of brother, i suppose?" "oh, brothers! i don't care for brothers. my elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "harry!" "my dear fellow, i am not quite serious. but i can't help detesting my relations. i suppose it comes from the fact that we can't stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. i quite sympathize with the rage of the english democracy against what they call the vices of the upper classes. they feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. when poor southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. and yet i don't suppose that ten per cent of the lower orders live correctly." "i don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, harry, i don't believe you do either." lord henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled malacca cane. "how english you are, basil! if one puts forward an idea to a real englishman,--always a rash thing to do,--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. the only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it one's self. now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it [ ] will not be colored by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. however, i don't propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. i like persons better than principles. tell me more about dorian gray. how often do you see him?" "every day. i couldn't be happy if i didn't see him every day. of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes. but a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal." "but you don't really worship him?" "i do." "how extraordinary! i thought you would never care for anything but your painting,--your art, i should say. art sounds better, doesn't it?" "he is all my art to me now. i sometimes think, harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the history of the world. the first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. what the invention of oil-painting was to the venetians, the face of antinoüs was to late greek sculpture, and the face of dorian gray will some day be to me. it is not merely that i paint from him, draw from him, model from him. of course i have done all that. he has stood as paris in dainty armor, and as adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of adrian's barge, looking into the green, turbid nile. he has leaned over the still pool of some greek woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. but he is much more to me than that. i won't tell you that i am dissatisfied with what i have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. there is nothing that art cannot express, and i know that the work i have done since i met dorian gray is good work, is the best work of my life. but in some curious way--i wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. i see things differently, i think of them differently. i can now re-create life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'a dream of form in days of thought,'--who is it who says that? i forget; but it is what dorian gray has been to me. the merely visible presence of this lad,--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty,--his merely visible presence,--ah! i wonder can you realize all that that means? unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is greek. the harmony of soul and body,--how much that is! we in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is void. harry! harry! if you only knew what dorian gray is to me! you remember that landscape of mine, for which agnew offered me such a huge price, but which i would not part with? it is one of the best things i have ever done. and why is it so? because, while i was painting it, dorian gray sat beside me." "basil, this is quite wonderful! i must see dorian gray." hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the [ ] garden. after some time he came back. "you don't understand, harry," he said. "dorian gray is merely to me a motive in art. he is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. he is simply a suggestion, as i have said, of a new manner. i see him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and the subtleties of certain colors. that is all." "then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" "because i have put into it all the extraordinary romance of which, of course, i have never dared to speak to him. he knows nothing about it. he will never know anything about it. but the world might guess it; and i will not bare my soul to their shallow, prying eyes. my heart shall never be put under their microscope. there is too much of myself in the thing, harry,--too much of myself!" "poets are not so scrupulous as you are. they know how useful passion is for publication. nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." "i hate them for it. an artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. we live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. we have lost the abstract sense of beauty. if i live, i will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of dorian gray." "i think you are wrong, basil, but i won't argue with you. it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. tell me, is dorian gray very fond of you?" hallward considered for a few moments. "he likes me," he answered, after a pause; "i know he likes me. of course i flatter him dreadfully. i find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that i know i shall be sorry for having said. i give myself away. as a rule, he is charming to me, and we walk home together from the club arm in arm, or sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. then i feel, harry, that i have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "days in summer, basil, are apt to linger. perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. it is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. that accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. in the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. the thoroughly well informed man,--that is the modern ideal. and the mind of the thoroughly well informed man is a dreadful thing. it is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, and everything priced above its proper value. i think you will tire first, all the same. some day you will look at gray, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of color, or something. you will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. the next time he calls, you will be [ ] perfectly cold and indifferent. it will be a great pity, for it will alter you. the worst of having a romance is that it leaves one so unromantic." "harry, don't talk like that. as long as i live, the personality of dorian gray will dominate me. you can't feel what i feel. you change too often." "ah, my dear basil, that is exactly why i can feel it. those who are faithful know only the pleasures of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." and lord henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and self-satisfied air, as if he had summed up life in a phrase. there was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. how pleasant it was in the garden! and how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. one's own soul, and the passions of one's friends,--those were the fascinating things in life. he thought with pleasure of the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with basil hallward. had he gone to his aunt's, he would have been sure to meet lord goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the housing of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. it was charming to have escaped all that! as he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. he turned to hallward, and said, "my dear fellow, i have just remembered." "remembered what, harry?" "where i heard the name of dorian gray." "where was it?" asked hallward, with a slight frown. "don't look so angry, basil. it was at my aunt's, lady agatha's. she told me she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her in the east end, and that his name was dorian gray. i am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. women have no appreciation of good looks. at least, good women have not. she said that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. i at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horridly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. i wish i had known it was your friend." "i am very glad you didn't, harry." "why?" "i don't want you to meet him." "mr. dorian gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "you must introduce me now," cried lord henry, laughing. basil hallward turned to the servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "ask mr. gray to wait, parker: i will be in in a few moments." the man bowed, and went up the walk. then he looked at lord henry. "dorian gray is my dearest friend," he said. "he has a simple and a beautiful nature. your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. don't spoil him for me. don't try to influence him. your influence would be bad. the world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. don't take [ ] away from me the one person that makes life absolutely lovely to me, and that gives to my art whatever wonder or charm it possesses. mind, harry, i trust you." he spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "what nonsense you talk!" said lord henry, smiling, and, taking hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. chapter ii [... ] as they entered they saw dorian gray. he was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of schumann's "forest scenes." "you must lend me these, basil," he cried. "i want to learn them. they are perfectly charming." "that entirely depends on how you sit to-day, dorian." "oh, i am tired of sitting, and i don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. when he caught sight of lord henry, a faint blush colored his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "i beg your pardon, basil, but i didn't know you had any one with you." "this is lord henry wotton, dorian, an old oxford friend of mine. i have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "you have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, mr. gray," said lord henry, stepping forward and shaking him by the hand. "my aunt has often spoken to me about you. you are one of her favorites, and, i am afraid, one of her victims also." "i am in lady agatha's black books at present," answered dorian, with a funny look of penitence. "i promised to go to her club in whitechapel with her last tuesday, and i really forgot all about it. we were to have played a duet together,--three duets, i believe. i don't know what she will say to me. i am far too frightened to call." "oh, i will make your peace with my aunt. she is quite devoted to you. and i don't think it really matters about your not being there. the audience probably thought it was a duet. when aunt agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people." "that is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered dorian, laughing. lord henry looked at him. yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. there was something in his face that made one trust him at once. all the candor of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. one felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. no wonder basil hallward worshipped him. he was made to be worshipped. "you are too charming to go in for philanthropy, mr. gray,--far too charming." and lord henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case. hallward had been busy mixing his colors and getting his brushes ready. he was looking worried, and when he heard lord henry's last [ ] remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "harry, i want to finish this picture to-day. would you think it awfully rude of me if i asked you to go away?" lord henry smiled, and looked at dorian gray. "am i to go, mr. gray?" he asked. "oh, please don't, lord henry. i see that basil is in one of his sulky moods; and i can't bear him when he sulks. besides, i want you to tell me why i should not go in for philanthropy." "i don't know that i shall tell you that, mr. gray. but i certainly will not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. you don't really mind, basil, do you? you have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." hallward bit his lip. "if dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself." lord henry took up his hat and gloves. "you are very pressing, basil, but i am afraid i must go. i have promised to meet a man at the orleans.--good-by, mr. gray. come and see me some afternoon in curzon street. i am nearly always at home at five o'clock. write to me when you are coming. i should be sorry to miss you." "basil," cried dorian gray, "if lord henry goes i shall go too. you never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. ask him to stay. i insist upon it." "stay, harry, to oblige dorian, and to oblige me," said hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "it is quite true, i never talk when i am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. i beg you to stay." "but what about my man at the orleans?" hallward laughed. "i don't think there will be any difficulty about that. sit down again, harry.--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 exception of myself." dorian 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 hallward. 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 hallward, 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 his life out 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 mediaevalism, and return to the hellenic ideal,--to something finer, richer, than the hellenic ideal, it may be. but the bravest man among us is afraid of himself. the mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. we are punished for our refusals. every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. the body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. it has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. it is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. you, mr. gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" "stop!" murmured dorian gray, "stop! you bewilder me. i don't know what to say. there is some answer to you, but i cannot find it. don't speak. let me think, or, rather, let me try not to think." for nearly ten minutes he stood there motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. he was dimly conscious that entirely fresh impulses were at work within him, and they seemed to him to have come really from himself. the few words that basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had yet touched some secret chord, that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. music had stirred him like that. music had troubled him many times. but music was not articulate. it was not a new world, but rather a new chaos, that it created in us. words! mere words! how terrible they were! how clear, and vivid, and cruel! one could not escape from them. and yet what a subtle magic there was in them! [ ] they seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. mere words! was there anything so real as words? yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. he understood them now. life suddenly became fiery-colored to him. it seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. why had he not known it? lord henry watched him, with his sad smile. he knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. he felt intensely interested. he was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether dorian gray was passing through the same experience. he had merely shot an arrow into the air. had it hit the mark? how fascinating the lad was! hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that come only from strength. he was unconscious of the silence. "basil, i am tired of standing," cried dorian gray, suddenly. "i must go out and sit in the garden. the air is stifling here." "my dear fellow, i am so sorry. when i am painting, i can't think of anything else. but you never sat better. you were perfectly still. and i have caught the effect i wanted,--the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes. i don't know what harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. i suppose he has been paying you compliments. you mustn't believe a word that he says." "he has certainly not been paying me compliments. perhaps that is the reason i don't think i believe anything he has told me." "you know you believe it all," said lord henry, looking at him with his dreamy, heavy-lidded eyes. "i will go out to the garden with you. it is horridly hot in the studio.--basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "certainly, harry. just touch the bell, and when parker comes i will tell him what you want. i have got to work up this background, so i will join you later on. don't keep dorian too long. 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 creature. 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-colored face and worn expression interested him. there was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. his cool, white, flower-like 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 then 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 school-boy, 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. you really must not let yourself become sunburnt. it would be very unbecoming to you." "what does it matter?" cried dorian, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "it should matter everything to you, mr. gray." "why?" "because you have now the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "i don't feel that, lord henry." "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 one 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. 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 really to live. 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. "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, which are the 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, what you really might be. there was so much about 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 golden 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 have 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 did not dare 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 fretted purple 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 it 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 hallward appeared at the door of the studio, and made frantic signs for them to come in. they turned to each other, and smiled. "i am waiting," cried hallward. "do come in. the light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks." they rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the end of the garden a thrush began to sing. "you are glad you have met me, mr. gray," said lord henry, looking at him. "yes, i am glad now. i wonder shall i always be glad?" [ ] "always! that is a dreadful word. it makes me shudder when i hear it. women are so fond of using it. they spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever. it is a meaningless word, too. the only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." as they entered the studio, dorian gray put his hand upon lord henry's arm. "in that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped upon the platform and resumed his pose. lord henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair, and watched him. the sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when hallward stepped back now and then to look at his work from a distance. in the slanting beams that streamed through the open door-way the dust danced and was golden. the heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. after about a quarter of an hour, hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at dorian gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and smiling. "it is quite finished," he cried, at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in thin vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. lord henry came over and examined the picture. it was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. "my dear fellow, i congratulate you most warmly," he said.--"mr. gray, come and look at yourself." the lad started, as if awakened from some dream. "is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. "quite finished," said hallward. "and you have sat splendidly to-day. i am awfully obliged to you." "that is entirely due to me," broke in lord henry. "isn't it, mr. gray?" dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. when he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. a look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. he stood there motionless, and in wonder, dimly conscious that hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. the sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. he had never felt it before. basil hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. he had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. they had not influenced his nature. then had come lord henry, with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. that had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colorless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. the scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. the life that was to make his soul would mar his body. he would become ignoble, hideous, and uncouth. [ ] as he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck like a knife across him, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. his eyes deepened into amethyst, and a mist of tears came across them. he felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "don't you like it?" cried hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, and not understanding what it meant. "of course he likes it," said lord henry. "who wouldn't like it? it is one of the greatest things in modern art. i will give you anything you like to ask for it. i must have it." "it is not my property, harry." "whose property is it?" "dorian's, of course." "he is a very lucky fellow." "how sad it is!" murmured dorian gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "how sad it is! i shall grow old, and horrid, and dreadful. but this picture will remain always young. it will never be older than this particular day of june. . . . if it was only the other way! if it was i who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! for this--for this--i would give everything! yes, there is nothing in the whole world i would not give!" "you would hardly care for that arrangement, basil," cried lord henry, laughing. "it would be rather hard lines on you." "i should object very strongly, harry." dorian gray turned and looked at him. "i believe you would, basil. you like your art better than your friends. i am no more to you than a green bronze figure. hardly as much, i dare say." hallward stared in amazement. it was so unlike dorian to speak like that. what had happened? he seemed almost angry. his face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "yes," he continued, "i am less to you than your ivory hermes or your silver faun. you will like them always. how long will you like me? till i have my first wrinkle, i suppose. i know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. your picture has taught me that. lord henry is perfectly right. youth is the only thing worth having. when i find that i am growing old, i will kill myself." hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "dorian! dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. i have never had such a friend as you, and i shall never have such another. you are not jealous of material things, are you?" "i am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. i am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. why should it keep what i must lose? every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. oh, if it was only the other way! if the picture could change, and i could be always what i am now! why did you paint it? it will mock me some day,--mock me horribly!" the hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as if he was praying. "this is your doing, harry," said hallward, bitterly. [ ] "my doing?" "yes, yours, and you know it." lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "it is the real dorian gray,--that is all," he answered. "it is not." "if it is not, what have i to do with it?" "you should have gone away when i asked you." "i stayed when you asked me." "harry, i can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work i have ever done, and i will destroy it. what is it but canvas and color? i will not let it come across our three lives and mar them." dorian gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and looked at him with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the large curtained window. what was he doing there? his fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. yes, it was the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. he had found it at last. he was going to rip up the canvas. with a stifled sob he leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "don't, basil, don't!" he cried. "it would be murder!" "i am glad you appreciate my work at last, dorian," said hallward, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "i never thought you would." "appreciate it? i am in love with it, basil. it is part of myself, i feel that." "well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. then you can do what you like with yourself." and he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "you will have tea, of course, dorian? and so will you, harry? tea is the only simple pleasure left to us." "i don't like simple pleasures," said lord henry. "and i don't like scenes, except on the stage. what absurd fellows you are, both of you! i wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. it was the most premature definition ever given. man is many things, but he is not rational. i am glad he is not, after all: though i wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. you had much better let me have it, basil. this silly boy doesn't really want it, and i do." "if you let any one have it but me, basil, i will never forgive you!" cried dorian gray. "and i don't allow people to call me a silly boy." "you know the picture is yours, dorian. i gave it to you before it existed." "and you know you have been a little silly, mr. gray, and that you don't really mind being called a boy." "i should have minded very much this morning, lord henry." "ah! this morning! you have lived since then." there came a knock to the door, and the butler entered with the tea-tray and set it down upon a small japanese table. there was a [ ] rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted georgian urn. two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. dorian gray went over and poured the tea out. the two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers. "let us go to the theatre to-night," said lord henry. "there is sure to be something on, somewhere. i have promised to dine at white's, but it is only with an old friend, so i can send him a wire and say that i am ill, or that i am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. i think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have the surprise of candor." "it is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered hallward. "and, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "yes," answered lord henry, dreamily, "the costume of our day is detestable. it is so sombre, so depressing. sin is the only color-element left in modern life." "you really must not say things like that before dorian, harry." "before which dorian? the one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "before either." "i should like to come to the theatre with you, lord henry," said the lad. "then you shall come; and you will come too, basil, won't you?" "i can't, really. i would sooner not. i have a lot of work to do." "well, then, you and i will go alone, mr. gray." "i should like that awfully." basil hallward bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "i will stay with the real dorian," he said, sadly. "is it the real dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, running across to him. "am i really like that?" "yes; you are just like that." "how wonderful, basil!" "at least you are like it in appearance. but it will never alter," said hallward. "that is something." "what a fuss people make about fidelity!" murmured lord henry. "and, after all, it is purely a question for physiology. it has nothing to do with our own will. it is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "don't go to the theatre to-night, dorian," said hallward. "stop and dine with me." "i can't, really." "why?" "because i have promised lord henry to go with him." "he won't like you better for keeping your promises. he always breaks his own. i beg you not to go." dorian gray laughed and shook his head. "i entreat you." the lad hesitated, and looked over at lord henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. [ ] "i must go, basil," he answered. "very well," said hallward; and he walked over and laid his cup down on the tray. "it is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. good-by, harry; good-by, dorian. come and see me soon. come to-morrow." "certainly." "you won't forget?" "no, of course not." "and . . . harry!" "yes, basil?" "remember what i asked you, when in the garden this morning." "i have forgotten it." "i trust you." "i wish i could trust myself," said lord henry, laughing.--"come, mr. gray, my hansom is outside, and i can drop you at your own place.--good-by, basil. it has been a most interesting afternoon." as the door closed behind them, hallward flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. chapter iii [... ] one afternoon, a month later, dorian gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of lord henry's house in curzon street. it was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk persian rugs. on a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "les cent nouvelles," bound for margaret of valois by clovis eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. some large blue china jars, filled with parrot-tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer's day in london. lord henry had not come in yet. he was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. so the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "manon lescaut" that he had found in one of the bookcases. the formal monotonous ticking of the louis quatorze clock annoyed him. once or twice he thought of going away. at last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. "how late you are, harry!" he murmured. "i am afraid it is not harry, mr. gray," said a woman's voice. he glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "i beg your pardon. i thought--" "you thought it was my husband. it is only his wife. you must let me introduce myself. i know you quite well by your photographs. i think my husband has got twenty-seven of them." [ ] "not twenty-seven, lady henry?" "well, twenty-six, then. and i saw you with him the other night at the opera." she laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. she was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. she was always in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. she tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. her name was victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "that was at 'lohengrin,' lady henry, i think?" "yes; it was at dear 'lohengrin.' i like wagner's music better than any other music. it is so loud that one can talk the whole time, without people hearing what one says. that is a great advantage: don't you think so, mr. gray?" the same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife. dorian smiled, and shook his head: "i am afraid i don't think so, lady henry. i never talk during music,--at least during good music. if one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it by conversation." "ah! that is one of harry's views, isn't it, mr. gray? but you must not think i don't like good music. i adore it, but i am afraid of it. it makes me too romantic. i have simply worshipped pianists,--two at a time, sometimes. i don't know what it is about them. perhaps it is that they are foreigners. they all are, aren't they? even those that are born in england become foreigners after a time, don't they? it is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? you have never been to any of my parties, have you, mr. gray? you must come. i can't afford orchids, but i spare no expense in foreigners. they make one's rooms look so picturesque. but here is harry!--harry, i came in to look for you, to ask you something,--i forget what it was,--and i found mr. gray here. we have had such a pleasant chat about music. we have quite the same views. no; i think our views are quite different. but he has been most pleasant. i am so glad i've seen him." "i am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said lord henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.--"so sorry i am late, dorian. i went to look after a piece of old brocade in wardour street, and had to bargain for hours for it. nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing." "i am afraid i must be going," exclaimed lady henry, after an awkward silence, with her silly sudden laugh. "i have promised to drive with the duchess.--good-by, mr. gray.--good-by, harry. you are dining out, i suppose? so am i. perhaps i shall see you at lady thornbury's." "i dare say, my dear," said lord henry, shutting the door behind her, as she flitted out of the room, looking like a bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain, and leaving a faint odor of patchouli behind her. then he shook hands with dorian gray, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa. [ ] "never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, dorian," he said, after a few puffs. "why, harry?" "because they are so sentimental." "but i like sentimental people." "never marry at all, dorian. men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "i don't think i am likely to marry, harry. i am too much in love. that is one of your aphorisms. i am putting it into practice, as i do everything you say." "whom are you in love with?" said lord henry, looking at him with a curious smile. "with an actress," said dorian gray, blushing. lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "that is a rather common-place début," he murmured. "you would not say so if you saw her, harry." "who is she?" "her name is sibyl vane." "never heard of her." "no one has. people will some day, however. she is a genius." "my dear boy, no woman is a genius: women are a decorative sex. they never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. they represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals. there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the colored. the plain women are very useful. if you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. the other women are very charming. they commit one mistake, however. they paint in order to try to look young. our grandmothers painted in order to try to talk brilliantly. rouge and esprit used to go together. that has all gone out now. as long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. as for conversation, there are only five women in london worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent society. however, tell me about your genius. how long have you known her?" "about three weeks. not so much. about two weeks and two days." "how did you come across her?" "i will tell you, harry; but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. after all, it never would have happened if i had not met you. you filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. for days after i met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. as i lounged in the park, or strolled down piccadilly, i used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder with a mad curiosity what sort of lives they led. some of them fascinated me. others filled me with terror. there was an exquisite poison in the air. i had a passion for sensations. "one evening about seven o'clock i determined to go out in search of some adventure. i felt that this gray, monstrous london of ours, with its myriads of people, its splendid sinners, and its sordid sins, as [ ] you once said, must have something in store for me. i fancied a thousand things. "the mere danger gave me a sense of delight. i remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful night when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the poisonous secret of life. i don't know what i expected, but i went out, and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black, grassless squares. about half-past eight i passed by a little third-rate theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. a hideous jew, in the most amazing waistcoat i ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. he had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ''ave a box, my lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an act of gorgeous servility. there was something about him, harry, that amused me. he was such a monster. you will laugh at me, i know, but i really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. to the present day i can't make out why i did so; and yet if i hadn't!--my dear harry, if i hadn't, i would have missed the greatest romance of my life. i see you are laughing. it is horrid of you!" "i am not laughing, dorian; at least i am not laughing at you. but you should not say the greatest romance of your life. you should say the first romance of your life. you will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. there are exquisite things in store for you. this is merely the beginning." "do you think my nature so shallow?" cried dorian gray, angrily. "no; i think your nature so deep." "how do you mean?" "my dear boy, people who only love once in their lives are really shallow people. what they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, i call either the lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination. faithlessness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,--simply a confession of failure. but i don't want to interrupt you. go on with your story." "well, i found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. i looked out behind the curtain, and surveyed the house. it was a tawdry affair, all cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. the gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what i suppose they called the dress-circle. women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on." "it must have been just like the palmy days of the british drama." "just like, i should fancy, and very horrid. i began to wonder what on earth i should do, when i caught sight of the play-bill. what do you think the play was, harry?" "i should think 'the idiot boy, or dumb but innocent.' our fathers used to like that sort of piece, i believe. the longer i live, dorian, the more keenly i feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. in art, as in politics, les grand pères ont toujours tort." [ ] "this play was good enough for us, harry. it was 'romeo and juliet.' i must admit i was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. still, i felt interested, in a sort of way. at any rate, i determined to wait for the first act. there was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young jew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the play began. romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. mercutio was almost as bad. he was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most familiar terms with the pit. they were as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a pantomime of fifty years ago. but juliet! harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. she was the loveliest thing i had ever seen in my life. you said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. i tell you, harry, i could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. and her voice,--i never heard such a voice. it was very low at first, with deep mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. in the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. there were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. you know how a voice can stir one. your voice and the voice of sibyl vane are two things that i shall never forget. when i close my eyes, i hear them, and each of them says something different. i don't know which to follow. why should i not love her? harry, i do love her. she is everything to me in life. night after night i go to see her play. one evening she is rosalind, and the next evening she is imogen. i have seen her die in the gloom of an italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. i have watched her wandering through the forest of arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. she has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter herbs to taste of. she has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat. i have seen her in every age and in every costume. ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. they are limited to their century. no glamour ever transfigures them. one knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. one can always find them. there is no mystery in one of them. they ride in the park in the morning, and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. they have their stereotyped smile, and their fashionable manner. they are quite obvious. but an actress! how different an actress is! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?" "because i have loved so many of them, dorian." "oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." "don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. there is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes." [ ] "i wish now i had not told you about sibyl vane." "you could not have helped telling me, dorian. all through your life you will tell me everything you do." "yes, harry, i believe that is true. i cannot help telling you things. you have a curious influence over me. if i ever did a crime, i would come and confide it to you. you would understand me." "people like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, dorian. but i am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. and now tell me,--reach me the matches, like a good boy: thanks,--tell me, what are your relations with sibyl vane?" dorian gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "harry, sibyl vane is sacred!" "it is only the sacred things that are worth touching, dorian," said lord henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "but why should you be annoyed? i suppose she will be yours some day. when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. that is what the world calls romance. you know her, at any rate, i suppose?" "of course i know her. on the first night i was at the theatre, the horrid old jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and offered to bring me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. i was furious with him, and told him that juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in verona. i think, from his blank look of amazement, that he thought i had taken too much champagne, or something." "i am not surprised." "i was not surprised either. then he asked me if i wrote for any of the newspapers. i told him i never even read them. he seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought." "i believe he was quite right there. but, on the other hand, most of them are not at all expensive." "well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means. by this time the lights were being put out in the theatre, and i had to go. he wanted me to try some cigars which he strongly recommended. i declined. the next night, of course, i arrived at the theatre again. when he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that i was a patron of art. he was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for shakespeare. he told me once, with an air of pride, that his three bankruptcies were entirely due to the poet, whom he insisted on calling 'the bard.' he seemed to think it a distinction." "it was a distinction, my dear dorian,--a great distinction. but when did you first speak to miss sibyl vane?" "the third night. she had been playing rosalind. i could not help going round. i had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least i fancied that she had. the old jew was persistent. he seemed determined to bring me behind, so i consented. it was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" [ ] "no; i don't think so." "my dear harry, why?" "i will tell you some other time. now i want to know about the girl." "sibyl? oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. there is something of a child about her. her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when i told her what i thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. i think we were both rather nervous. the old jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. he would insist on calling me 'my lord,' so i had to assure sibyl that i was not anything of the kind. she said quite simply to me, 'you look more like a prince.'" "upon my word, dorian, miss sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "you don't understand her, harry. she regarded me merely as a person in a play. she knows nothing of life. she lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played lady capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days." "i know that look. it always depresses me." "the jew wanted to tell me her history, but i said it did not interest me." "you were quite right. there is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "sibyl is the only thing i care about. what is it to me where she came from? from her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. i go to see her act every night of my life, and every night she is more marvellous." "that is the reason, i suppose, that you will never dine with me now. i thought you must have some curious romance on hand. you have; but it is not quite what i expected." "my dear harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and i have been to the opera with you several times." "you always come dreadfully late." "well, i can't help going to see sibyl play, even if it is only for an act. i get hungry for her presence; and when i think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, i am filled with awe." "you can dine with me to-night, dorian, can't you?" he shook his head. "to-night she is imogen," he answered, "and tomorrow night she will be juliet." "when is she sibyl vane?" "never." "i congratulate you." "how horrid you are! she is all the great heroines of the world in one. she is more than an individual. you laugh, but i tell you she has genius. i love her, and i must make her love me. you, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm sibyl vane to love me! i want to make romeo jealous. i want the dead lovers of the [ ] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. i want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. my god, harry, how i worship her!" he was walking up and down the room as he spoke. hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. he was terribly excited. lord henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. how different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in basil hallward's studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way. "and what do you propose to do?" said lord henry, at last. "i want you and basil to come with me some night and see her act. i have not the slightest fear of the result. you won't be able to refuse to recognize her genius. then we must get her out of the jew's hands. she is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. i will have to pay him something, of course. when all that is settled, i will take a west-end theatre and bring her out properly. she will make the world as mad as she has made me." "impossible, my dear boy!" "yes, she will. she has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age." "well, what night shall we go?" "let me see. to-day is tuesday. let us fix to-morrow. she plays juliet to-morrow." "all right. the bristol at eight o'clock; and i will get basil." "not eight, harry, please. half-past six. we must be there before the curtain rises. you must see her in the first act, where she meets romeo." "half-past six! what an hour! it will be like having a meat-tea. however, just as you wish. 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, designed by himself, and, though i am a little jealous of it 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." lord henry smiled. "he gives you good advice, i suppose. people are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves." "you don't mean to say that basil has got any passion or any romance in him?" "i don't know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has romance," said lord henry, with an amused look in his eyes. "has he never let you know that?" "never. i must ask him about it. i am rather surprised to hear it. he 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 give everything to their art, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in themselves. 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 so. and now i must be off. imogen is waiting for me. don't forget about to-morrow. good-by." 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 science, but the ordinary subject-matter of 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. there was nothing else of any value, compared to it. 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, or keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. there were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. there were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. and, yet, what a great reward one received! how wonderful the whole world became to one! to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional colored life of the intellect,--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they became one, and at what point they were at discord,--there was a delight in that! what matter what the cost was? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation. he was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that dorian gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. to a large extent, the lad was his own creation. he had made him premature. that was something. ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. but now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its [ ] way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. yes, the lad was premature. he was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. the pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. it was delightful to watch him. with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! there was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? how shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! and yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? or was the body really in the soul, as giordano bruno thought? the separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also. he began to wonder whether we should ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. as it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others. experience was of no ethical value. it was merely the name we gave to our mistakes. men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. but there was no motive power in experience. it was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. all that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. it was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly dorian gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. his sudden mad love for sibyl vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. there was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. what there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. it was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. while lord henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress [ ] for dinner. he got up and looked out into the street. the sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. the panes glowed like plates of heated metal. the sky above was like a faded rose. he thought of dorian gray's young fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end. when he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall-table. he opened it and found it was from dorian. it was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to sibyl vane. chapter iv [... ] "i suppose you have heard the news, basil?" said lord henry on the following evening, as hallward was shown into a little private room at the bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "no, harry," answered hallward, 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 turned perfectly pale, and a curious look flashed for a moment into his eyes, and then passed away, leaving them dull. "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," said hallward, smiling. "except in america. 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 him to 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 more 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, among others. we are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget his appointment." "but do you approve of it, harry?" asked hallward, walking up and down the room, and biting his lip. "you can't approve of it, really. 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 the personality chooses to do is absolutely delightful to me. dorian gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts shakespeare, 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 colorless. 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. 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 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 neighbor with those virtues that are likely to benefit ourselves. 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. and 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. 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 boy, 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 had some dinner at that curious little italian restaurant in rupert street, you introduced me to, and went down afterwards 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 dress she was perfectly wonderful. she wore a moss-colored 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 will 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 a look into her eyes 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-colored 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 to 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 without a heart. i cannot understand how any one can wish to shame what he loves. i love sibyl vane. i wish 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. and 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." "you will always like me, dorian," said lord henry. "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 you 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 dorian gray, lighting his cigarette from a fire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "let us go down to the theatre. when you see sibyl 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 sad look in his eyes, "but i am always ready for a new emotion. i am afraid that there is no such thing, for me at any rate. 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. hallward 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 moments, they all passed down-stairs. 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. his eyes darkened, and the crowded flaring streets became blurred to him. when the cab drew up at the doors of the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. chapter v [... ] for some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. he escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice. dorian gray loathed him more than ever. he felt as if he had come to look for miranda and had been met by caliban. lord henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. at least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assured him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over shakespeare. hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. the heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of fire. the youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. they talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry painted girls who sat by them. some women were laughing in the pit; their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. the sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "what a place to find one's divinity in!" said lord henry. "yes!" answered dorian gray. "it was here i found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. when she acts you will forget everything. these common people here, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. they sit silently and watch her. they weep and laugh as she wills them to do. she makes them as responsive as a violin. she spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self." "oh, i hope not!" murmured lord henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass. "don't pay any attention to him, dorian," said hallward. "i understand what you mean, and i believe in this girl. any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. to spiritualize one's age,--that is something worth doing. if this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. this marriage is quite right. i did not think so at first, but i admit it now. god made sibyl vane for you. without her you would have been incomplete." "thanks, basil," answered dorian gray, pressing his hand. "i [ ] knew that you would understand me. harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. but here is the orchestra. it is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom i am going to give all my life, to whom i have given everything that is good in me." a quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, sibyl vane stepped on to the stage. yes, she was certainly lovely to look at,--one of the loveliest creatures, lord henry thought, that he had ever seen. there was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. a faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded, enthusiastic house. she stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. basil hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. dorian gray sat motionless, gazing on her, like a man in a dream. lord henry peered through his opera-glass, murmuring, "charming! charming!" the scene was the hall of capulet's house, and romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with mercutio and his friends. the band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, sibyl vane moved like a creature from a finer world. her body swayed, as she danced, as a plant sways in the water. the curves of her throat were like the curves of a white lily. her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. yet she was curiously listless. she showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on romeo. the few lines she had to speak,-- good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss,-- with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. the voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. it was wrong in color. it took away all the life from the verse. it made the passion unreal. dorian gray grew pale as he watched her. neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. she seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. they were horribly disappointed. yet they felt that the true test of any juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. they waited for that. if she failed there, there was nothing in her. she looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. that could not be denied. but the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. her gestures became absurdly artificial. she over-emphasized everything that she had to say. the beautiful passage,-- thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak to-night,-- [ ] was declaimed with the painful precision of a school-girl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. when she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines,-- although i joy in thee, i have no joy of this contract to-night: it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, "it lightens." sweet, good-night! this bud of love by summer's ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet,-- she spoke the words as if they conveyed no meaning to her. it was not nervousness. indeed, so far from being nervous, she seemed absolutely self-contained. it was simply bad art. she was a complete failure. even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. they got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. the jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. the only person unmoved was the girl herself. when the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and lord henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "she is quite beautiful, dorian," he said, "but she can't act. let us go." "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 both of you." "my dear dorian, i should think miss vane was ill," interrupted hallward. "we will come some other night." "i wish she was 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. to-night 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," murmured 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?" "please go away, harry," cried the lad. "i really want to be alone.--basil, you don't mind my asking you to 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. as soon as it was over, dorian gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. the girl was standing alone there, with a look of triumph on her face. her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. there was a radiance about her. her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. when he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "how badly i acted to-night, dorian!" she cried. "horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement,--"horribly! it was dreadful. are you ill? you have no idea what it was. you have no idea what i suffered." the girl smiled. "dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her lips,--"dorian, you should have understood. but you understand now, don't you?" "understand what?" he asked, angrily. "why i was so bad to-night. why i shall always be bad. why i shall never act well again." he shrugged his shoulders. "you are ill, i suppose. when you are ill you shouldn't act. you make yourself ridiculous. my friends were bored. i was bored." she seemed not to listen to him. she was transfigured with joy. an ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "dorian, dorian," she cried, "before i knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. it was only in the theatre that i lived. i thought that it was all true. i was rosalind one night, and portia the other. the joy of beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of cordelia were mine also. i believed in everything. the common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. the painted scenes were my world. i knew nothing but shadows, and i thought them real. you came,--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. you taught me what reality really is. to-night, for the first time in my life, i saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness, of the empty pageant in which i had always played. to-night, for the first time, i became conscious that the romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words i had to speak were unreal, were not my words, not what i wanted to say. you had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. you have made me understand what love really is. my love! my love! i am sick [ ] of shadows. you are more to me than all art can ever be. what have i to do with the puppets of a play? when i came on to-night, i could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. the knowledge was exquisite to me. i heard them hissing, and i smiled. what should they know of love? 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 all means? 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 stroked his hair with her little fingers. 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 wonderful, 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! what are you without your art? nothing. i would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. the world would have worshipped you, and you would have belonged to me. what are you now? a third-rate actress with a pretty face." the girl grew white, and trembled. she clinched 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. she put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. he thrust her back. "don't touch me!" he cried. a low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "dorian, dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "i am so sorry i didn't act well. i was thinking of you all the time. but i will try,--indeed, i will try. it came so suddenly across me, my love for you. i think i should never have known it if you had not kissed me,--if we had not kissed each other. kiss me again, my love. don't go away from me. i couldn't bear it. can't you forgive me for to-night? i will work so hard, and try to [ ] improve. don't be cruel to me because i love you better than anything in the world. after all, it is only once that i have not pleased you. but you are quite right, dorian. i should have shown myself more of an artist. it was foolish of me; and yet i couldn't help it. oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." a fit of passionate sobbing choked her. she crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and dorian gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. there is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love. sibyl vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. her tears and sobs annoyed him. "i am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "i don't wish to be unkind, but i can't see you again. you have disappointed me." she wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer to him. her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. he turned on his heel, and left the room. in a few moments he was out of the theatre. where he went to, he hardly knew. he remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets with gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. he had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and had heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. when the dawn was just breaking he found himself at covent garden. huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. the air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. he followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their wagons. a white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. he thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. they had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. a long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade-green piles of vegetables. under the portico, with its gray sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. after some time he hailed a hansom and drove home. the sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. as he was passing through the library towards the door of his bedroom, his eye fell upon the portrait basil hallward had painted of him. he started back in surprise, and then went over to it and examined it. in the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the face seemed to him to be a little changed. the expression looked different. one would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. it was certainly curious. he turned round, and, walking to the window, drew the blinds up. the bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows [ ] into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. but the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. the quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. he winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory cupids, that lord henry had given him, he glanced hurriedly into it. no line like that warped his red lips. what did it mean? he rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. there were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. it was not a mere fancy of his own. the thing was horribly apparent. he threw himself into a chair, and began to think. suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in basil hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. yes, he remembered it perfectly. he had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. surely his prayer had not been answered? such things were impossible. it seemed monstrous even to think of them. and, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth. cruelty! had he been cruel? it was the girl's fault, not his. he had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. then she had disappointed him. she had been shallow and unworthy. and, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. he remembered with what callousness he had watched her. why had he been made like that? why had such a soul been given to him? but he had suffered also. during the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. his life was well worth hers. she had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. they lived on their emotions. they only thought of their emotions. when they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. lord henry had told him that, and lord henry knew what women were. why should he trouble about sibyl vane? she was nothing to him now. but the picture? what was he to say of that? it held the secret of his life, and told his story. it had taught him to love his own beauty. would it teach him to loathe his own soul? would he ever look at it again? no; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. the horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that [ ] makes men mad. the picture had not changed. it was folly to think so. yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. its blue eyes met his own. a sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. it had altered already, and would alter more. its gold would wither into gray. its red and white roses would die. for every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. but he would not sin. the picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. he would resist temptation. he would not see lord henry any more,--would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in basil hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. he would go back to sibyl vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. yes, it was his duty to do so. she must have suffered more than he had. poor child! he had been selfish and cruel to her. the fascination that she had exercised over him would return. they would be happy together. his life with her would be beautiful and pure. he got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "how horrible!" he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. when he stepped out on the grass, he drew a deep breath. the fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. he thought only of sibyl vane. a faint echo of his love came back to him. he repeated her name over and over again. the birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. chapter vi [... ] it was long past noon when he awoke. his valet had crept several times into the room on tiptoe to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. finally his bell sounded, and victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old sèvres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. "monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling. "what o'clock is it, victor?" asked dorian gray, sleepily. "one hour and a quarter, monsieur." how late it was! he sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. one of them was from lord henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. he hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. the others he opened listlessly. they contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. there was a [ ] rather heavy bill, for a chased silver louis-quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when only unnecessary things are absolutely necessary to us; and there were several very courteously worded communications from jermyn street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. after about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown, passed into the onyx-paved bath-room. the cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. he seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. a dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. as soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light french breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to an open window. it was an exquisite day. the warm air seemed laden with spices. a bee flew in, and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, that stood in front of him. he felt perfectly happy. suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started. "too cold for monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. "i shut the window?" dorian shook his head. "i am not cold," he murmured. was it all true? had the portrait really changed? or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? surely a painted canvas could not alter? the thing was absurd. it would serve as a tale to tell basil some day. it would make him smile. and, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! first in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty in the warped lips. he almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. he knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. he was afraid of certainty. when the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a mad desire to tell him to remain. as the door closed behind him he called him back. the man stood waiting for his orders. dorian looked at him for a moment. "i am not at home to any one, victor," he said, with a sigh. the man bowed and retired. he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. the screen was an old one of gilt spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid louis-quatorze pattern. he scanned it curiously, wondering if it had ever before concealed the secret of a man's life. should he move it aside, after all? why not let it stay there? what was the use of knowing? if the thing was true, it was terrible. if it was not true, why trouble about it? but what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind, and saw the horrible change? what should he do if basil hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? he would be sure to do that. no; the [ ] thing had to be examined, and at once. anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. he got up, and locked both doors. at least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. then he drew the screen aside, and saw himself face to face. it was perfectly true. the portrait had altered. as he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. that such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. and yet it was a fact. was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and color on the canvas, and the soul that was within him? could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? or was there some other, more terrible reason? he shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. one thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. it had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to sibyl vane. it was not too late to make reparation for that. she could still be his wife. his unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness was to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of god to us all. there were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. but here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. three o'clock struck, and four, and half-past four, but he did not stir. he was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. he did not know what to do, or what to think. finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. he covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. there is a luxury in self-reproach. when we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. it is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. when dorian gray had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard lord henry's voice outside. "my dear dorian, i must see you. let me in at once. i can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." he made no answer at first, but remained quite still. the knocking still continued, and grew louder. yes, it was better to let lord henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. he jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "i am so sorry for it all, my dear boy," said lord henry, coming in. "but you must not think about it too much." [ ] "do you mean about sibyl vane?" asked dorian. "yes, of course," answered lord henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling his gloves off. "it is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. tell me, did you go behind and see her after the play was over?" "yes." "i felt sure you had. did you make a scene with her?" "i was brutal, harry,--perfectly brutal. but it is all right now. i am not sorry for anything that has happened. it has taught me to know myself better." "ah, dorian, i am so glad you take it in that way! i was afraid i would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing your nice hair." "i have got through all that," said dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. "i am perfectly happy now. i know what conscience is, to begin with. it is not what you told me it was. it is the divinest thing in us. don't sneer at it, harry, any more,--at least not before me. i want to be good. i can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "a very charming artistic basis for ethics, dorian! i congratulate you on it. but how are you going to begin?" "by marrying sibyl vane." "marrying sibyl vane!" cried lord henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "but, my dear dorian--" "yes, harry, i know what you are going to say. something dreadful about marriage. don't say it. don't ever say things of that kind to me again. two days ago i asked sibyl to marry me. i am not going to break my word to her. she is to be my wife." "your wife! dorian! . . . didn't you get my letter? i wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man." "your letter? oh, yes, i remember. i have not read it yet, harry. i was afraid there might be something in it that i wouldn't like." lord henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by dorian gray, took both his hands in his, and held them tightly. "dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that sibyl vane is dead." a cry of pain rose from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from lord henry's grasp. "dead! sibyl dead! it is not true! it is a horrible lie!" "it is quite true, dorian," said lord henry, gravely. "it is in all the morning papers. i wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till i came. there will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. things like that make a man fashionable in paris. but in london people are so prejudiced. here, one should never make one's début with a scandal. one should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age. i don't suppose they know your name at the theatre. if they don't, it is all right. did any one see you going round to her room? that is an important point." dorian did not answer for a few moments. he was dazed with horror. finally he murmured, in a stifled voice, "harry, did you say an inquest? what did you mean by that? did sibyl--? oh, [ ] harry, i can't bear it! but be quick. tell me everything at once." "i have no doubt it was not an accident, dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something up-stairs. they waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. they ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. she had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. i don't know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. i should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. i see by the standard that she was seventeen. i should have thought she was almost younger than that. she looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. you must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. it is a patti night, and everybody will be there. you can come to my sister's box. she has got some smart women with her." "so i have murdered sibyl vane," said dorian gray, half to himself,--"murdered her as certainly as if i had cut her little throat with a knife. and the roses are not less lovely for all that. the birds sing just as happily in my garden. and to-night i am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, i suppose, afterwards. how extraordinarily dramatic life is! if i had read all this in a book, harry, i think i would have wept over it. somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. here is the first passionate love-letter i have ever written in my 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. then something happened that made me afraid. i can't tell you what it was, but it was awful. 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, 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, 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 simply a useless attempt to interfere with scientific laws. their origin is pure vanity. their result is absolutely nil. they give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for us. that is all that can be said for them." "harry," cried dorian gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that i cannot feel this tragedy as much as i want to? i don't think i am heartless. do you?" "you have done too many foolish things in your life to be entitled to give yourself that name, dorian," answered lord henry, with his sweet, melancholy smile. the lad frowned. "i don't like that explanation, harry," he rejoined, "but i am glad you don't think i am heartless. i am nothing of the kind. i know i am not. and yet i must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. it seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. it has all the terrible beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which i took part, but by which i have not been wounded." "it is an interesting question," said lord henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism,--"an extremely interesting question. i fancy that the explanation is this. it often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. they affect us just as vulgarity affects us. they give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. sometimes, however, a tragedy that has artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. if these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. or rather we are both. we watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. in the present case, what is it that has really happened? some one has killed herself for love of you. i wish i had ever had such an experience. it would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. the people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after i had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. they have become stout and tedious, and when i meet them they go in at once for reminiscences. that awful memory of woman! what a fearful thing it is! and what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! one should absorb the color of life, but one should never remember its details. details are always vulgar. [ ] "of course, now and then things linger. i once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as mourning for a romance that would not die. ultimately, however, it did die. i forget what killed it. i think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. that is always a dreadful moment. it fills one with the terror of eternity. well,--would you believe it?--a week ago, at lady hampshire's, i found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. i had buried my romance in a bed of poppies. she dragged it out again, and assured me that i had spoiled her life. i am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so i did not feel any anxiety. but what a lack of taste she showed! the one charm of the past is that it is the past. but women never know when the curtain has fallen. they always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. if they were allowed to have their way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. they are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. you are more fortunate than i am. i assure you, dorian, that not one of the women i have known would have done for me what sibyl vane did for you. ordinary women always console themselves. some of them do it by going in for sentimental colors. never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. it always means that they have a history. others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. they flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it was the most fascinating of sins. religion consoles some. its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and i can quite understand it. besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. indeed, i have not mentioned the most important one of all." "what is that, harry?" said dorian gray, listlessly. "oh, the obvious one. taking some one else's admirer when one loses one's own. in good society that always whitewashes a woman. but really, dorian, how different sibyl vane must have been from all the women one meets! there is something to me quite beautiful about her death. i am glad i am living in a century when such wonders happen. they make one believe in the reality of the things that shallow, fashionable people play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "i was terribly cruel to her. you forget that." "i believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else. they have wonderfully primitive instincts. we have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. they love being dominated. i am sure you were splendid. i have never seen you angry, but i can fancy how delightful you looked. and, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that i see now was absolutely true, and it explains everything." [ ] "what was that, harry?" "you said to me that sibyl vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was desdemona one night, and ophelia the other; that if she died as juliet, she came to life as imogen." "she will never come to life again now," murmured the lad, burying his face in his hands. "no, she will never come to life. she has played her last part. but you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from webster, or ford, or cyril tourneur. the girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. to you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. the moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. mourn for ophelia, if you like. put ashes on your head because cordelia was strangled. cry out against heaven because the daughter of brabantio died. but don't waste your tears over sibyl vane. she was less real than they are." there was a silence. the evening darkened in the room. noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. the colors faded wearily out of things. after some time dorian gray looked up. "you have explained me to myself, harry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "i felt all that you have said, but somehow i was afraid of it, and i could not express it to myself. how well you know me! but we will not talk again of what has happened. it has been a marvellous experience. that is all. i wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "life has everything in store for you, dorian. there is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "but suppose, harry, i became haggard, and gray, and wrinkled? what then?" "ah, then," said lord henry, rising to go,--"then, my dear dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. as it is, they are brought to you. no, you must keep your good looks. we live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. we cannot spare you. and now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. we are rather late, as it is." "i think i shall join you at the opera, harry. i feel too tired to eat anything. what is the number of your sister's box?" "twenty-seven, i believe. it is on the grand tier. you will see her name on the door. but i am sorry you won't come and dine." "i don't feel up to it," said dorian, wearily. "but i am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. you are certainly my best friend. no one has ever understood me as you have." "we are only at the beginning of our friendship, dorian," answered lord henry, shaking him by the hand. "good-by. i shall see you before nine-thirty, i hope. remember, patti is singing." as he closed the door behind him, dorian gray touched the bell, [ ] and in a few minutes victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. he waited impatiently for him to go. the man seemed to take an interminable time about everything. as soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. no; there was no further change in the picture. it had received the news of sibyl vane's death before he had known of it himself. it was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. the vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. or was it indifferent to results? did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. poor sibyl! what a romance it had all been! she had often mimicked death on the stage, and at last death himself had touched her, and brought her with him. how had she played that dreadful scene? had she cursed him, as she died? no; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. she had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. he would not think any more of what she had made him go through, that horrible night at the theatre. when he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure to show love had been a great reality. a wonderful tragic figure? tears came to his eyes as he remembered her child-like look and winsome fanciful ways and shy tremulous grace. he wiped them away hastily, and looked again at the picture. he felt that the time had really come for making his choice. or had his choice already been made? yes, life had decided that for him,--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins,--he was to have all these things. the portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. a feeling of pain came over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. once, in boyish mockery of narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? was it to become a hideous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of the hair? the pity of it! the pity of it! for a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. it had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. and, yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? besides, was it really under his control? had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? if thought could exercise its [ ] influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom, in secret love or strange affinity? but the reason was of no importance. he would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. if the picture was to alter, it was to alter. that was all. why inquire too closely into it? for there would be a real pleasure in watching it. he would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. this portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. as it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. and when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. when the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. like the gods of the greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. what did it matter what happened to the colored image on the canvas? he would be safe. that was everything. he drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. an hour later he was at the opera, and lord henry was leaning over his chair. chapter vii [... ] as he was sitting at breakfast next morning, basil hallward was shown into the room. "i am so glad i have found you, dorian," he said, gravely. "i called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. of course i knew that was impossible. but i wish you had left word where you had really gone to. i passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. i think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. i read of it quite by chance in a late edition of the globe, that i picked up at the club. i came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. i can't tell you how heart-broken i am about the whole thing. i know what you must suffer. but where were you? did you go down and see the girl's mother? for a moment i thought of following you there. they gave the address in the paper. somewhere in the euston road, isn't it? but i was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that i could not lighten. poor woman! what a state she must be in! and her only child, too! what did she say about it all?" "my dear basil, how do i know?" murmured dorian, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. "i was at the opera. you should have come on there. i met lady gwendolen, harry's sister, for the first time. we were in her box. she is perfectly charming; and patti sang divinely. don't talk about horrid subjects. if one doesn't [ ] talk about a thing, it has never happened. it is simply expression, as harry says, that gives reality to things. tell me about yourself and what you are painting." "you went to the opera?" said hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "you went to the opera while sibyl vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? you can talk to me of other women being charming, and of patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!" "stop, basil! i won't hear it!" cried dorian, leaping to his feet. "you must not tell me about things. what is done is done. what is past is past." "you call yesterday the past?" "what has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. a man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. i don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. i want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them." "dorian, this is horrible! something has changed you completely. you look exactly the same wonderful boy who used to come down to my studio, day after day, to sit for his picture. but you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. now, i don't know what has come over you. you talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. it is all harry's influence. i see that." the lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out on the green, flickering garden for a few moments. "i owe a great deal to harry, basil," he said, at last,--"more than i owe to you. you only taught me to be vain." "well, i am punished for that, dorian,--or shall be some day." "i don't know what you mean, basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "i don't know what you want. what do you want?" "i want the dorian gray i used to know." "basil," said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. yesterday when i heard that sibyl vane had killed herself--" "killed herself! good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. "my dear basil! surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? of course she killed herself it is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. as a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. they are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. you know what i mean,--middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. how different sibyl was! she lived her finest tragedy. she was always a heroine. the last night she played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. when she knew its unreality, she died, as juliet might have died. she passed again into the sphere of art. there is something of the martyr about her. her death has all the pathetic uselessness of [ ] martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. but, as i was saying, you must not think i have not suffered. if you had come in yesterday at a particular moment,--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six,--you would have found me in tears. even harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what i was going through. i suffered immensely, then it passed away. i cannot repeat an emotion. no one can, except sentimentalists. and you are awfully unjust, basil. you come down here to console me. that is charming of you. you find me consoled, and you are furious. how like a sympathetic person! you remind me of a story harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered,--i forget exactly what it was. finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. he had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. and besides, my dear old basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. was it not gautier who used to write about la consolation des arts? i remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. well, i am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at marlowe together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. i love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp,--there is much to be got from all these. but the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. to become the spectator of one's own life, as harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. i know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. you have not realized how i have developed. i was a school-boy when you knew me. i am a man now. i have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. i am different, but you must not like me less. i am changed, but you must always be my friend. of course i am very fond of harry. but i know that you are better than he is. you are not stronger,--you are too much afraid of life,--but you are better. and how happy we used to be together! don't leave me, basil, and don't quarrel with me. i am what i am. there is nothing more to be said." hallward felt strangely moved. rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. the lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. he could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. after all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. there was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "well, dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "i won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. i only trust your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. the inquest is to take place this afternoon. have they summoned you?" dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." there was something so [ ] crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "they don't know my name," he answered. "but surely she did?" "only my christian name, and that i am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. she told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who i was, and that she invariably told them my name was prince charming. it was pretty of her. you must do me a drawing of her, basil. i should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "i will try and do something, dorian, if it would please you. but you must come and sit to me yourself again. i can't get on without you." "i will never sit to you again, basil. it is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. hallward stared at him, "my dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "do you mean to say you don't like what i did of you? where is it? why have you pulled the screen in front of it? let me look at it. it is the best thing i have ever painted. do take that screen away, dorian. it is simply horrid of your servant hiding my work like that. i felt the room looked different as i came in." "my servant has nothing to do with it, basil. you don't imagine i let him arrange my room for me? he settles my flowers for me sometimes,--that is all. no; i did it myself. the light was too strong on the portrait." "too strong! impossible, my dear fellow! it is an admirable place for it. let me see it." and hallward walked towards the corner of the room. a cry of terror broke from dorian gray's lips, and he rushed between hallward and the screen. "basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. i don't wish you to." "not look at my own work! you are not serious. why shouldn't i look at it?" exclaimed hallward, laughing. "if you try to look at it, basil, on my word of honor i will never speak to you again as long as i live. i am quite serious. i don't offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. but, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." hallward was thunderstruck. he looked at dorian gray in absolute amazement. he had never seen him like this before. the lad was absolutely pallid with rage. his hands were clinched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. he was trembling all over. "dorian!" "don't speak!" "but what is the matter? of course i won't look at it if you don't want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over towards the window. "but, really, it seems rather absurd that i shouldn't see my own work, especially as i am going to exhibit it in paris in the autumn. i shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so i must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "to exhibit it! you want to exhibit it?" exclaimed dorian gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. was the world going [ ] to be shown his secret? were people to gape at the mystery of his life? that was impossible. something--he did not know what--had to be done at once. "yes: i don't suppose you will object to that. georges petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the rue de sèze, which will open the first week in october. the portrait will only be away a month. i should think you could easily spare it for that time. in fact, you are sure to be out of town. and if you hide it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it." dorian gray passed his hand over his forehead. there were beads of perspiration there. he felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "you told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he said. "why have you changed your mind? you people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others. the only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. you can't have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. you told harry exactly the same thing." he stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. he remembered that lord henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "if you want to have an interesting quarter of an hour, get basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. he told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." yes, perhaps basil, too, had his secret. he would ask him and try. "basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. let me know yours, and i will tell you mine. what was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" hallward shuddered in spite of himself. "dorian, if i told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. i could not bear your doing either of those two things. if you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at. if you wish the best work i have ever done to be hidden from the world, i am satisfied. your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "no, basil, you must tell me," murmured dorian gray. "i think i have a right to know." his feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. he was determined to find out basil hallward's mystery. "let us sit down, dorian," said hallward, looking pale and pained. "let us sit down. i will sit in the shadow, and you shall sit in the sunlight. our lives are like that. just answer me one question. have you noticed in the picture something that you did not like?--something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "i see you did. don't speak. wait till you hear what i have to say. it is quite true that i have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. somehow, i had never loved a woman. i suppose i never had time. perhaps, as [ ] harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. well, from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i quite admit that i adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. i was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you. when i was away from you, you were still present in my art. it was all wrong and foolish. it is all wrong and foolish still. of course i never let you know anything about this. it would have been impossible. you would not have understood it; i did not understand it myself. one day i determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. it was to have been my masterpiece. it is my masterpiece. but, as i worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. i grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. i felt, dorian, that i had told too much. then it was that i resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. you were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. harry, to whom i talked about it, laughed at me. but i did not mind that. when the picture was finished, and i sat alone with it, i felt that i was right. well, after a few days the portrait left my studio, and as soon as i had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that i had been foolish in imagining that i had said anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that i could paint. even now i cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. art is more abstract than we fancy. form and color tell us of form and color,--that is all. it often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. and so when i got this offer from paris i determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. it never occurred to me that you would refuse. i see now that you were right. the picture must not be shown. you must not be angry with me, dorian, for what i have told you. as i said to harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." dorian gray drew a long breath. the color came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. the peril was over. he was safe for the time. yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the young man who had just made this strange confession to him. he wondered if he would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. lord harry had the charm of being very dangerous. but that was all. he was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? was that one of the things that life had in store? "it is extraordinary to me, dorian," said hallward, "that you should have seen this in the picture. did you really see it?" "of course i did." "well, you don't mind my looking at it now?" dorian shook his head. "you must not ask me that, basil. i could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "you will some day, surely?" [ ] "never." "well, perhaps you are right. and now good-by, dorian. you have been the one person in my life of whom i have been really fond. i don't suppose i shall often see you again. you don't know what it cost me to tell you all that i have told you." "my dear basil," cried dorian, "what have you told me? simply that you felt that you liked me too much. that is not even a compliment." "it was not intended as a compliment. it was a confession." "a very disappointing one." "why, what did you expect, dorian? you didn't see anything else in the picture, did you? there was nothing else to see?" "no: there was nothing else to see. why do you ask? but you mustn't talk about not meeting me again, or anything of that kind. you and i are friends, basil, and we must always remain so." "you have got harry," said hallward, sadly. "oh, harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. just the sort of life i would like to lead. but still i don't think i would go to harry if i was in trouble. i would sooner go to you, basil." "but you won't sit to me again?" "impossible!" "you spoil my life as an artist by refusing, dorian. no man comes across two ideal things. few come across one." "i can't explain it to you, basil, but i must never sit to you again. i will come and have tea with you. that will be just as pleasant." "pleasanter for you, i am afraid," murmured hallward, regretfully. "and now good-by. i am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once again. but that can't be helped. i quite understand what you feel about it." as he left the room, dorian gray smiled to himself. poor basil! how little he knew of the true reason! and how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! how much that strange confession explained to him! basil's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences,--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. there was something tragic in a friendship so colored by romance. he sighed, and touched the bell. the portrait must be hidden away at all costs. he could not run such a risk of discovery again. it had been mad of him to have the thing remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. chapter viii [... ] when his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. the man was quite impassive, and waited for his orders. dorian lit a cigarette, [ ] and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. he could see the reflection of victor's face perfectly. it was like a placid mask of servility. there was nothing to be afraid of, there. yet he thought it best to be on his guard. speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker's and ask him to send two of his men round at once. it seemed to him that as the man left the room he peered in the direction of the screen. or was that only his fancy? after a few moments, mrs. leaf, a dear old lady in a black silk dress, with a photograph of the late mr. leaf framed in a large gold brooch at her neck, and old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, bustled into the room. "well, master dorian," she said, "what can i do for you? i beg your pardon, sir,"--here came a courtesy,--"i shouldn't call you master dorian any more. but, lord bless you, sir, i have known you since you were a baby, and many's the trick you've played on poor old leaf. not that you were not always a good boy, sir; but boys will be boys, master dorian, and jam is a temptation to the young, isn't it, sir?" he laughed. "you must always call me master dorian, leaf. i will be very angry with you if you don't. and i assure you i am quite as fond of jam now as i used to be. only when i am asked out to tea i am never offered any. i want you to give me the key of the room at the top of the house." "the old school-room, master dorian? why, it's full of dust. i must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. it's not fit for you to see, master dorian. it is not, indeed." "i don't want it put straight, leaf. i only want the key." "well, master dorian, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you goes into it. why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years,--not since his lordship died." he winced at the mention of his dead uncle's name. he had hateful memories of him. "that does not matter, leaf," he replied. "all i want is the key." "and here is the key, master dorian," said the old lady, after going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "here is the key. i'll have it off the ring in a moment. but you don't think of living up there, master dorian, and you so comfortable here?" "no, leaf, i don't. i merely want to see the place, and perhaps store something in it,--that is all. thank you, leaf. i hope your rheumatism is better; and mind you send me up jam for breakfast." mrs. leaf shook her head. "them foreigners doesn't understand jam, master dorian. they calls it 'compot.' but i'll bring it to you myself some morning, if you lets me." "that will be very kind of you, leaf," he answered, looking at the key; and, having made him an elaborate courtesy, the old lady left the room, her face wreathed in smiles. she had a strong objection to the french valet. it was a poor thing, she felt, for any one to be born a foreigner. [ ] as the door closed, dorian put the key in his pocket, and looked round the room. his eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century venetian work that his uncle had found in a convent near bologna. yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. it had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself,--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. what the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. they would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace. they would defile it, and make it shameful. and yet the thing would still live on. it would be always alive. he shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. basil would have helped him to resist lord henry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. the love that he bore him--for it was really love--had something noble and intellectual in it. it was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. it was such love as michael angelo had known, and montaigne, and winckelmann, and shakespeare himself. yes, basil could have saved him. but it was too late now. the past could always be annihilated. regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. but the future was inevitable. there were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. he took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. was the face on the canvas viler than before? it seemed to him that it was unchanged; and yet his loathing of it was intensified. gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips,--they all were there. it was simply the expression that had altered. that was horrible in its cruelty. compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow basil's reproaches about sibyl vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! his own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. a look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. as he did so, a knock came to the door. he passed out as his servant entered. "the persons are here, monsieur." he felt that the man must be got rid of at once. he must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. there was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to lord henry, asking him to send him round something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. "wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here." in two or three minutes there was another knock, and mr. ashton himself, the celebrated frame-maker of south audley street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. mr. ashton was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably [ ] tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. as a rule, he never left his shop. he waited for people to come to him. but he always made an exception in favor of dorian gray. there was something about dorian that charmed everybody. it was a pleasure even to see him. "what can i do for you, mr. gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "i thought i would do myself the honor of coming round in person. i have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. picked it up at a sale. old florentine. came from fonthill, i believe. admirably suited for a religious picture, mr. gray." "i am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, mr. ashton. i will certainly drop in and look at the frame,--though i don't go in much for religious art,--but to-day i only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. it is rather heavy, so i thought i would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." "no trouble at all, mr. gray. i am delighted to be of any service to you. which is the work of art, sir?" "this," replied dorian, moving the screen back. "can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? i don't want it to get scratched going up-stairs." "there will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "and, now, where shall we carry it to, mr. gray?" "i will show you the way, mr. ashton, if you will kindly follow me. or perhaps you had better go in front. i am afraid it is right at the top of the house. we will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider." he held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. the elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of mr. ashton, who had a true tradesman's dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. "something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing. and he wiped his shiny forehead. "a terrible load to carry," murmured dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. he had not entered the place for more than four years,--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. it was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last lord sherard for the use of the little nephew whom, being himself childless, and perhaps for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. it did not appear to dorian to have much changed. there was the huge italian cassone, with its fantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. there was the satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared school-books. on the wall behind it was hanging the same [ ] ragged flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. how well he recalled it all! every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him, as he looked round. he remembered the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here that the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. how little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! but there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. he had the key, and no one else could enter it. beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. what did it matter? no one could see it. he himself would not see it. why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? he kept his youth,--that was enough. and, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? there was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh,--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world basil hallward's masterpiece. no; that was impossible. the thing upon the canvas was growing old, hour by hour, and week by week. even if it escaped the hideousness of sin, the hideousness of age was in store for it. the cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. yellow crow's-feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. the hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. there would be the wrinkled throat, the cold blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the uncle who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. the picture had to be concealed. there was no help for it. "bring it in, mr. ashton, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "i am sorry i kept you so long. i was thinking of something else." "always glad to have a rest, mr. gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "where shall we put it, sir?" "oh, anywhere, here, this will do. i don't want to have it hung up. just lean it against the wall. thanks." "might one look at the work of art, sir?" dorian started. "it would not interest you, mr. ashton," he said, keeping his eye on the man. he felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "i won't trouble you any more now. i am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." "not at all, not at all, mr. gray. ever ready to do anything for you, sir." and mr. ashton tramped down-stairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely face. he had never seen any one so marvellous. when the sound of their footsteps had died away, dorian locked [ ] the door, and put the key in his pocket. he felt safe now. no one would ever look on the horrible thing. no eye but his would ever see his shame. on reaching the library he found that it was just after five o'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. on a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from his guardian's wife, lady radley, who had spent the preceding winter in cairo, was lying a note from lord henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. a copy of the third edition of the st. james's gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. it was evident that victor had returned. he wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. he would be sure to miss the picture,--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. the screen had not been replaced, and the blank space on the wall was visible. perhaps some night he might find him creeping up-stairs and trying to force the door of the room. it was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. he had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a bit of crumpled lace. he sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened lord henry's note. it was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. he opened the st. james's languidly, and looked through it. a red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. he read the following paragraph: "inquest on an actress.--an inquest was held this morning at the bell tavern, hoxton road, by mr. danby, the district coroner, on the body of sibyl vane, a young actress recently engaged at the royal theatre, holborn. a verdict of death by misadventure was returned. considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of dr. birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased." he frowned slightly, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces into a gilt basket. how ugly it all was! and how horribly real ugliness made things! he felt a little annoyed with lord henry for having sent him the account. and it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. victor might have read it. the man knew more than enough english for that. perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. and, yet, what did it matter? what had dorian gray to do with sibyl vane's death? there was nothing to fear. dorian gray had not killed her. his eye fell on the yellow book that lord henry had sent him. what was it, he wondered. he went towards the little pearl-colored octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some [ ] strange egyptian bees who wrought in silver, and took the volume up. he flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. after a few minutes, he became absorbed. it was the strangest book he had ever read. it seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. it was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young parisian, who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. the style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the french school of décadents. there were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as evil in color. the life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. one hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. it was a poisonous book. the heavy odor of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. the mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of revery, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and the creeping shadows. cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. he read on by its wan light till he could read no more. then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placed the book on the little florentine table that always stood at his bedside, and began to dress for dinner. it was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found lord henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very bored. "i am so sorry, harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. that book you sent me so fascinated me that i forgot what the time was." "i thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair. "i didn't say i liked it, harry. i said it fascinated me. there is a great difference." "ah, if you have discovered that, you have discovered a great deal," murmured lord henry, with his curious smile. "come, let us go in to dinner. it is dreadfully late, and i am afraid the champagne will be too much iced." chapter ix [ ] for years, dorian gray could not free himself from the memory of this book. or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. he procured from paris no less than five large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colors, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. the hero, the wonderful young parisian, in whom the romantic temperament and the scientific temperament were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. and, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. in one point he was more fortunate than the book's fantastic hero. he never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. it was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most valued. he, at any rate, had no cause to fear that. the boyish beauty that had so fascinated basil hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. even those who had heard the most evil things against him (and from time to time strange rumors about his mode of life crept through london and became the chatter of the clubs) could not believe anything to his dishonor when they saw him. he had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. men who talked grossly became silent when dorian gray entered the room. there was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. his mere presence seemed to recall to them the innocence that they had tarnished. they wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensuous. he himself, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, would creep up-stairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. the very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. he grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. he would examine with minute care, and often with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, [ ] wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. he would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. he mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. there were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks, which, under an assumed name, and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. but moments such as these were rare. that curiosity about life that, many years before, lord henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. the more he knew, the more he desired to know. he had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. once or twice every month during the winter, and on each wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. his little dinners, in the settling of which lord henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in dorian gray the true realization of a type of which they had often dreamed in eton or oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. to them he seemed to belong to those whom dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." like gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed." and, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. his mode of dressing, and the particular styles that he affected from time to time, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the mayfair balls and pall mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. for, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the london of his own day what to imperial neronian rome the author of the "satyricon" had once been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or [ ] the conduct of a cane. he sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. the worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than ourselves, and that we are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. but it appeared to dorian gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. as he looked back upon man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. so much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! there had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape, nature in her wonderful irony driving the anchorite out to herd with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. yes, there was to be, as lord henry had prophesied, a new hedonism that was to re-create life, and to save it from that harsh, uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. it was to have its service of the intellect, certainly; yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. there are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make one almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of revery. gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. black fantastic shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers. veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colors of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. the wan mirrors get back their mimic life. the flameless tapers stand where we have left them, and beside them [ ] lies the half-read book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. nothing seems to us changed. out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been re-fashioned anew for our pleasure in the darkness, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colors, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain. it was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to dorian gray to be the true object, or among the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardor of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. it was rumored of him once that he was about to join the roman catholic communion; and certainly the roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. the daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. he loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and with the priest, in his stiff flowered cope, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, and raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis caelestis," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the passion of christ, breaking the host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. the fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. as he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the tarnished grating the true story of their lives. but he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a [ ] season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the darwinismus movement in germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. he felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. he knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their mysteries to reveal. and so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums from the east. he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, of aromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. at another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gypsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums, or turbaned indians, crouching upon scarlet mats, blew through long pipes of reed or brass, and charmed, or feigned to charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. the harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when schubert's grace, and chopin's beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. he collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. he had the mysterious juruparis of the rio negro indians, that women are not allowed to look at, and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as alfonso de ovalle heard in chili, and the sonorous green stones that are found near cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. he had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long clarin of the mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh turé of the amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in trees, and that can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that [ ] has two vibrating tongues of wood, and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells of the aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that bernal diaz saw when he went with cortes into the mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. the fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with lord henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "tannhäuser," and seeing in that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. on another occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as anne de joyeuse, admiral of france, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. he would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the pistachio-colored peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. he loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. he procured from amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of color, and had a turquoise de la vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. he discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. in alphonso's "clericalis disciplina" a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of alexander he was said to have found snakes in the vale of jordan "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." there was a gem in the brain of the dragon, philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep, and slain. according to the great alchemist pierre de boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of india made him eloquent. the cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. the garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her color. the selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. leonardus camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly-killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. the bezoar, that was found in the heart of the arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. in the nests of arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. the king of ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. the gates of the palace of john the priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned [ ] snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." over the gable were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. in lodge's strange romance "a margarite of america" it was stated that in the chamber of margarite were seen "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." marco polo had watched the inhabitants of zipangu place a rose-colored pearl in the mouth of the dead. a sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to king perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over his loss. when the huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away,--procopius tells the story,--nor was it ever found again, though the emperor anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. the king of malabar had shown a venetian a rosary of one hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. when the duke de valentinois, son of alexander vi., visited louis xii. of france, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to brantôme, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. charles of england had ridden in stirrups hung with three hundred and twenty-one diamonds. richard ii. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. hall described henry viii., on his way to the tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." the favorites of james i. wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. edward ii. gave to piers gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded with jacinths, and a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsemé with pearls. henry ii. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove set with twelve rubies and fifty-two great pearls. the ducal hat of charles the rash, the last duke of burgundy of his race, was studded with sapphires and hung with pear-shaped pearls. how exquisite life had once been! how gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. then he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescos in the chill rooms of the northern nations of europe. as he investigated the subject,--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up,--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. he, at any rate, had escaped that. summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. no winter marred his face or stained his flower-like bloom. how different it was with material things! where had they gone to? where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked for athena? where the huge velarium that nero had stretched across the colosseum at rome, on which were represented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by [ ] white gilt-reined steeds? he longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for elagabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the bishop of pontus, and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters,--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature;" and the coat that charles of orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "madame, je suis tout joyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, a square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. he read of the room that was prepared at the palace at rheims for the use of queen joan of burgundy, and was decorated with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold." catherine de médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. louis xiv. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland, was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the koran. its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. it had been taken from the turkish camp before vienna, and the standard of mohammed had stood under it. and so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty delhi muslins, finely wrought, with gold-threat palmates, and stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the east as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew;" strange figured cloths from java; elaborate yellow chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs de lys, birds, and images; veils of lacis worked in hungary point; sicilian brocades, and stiff spanish velvets; georgian work with its gilt coins, and japanese foukousas with their green-toned golds and their marvellously-plumaged birds. he had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the church. in the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the bride of christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. he had a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine- [ ] apple device wrought in seed-pearls. the orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the virgin, and the coronation of the virgin was figured in colored silks upon the hood. this was italian work of the fifteenth century. another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and colored crystals. the morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. the orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was st. sebastian. he had chasubles, also, of amber-colored silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the passion and crucifixion of christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and fleurs de lys; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. in the mystic offices to which these things were put there was something that quickened his imagination. for these things, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and had draped the purple-and-gold pall in front of it as a curtain. for weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate pleasure in mere existence. then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near blue gate fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. on his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of rebellion that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling, with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. after a few years he could not endure to be long out of england, and gave up the villa that he had shared at trouville with lord henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at algiers where he had more than once spent his winter. he hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and he was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bolts and bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. he was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. it was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? he would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. he had not painted it. what was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? even if he told them, would they believe it? yet he was afraid. sometimes when he was down at his great [ ] house in nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendor of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was still there. what if it should be stolen? the mere thought made him cold with horror. surely the world would know his secret then. perhaps the world already suspected it. for, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. he was blackballed at a west end club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the carlton, the duke of berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. it was said that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. his extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as if they were determined to discover his secret. of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies (for so they called them) that were circulated about him. it was remarked, however, that those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. of all his friends, or so-called friends, lord henry wotton was the only one who remained loyal to him. women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if dorian gray entered the room. yet these whispered scandals only lent him, in the eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm. his great wealth was a certain element of security. society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and charming. it feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and the highest respectability is of less value in its opinion than the possession of a good chef. and, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for cold entrées, as lord henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. for the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. form is absolutely essential to it. it should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays charming. is insincerity such a [ ] terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. such, at any rate, was dorian gray's opinion. he used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. to him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. he loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country-house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. here was philip herbert, described by francis osborne, in his "memoires on the reigns of queen elizabeth and king james," as one who was "caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company." was it young herbert's life that he sometimes led? had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in basil hallward's studio, to that mad prayer that had so changed his life? here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wrist-bands, stood sir anthony sherard, with his silver-and-black armor piled at his feet. what had this man's legacy been? had the lover of giovanna of naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? here, from the fading canvas, smiled lady elizabeth devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. a flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. on a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. there were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. he knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. had he something of her temperament in him? those oval heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. what of george willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? how evil he looked! the face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. he had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of lord ferrars. what of the second lord sherard, the companion of the prince regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with mrs. fitzherbert? how proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! what passions had he bequeathed? the world had looked upon him as infamous. he had led the orgies at carlton house. the star of the garter glittered upon his breast. beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. her blood, also, stirred within him. how curious it all seemed! yet one had ancestors in literature, as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. there [ ] were times when it seemed to dorian gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. he felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of wonder. it seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own. the hero of the dangerous novel that had so influenced his life had himself had this curious fancy. in a chapter of the book he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as tiberius, in a garden at capri, reading the shameful books of elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables, and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the circus, and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the street of pomegranates to a house of gold, and heard men cry on nero caesar as he passed by; and, as elagabalus, had painted his face with colors, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the moon from carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the sun. over and over again dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the chapter immediately following, in which the hero describes the curious tapestries that he had had woven for him from gustave moreau's designs, and on which were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: filippo, duke of milan, who slew his wife, and painted her lips with a scarlet poison; pietro barbi, the venetian, known as paul the second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; gian maria visconti, who used hounds to chase living men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the borgia on his white horse, with fratricide riding beside him, and his mantle stained with the blood of perotto; pietro riario, the young cardinal archbishop of florence, child and minion of sixtus iv., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received leonora of aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve her at the feast as ganymede or hylas; ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine,--the son of the fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; giambattista cibo, who in mockery took the name of innocent, and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a [ ] jewish doctor; sigismondo malatesta, the lover of isotta, and the lord of rimini, whose effigy was burned at rome as the enemy of god and man, who strangled polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to ginevra d'este in a cup of emerald, and in honor of a shameful passion built a pagan church for christian worship; charles vi., who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who could only be soothed by saracen cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthus-like curls, grifonetto baglioni, who slew astorre with his bride, and simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. there was a horrible fascination in them all. he saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. the renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning,--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. dorian gray had been poisoned by a book. there were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful. chapter x [... ] it was on the th of november, the eve of his own thirty-second birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. he was walking home about eleven o'clock from lord henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. at the corner of grosvenor square and south audley street a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his gray ulster turned up. he had a bag in his hand. he recognized him. it was basil hallward. a strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. he made no sign of recognition, and went on slowly, in the direction of his own house. but hallward had seen him. dorian heard him first stopping, and then hurrying after him. in a few moments his hand was on his arm. "dorian! what an extraordinary piece of luck! i have been waiting for you ever since nine o'clock in your library. finally i took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. i am off to paris by the midnight train, and i wanted particularly to see you before i left. i thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. but i wasn't quite sure. didn't you recognize me?" "in this fog, my dear basil? why, i can't even recognize grosvenor square. i believe my house is somewhere about here, but i don't feel at all certain about it. i am sorry you are going away, as i have not seen you for ages. but i suppose you will be back soon?" "no: i am going to be out of england for six months. i intend [ ] to take a studio in paris, and shut myself up till i have finished a great picture i have in my head. however, it wasn't about myself i wanted to talk. here we are at your door. let me come in for a moment. i have something to say to you." "i shall be charmed. but won't you miss your train?" said dorian gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. the lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and hallward looked at his watch. "i have heaps of time," he answered. "the train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. in fact, i was on my way to the club to look for you, when i met you. you see, i shan't have any delay about luggage, as i have sent on my heavy things. all i have with me is in this bag, and i can easily get to victoria in twenty minutes." dorian looked at him and smiled. "what a way for a fashionable painter to travel! a gladstone bag, and an ulster! come in, or the fog will get into the house. and mind you don't talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be." hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed dorian into the library. there was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. the lamps were lit, and an open dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little table. "you see your servant made me quite at home, dorian. he gave me everything i wanted, including your best cigarettes. he is a most hospitable creature. i like him much better than the frenchman you used to have. what has become of the frenchman, by the bye?" dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i believe he married lady ashton's maid, and has established her in paris as an english dressmaker. anglomanie is very fashionable over there now, i hear. it seems silly of the french, doesn't it? but--do you know?--he was not at all a bad servant. i never liked him, but i had nothing to complain about. one often imagines things that are quite absurd. he was really very devoted to me, and seemed quite sorry when he went away. have another brandy-and-soda? or would you like hock-and-seltzer? i always take hock-and-seltzer myself. there is sure to be some in the next room." "thanks, i won't have anything more," said hallward, taking his cap and coat off, and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "and now, my dear fellow, i want to speak to you seriously. don't frown like that. you make it so much more difficult for me." "what is it all about?" cried dorian, in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "i hope it is not about myself. i am tired of myself to-night. i should like to be somebody else." "it is about yourself," answered hallward, in his grave, deep voice, "and i must say it to you. i shall only keep you half an hour." dorian sighed, and lit a cigarette. "half an hour!" he murmured. [ ] "it is not much to ask of you, dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that i am speaking. i think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said about you in london,--things that i could hardly repeat to you." "i don't wish to know anything about them. i love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. they have not got the charm of novelty." "they must interest you, dorian. every gentleman is interested in his good name. you don't want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. of course you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. but position and wealth are not everything. mind you, i don't believe these rumors at all. at least, i can't believe them when i see you. sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. it cannot be concealed. people talk of secret vices. there are no such things as secret vices. if a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. somebody--i won't mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. i had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though i have heard a good deal since. he offered an extravagant price. i refused him. there was something in the shape of his fingers that i hated. i know now that i was quite right in what i fancied about him. his life is dreadful. but you, dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth,--i can't believe anything against you. and yet i see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when i am away from you, and i hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, i don't know what to say. why is it, dorian, that a man like the duke of berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? why is it that so many gentlemen in london will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? you used to be a friend of lord cawdor. i met him at dinner last week. your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the dudley. cawdor curled his lip, and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. i reminded him that i was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. he told me. he told me right out before everybody. it was horrible! why is your friendship so fateful to young men? there was that wretched boy in the guards who committed suicide. you were his great friend. there was sir henry ashton, who had to leave england, with a tarnished name. you and he were inseparable. what about adrian singleton, and his dreadful end? what about lord kent's only son, and his career? i met his father yesterday in st. james street. he seemed broken with shame and sorrow. what about the young duke of perth? what sort of life has he got now? what gentleman would associate with him? dorian, dorian, your reputation is infamous. i know you and harry are great friends. i say nothing about that now, but [ ] surely you need not have made his sister's name a by-word. when you met lady gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. is there a single decent woman in london now who would drive with her in the park? why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. then there are other stories,--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in london. are they true? can they be true? when i first heard them, i laughed. i hear them now, and they make me shudder. what about your country-house, and the life that is led there? dorian, you don't know what is said about you. i won't tell you that i don't want to preach to you. i remember harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always said that, and then broke his word. i do want to preach to you. i want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. i want you to have a clean name and a fair record. i want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. don't shrug your shoulders like that. don't be so indifferent. you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil. they say that you corrupt every one whom you become intimate with, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for shame of some kind to follow after you. i don't know whether it is so or not. how should i know? but it is said of you. i am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. lord gloucester was one of my greatest friends at oxford. he showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at mentone. your name was implicated in the most terrible confession i ever read. i told him that it was absurd,--that i knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. know you? i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul." "to see my soul!" muttered dorian gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "yes," answered hallward, gravely, and with infinite sorrow in his voice,--"to see your soul. but only god can do that." a bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "you shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "come: it is your own handiwork. why shouldn't you look at it? you can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. nobody would believe you. if they did believe you, they'd like me all the better for it. i know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. come, i tell you. you have chattered enough about corruption. now you shall look on it face to face." there was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. he stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. he felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "yes," he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "i will show you my soul. you shall see the thing that you fancy only god can see." [ ] hallward started back. "this is blasphemy, dorian!" he cried. "you must not say things like that. they are horrible, and they don't mean anything." "you think so?" he laughed again. "i know so. as for what i said to you to-night, i said it for your good. you know i have been always devoted to you." "don't touch me. finish what you have to say." a twisted flash of pain shot across hallward's face. he paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. after all, what right had he to pry into the life of dorian gray? if he had done a tithe of what was rumored about him, how much he must have suffered! then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fireplace, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frost-like ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. "i am waiting, basil," said the young man, in a hard, clear voice. he turned round. "what i have to say is this," he cried. "you must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. if you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, i will believe you. deny them, dorian, deny them! can't you see what i am going through? my god! don't tell me that you are infamous!" dorian gray smiled. there was a curl of contempt in his lips. "come up-stairs, basil," he said, quietly. "i keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. i will show it to you if you come with me." "i will come with you, dorian, if you wish it. i see i have missed my train. that makes no matter. i can go to-morrow. but don't ask me to read anything to-night. all i want is a plain answer to my question." "that will be given to you up-stairs. i could not give it here. you won't have to read long. don't keep me waiting." chapter xi [... ] he passed out of the room, and began the ascent, basil hallward following close behind. they walked softly, as men instinctively do at night. the lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. a rising wind made some of the windows rattle. when they reached the top landing, dorian set the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "you insist on knowing, basil?" he asked, in a low voice. "yes." "i am delighted," he murmured, smiling. then he added, somewhat bitterly, "you are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. you have had more to do with my life than you think." and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. a cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. he shuddered. "shut the door behind you," he said, as he placed the lamp on the table. [ ] hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. the room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. a faded flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old italian cassone, and an almost empty bookcase,--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. as dorian gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. a mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. there was a damp odor of mildew. "so you think that it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." the voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "you are mad, dorian, or playing a part," muttered hallward, frowning. "you won't? then i must do it myself," said the young man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground. an exclamation of horror broke from hallward's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous thing on the canvas leering at him. there was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. good heavens! it was dorian gray's own face that he was looking at! the horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely marred that marvellous beauty. there was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual lips. the sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet passed entirely away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. yes, it was dorian himself. but who had done it? he seemed to recognize his own brush-work, and the frame was his own design. the idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. he seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. in the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. it was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. he had never done that. still, it was his own picture. he knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed from fire to sluggish ice in a moment. his own picture! what did it mean? why had it altered? he turned, and looked at dorian gray with the eyes of a sick man. his mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. he passed his hand across his forehead. it was dank with clammy sweat. the young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him with that strange expression that is on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when a great artist is acting. there was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. there was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in the eyes. he had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "what does this mean?" cried hallward, at last. his own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "years ago, when i was a boy," said dorian gray, "you met me, devoted yourself to me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. one day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. in a mad moment, that [ ] i don't know, even now, whether i regret or not, i made a wish. perhaps you would call it a prayer . . . ." "i remember it! oh, how well i remember it! no! the thing is impossible. the room is damp. the mildew has got into the canvas. the paints i used had some wretched mineral poison in them. i tell you the thing is impossible." "ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window, and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "you told me you had destroyed it." "i was wrong. it has destroyed me." "i don't believe it is my picture." "can't you see your romance in it?" said dorian, bitterly. "my romance, as you call it . . ." "as you called it." "there was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. this is the face of a satyr." "it is the face of my soul." "god! what a thing i must have worshipped! this has the eyes of a devil." "each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil," cried dorian, with a wild gesture of despair. hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "my god! if it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" he held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it. the surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. it was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. the rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. his hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, and lay there sputtering. he placed his foot on it and put it out. then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "good god, dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" there was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "pray, dorian, pray," he murmured. "what is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'lead us not into temptation. forgive us our sins. wash away our iniquities.' let us say that together. the prayer of your pride has been answered. the prayer of your repentance will be answered also. i worshipped you too much. i am punished for it. you worshipped yourself too much. we are both punished." dorian gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "it is too late, basil," he murmured. "it is never too late, dorian. let us kneel down and try if we can remember a prayer. isn't there a verse somewhere, 'though your sins be as scarlet, yet i will make them as white as snow'?" [ ] "those words mean nothing to me now." "hush! don't say that. you have done enough evil in your life. my god! don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" dorian gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for basil hallward came over him. the mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than he had ever loathed anything in his whole life. he glanced wildly around. something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. his eye fell on it. he knew what it was. it was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. he moved slowly towards it, passing hallward as he did so. as soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round. hallward moved in his chair as if he was going to rise. he rushed at him, and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table, and stabbing again and again. there was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. the outstretched arms shot up convulsively three times, waving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. he stabbed him once more, but the man did not move. something began to trickle on the floor. he waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. he could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. he opened the door, and went out on the landing. the house was quite quiet. no one was stirring. he took out the key, and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. the thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool that slowly widened on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. how quickly it had all been done! he felt strangely calm, and, walking over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. the wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. he looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing a bull's-eye lantern on the doors of the silent houses. the crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished. a woman in a ragged shawl was creeping round by the railings, staggering as she went. now and then she stopped, and peered back. once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. the policeman strolled over and said something to her. she stumbled away, laughing. a bitter blast swept across the square. the gas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches as if in pain. he shivered, and went back, closing the window behind him. he passed to the door, turned the key, and opened it. he did not even glance at the murdered man. he felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. the friend who had painted [ ] the fatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life. that was enough. then he remembered the lamp. it was a rather curious one of moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel. perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. he turned back, and took it from the table. how still the man was! how horribly white the long hands looked! he was like a dreadful wax image. he locked the door behind him, and crept quietly down-stairs. the wood-work creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. he stopped several times, and waited. no: everything was still. it was merely the sound of his own footsteps. when he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. they must be hidden away somewhere. he unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, and put them into it. he could easily burn them afterwards. then he pulled out his watch. it was twenty minutes to two. he sat down, and began to think. every year--every month, almost--men were strangled in england for what he had done. there had been a madness of murder in the air. some red star had come too close to the earth. evidence? what evidence was there against him? basil hallward had left the house at eleven. no one had seen him come in again. most of the servants were at selby royal. his valet had gone to bed. paris! yes. it was to paris that basil had gone, by the midnight train, as he had intended. with his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused. months? everything could be destroyed long before then. a sudden thought struck him. he put on his fur coat and hat, and went out into the hall. there he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman outside on the pavement, and seeing the flash of the lantern reflected in the window. he waited, holding his breath. after a few moments he opened the front door, and slipped out, shutting it very gently behind him. then he began ringing the bell. in about ten minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and looking very drowsy. "i am sorry to have had to wake you up, francis," he said, stepping in; "but i had forgotten my latch-key. what time is it?" "five minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and yawning. "five minutes past two? how horribly late! you must wake me at nine to-morrow. i have some work to do." "all right, sir." "did any one call this evening?" "mr. hallward, sir. he stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train." "oh! i am sorry i didn't see him. did he leave any message?" "no, sir, except that he would write to you." [ ] "that will do, francis. don't forget to call me at nine tomorrow." "no, sir." the man shambled down the passage in his slippers. dorian gray threw his hat and coat upon the yellow marble table, and passed into the library. he walked up and down the room for a quarter of an hour, biting his lip, and thinking. then he took the blue book down from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "alan campbell, , hertford street, mayfair." yes; that was the man he wanted. chapter xii [... ] at nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. he looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. the man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been having some delightful dream. yet he had not dreamed at all. his night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. but youth smiles without any reason. it is one of its chiefest charms. he turned round, and, leaning on his elbow, began to drink his chocolate. the mellow november sun was streaming into the room. the sky was bright blue, and there was a genial warmth in the air. it was almost like a morning in may. gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent blood-stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. he winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for basil hallward, that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. the dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. how horrible that was! such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. he felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. there were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. but this was not one of them. it was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual attention, giving a good deal of care to the selection of his necktie and scarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. he spent a long time over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of [ ] getting made for the servants at selby, and going through his correspondence. over some of the letters he smiled. three of them bored him. one he read several times over, and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "that awful thing, a woman's memory!" as lord henry had once said. when he had drunk his coffee, he sat down at the table, and wrote two letters. one he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "take this round to , hertford street, francis, and if mr. campbell is out of town, get his address." as soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing flowers, and bits of architecture, first, and then faces. suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have an extraordinary likeness to basil hallward. he frowned, and, getting up, went over to the bookcase and took out a volume at hazard. he was determined that he would not think about what had happened, till it became absolutely necessary to do so. when he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. it was gautier's "emaux et camées," charpentier's japanese-paper edition, with the jacquemart etching. the binding was of citron-green leather with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. it had been given to him by adrian singleton. as he turned over the pages his eye fell on the poem about the hand of lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavée," with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." he glanced at his own white taper fingers, and passed on, till he came to those lovely verses upon venice: sur une gamme chromatique, le sein de perles ruisselant, la vénus de l'adriatique sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. les dômes, sur l'azur des ondes suivant la phrase au pur contour, s'enflent comme des gorges rondes que soulève un soupir d'amour. l'esquif aborde et me dépose, jetant son amarre au pilier, devant une façade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier. how exquisite they were! as one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, lying in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. the mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the lido. the sudden flashes of color reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honey-combed campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim arcades. leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself,-- devant une façade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier. [ ] the whole of venice was in those two lines. he remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to delightful fantastic follies. there was romance in every place. but venice, like oxford, had kept the background for romance, and background was everything, or almost everything. basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over tintoret. poor basil! what a horrible way for a man to die! he sighed, and took up the book again, and tried to forget. he read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little café at smyrna where the hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; of the obelisk in the place de la concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile, and longs to be back by the hot lotus-covered nile, where there are sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles, with small beryl eyes, that crawl over the green steaming mud; and of that curious statue that gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstre charmant" that couches in the porphyry-room of the louvre. but after a time the book fell from his hand. he grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. what if alan campbell should be out of england? days would elapse before he could come back. perhaps he might refuse to come. what could he do then? every moment was of vital importance. they had been great friends once, five years before,--almost inseparable, indeed. then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. when they met in society now, it was only dorian gray who smiled: alan campbell never did. he was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from dorian. his dominant intellectual passion was for science. at cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the natural science tripos of his year. indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own, in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. he was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. in fact, it was music that had first brought him and dorian gray together,--music and that indefinable attraction that dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it. they had met at lady berkshire's the night that rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera, and wherever good music was going on. for eighteen months their intimacy lasted. campbell was always either at selby royal or in grosvenor square. to him, as to many others, dorian gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. but suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when [ ] they met, and that campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which dorian gray was present. he had changed, too,--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music of any passionate character, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. and this was certainly true. every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews, in connection with certain curious experiments. this was the man that dorian gray was waiting for, pacing up and down the room, glancing every moment at the clock, and becoming horribly agitated as the minutes went by. at last the door opened, and his servant entered. "mr. alan campbell, sir." a sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the color came back to his cheeks. "ask him to come in at once, francis." the man bowed, and retired. in a few moments alan campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "alan! this is kind of you. i thank you for coming." "i had intended never to enter your house again, gray. but you said it was a matter of life and death." his voice was hard and cold. he spoke with slow deliberation. there was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on dorian. he kept his hands in the pockets of his astrakhan coat, and appeared not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "it is a matter of life and death, alan, and to more than one person. sit down." campbell took a chair by the table, and dorian sat opposite to him. the two men's eyes met. in dorian's there was infinite pity. he knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. after a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of the man he had sent for, "alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. he has been dead ten hours now. don't stir, and don't look at me like that. who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. what you have to do is this--" "stop, gray. i don't want to know anything further. whether what you have told me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. i entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. keep your horrible secrets to yourself. they don't interest me any more." "alan, they will have to interest you. this one will have to interest you. i am awfully sorry for you, alan. but i can't help myself. you are the one man who is able to save me. i am forced to bring you into the matter. i have no option. alan, you are a scientist. you know about chemistry, and things of that kind. you have made experiments. what you have got to do is to destroy the [ ] thing that is up-stairs,--to destroy it so that not a vestige will be left of it. nobody saw this person come into the house. indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in paris. he will not be missed for months. when he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. you, alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that i may scatter in the air." "you are mad, dorian." "ah! i was waiting for you to call me dorian." "you are mad, i tell you,--mad to imagine that i would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. i will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. do you think i am going to peril my reputation for you? what is it to me what devil's work you are up to?" "it was a suicide, alan." "i am glad of that. but who drove him to it? you, i should fancy." "do you still refuse to do this, for me?" "of course i refuse. i will have absolutely nothing to do with it. i don't care what shame comes on you. you deserve it all. i should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. how dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? i should have thought you knew more about people's characters. your friend lord henry wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. you have come to the wrong man. go to some of your friends. don't come to me." "alan, it was murder. i killed him. you don't know what he had made me suffer. whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor harry has had. he may not have intended it, the result was the same." "murder! good god, dorian, is that what you have come to? i shall not inform upon you. it is not my business. besides, you are certain to be arrested, without my stirring in the matter. nobody ever commits a murder without doing something stupid. but i will have nothing to do with it." "all i ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. you go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. if in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. you would not turn a hair. you would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. on the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. what i want you to do is simply what you have often done before. indeed, to destroy a body must be less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. and, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. if it is discovered, i am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me." [ ] "i have no desire to help you. you forget that. i am simply indifferent to the whole thing. it has nothing to do with me." "alan, i entreat you. think of the position i am in. just before you came i almost fainted with terror. no! don't think of that. look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. you don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. don't inquire now. i have told you too much as it is. but i beg of you to do this. we were friends once, alan." "don't speak about those days, dorian: they are dead." "the dead linger sometimes. the man up-stairs will not go away. he is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. alan! alan! if you don't come to my assistance i am ruined. why, they will hang me, alan! don't you understand? they will hang me for what i have done." "there is no good in prolonging this scene. i refuse absolutely to do anything in the matter. it is insane of you to ask me." "you refuse absolutely?" "yes." the same look of pity came into dorian's eyes, then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. he read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. having done this, he got up, and went over to the window. campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. as he read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he fell back in his chair. a horrible sense of sickness came over him. he felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. after two or three minutes of terrible silence, dorian turned round, and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "i am so sorry, alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. i have a letter written already. here it is. you see the address. if you don't help me, i must send it. you know what the result will be. but you are going to help me. it is impossible for you to refuse now. i tried to spare you. you will do me the justice to admit that. you were stern, harsh, offensive. you treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me,--no living man, at any rate. i bore it all. now it is for me to dictate terms." campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. "yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, alan. you know what they are. the thing is quite simple. come, don't work yourself into this fever. the thing has to be done. face it, and do it." a groan broke from campbell's lips, and he shivered all over. the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. he felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, and as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. the hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. it was intolerable. it seemed to crush him. "come, alan, you must decide at once." [ ] he hesitated a moment. "is there a fire in the room up-stairs?" he murmured. "yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." "i will have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." "no, alan, you need not leave the house. write on a sheet of note-paper what you want, and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you." campbell wrote a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. dorian took the note up and read it carefully. then he rang the bell, and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible, and to bring the things with him. when the hall door shut, campbell started, and, having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. he was shivering with a sort of ague. for nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. a fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. as the chime struck one, campbell turned around, and, looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "you are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. "hush, alan: you have saved my life," said dorian. "your life? good heavens! what a life that is! you have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. in doing what i am going to do, what you force me to do, it is not of your life that i am thinking." "ah, alan," murmured dorian, with a sigh, "i wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that i have for you." he turned away, as he spoke, and stood looking out at the garden. campbell made no answer. after about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a mahogany chest of chemicals, with a small electric battery set on top of it. he placed it on the table, and went out again, returning with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously-shaped iron clamps. "shall i leave the things here, sir?" he asked campbell. "yes," said dorian. "and i am afraid, francis, that i have another errand for you. what is the name of the man at richmond who supplies selby with orchids?" "harden, sir." "yes,--harden. you must go down to richmond at once, see harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as i ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. in fact, i don't want any white ones. it is a lovely day, francis, and richmond is a very pretty place, otherwise i wouldn't bother you about it." "no trouble, sir. at what time shall i be back?" dorian looked at campbell. "how long will your experiment take, alan?" he said, in a calm, indifferent voice. the presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. campbell frowned, and bit his lip. "it will take about five hours," he answered. [ ] "it will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, francis. or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. you can have the evening to yourself. i am not dining at home, so i shall not want you." "thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. "now, alan, there is not a moment to be lost. how heavy this chest is! i'll take it for you. you bring the other things." he spoke rapidly, and in an authoritative manner. campbell felt dominated by him. they left the room together. when they reached the top landing, dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. he shuddered. "i don't think i can go in, alan," he murmured. "it is nothing to me. i don't require you," said campbell, coldly. dorian half opened the door. as he did so, he saw the face of the portrait grinning in the sunlight. on the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. he remembered that the night before, for the first time in his life, he had forgotten to hide it, when he crept out of the room. but what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? how horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. he opened the door a little wider, and walked quickly in, with half-closed eyes and averted head, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. then, stooping down, and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it over the picture. he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. he heard campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. he began to wonder if he and basil hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "leave me now," said campbell. he turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and was sitting up in it, with campbell gazing into the glistening yellow face. as he was going downstairs he heard the key being turned in the lock. it was long after seven o'clock when campbell came back into the library. he was pale, but absolutely calm. "i have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "and now, good-by. let us never see each other again." "you have saved me from ruin, alan. i cannot forget that," said dorian, simply. as soon as campbell had left, he went up-stairs. there was a horrible smell of chemicals in the room. but the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. chapter xiii [ ] "there is no good telling me you are going to be good, dorian," cried lord henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "you are quite perfect. pray don't change." dorian shook his head. "no, harry, i have done too many dreadful things in my life. i am not going to do any more. i began my good actions yesterday." "where were you yesterday?" "in the country, harry. i was staying at a little inn by myself." "my dear boy," said lord henry smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. there are no temptations there. that is the reason why people who live out of town are so uncivilized. there are only two ways, as you know, of becoming civilized. one is by being cultured, the other is by being corrupt. country-people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "culture and corruption," murmured dorian. "i have known something of both. it seems to me curious now that they should ever be found together. for i have a new ideal, harry. i am going to alter. i think i have altered." "you have not told me yet what your good action was. or did you say you had done more than one?" "i can tell you, harry. it is not a story i could tell to any one else. i spared somebody. it sounds vain, but you understand what i mean. she was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like sibyl vane. i think it was that which first attracted me to her. you remember sibyl, don't you? how long ago that seems! well, hetty was not one of our own class, of course. she was simply a girl in a village. but i really loved her. i am quite sure that i loved her. all during this wonderful may that we have been having, i used to run down and see her two or three times a week. yesterday she met me in a little orchard. the apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. we were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. suddenly i determined to leave her as flower-like as i had found her." "i should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, dorian," interrupted lord henry. "but i can finish your idyl for you. you gave her good advice, and broke her heart. that was the beginning of your reformation." "harry, you are horrible! you mustn't say these dreadful things. hetty's heart is not broken. of course she cried, and all that. but there is no disgrace upon her. she can live, like perdita, in her garden." "and weep over a faithless florizel," said lord henry, laughing. "my dear dorian, you have the most curious boyish moods. do you think this girl will ever be really contented now with any one of her own rank? i suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. well, having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. from a moral point of view i really don't think much of your great renunciation. [ ] even as a beginning, it is poor. besides, how do you know that hetty isn't floating at the present moment in some mill-pond, with water-lilies round her, like ophelia?" "i can't bear this, harry! you mock at everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. i am sorry i told you now. i don't care what you say to me, i know i was right in acting as i did. poor hetty! as i rode past the farm this morning, i saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. don't let me talk about it any more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action i have done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice i have ever known, is really a sort of sin. i want to be better. i am going to be better. tell me something about yourself. what is going on in town? i have not been to the club for days." "the people are still discussing poor basil's disappearance." "i should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly. "my dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and the public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months. they have been very fortunate lately, however. they have had my own divorce-case, and alan campbell's suicide. now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. scotland yard still insists that the man in the gray ulster who left victoria by the midnight train on the th of november was poor basil, and the french police declare that basil never arrived in paris at all. i suppose in about a fortnight we will be told that he has been seen in san francisco. it is an odd thing, but every one who disappears is said to be seen at san francisco. it must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world." "what do you think has happened to basil?" asked dorian, holding up his burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly. "i have not the slightest idea. if basil chooses to hide himself, it is no business of mine. if he is dead, i don't want to think about him. death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. i hate it. one can survive everything nowadays except that. death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. let us have our coffee in the music-room, dorian. you must play chopin to me. the man with whom my wife ran away played chopin exquisitely. poor victoria! i was very fond of her. the house is rather lonely without her." dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and, passing into the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the keys. after the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, and, looking over at lord henry, said, "harry, did it ever occur to you that basil was murdered?" lord henry yawned. "basil had no enemies, and always wore a waterbury watch. why should he be murdered? he was not clever enough to have enemies. of course he had a wonderful genius for painting. but a man can paint like velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. basil was really rather dull. he only interested me once, [ ] and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you." "i was very fond of basil," said dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. "but don't people say that he was murdered?" "oh, some of the papers do. it does not seem to be probable. i know there are dreadful places in paris, but basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them. he had no curiosity. it was his chief defect. play me a nocturne, dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. you must have some secret. i am only ten years older than you are, and i am wrinkled, and bald, and yellow. you are really wonderful, dorian. you have never looked more charming than you do to-night. you remind me of the day i saw you first. you were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. you have changed, of course, but not in appearance. i wish you would tell me your secret. to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. youth! there is nothing like it. it's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. the only people whose opinions i listen to now with any respect are people much younger than myself. they seem in front of me. life has revealed to them her last wonder. as for the aged, i always contradict the aged. i do it on principle. if you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in , when people wore high stocks and knew absolutely nothing. how lovely that thing you are playing is! i wonder did chopin write it at majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the panes? it is marvelously romantic. what a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! don't stop. i want music to-night. it seems to me that you are the young apollo, and that i am marsyas listening to you. i have sorrows, dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. the tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. i am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. ah, dorian, how happy you are! what an exquisite life you have had! you have drunk deeply of everything. you have crushed the grapes against your palate. nothing has been hidden from you. but it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. it has not marred you. you are still the same. "i wonder what the rest of your life will be. don't spoil it by renunciations. at present you are a perfect type. don't make yourself incomplete. you are quite flawless now. you need not shake your head: you know you are. besides, dorian, don't deceive yourself. life is not governed by will or intention. life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly-built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. you may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. but a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings strange memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play,--i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. browning writes about that somewhere; but our [ ] own senses will imagine them for us. there are moments when the odor of heliotrope passes suddenly across me, and i have to live the strangest year of my life over again. "i wish i could change places with you, dorian. the world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. it always will worship you. you are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. i am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! life has been your art. you have set yourself to music. your days have been your sonnets." dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair. "yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but i am not going to have the same life, harry. and you must not say these extravagant things to me. you don't know everything about me. i think that if you did, even you would turn from me. you laugh. don't laugh." "why have you stopped playing, dorian? go back and play the nocturne over again. look at that great honey-colored moon that hangs in the dusky air. she is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. you won't? let us go to the club, then. it has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. there is some one at the club who wants immensely to know you,--young lord poole, bournmouth's eldest son. he has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. he is quite delightful, and rather reminds me of you." "i hope not," said dorian, with a touch of pathos in his voice. "but i am tired to-night, harry. i won't go to the club. it is nearly eleven, and i want to go to bed early." "do stay. you have never played so well as to-night. there was something in your touch that was wonderful. it had more expression than i had ever heard from it before." "it is because i am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "i am a little changed already." "don't change, dorian; at any rate, don't change to me. we must always be friends." "yet you poisoned me with a book once. i should not forgive that. harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. it does harm." "my dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. you will soon be going about warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. you are much too delightful to do that. besides, it is no use. you and i are what we are, and will be what we will be. come round tomorrow. i am going to ride at eleven, and we might go together. the park is quite lovely now. i don't think there have been such lilacs since the year i met you." "very well. i will be here at eleven," said dorian. "good-night, harry." as he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. then he sighed and went out. it was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. as he strolled [ ] home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. he heard one of them whisper to the other, "that is dorian gray." he remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. he was tired of hearing his own name now. half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. he had told the girl whom he had made love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. he had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and told him that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. what a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. and how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! she knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. when he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. he sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that lord henry had said to him. was it really true that one could never change? he felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood,--his rose-white boyhood, as lord henry had once called it. he knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption, and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. but was it all irretrievable? was there no hope for him? it was better not to think of the past. nothing could alter that. it was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. alan campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. the excitement, such as it was, over basil hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. it was already waning. he was perfectly safe there. nor, indeed, was it the death of basil hallward that weighed most upon his mind. it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. he could not forgive him that. it was the portrait that had done everything. basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. the murder had been simply the madness of a moment. as for alan campbell, his suicide had been his own act. he had chosen to do it. it was nothing to him. a new life! that was what he wanted. that was what he was waiting for. surely he had begun it already. he had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. he would never again tempt innocence. he would be good. as he thought of hetty merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. he would go and look. he took the lamp from the table and crept up-stairs. as he unlocked the door, a smile of joy flitted across his young face and [ ] lingered for a moment about his lips. yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. he felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. he went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. a cry of pain and indignation broke from him. he could see no change, unless that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. the thing was still loathsome,--more loathsome, if possible, than before,--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? or the desire of a new sensation, as lord henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? or, perhaps, all these? why was the red stain larger than it had been? it seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. there was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped,--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. confess? did it mean that he was to confess? to give himself up, and be put to death? he laughed. he felt that the idea was monstrous. besides, who would believe him, even if he did confess? there was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. everything belonging to him had been destroyed. he himself had burned what had been below-stairs. the world would simply say he was mad. they would shut him up if he persisted in his story. yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. there was a god who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. his sin? he shrugged his shoulders. the death of basil hallward seemed very little to him. he was thinking of hetty merton. it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. vanity? curiosity? hypocrisy? had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? there had been something more. at least he thought so. but who could tell? and this murder,--was it to dog him all his life? was he never to get rid of the past? was he really to confess? no. there was only one bit of evidence left against him. the picture itself,--that was evidence. he would destroy it. why had he kept it so long? it had given him pleasure once to watch it changing and growing old. of late he had felt no such pleasure. it had kept him awake at night. when he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. it had brought melancholy across his passions. its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. it had been like conscience to him. yes, it had been conscience. he would destroy it. he looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed basil hallward. he had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. it was bright, and glistened. as it had killed the painter, so it [ ] would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. he seized it, and stabbed the canvas with it, ripping the thing right up from top to bottom. there was a cry heard, and a crash. the cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. they walked on till they met a policeman, and brought him back. the man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. the house was all dark, except for a light in one of the top windows. after a time, he went away, and stood in the portico of the next house and watched. "whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "mr. dorian gray's, sir," answered the policeman. they looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. one of them was sir henry ashton's uncle. inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. old mrs. leaf was crying, and wringing her hands. francis was as pale as death. after about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept up-stairs. they knocked, but there was no reply. they called out. everything was still. finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. the windows yielded easily: the bolts were old. when they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. he was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. it was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was. a likely story by william de morgan london william heinemann _all rights reserved_ dedicated to the scientific enquirer contents chapter i a good deal about a box of matches. concerning a married couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to listen to them. of the difficulty with which the lady housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. but they went to the old water colour. how sairah only just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and mr. aiken said god and devil. of the plural number. of a very pretty girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how mrs. aiken was proper. of her mystical utterance about the young lady. how mr. aiken sought for an explanation from sairah, and created a situation. how his wife went to her aunt priscilla, at athabasca villa, and cried herself to sleep chapter ii how a little old gentleman was left alone in a library, in front of the picture sairah had only just wiped gently. how he woke up from a dream, which went on. the loquacity of a picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. the artist's name. there was plenty of time to hear more. the exact date of antiquity. the rational way of accounting for it chapter iii the picture's tale. it was so well painted--that was why it could hear four hundred years ago. how its painter hungered and thirsted for its original, and _vice versa_. how old january hid in a spy-hole, to watch may, and saw it all. of pope innocent's penetration. of certain bells, unwelcome ones. how two _innamorati_ tried to part without a kiss, and failed. nevertheless assassins stopped it when it had only just begun. but giacinto got at january's throat. how the picture was framed, and hung where may could only see it by twisting. of the dungeon below her, where giacinto might be. how january dug at may with a walking-staff. how the picture was in abeyance, but loved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and three centuries slipped by. how it sold for six fifty, and was sent to london to a picture-restorer, which is how it comes into the tale. how mr. pelly woke up chapter iv a retrospective chapter. how fortune's toy and the sport of circumstances fell in love with one of his nurses. prose composition. lady upwell's majesty, and the queen's. no engagement. the african war, and justifiable fratricide. cain. madeline's big dog cæsar. cats. ormuzd and ahriman. a handy little veldt. madeline's japanese kimono. a discussion of the nature of dreams. never mind athenæus. look at the prophet daniel. sir stopleigh's great-aunt dorothea's twins. the circulating library and the potted shrimps. how madeline read the manuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to the curtains chapter v mr. aiken's sequel. pimlico studios. mr. hughes's idea. aspects of nature. mr. hughes's foot. what had mr. aiken been at. _not_ fanny smith. it was sairah!! who misunderstood and turned vermilion? her malice. the regent's canal. mr. aiken's advice from his friends. woman and her sex. how mr. hughes visited mr. aiken one evening, and the post came, with something too big for the box, while mrs. parples slept. mr. aiken's very sincerely madeline upwell. her transparency. how the picture's photo stood on the table. interesting lucubrations of mr. hughes. what was that? but it was nothing--only an effect of something. the vernacular mind. negative juries. how mr. aiken stopped an echo, so it was mr. hughes's fancy chapter vi follows mrs. euphemia aiken to coombe and maiden. proper pride. you cannot go back on a railway ticket, however small its price. one's aunts. how miss priscilla bax was not surprised when she heard it was reginald. of the upas tree of reputations--the pure mind. how aunt prissy worked her niece up. of the late prince regent, and tiberius. never write a letter, if you want the wind to lull. ellen jane dudbury and her mamma. of ju-jutsu as an antidote to tattle. of the relative advantages of immorality to the two sexes. of good souls and busy bodies, and of the groobs. how that odious little dolly was the modern zurbaran. but he had never so much as called. colossians three-eighteen. miss jessie bax and her puppy. miss volumnia bax. the delicacy of the female character. of the radio-activity of space and how mr. adolphus groob sat next to mrs. aiken. the godfrey pybuses. but they have nothing to do with the story. how time slipped by, and how mr. aiken employed him till the year drew to an end chapter vii the upwell family in london. how madeline promised not to get mixed up. a nice suburban boy, with a two-power standard. no jack now! the silver teapot. miss priscilla's extraction. imperialism. horace walpole and john bunyan. the tapleys. how an item in the _telegraph_ upset madeline. how she failed in her mission, but left a photograph behind her. the late lady betty duster's chin. how mrs. aiken stayed downstairs and went to sleep in an arm-chair and of a curious experience she had. how she related the same to her cousin volumnia. of icilia ciaranfi and donnina magliabecchi, and of the dust. the psychomorphic report. how miss volumnia did not lose her train chapter viii how mrs. euphemia aiken found madeline at home, who consequently did not go to a bun-worry. but she had met miss bax. how these ladies each confessed to bogyism, of a sort, and madeline said make it up. how mr. aiken took mr. tick's advice about diana, but could not find his transparent oxide of chromium. man at his loneliest. no tea. and what a juggins he had been! of mrs. gapp's dipsomania. the boys. how mr. aiken lit the gas, and heard a cab. how he nearly kissed madeline, who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake, glory be! _was_ there soap in the house? chapter ix madeline's report, next morning. charles mathews and madame vestris. how well madeline held her tongue to keep her promise. an anticipation of post-story time. how a deputation waited on mrs. aiken from the psychomorphic. mr. macanimus and mr. vacaw. gevartius much more correct for miss jessie to listen to than the laughing cavalier. of self-hypnosis and ghosts, their respective categories. the mad cat's nose outside the blanket. singular autophrenetic experience of mr. aiken. stenography. a case in point. not a phenomenon at all. how miss volumnia's penetration penetrated, and got at something. suggestion traced home. enough to explain any phenomenon chapter x how mr. pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation from italian. who was the old devil? who was the duchessa? of the narrator's incarceration. of his incredible escape. whose horse was that in the avenue? how mr. pelly read faster. was uguccio killed? sir stopleigh scandalised. but then it was the middle ages--one of them, anyhow! how only duchesses know if dukes are asleep. of the bone mr. pelly picked with madeline. but what becomes of unconscious cerebration? ambrose paré. marta's little knife. love was not unknown in the middle ages. the end of the manuscript. but sir stopleigh went out to see a visitor, in the middle. how madeline turned white, and went suddenly to bed. what was it all about? seventy-seven could wait chapter xi how the picture spoke again. abstract metaphysical questions, and no answers. how the picture's memory was sharpened, and how mr. pelly woke up. mr. stebbings and mrs. buckmaster. the actule fax. jack's resurrection, without an arm. full particulars. all fair in love. how mr. pelly knew the picture could see all, and how madeline had not gone to bed. captain maclagan's family. fuller particulars. general fordyce and the bart. not wanted. what the picture must have seen and may have thought. good-bye to the story. mere postscript chapter i a good deal about a box of matches. concerning a married couple, whom anyone would have thought quarrelsome, to listen to them. of the difficulty with which the lady housekept, and how her husband was no help at all. but they went to the old water colour. how sairah only just wiped gently over a tacky picture, and mr. aiken said god and devil. of the plural number. of a very pretty girl, but dressy, and her soldier lover, and how mrs. aiken was proper. of her mystical utterance about the young lady. how mr. aiken sought for an explanation from sairah, and created a situation. how his wife went to her aunt priscilla, at athabasca villa, and cried herself to sleep. "you'll have to light the gas, sairah!" said an artist in a fog, one morning in chelsea. for although summer was on the horizon, it was cold and damp; and, as we all know, till fires come to an end, london is not fogless--if, indeed, it ever is so. this was a very black fog, of the sort that is sure to go off presently, because it is only due to atmospheric conditions. meanwhile, it was just as well to light the gas, and not go on pretending you could see and putting your eyes out. this artist, after putting his eyes out, called out, from a dark corner in his studio, to something in a dark corner outside. and that something shuffled into the room and scratched something else several times at intervals on something gritty. it was sairah, evidently, and sairah appeared impatient. "they're damp, sairah," said the artist feebly. "why do you get that sort? why can't you get bryant and may?" "these are bryant and may, mr. aching. you can light 'em yourself if it sootes you better. i know my place. only they're safety, and fly in your eye. puttin' of 'em down to dry improves. i'd screw up a spell, only there's no gettin' inside of the stove. nor yet any fire, in the manner of speaking." the scratching continued. so did sairah's impatience. then the supply of the something stopped, for sairah said: "there ain't any more. that's the hend of the box. and exceptin' i go all the way to the king's road there ain't another in the house--not bryant and may." "oh dear, oh dear!" said the artist, in the lowest spirits. but he brightened up. "perhaps there's a vesta," said he. sairah threw the thing nearest to her against the thing nearest to it to indicate her readiness to search. "look in the pocket of my plaid overcoat, sairah," he continued. "it was a new box tuesday." sairah shuffled into another room, and was heard to turn over garments. the artist seemed to know which was which, by the sound. for he called out: "none of those! on the hook." sairah appeared to turn up the soil in a new claim, and presently announced: "nothing in neither pocket. only coppers and a thrip'ny!" "oh dear--i'm certain there was! are you sure you've looked? just look again, sairah." he seemed distressed that there should be no vesta in his overcoat pocket. "you can see for yourself--by lookin'," says sairah. "and then there won't be any turnin' round and blamin' me!" whereupon she appears, bearing a garment. the reason she shuffles is that she has to hold the heels of her shoes down on the floor with her feet. the owner of the overcoat dived deep into the pockets, but found nothing. he appeared dumbfoundered. "well, now!" he continued. "whatever can have become of my vestas?" and thereon, as one in panic on emergency, he put down the sponge and brush he was using and searched rapidly through all his other pockets. he slapped himself in such places as might still contain forgotten pockets; and then stood in thought, as one to whom a light of memory will come if he thinks hard enough, but with a certain glare and distortion of visage to say, in place of speech, how truly active is his effort of thought. and then of a sudden he is illuminated, and says of course!--_he_ knows! but he doesn't know, for, after leaving the room to seek for his vestas, and banging some doors, he comes back, saying he thought they were there and they aren't. wherefore, sairah must run out and get some more; and look sharp, because they must have the gas! but sairah, who has not been exerting herself, awakes suddenly from something equivalent to sleep which she can indulge in upright, without support, and says, nodding towards a thing she speaks of, "ain't that them on the stove?" and the artist says, "no, it isn't; it's an empty box. cut along and look sharp!" sairah made no response; and time was lost in conversation, as follows: "that ain't an empty box!" "it _is_ an empty box! do cut along and look sharp!" "it ain't my idear of an empty box. but, of course, it ain't for _me_ to say nothin'!" "i tell you i'm quite _sure_ it's empty. perfectly certain!" "well! it ain't for me to say anything. but if you had a asted me, i should have said there wouldn't any harm have come of looking inside of it, to see. of course i can _go_, if you come to that! only there's tandstickers in the kitchen, and for the matter of that, the fire ain't let out; nor likely when it's not the sweep till wednesday." "get 'em out of the kitchen, then! get the tandstickers or get anything. anywhere; only look alive!" he seemed roused to impatience. "of course i _can_ get them out of the kitchen. or there's missus's bedroom candlestick stood on the landin', with one in, and guttered." sairah enumerated two or three other resources unexhausted, and left the room. when she had vanished, the artist went and stood with his back to the stove, for it was too dark to work. being there, he picked up the empty box and seemed to examine it. having done so, he left the room, and called over the stair-rail, to a lower region. "sair-ah!" "did you call, sir?" "yes--you needn't go! there's some here." "'arf a minute till i put these back." and then from underground came the voice of the young woman saying something enigmatical about always wishing to give satisfaction, and there was never any knowing. but she remained below, because her master said: "you needn't come up again now. i'll light it myself." in an instant, however, he called out again that she must bring the matches, after all, because the vestas were all stuck to, through being on the stove. when she reappeared, after a good deal of shuffling about below, he asked her why on earth she couldn't come at once. she explained, with some indignation, that she had been doing a little dusting in the parlour; and, of course, the tandstickers, she put 'em back in the kitchen, not bein' wanted, as you might say. but all obstacles to lighting the gas were now removed. illumination presented itself first as an incombustible hiss; but shortly became a flame, and was bright enough to work by. the artist did not seem very contented with it, and said that the pressure was weak, and it was off at the main, and there was water in the pipes, and the gas was bad and very dear. but he worked for half-an-hour or so, and then a young woman came in, of whom he took no notice; so she must have been his wife. of whom anyone might have thought that she was stopping away from a funeral against her will, and resented the restraint. for she bit her lips and tapped with her feet as she sat in the arm-chair she dropped into when she entered the room. she made no remark, but maintained an aggressive silence. presently the young man moaned. "what _is_ the rumpus?" said he plaintively. "what _is_ the everlasting rumpus?" "it's very easy for you. men can! but if you were a woman, you would feel it like i do. thank god, reginald, you are not a woman!" "good job i ain't! we might quarrel, if i was. you've got something to be thankful for, you see, mrs. hay." this way of addressing her, as mrs. hay, was due to the substitution of the initial for the whole name, which was aiken. "oh, you _are_ unfeeling," said she reproachfully. "you know perfectly well what i meant!" "meant that you thanked god i wasn't a woman." but this made the lady evince despair. "well!--what _did_ you mean, then? spit it out." "you are tired of me, reginald, and i shall go for my walk alone. of course, what i meant was plain enough, to any but a downright fool. i meant _you_ were to thank god, reginald--on your knees!--that _you_ were a man and not a woman. the idea of my saying anything so silly! wait till you are a woman, and _then_ see! but if you're not coming, i shall go. i don't know why you want the gas. it all mounts up in the bills. and then _i_ shall be found fault with, i suppose." "i want the gas because i can't see without it." after a phase of despair, followed by resignation, the lady said, speaking in the effect of the latter: "i think, reginald, if you had any regard for the bills, you would just look out of the window, once in an hour or so, and not consume all those cubic feet of gas at three-and-ninepence. the fog's gone! there's the sun. i knew it would be, and it was perfectly ridiculous to put off going to the old water colour." "suppose we go, then? hay, mrs. hay? get your hat, and we'll go." he turned the gas out. "oh no! it's no use going now--it's too late. and it's all so depressing. and you know it is! and i shall have to get rid of this new girl, sairah." "i thought she looked honest." this was spoken feebly. she answered irritably: "you always think they look honest when they're ugly. this one's no better than they all are. it's not the honesty, though. it's she won't do anything." "why didn't you have that rather pleasin'-looking gyairl with a bird's wing on her hat?" "that conscious minx! i really do sometimes quite wonder at you, reginald! besides, she wanted a parlourmaid's place, and wouldn't go where there wasn't a manservant kept. you men are such fools! and you don't give any help." mr. aiken, observing a disposition to weep in these last words, seemed embarrassed for a moment; but after reflection became conciliatory. "sairah does seem lazy. but she says she's not been accustomed." "and then you give way! you might put that magnifying-glass down just for one moment, and pay attention! of course, she says she's not been accustomed to anything and everything. they all do! but what can one expect when their master blacks his own boots?" "what can _i_ do, when she says she hopes she knows her place, and she ain't a general, where a boy comes in to do the rough work?" "what can you _do_? why, of course _not_ carry your dirty boots down into the kitchen and black them yourself, and have her say, when you ask for the blacking, do you know where it's kept? i've no patience! but some men will put up with anything, except their wives; and then one's head's snapped off! '_do you know where it's kept!_' the idea! ... well, are you coming, or are you not? because, _if_ you're coming, i must put on my grey tweed. if you're _not_ coming, say so!" but mr. aiken did not say so. so, after a good deal of time needlessly spent in preparation, the two asked each other several times if they were ready, shouting about the house to that effect. and then, when they reappeared in the studio, having succeeded very indifferently in improving their appearance, the lady asked the gentleman more than once whether she looked right, and he said in a debilitated way, yes!--he thought so. whereon she took exception to his want of interest in her appearance, and he said she needn't catch him up so short. however, they did get away in the end, and sairah came in to do a little tidin' up--not often getting the opportunity in the studio--in pursuance of a programme arranged between herself and her mistress, in an aside out of hearing of her master, in order that the latter should not interpose, as he always did, and he knew it, to prevent anything the least like cleanness or order. how he could go on so was a wonder to his wife. as for sairah, the image of herself which she nourished in her own mind was apparently that of one determined to struggle single-handed to re-establish system in the midst of a world given over to chaos. whatever state the place would get into if it wasn't for her, she couldn't tell! the other inhabitants of the planet would never do a hand's turn; anyone could see that! in fact, the greater part of them devoted themselves to leavin' things about for her to clear up. the remainder, to gettin' in the way. when you were that werrited, you might very easy let something drop, and no great wonder! and things didn't show, not when riveted, if only done careful enough. or a little diamond cement hotted up and the edges brought to. there was a man they knew his address at pibses dairy, over a hivory-turner's he lived, done their ornamential pail beautiful, and you never see a crack! but sairah's alacrity, when she found herself alone in the studio, fell short of her implied forecast of it. instead of taking opportunity by the forelock, and doing the little bit of tidying up that she stood pledged to, she gave herself up to the contemplation of the fine arts. now, there were two fine arts to which this master, mr. reginald aiken, devoted himself. one, the production of original compositions; which did not pay, owing to their date. some of these days they would be worth a pot of money--you see if they wouldn't! the other fine art was that of the picture-restorer, and did pay. at any rate, it paid enough to keep mr. aiken and his wife--and at this particular moment sairah--in provisions cooked and quarrelled over at the street-door by the latter; leaving mrs. aiken's hundred a year, which her aunt priscilla allowed her, to pay the rent and so on, with a good margin for cabs and such-like. anyhow, as the lady of the house helped _with_ the house, the aikens managed, somehow. or perhaps it should be said that, somehow, the aikens managed anyhow. mrs. verity, their landlady, had her opinions about this. this, however, is by the way; but, arising as it does from this artist's twofold mission in life, it connects itself with a regrettable occurrence which came about in consequence of sairah's not confining herself to tidying up, and getting things a bit straight, but seizing the opportunity to do a little dusting also. those on whom the guardianship of a picture recently varnished has fallen know the assiduous devotion with which it must be watched to protect it from insect-life and flue. even the larger lepidoptera may fail to detach themselves from a fat, slow-drying varnish, without assistance; and who does not know how terribly the delicate organization of beetles' legs may suffer if complicated with treacle or other glutinous material. but beetles' legs may be removed with care from varnish, and leave no trace of their presence, provided the varnish is not too dry. flue, on the other hand, at any stage of desiccation, spells ruin, and is that nasty and messy there's no doing anything with it; and you may just worrit yourself mad, and sticky yourself all over, and only make matters worse than you began. so you may just as well let be, and not be took off your work no longer; nursing, however, an intention of saying well now!--you declare, who ever could have done that, and not a livin' soul come anigh the place, you having been close to the whole time, and never hardly took your eyes off? that sketches the line of defence sairah was constrained to adopt, after what certainly was at least a culpable error of judgment. she should not have wiped over any picture at all, not even with the cleanest of dusters. and though the one she used was the one she kep' for the studio, nothing warranted its application to the italian half-length that had been entrusted to mr. aiken by sir stopleigh upwell, to clean and varnish carefully, and touch up the frame, without destroying the antique feeling of the latter. mr. aiken was certainly to blame for not locking the door and taking away the key. so he had no excuse for using what is called strong language when he and his wife came back from the old water colour. she had not been in _ten minutes_--a period she laid great stress on--when she heard him shouting inside the studio. and then he came out in the passage and shouted down the stairs. "good god, euphemia! where are you? where the devil are you? do come up here! i'm _ruined_, i tell you! ... that brute of a girl!..." and he went stamping about in his uncontrollable temper. his wife was alarmed, but not to the extent of forgetting to enter her protest against the strong language. "reginald!" she said with dignity, "have i not often told you that if you say god and devil i shall go away and spend the rest of the day with my aunt priscilla, at coombe? before the girl and all!" but her husband was seriously upset at something. "don't go on talking like an idiot," he said irritably. then his manner softened, as though he was himself a little penitent for the strong language, and he subsided into "do come up and see what that confounded girl has done." those conversant with the niceties of strong language will see there was concession in this. mrs. aiken went upstairs, and saw what the confounded girl had done. but she did not seem impressed. "it wants a rub," she said. then her husband said, "that's just like you, euphemia. you're a fool." whereupon the lady said in a dignified manner, "perhaps if i am a fool, i'd better go." and was, as it were, under compulsion to do so, seeing that no objection was raised. but she must have gone slowly, inasmuch as she presently called back from the landing, "what's that you said?" not without severity. "i said 'call the girl.'" "you said nothing of the sort. what was it you said before that?" now, what her husband had said was, "the idea of a _rub_! idiotic barbarian!" he was unable to qualify this speech effectually, and his wife went some more stairs up. not to disappear finally; a compromise was possible. "did you say 'idiotic barbarian,' or 'idiotic barbarians'? because it makes all the difference." "barbarians. plural. don't be a fool, and come down." thereupon the lady came back as far as the door, but seemed to waver in concession, for she made reservations. "i am not coming down because of anything," she said, "but only to remind you that that miss upwell was to come some time to see the picture, and i think that's her." "what's her? i don't hear anyone at the door." "it's no use gaping out of the front-window. you know quite well what i mean. that's her in the carriage, gone to the macnivensons' by mistake for us, as people always do and always will, reginald, until mrs. verity gets the borough council to change the numbers. 'thirty-seven a' is a mere mockery." mr. aiken came out of the studio, and went up to the side-window on the landing, commanding a view of the street in which thirty-seven a stood, his own tenancy being in the upper half of a corner house. "that's her," said he. "and a young swell. sweetheart, p'raps! smart set, they look. but, i say, mrs. hay..." "do come away from the window. they'll see you, and it looks so bad. _what_ do you say?" "what the devil am i to do? i can't let her see the picture in that state." "nonsense! just wipe the mess off. you are such a fidget, reginald." but the artist could not have his work treated thus lightly. the girl must say he had been called away on important business. it was absolutely impossible to let that picture be seen in its present state. and it would take over an hour to make it fit to be seen.... well, of course, it was difficult, mr. aiken admitted, to think what to say, all in a hurry! he thought very hard, and twice said, "i've an idea. look here!" and his wife said, "well?" but nothing came of it. then he said, "anyhow, she mustn't come into the studio. that's flat!..." but when, in answer to inquiry as to how the difficulty of the position should be met, he riposted brusquely, "who's to see her? why, _you_!"--mrs. aiken said, in the most uncompromising way, no--that she wouldn't; the idea! if there were to be any fibs told, her husband must tell them himself, and not put them off on her. it was unmanly cowardice. let him tell his own fibs. but the colloquy, which threatened to become heated, was interrupted by a knock at the door. warmth of feeling had to give way before necessity for action. broadly speaking, this took the form of affectation, on the part of mr. and mrs. aiken, of a remoteness from the studio not favoured by the resources of their premises, and, on the part of sairah, of a dramatic effort to which she proved altogether unequal. she was instructed to say that she didn't know if her master was at home, but would see, if the lady and gentleman would walk into the studio. she was then to convey an impression of passing through perspectives of corridors, and opening doors respectfully, and meeting with many failures, but succeeding in the end in running her quarry down in some boudoir or private chapel. she failed, and was audible to the visitors in the studio, within a few feet of its door, which didn't 'asp, unless pulled to sharp. she had not pulled it to sharp. and her words were not well chosen:--"i said to 'em to set down till you come, and you wouldn't be a minute." no more they were; but there are more ways than one of not being a minute, and they chose the one most illustrative--to mrs. aiken's mind--of the frequency of unexpected visits from the _élite_. "don't go rushing in, as if no one ever came!" said she to her husband. the young lady and gentleman did not sit down, but walked about the room, the former examining its contents. the gentleman, who was palpably an officer in a cavalry regiment, neglected the fine arts, in favour of the lady, whom he may be said to have gloated over at a respectful distance. but he expressed himself to the effect that this was an awful lark, straining metaphor severely. the young lady, whose beauty had made sairah's head reel, said, "yes--it's fun," more temperately. but both looked blooming and optimistic, and ready to recognise awful larks and fun in almost any combination of circumstances. the first instinct of visitors to a studio is to find some way of avoiding looking at the pictures. a good method towards success in this object is to lean back and peep over all the canvases with their faces to the wall, and examine all the sketch-books, in search of what really interests you so much more than finished work; to wit, the first ideas of the artist, fresh from his brain--incomplete, of course, but full of an indefinable something. they are _himself_, you see! but they spoil your new gloves, and perhaps you are going on to hurlingham. these young people were; and that, no doubt, was why the young lady went no further in her researches than to discover the rich grimy quality of the dirt they compelled her to wallow in. it repulsed her, and she had to fall back on the easels and their burdens. they glanced at "diana and actæon," unfinished, the artist's _capo d'opera_ at this date, and appeared embarrassed for a moment, but conscious that something is still due to high art. "why don't you say the drawing's fine, or the tone, or something? you're not doing your duty, jack." thus spoke the young lady, who presently, to the relief of both, found an enthusiasm. "she's perfectly lovely! but is _she_ mr. malkin's work? she isn't--_she's our picture_! she's early italian." she clapped her hands and laughed with delight. oh dear!--how pretty she looked, transfixed, as it were, with her lips apart opposite to the picture sairah had been attending to! the young man took his eyes off her to glance at the picture, then put them back again. "i don't dislike 'em early italian," he said. but he wasn't paying proper attention; and, besides, sairah's little essay towards picture-restoration had caught his passing glance. "what's all that woolly mess?" said he. "picture-cleaning, of course," said the lady. "mr. malthus knows what he's about--at least, i suppose so.... oh, here he is!" now, this young lady ought to have made herself mistress of the artist's real name before visiting his studio. not having done so, his sudden appearance--he had taken the bit in his teeth and rushed in as though at most very few people ever came--was a little embarrassing to her, especially as he said correctively, "aiken." thereon the young lady said she meant aiken, which may have been true, or not. however, she got the conversation on a sound footing by a little bit of truthfulness. "i was just saying to captain calverley that the 'woolly mess,' as he is pleased to call it, is what you are doing to the picture. isn't it, now?" mr. aiken satisfied his conscience cleverly. he smiled in a superior way--as a master smiles at one that is not of his school--and said merely, "something of the kind." this young lady, madeline upwell, had never been in a real picture-restorer's studio before, and could not presume to be questioning anything, or taking exceptions. so she accepted sairah's handiwork as technical skill of a high order. and mr. aiken, his conscience at ease at having avoided fibs, which so often lead to embarrassments, felt quite in high spirits, and could give himself airs about his knowledge of early italian art. "a fine picture!" said he. "but not a bronzino." miss upwell looked dejected, and said, "oh dear!--isn't it? ought it to be?" captain calverley said, "p'raps it's by somebody else." but he was evidently only making conversation. and miss upwell said to him, "jack, you don't know anything about it. be quiet!" whereupon captain calverley was quiet. he was very good and docile, and no wonder; for the fact is, his inner soul purred like a cat whenever this young lady addressed him by name. mr. aiken went on to declare his own belief about the authorship in question. his opinion was of less than no value, but he gave it for what it was worth. the picture was palpably the work of mozzo vecchio, or his son cippo--probably the latter, who was really the finer artist of the two, in spite of jupp. as to the identity of the portrait, he did not agree with any of the theories about it. he then, receiving well-bred encouragement to proceed from his hearers, threw himself into a complete exposition of his views--although he frequently dwelt upon their insignificance and his own--with such enthusiasm that it was with a wrench to his treatment of the subject that he became aware that his wife had come into the room and was expecting to be taken notice of, venomously. at the same time it dawned on him that his visitors had assumed the appearance of awaiting formal introduction. the method of indicating this is not exactly like endeavouring to detect a smell of gas, nor giving up a conundrum and waiting for the answer, nor standing quite still to try on, nor any particular passage in fielding at cricket; but there may be a little of each in it. only, you mustn't speak on any account--mind that! you may say "er"--if that indicates the smallest speakable section of a syllable--as a friendly lead to the introducer. and it is well to indicate, if you can, how sweet your disposition will be towards the other party when the introducer has taken action, like the treasury. but the magic words must be spoken. miss upwell was beginning to feel a spirit of chauvinism rising in her heart, that might in time have become "is _this_ mrs. aiken?" with a certain gush of provisional joy, when the gentleman perceived his neglect, and said, "ah--oh!--my wife, of course! beg pardon!" on which mrs. aiken said, "you must forgive my husband," with an air of spacious condescension, and the incident ended curiously by a kind of alliance between the two ladies against the social blunders of male mankind. but the artist's wife declined to fall in with current opinion about the picture. "i suppose it's very beautiful, and all that," said she. "only don't ask _me_ to admire it! i never _have_ liked that sort of thing, and i never _shall_ like it." she went on to say the same thing more frequently than public interest in her decisions appeared to warrant. the young lady said, in a rather plaintive, disappointed tone, "but _is_ it that sort of thing?" she had evidently fallen in love with the picture, and while not prepared to deny that sorts of things existed which half-length portraits oughtn't to be, was very reluctant to have a new-found idol pitchforked into their category. the artist said, "what the dooce you mean, euphemia, i'm blest if _i_ know!" he looked like an artist who wished his wife hadn't come into his room when visitors were there. the captain said, "what sort of thing? i don't see that she's any sort at all. thundering pretty sort, anyhow!" thereupon the artist's wife said, "i suppose i'm not to speak," and showed symptoms of a dangerous and threatening self-subordination. the lady visitor, perceiving danger ahead, with great tact exclaimed: "oh, but i do know so _exactly_ what mrs. aiken means." she didn't know, the least in the world. but what did that matter? she went on to dwell on the beauty of the portrait, saying that she should persuade pupsey to have it over the library chimneypiece and take away that dreary old kneller woman. it was the best light in the whole place. but her sweetly meant effort to soothe away the paroxysm of propriety which seemed to have seized upon the lady of the house was destined to fail, for the husband of the latter must needs put his word in, saying, "i don't see any ground for it. never shall." this occasioned an intensification of his wife's attitude, shown by a particular form of silence, and an underspeech to miss upwell, as to one who would understand, "no ground?--with those arms and shoulders! and look at her open throat--oh, the whole thing!" which elicited a sympathetic sound, meant to mean anything. but the young lady was only being civil. because she had really no sympathy whatever with this mrs. what's-her-name, and spoke with severity of her afterwards, under that designation. at the moment, however, she made no protest beyond an expression of rapturous admiration for the portrait, saying it was the most fascinating head she had ever seen in a picture. and as for the arms and open throat, they were simply ducky. the artist's wife could find nothing to contradict flatly in this, and had to content herself with, "oh yes, the _beauty's_ undeniable. but that was how they did it." the young officer appeared to want to say something, but to be diffident. a nod of encouragement from miss upwell produced, "why, i was going to say--wasn't it awfully jolly of 'em to do it that way?" the speaker coloured slightly, but when the young lady said, "bravo, jack! i'm on your side," he looked happy and reinstated. but when could the picture be finished and be sent to surley stakes? the young lady would never be happy till it was safe there, now she had seen it. would mr. aiken get it done in a week? ... no?--then in a fortnight? the artist smiled in a superior way, from within the panoply of his mystery, and intimated that at least a month would be required; and, indeed, to do justice to so important a job, he would much rather have said six weeks. he hoped, however, that miss upwell would be content with his assurance that he would do his best. miss upwell would not be at all content. still, she would accept the inevitable. how could she do otherwise, with captain calverley's sisters waiting for them at hurlingham? "quite up to date!" was the verdict of the artist's wife, as soon as her guest was out of hearing. "who?" said the artist. then, as one who steps down from conversation to communication, he added in business tones: "i say, euphemia, i shall have to run this all down with turps before the copal hardens, and i really must give my mind to it. you had better hook it." "i'm going directly. but it's easy to say 'who?'" "oh, i say, _do_ hook it! i can't attend to you and this at the same time." "i'm going. but it _is_ easy to say 'who?' and you know it's easy." the artist, who was coquetting with one of those nice little corkscrews that bloom on artists' bottles, became impatient. "wha-a-_awt_ is it you're going on about?" he exclaimed, exasperated. "can't you leave the girl alone, and hook it?" "i can leave the room," said his wife temperately, "and am doing so. but you see you knew perfectly well who, all along!" even so the japanese wrestler, who has got a certainty, is temperance itself towards his victim, who writhes in vain. why on earth could not the gentleman leave the lady to go her own way, and attend to his work? he couldn't; and must needs fan the fires of an incipient wrangle that would have burned down, left to itself. "don't be a fool, euphemia," said he. "can't you answer my question? what do you mean by 'quite up to date'?" now, mrs. aiken had a much better memory than her husband. "because," she replied, dexterously seizing on his weak point, "you never asked any such question, reginald. if you had asked me to tell you what i meant by 'quite up to date,' i should have told you what i meant by 'quite up to date.' but i shall not tell you now, reginald, because it is worse than ridiculous for you to pretend you do not know the meaning of 'quite up to date,' when it is not only transparently on the surface, but obvious. ask anyone. ask my aunt priscilla. ask mrs. verity." the lady had much better have stopped here. but she wished to class her landlady amongst the lower intelligences, so she must needs add, somewhat in the rear of her enumeration, in a quick _sotto voce_, "ask the girl sairah, for that matter!" "what's that?" said her husband curtly. "you heard what i said." "oh yes, i heard what you _said_. well--suppose i ask the girl sairah!" "reginald! if you are determined to make yourself and your wife ridiculous, i shall go. i do think that, even if you have no common sense, you might have a little good-feeling. the girl sairah! the idea!" she collected herself a little more--some wandering scraps were out of bounds--and went almost away, just listening back on the staircase landing. now, although an impish intention may have flickered in the mind of mr. reginald aiken, he certainty had no definite idea of catechising the girl sairah about the phrase under discussion when he rang the bell for her and summoned her to the studio. but his wife having taken him _au serieux_ instead of laughing at his absurdity, the impish intention flared up, and had not time to die down before sairah answered the bell. would it have done so if he had not been conscious that his wife was still standing at pause on the staircase to keep an eye on the outcome? so, when sairah lurched into his sanctum, asking whether he rang--not without suggestion that offence would be given by an affirmative answer--his real intention in summoning the damsel wavered at the instigation of the spirit of mischief that had momentary possession of him; and instead of blowing her up roundly for damaging his picture, he actually must needs ask her the very question his wife had said "the idea!" about. he spoke loud, that his speech should reach that lady's listening ears. "yes sairah: i rang for _you_. what is the meaning of...?" he paused a moment, to overhear, if possible, some result of his words in the passage. "it's nothin' along o' me. _i_ ain't done nothin'." a brief sketch of a blameless life, implied in these words, seemed to sairah the safest policy. she thought she was going to be indicted for the ruin of the picture. "shut up, sairah!" said the artist, and listened. of course, he was doing this, you see, to plague his wife. but he heard nothing, being nevertheless mysteriously aware that mrs. aiken was still on the landing above, taking mental notes of what she overheard. so he pursued his inquiry, regarding sairah as a mere lay-figure of use in practical joking. "i expect you know the meaning of 'up to date,' sairah," said he, and listened. but no sign came from without. if the ears this pleasantry was intended to reach were still there, their owner was storing up retribution for its author in silence. it was but natural that this young woman sairah, having no information on any topic whatever--for this condition soon asserts itself in young women of her class after their board-school erudition has had time to die a natural death--should be apt to ascribe sinister meanings to things she did not understand. and in this case none the less for the air and aspect of the speaker, which, while it really was open to the misinterpretation that it was intended to convey insinuating waggery to the person addressed, had only reference to the enjoyment mr. aiken had, or was proposing to himself, from a mild joke perpetrated at his wife's expense. however, the young woman was not going to fly out--an action akin to the showing of a proper spirit--without an absolute certainty of the point to be flown out about. therefore sairah said briefly, "ask your parding!" briefly, but with a slight asperity. the artist, though he was in some doubt whether his jest was worth proceeding with, was too far committed to retreat. with his wife listening on the stairs, was he not bound to pursue his inquiry? obviously he must do so, or run the risk of being twitted with his indecision by that lady later on. so he said, with effrontery, "your mistress says you can tell me the meaning of the expression 'up to date,' sairah." sairah turned purple. "well, i never!" said she. "mrs. aching to say that of a respectable girl!" mr. aiken became uncomfortable, as sairah turned purple. he began to perceive that his jest was a very stupid one. as sairah turned purpler, he became more uncomfortable still. a panic-stricken review of possible ways out of the difficulty started in his mind, but soon stopped for want of materials. explanation--cajolery--severe transition to another topic--he thought of all three. the first was simply impossible to reasoning faculties like sairah's. the second was out of mr. aiken's line. if the girl had been a _model_ now! ... and who can say that then it might not have been ticklish work--yes!--even with the strong personal vanity of that inscrutable class to appeal to? there was nothing for it but the third, and mr. aiken's confidence in it was very weak. something had to be done, though, with sairah's colour _crescendo_, and probably mrs. hay outside the door; that was the image his mind supplied. he felt like an ill-furnished storming-party, a forlorn hope in want of a ladder, as he said, "there--never mind that now! you've been meddling with this picture. you know you have. look here!" had he been a good tactician, he would have affected sudden detection of the injury to the picture. but he lost the opportunity. sairah held the strong position of an injured woman. if she was to have the sack, she much preferred to have it "on her own"--to wrest it, as it were, from a grasp unwilling to surrender it--rather than to have it forced upon her unwilling acceptance, with a month's notice and a character for vandalism. so she repeated, as one still rigid with amazement, "mrs. aching to say that of a respectable girl!" and remained paralysed, in dumb show. mr. aiken perceived with chagrin that he might have saved the situation by, "what's this horrible mess on the picture? _you've_ been touching this!" and a drowning storm of indignation to follow. it was too late now. he had to accept his task as destiny set it, and he cut a very poor figure over it--was quite outclassed by sairah. he could actually manage nothing better than, "do let that alone, girl! i tell you it was foolery.... i tell you it was a joke. look here at this picture--the mischief you've done it. you _know_ you did it!" to which sairah thus:--"ho, it's easy gettin' out of it that way, mr. aching. not but what i have always known you for the gentleman--i will say that. but _such_ a thing to say! if i'd a been missis, i should have shrank!" the artist felt that there was nothing for it but to grapple with the situation. he shouted at the indignant young woman, "don't be such a confounded idiot, girl! i mean, don't be such an insufferable goose. i tell you, you're under a complete misconception. nobody's ever said anything against you. nobody's said a word against your confounded character, and be hanged to it! do have a little common sense! a young woman of your age ought to be ashamed to be such a fool." but sairah's entrenchments were strengthened, if anything. "it's easy calling fool," said she. "and as for saying against, who's using expressions, and passing off remarks now?" controversial opponents incapable of understanding anything whatever are harder to refute than the shrewdest intellects. mr. aiken felt that sairah was oak and triple brass against logical conviction. explanation only made matters worse. a vague desperate idea of summoning his wife and accusing sairah of intoxication, as a sort of universal solvent, crossed his mind; and he actually went so far as to look out into the passage for her, but only to find that she had vanished for the moment. coning back, he assumed a sudden decisive tone, saying, "there--that'll do, sairah! now go." but sairah wasn't going to give in, evidently, and he added, "i mean, that's enough!" whether it was or wasn't, sairah showed no signs of concession. _she_ was going, no fear! she was going--ho yes!--she was going. she said she was going so often that mr. aiken said at last, "well, go!" but when the young woman began to go--vengefully, as it were, even as a quadruped suddenly stung by an ill-deserved whip--he inconsequently exclaimed, "stop!" for a fell purpose had been visible in her manner. what, he asked, was she going to do? what was she going to do? oh yes!--it was easy asking questions. but the answer would reach mr. aiken in due course. nevertheless, if he wanted to know, she would be generous, and tell him. she wasn't an underhand girl, like the majority of her sex at her age. mean concealments were foreign to her nature. she was going straight to mrs. aching to give a month's warning, and you might summing in the police to search her box. all should be aboveboard, as had been the case in her family for generations past, and she never had experienced such treatment all the places she'd been in, nor yet expected to it. it was then that this artist made a serious error of judgment. he would have done much more wisely to allow this stupid maid-of-all-work to go away and attend to some of it in the kitchen, while he looked after his own. instead of doing so, he, being seriously alarmed at the possible domestic consequences of his very imperfectly thought out joke--for he knew his wife accounted the finding of a new handmaid life's greatest calamity--must needs make an ill-advised attempt to calm the troubled waters on the same line that he would have adopted, at any rate in his bohemian days, with miss de lancey or miss montmorency--these names are chosen at random--whose professional beauty as models did not prevent their suffering, now and again, from tantrums. and cajolery, of the class otherwise known as blarney, might have smoothed over the incident, and the whole thing have been forgotten, if bad luck had not, just at this moment, brought back to the studio the mistress of the house, who had only been attracted by a noise in the street to look out at a front-window. she, coming unheard within hearing, not only was aware of interchanges of unusual amiability between reginald and that horrible girl sairah, but was just in time to hear the latter say, "you keep your 'ands off of me now, mr. aching!" without any apparent intention of being taken at her word. and, further, that the odious minx brazened it out, leaving the room as if nothing had happened, before the gentleman's offended wife could find words to express her indignation. at least, so this lady told her aunt priscilla that evening, in an interview from which we have just borrowed some telling phrases. as for her profligate husband, it came out in the same interview that he looked "sheepish to a degree, and well he might." he had tried to cook up a sort of explanation--"oh yes! a _sort_,"--which was no doubt an attempt on the misguided man's part to tell the truth. but we have seen that he was the last person to succeed in such an enterprise; and, indeed, self-exculpation is tough work, even for the guiltless. fancy the fingers of reproachful virtue directed at you from all points of the compass. and suppose, to make matters worse, you had committed something--not a crime, you would never do that; but something or other of a committable nature--what on earth could you do but look sheepish to some degree or other? unless, indeed, you were a minx, and could brazen it out, like that gurl. such a ridiculous and vulgar incident would not be worth so much description, but that, like other things of the same sort, it led to serious consequences. a storm occurred in what had hitherto been a haven of domestic peace, and the artist's wife carried out her threat, this time, of a visit to her aunt priscilla. that good lady, being a spinster of very limited experience, but anxious to make it seem a wide one, dwelt upon her knowledge of mankind and its evil ways, and the hopelessness of undivided possession thereof by womankind. she had told her niece "what it was going to be," when she first learned that mr. aiken was an artist. she repeated what she had said before, that artists' wives had no idea what was going on under their eyes. if they had, artists would very soon be unprovided with the raw material of proper infidelity. they would have no wives, and would go on like in paris. this tale is absolutely irresponsible for miss priscilla's informants; it only reports her words. now, mrs. euphemia aiken, in spite of a severe ruction with her husband, had really not consciously imputed to him any transgression of a serious nature when--as that gentleman worded it--she "flounced away" to her aunt priscilla with an angry report of how reginald had insulted her. she had much too high an opinion of him to form, on her own account, a mental version of his conduct, such as the one her excellent aunt jumped at, in pursuance of the establishment of a vile moral character for artists and nephews-in-law generally, with a concrete foundation in the case of an artist-nephew--a centaur-like combination with a doubt which half was which. but nothing is easier than to convince any human creature that any other is twice, thrice, four times as human as itself, in respect of what is graceless or disgraceful--spot-stroke barred, of course; meaning felony. so that after a long interview with aunt priscilla, this foolish woman cried herself to sleep, having accepted the good lady's offered hospitality, and was next morning so vigorously urged to do scriptural things in the way of forgiveness and submission to her husband--so miltonic, in fact, did the prevailing atmosphere become--that she naturally sat down and wrote a healthily furious letter to him. the tale may surmise that she offered him sairah as a consolation for what it knows she proposed--her own withdrawal to a voluntary grass-widowhood. for she flatly refused to return to her deserted hearth. and, indeed, the poor lady may have felt that her home had been soiled and desecrated. but it was not only her aunt's impudent claim to superior knowledge--she was still miss priscilla bax, and of irreproachable character--that had influenced her, but the recollection of sairah. it would not have been half as bad if it had been a distinguished young lady with a swoop, like in a shiny journal she subscribed for quarterly. but sairah! that gurl! visions of sairah's _coiffure_; of the way sairah appeared to be coming through, locally, owing to previousness on the part of hooks which would not wait for their own affinities, but annexed the very first eye that appealed to them; of intolerable stockings she overlooked large holes in, however careful she see to 'em when they come from the wash; of her chronic pocket-handkerchief--all these kept floating before her eyes and exasperating her sense of insult and degradation past endurance. perhaps the worst and most irritating thought was the extent to which she had stooped to supplement this maid's all-work by efforts of her own, without which their small household could scarcely have lived within its limited means. no!--let reginald grill his own chops now, or find another sairah! it was illustrative of the unreality of this ruction that the lady took it as a matter of course that sairah would accept the sack in the spirit in which it was given; for official banishment of the culprit was her last act on leaving the house. no idea entered her head that her husband had the slightest personal wish to retain sairah. as for him, he judged it best to pay the girl her month's wages and send her packing. he removed her deposit of flue from the picture-varnish, and in due time completed the job and sent it off to its destination. he fell back provisionally on his old bachelor ways, making his own bed and slipping slowly down into chaos at home, but getting well fed either by his friends or at an italian restaurant near by--others being beyond his means or fraught with garbage--and writing frequent appeals to his wife not to be an ass, but to come back and be jolly. she opened his letters and read them, and more than once all but started to return to him--would have done so, in fact, if her excellent aunt had not pointed out, each time, that it was the woman's duty to forgive. which she might have gone the length of accepting, but for its exasperating sequel, "and submit herself to her husband." but neither he nor either of the other actors in this drama had the slightest idea that it had been witnessed by any eyes but their own. chapter ii how a little old gentleman was left alone in a library, in front of the picture sairah had only just wiped gently. how he woke up from a dream, which went on. the loquacity of a picture, and how he pointed out to it its unreality. the artist's name. there was plenty of time to hear more. the exact date of antiquity. the rational way of accounting for it. old mr. pelly is the little grey-headed wrinkled man with gold spectacles whom you have seen in london bookshops and curio-stores in late august and early september, when all the world has been away; the little old man who has seemed to you to have walked out of the last century but one. you may not have observed him closely enough at the moment to have a clear recollection of details, but you will have retained an image of knee-breeches and silk stockings; of something peculiar in the way of a low-crowned hat; of a watch and real seals; of a gold snuff-box you would have liked to sell for your own benefit; and of an ebony walking-stick with a silver head and a little silk tassel. on thinking this old gentleman over you will probably feel sorry you did not ask him a question about mazarine bibles or aldus manutius, so certain were you he would not have been rude. but you did not do so, and very likely he went back to grewceham, in worcestershire, where he lives by himself, and you lost your opportunity that time. however that may be, it is old mr. pelly our story has to do with now, and he is sitting before a wood-fire out of all proportion to the little dry old thing it was lighted to warm, and listening to the roaring of the wind in the big chimney of the library he sits in. but it is not his own library. that is at grewceham, two miles off. this library is the fine old library at surley stakes, the country-seat of sir stopleigh upwell, m.p., whose father was at school with mr. pelly, over sixty years ago. mr. pelly is stopping at "the stakes," as it is called, to avoid the noise and fuss of the little market-town during an election. and for that same reason has not accompanied sir stopleigh and his wife and daughter to a festivity consequent on the return of that very old bart, for the county. they will be late back; so mr. pelly can do no better than sit in the firelight, rejecting lamps and candles, and thinking over the translation of an italian manuscript, in fragments, that his friend professor schrudengesser has sent him from florence. it has been supposed to have some connection with the cinque-cento portrait by an unknown italian artist that hangs above the fire-blaze. and this portrait is the one the story saw, a little over six months since, in the atelier of that picture-cleaner, mr. reginald aiken, who managed to brew a quarrel with his wife by his own silliness and bad taste. it is only dimly visible in the half-light, but mr. pelly knows it is there; knows, too, that its eyes can see him, if a picture's eyes can see, and that its laugh is there on the parted lips, and that its jewelled hand is wound into the great tress of gold that falls on its bosom. for it is a portrait of a young and beautiful woman, such as galuppi baldassare wrote music about--you know, of course! and mr. pelly, as he thinks what it will look like when stebbings, the butler, or his myrmidons, bring in lights, feels chilly and grown old. but stebbings' instructions were distinctly not to bring in lights till mr. pelly rang, and mr. pelly didn't ring. he drank the cup of coffee stebbings had provided, without putting any cognac in it, and then fell into a doze. when he awoke, with a start and a sudden conviction that he indignantly fought against that he had been asleep, it was to find that the log-flare had worn itself out, and the log it fed on was in its decrepitude. just a wavering irresolute flame on its saw-cut end, and a red glow, and that was all it had left behind. "who spoke?" it was mr. pelly who asked the question. but no one had spoken, apparently. yet he would have sworn that he heard a woman's voice speaking in italian. how funny that the associations of an italian manuscript should creep into his dream!--that was all mr. pelly thought about it. for the manuscript was almost entirely english rendering, and no one in it, so far as he could recollect, had said as this voice did, "good-evening, signore!" it was a dream! he polished his spectacles and watched the glowing log that bridged an incandescent valley, and wondered what the sudden births of little intense white light could be that came and lived on nothing and vanished, unaccounted for. he knew science knew, and would ask her, next time they met. but, for now, he would be content to sit still, and keep watch on that log. it must break across the middle soon, and collapse into the valley in a blaze of sparks. watching a fire, without other light in the room, is fraught with sleep to one who has lately dined, even if he has a pipe or cigar in his mouth to burn him awake when he drops it. much more so to a secure non-smoker, like mr. pelly. probably he did go to sleep again--but who can say? he really believed himself wide-awake, though, when the same voice came again; not loud, to be sure, but unmistakable. and the way it startled him helped to convince him he was awake. because one is never surprised at anything in a dream. when one finds oneself at church in a stocking, and nothing more, one is vexed and embarrassed, certainly, but not surprised. it dawns on one gradually. if this was a dream, it was a very solid one, to survive mr. pelly's start of amazement. it brought him out of his chair, and set him looking about in the half-lighted room for a speaker, somewhere. "who are you, and _where_ are you?" said he. for there was no one to be seen. the firelight flickered on the portraits of sir stephen upwell, the cavalier, who was killed at naseby, and marjory, his wife, who was a parliamentarian fanatic; and a phenomenal trout in a glass case, with a picture behind it showing the late baronet in the distance striving to catch it; but the door was shut, and mr. pelly was alone in the library. he was rather frightened at his own voice in the stillness; it sounded like delirium. so it made him happier that an answer should come, and justify it. "i am here, before you. look at me! i am la risvegliata--that is what you call me, at least." this was spoken in italian, but it must be translated in the story. very likely you understand italian, but remember how many english do not. mr. pelly spoke italian fluently--he spoke many languages--but _he_ must be turned into english, too, for the same reason. "but _you_ are a picture," said he. "you cannot speak." for he understood then that his hallucination--as he thought it, believing himself awake--was that the picture-woman over the mantelpiece had spoken to him. he felt indignant with himself for so easily falling a victim to a delusion; and transferred his indignation, naturally, to the blameless phantom of his own creation. of course, he had _imagined_ that the picture had spoken to him. for "la risvegliata"--the awakened one--was the name that had been written on the frame at the wish of the baronet's daughter, when a few months back he brought this picture, by an unknown artist, from italy. "i can speak"--so it replied to mr. pelly--"and you can hear me, as i have heard you all speaking about me, ever since i came to this strange land. any picture can hear that is well enough painted." "_why_ have you never spoken before?" mr. pelly was dumbfounded at the unreasonableness of the position. a speaking picture was bad enough; but, at least, it might be rational. he fell in his own good opinion, at this inconsistency of his distempered fancy. "why have you never listened? i have spoken many a time. how do i know why you have not heard?" mr. pelly could not answer, and the voice continued, "oh, how i have longed and waited for one of you to catch my voice! how i have cried out to the wooden _marchese_ whose _marchesa_ will not allow him to speak, and to that beautiful signora herself, and to that sweet daughter most of all. oh, why--why--have they not heard me?" but still mr. pelly was slow to answer. he found something to say, though, in the end. "i can entertain no reasonable doubt that your voice is a fiction of my imagination. but you will confer a substantial favour on me if you will take advantage of it, while my hallucination lasts, to tell me the name of your author--of the artist who painted you." "_lo spazzolone_ painted me." "_lo_ ... who?" "_lo spazzolone_. surely, all men have heard of him. but it is his nickname--the big brush--from his great bush of black hair. ah me!--how beautiful it was!" "could you give me his real name, and tell me something about him?" mr. pelly took from his pocket a notebook and pencil. "giacinto boldrini, of course!" "ought i to know him? i have never heard his name." "how strange! and it is but the other day that he was murdered--oh, so foully murdered! but no!--i am wrong, and i forget. it is near four hundred years ago." mr. pelly was deeply interested. the question of whether this was a dream, a hallucination, or a vision, or the result of exceeding by two ounces his usual allowance of glasses of madeira, he could not answer offhand. besides, there would be plenty of time for that after. his present object should be to let nothing slip, however much he felt convinced of its illusory character. it could be sifted later. he would be passive, and not allow an ill-timed incredulity to mar a good delusion in the middle. he switched off scepticism for the time being, and spoke sympathetically. "is it possible? did you know him? but of course you must have known him, or he could scarcely have painted you. dear me!" mr. pelly checked a disposition to gasp; that would never do--he might wake himself up, and spoil all. the sweet voice of the picture--it was like a voice, mind you, not like a gramophone--was prompt with its reply: "i knew him well. but, oh, so long ago! one gets to doubt everything--all that was most real once, that made the very core of our lives. sometimes i think it was a dream--a sweet dream with terror at the end--a nectar-cup a basilisk was watching, all the while. four hundred years! can i be sure it was true? yet i remember it all--could tell it now and miss nothing." mr. pelly was silent a moment before answering. he reflected that if his reply led to a circumstantial narrative of events four hundred years old, it would be a bitter disappointment to be waked by the return of the family, and to have it all spoiled. however, it was only ten o'clock, and they might be three hours yet. besides, it was well known that dreams have no real duration--are in fact compressed into a second or so of waking. he would risk it. "i have a keen interest, signora," said he, "in the forgotten traditions of antiquity. it would indeed be a source of satisfaction to me if you would consider me worthy of your confidence, and entrust to me some portion at least of your family history, and that of your painter. i can assure you that no portion of what you tell me shall be published without your express permission. no one can detest more keenly than myself the modern american practice of intrusion into private life...." he stopped. surely that sound was a sigh, if not a sob. in a moment the voice of the picture came again, but with even more of sadness in it than before: "was it antiquity, then, in those days? we did not know it then. we woke to the day that was to come--that had not been, before--even as you do now; and the voices of yesterday were not forgotten in our ears. we flung aside the thing of the hour; as you do now, with little thought of what we lost, and lived alone for hope, and the things that were to be. i cannot tell you how young we were then. and remember! i am twenty now; as i was then, and have been, ever since. "i see," said mr. pelly. "your original was twenty when you were painted. and you naturally remained twenty." he felt rather prosaic and dry, and to soften matters added, "tell me of your first painting, and what is earliest in your recollection." "then you will not interrupt me?" mr. pelly gave a promise the voice seemed to wait for, and then it continued, and, as it seemed to the listener, told the tale that follows, which is printed as continuous. the only omissions are a few interruptions of mr. pelly's, which, so far as they were inquiries or points he had not understood, are made up for by very slight variations in the text, which he himself has sanctioned, as useful and explanatory. whether he was awake or dreaming, he never rightly knew. but his extraordinary memory--he is quite a celebrity on this score--enabled him to write the whole down in the course of the next day or two, noting his own interruptions, now omitted. the most rational way of accounting for the occurrence undoubtedly is that the old gentleman had a very vivid dream, suggested by his having read several pages--this he admits--of the manuscript translation, in which a too ready credulity has detected a sequel to the story itself. none knows better than the student of alleged supernatural phenomena how frequent is this confusion of cause and effect. chapter iii the picture's tale. it was so well painted--that was why it could hear four hundred years ago. how its painter hungered and thirsted for its original, and _vice versa_. how old january hid in a spy-hole, to watch may, and saw it all. of pope innocent's penetration. of certain bells, unwelcome ones. how two _innamorati_ tried to part without a kiss, and failed. nevertheless assassins stopped it when it had only just begun. but giacinto got at january's throat. how the picture was framed, and hung where may could only see it by twisting. of the dungeon below her, where giacinto might be. how january dug at may with a walking-staff. how the picture was in abeyance, but loved a firefly; then was interred in furniture, and three centuries slipped by. how it sold for six fifty, and was sent to london, to a picture-restorer, which is how it comes into the tale. how mr. pelly woke up. you ask me to tell you what is earliest in my recollection. i will do so, and will also endeavour to narrate as much as i can remember of the life of the lady i was painted from; whose memory, were she now living, would be identical with my own. the very first image i can recall is that of my artist, at work. he is the first human being i ever saw, as well as the first visible object i can call to mind. he is at work--as i am guided to understand by what i have learned since--upon my right eye. it is a very dim image indeed at the outset, but as he works it becomes clearer, and at last i see him quite plainly. he is a dark young man, with hair of one thickness all over, like a black door-mat, and a beautiful olive skin. as he turns round i think to myself how beautiful his neck is at the back under the hair, and that i should like to kiss it. but that is impossible. i can recall my pleasure at his fixed gaze, and constant resolute endeavour. naturally i want him to paint my other eye. then i shall see him still better. i am not surprised at his saying nothing--for remember!--i did not know what speech was then. he had painted my mouth, only, of course, i did not know what to do with it. needless also to say that i had not heard a word, for i had no ear at all. i have only one now, but it has heard all that has been spoken near it for four hundred years. i heard nothing then--nothing at all! i only gazed fixedly at the fascinating creature before me who was trying his best to make me beautiful too--to make me as beautiful as something that i could not see--something his eyes turned round to at intervals, something to my right and his left. what i recall most vividly now is my curiosity to know what this thing or person was that took his eyes off me at odd moments; to which he made, now and again, slight deprecatory signs and corrective movements with his left hand; from which he received some response i could not guess at, which he acknowledged by a full-spread smile of grateful recognition. but always in perfect silence, though i saw, when his brush was not in front of my incomplete eye, that his lips moved, showing his beautiful white teeth; and that he paused and listened--a thing i have learned about since--with a certain air of deference, as towards a social superior. oh, how i longed to see this unseen being, or thing! but i was not to do so, yet awhile. my recollection goes no farther than the fact of this young artist, working on in a strange, systematic way, quite unlike what i have since understood to be the correct method for persons of genius, until at the end of some period i cannot measure, he paints my other eye, and i rejoice in a clearer image of himself; of the huge bare room he works in; of the small window, high up, with its cage of grating against the sky; of the recess below it, in which, at the top of two steps, an old woman sits plaiting straws, and beside her a black dog, close shaved, except his head, all over. but i get no light upon the strange attraction that takes my creator's attention off me, until after a second experience, as strange as my first new-found phenomenon of sight--to wit, my hearing of sound. as he painted my ear, it came. at first, a musical, broken murmur--then another, that mixes with it. as one rises, the other falls; then both together, or as the threads of a cascade cross and intersect in mid-air. then a third sound, a sound with a musical ring that makes my heart leap with joy--a sound that comes back to me now, when in the early mornings of summer, i hear, through the window of this room opened outwards to let in the morning air, the voice of the little brown bird that springs high into the blue heaven, and unpacks its tiny heart in a flood of song. and then i think to myself that _that_ is the language in which i too should have laughed, had laughter been possible to me. for what i heard then from behind the easel i stood on as the young artist painted me was the laughter of maddalena raimondi, from whom he was working; whom i may describe myself as being. for ought not the name written on the frame below me to be hers also, with the date of her birth and death? are not my eyes that i see with now hers? is not the nostril with the lambent curve--that is what a celebrated art-critic has called it--hers, and the little sea-shell ear hers that heard you say, but now, that my original cannot have been more than twenty?... more than twenty! no, indeed!--for in those days a girl of twenty was a woman. and the girl that one day a little later came round at a signal from behind the panel, to see the portrait that i now knew had received its last touch from its maker, was one who at eighteen had been threatened, driven, goaded into harness with an old devil of high rank, to whom she had been affianced in her babyhood; and who is now, we may hope, in his proper hell, as god has appointed. yet it may well be he is among the saints; for his wealth was great, and he gave freely to holy church. but to maddalena, that was myself--for was i not she?--he was a devil incarnate. for mark you this: that all she had known i too knew, in my degree, so soon as ever i was completed. else had i been a bad portrait. it all came to my memory at once. i remembered my happy girlhood, the strange indifference of my utter innocence when i was first told i was destined to marry the great duke, whose vassal my father was, and how my marriage would somehow--i am, maybe, less clear about details than my original would have been--release my father from some debt or obligation to the raimondi which otherwise would have involved the forfeiture of our old home. so ignorant was i that i rejoiced to think that i should be the means of preserving for my family the long stretches of vine-clad hills and the old castello in the apennines that had borne our name since the first stone was laid, centuries ago. so ignorant, innocent, indifferent--call it what you will!--that the moment i was told my destiny i went straight to giacinto, the page, with whom i had grown from infancy, to tell him the good news, that he might rejoice too. but he would not rejoice at my bidding, and he was moody and reserved, and i wondered. i was but twelve and he thirteen. although a girl may be older than a boy, even at those years, her eyes are not so wide open to see some things, and it may be he saw plainer than i. i know not. this, then, was what had happened to the beautiful creature that came round into my sight on that day when i first saw and heard and knew her for myself, and hoped i was well done, and very like. and thus, also, it all came back to me, so soon as i was finished and was really maddalena raimondi, how the great venetian artist, angelo allori, whom they called _il bronzino_, came to the castello to paint my mother, and how he took a fancy to giacinto, and would have him away to his studio, and taught him how to use brushes and colours, and how to grind and prepare these last, and to make canvas ready for the painter. and it ended by his taking him as an apprentice, at his own wish and giacinto's. and they went away together to venice, and i could recall now that maddalena had not seen giacinto after that for six years. that is to say: she had not seen him till he came to the villa raimondi in the first year of her unhappy marriage, an unhappy bride with all the deadly revelation of the realities of life that an accursed wedlock must needs bring. the girl was no longer a girl; she knew what she had lost. and i knew it too, and all that she had known up to the moment of that last brush-touch, when giacinto said, "now, _carissima signora_, you may come round and see!" and the ringing laugh came round, and _she_ came round, that had been me. then i too saw what i had been--what i was still. and after that, i will tell you what i saw and heard--but presently! for i want you first to know what maddalena was when her old owner told her that he had commanded a young venetian artist, of rising fame, to come at once, under penalty of his displeasure, to paint her portrait in a dress of yellow satin brocade well broidered in gold thread, and a _gorgiera_ of fine linen turned back over it, that had belonged to his first wife, vittoria fanfani, who was much of the size and shape of la maddalena, as who could tell better than he? and for this portrait she was to sit or stand, as the painter should arrange, in front of the tapestry showing solomon's judgment in the _stanza delle quattro corone_; which is, as you would say, the room of the four crowns, so called because it was said four kings had met there in old days, three of whom had slain the fourth, which was accounted of great fame to the castello raimondi. and the time for this painting was to be each day after the sun had passed the meridian; for the room looked south-east, and one must study the sun. and marta zan would always be in attendance, as a serious person who would keep a check on any pranks such young people might choose to play. for as i too now knew and could well remember, it was a wicked touch of this old _birbante's_ character that he was never tired of a wearisome pretence that this young maddalena, whose heart was truly broken if ever girl's heart was, was still full of joyousness and youth and kittenish tricks. and he would rally her waggishly before his retinue for pranks she had never played, and pretended youthful escapades she could have had no heart for. for in truth she was filled up with sorrow, and shame of herself and her kind, and intense loathing of the old man her master; but she was forced to reply to his unwelcome _badinage_ by such pretence as might be of gaiety in return. and this, although she knew well all the while that there was not a scullion among them all but could say how little she loved this eighty-year-old lord of hers; though none could guess, not even the women, what good cause she had to hate him. but the sly old fox knew well enough; and when he made his edict that marta zan--an old crone, who had been, some said, his mistress in his youth--should keep watch and ward over his young wife's demeanour with this new painting fellow, he knew too that in the thick wall of the _stanza delle quattro corone_ was a little, narrow entry, where one might lie hid at any time, approaching from without, and see all that passed in the chamber below. and so he would see and know for himself; for he knew marta zan too well to place much faith in her. you may guess, then, that maddalena, when _il duca_ first informed her of his gracious pleasure about the portrait, was little inclined to take an interest in that, or any other scheme of his highness; but to avoid incurring his resentment, she was bound to affect an interest she did not feel, and in this she succeeded, so far as was necessary. but my lord duke was growing suspicious of her; only he was far too wily an old fox to show his mistrust openly. be sure that when, after maddalena's first sitting with my young artist, he noticed that the roses had returned to her cheeks, and that her step was light again upon the ground, he said never a word to show his thought, and only resolved in his wicked old heart to spy upon the two young people from his eyrie in the wall. it was little to be wondered at that maddalena should show pleasure when she saw who after all was the young venetian painter; who, still almost a boy, had climbed so high in fame that it was already held an honour to be painted by him. for he was her old friend giacinto, and she in her languid lack of interest in all about her, had never asked what was the actual name of _lo spazzolone_. for by this nickname only had he been spoken of in her presence, and it may easily be he was known by no other to the old _duca_ himself, so universal is the practice of nicknaming among the artists of italy. but he was giacinto himself, sure enough!--only grown so tall and handsome. and you may fancy how gladly the poor maddalena would have flung her arms round the boy she had known from her cradle, and kissed her welcome into his soul--only there! was she not a wife, and the wife too of the thing men called the duke? what manner of thing was he, that god should have made him, there in the light of day? but if it was difficult for maddalena to keep her embrace of welcome in check, you may fancy how strong a constraint my young painter had to put on himself when he saw who the great lady was whom he was come to paint. for none had told him, and till she came suddenly upon him in all the beauty of her full and perfect womanhood, he had no idea that she would be la maddalena--_la sua sorellaccia_ (that is, his ugly sister), as he would call her in jest in those early days--because there was no doubt of her beauty, and the joke was a safe one. only mind you!--this would be when they were alone, as might be, in the court of the old castello, looking down into the deep well and dropping stones to hear them splash long after, or gathering the green figs in the _poderi_ when the great heat was gone from august, and they could ramble out in the early mornings. when her sisters or brothers were there, she was _la signorina_ maddalena. _i_ can remember it all now! one does not lightly forget these hours--the hours before the ugly dawn of the real world. nor the little joys one takes as a right, without a rapture or a thought of gratitude; nor the little pangs one thinks so hard to bear, and so soon forgets. if you should ask me how it came about that the two of them should have so completely parted during all those six years, that la maddalena should not even have known the nickname of the young painter, nor his fame, i must beg that you will remember that these were not the days of daily posts, of telegraphs, and railways; nor of any of the strange new things i hear of now, and find so hard to understand. moreover, my own opinion is that the parents of maddalena judged shrewdly that this young stripling was no friend to be encouraged for a little daughter that was to be the salvation of their property. the less risk, the less danger! the fewer boys about, the fewer fancies of a chit. they managed it all, be sure of that! it was for the girl's own best interest. but--dear me![#]--if you know anything of life in youth, and of the golden thread of love that is shot though it in the weft, and starts out somewhere always, here or there, whatever light you hold it in--if you know this, there is no more to be said of why, when they met again, in the _stanza delle quattro corone_, each heart should leap out to meet the other, and then shrink back chilled, at the thought of what they were now that they were not once, and of what perforce they had to be hereafter. but the moment was their own, and none pauses in the middle of a draught of nectar because, forsooth, the cup will soon be empty. la maddalena became, in one magic instant, a maddalena whose laugh rang out like the song of the little brown bird i told you of but now, and filled the wicked old room with its music. and as for our poor giacinto--well!--are you a man, and were you ever young? he could promise the withered old _duca_ that he would make a merry picture of _la duchessa_; none of your sinister death's-head portraits, but with the smile of _sua altezza_. for all maddalena's heart was in her face, and that face wore again the smile of the old, old days, the days long before her bridal. and you see that face before you now. [#] probably the words mr. pelly heard were "_dio mio!_" which some consider the original of the english "dear me!" many of the expressions are evidently literal translations.--editor. now, if only this old shrunken mummy will begone! if he will only go away to count over his gold, to rack his tenantry for more than his share of the oil-crop, to get absolution for his sins, or, better still, to go to expiate them in the proper place! if he will only take his venerable presence and his cold firm eye away--if it be but for an hour!... he went--sooner than we had hoped. and then when he was quite, quite gone, and the coast was clear, then the laughter broke out. and marta zan wondered was this really the new _duchessa_?--she who had brought from her bridal no smile but a sad one, no glance unhaunted by the memory or the forecast of a tear, no word of speech but had its own resonance of a broken heart. the beldam chuckled to herself, and saw money to come of it, if she winked skilfully enough, and at the right time. but in this she was wrong, for she judged these young people by her bad old self; and indeed they thought no harm, of her sort. neither could she see their souls, nor they hers. but the laughter and the voices filled the place, and each felt a child again, and back in the old castello in the hills. "and was it really you, giacinto? you, your very self--the little giacintino grown so great a man! _dio mio_, how great a man you have grown!" "and was the _duchessa_ then _la nostra maddalena_, grown to be a great signora! was it all true?" and then old marta scowled from the steps below the window, for was not this saucy young painter bold enough to kiss the little hand her mistress let him hold so long; and most likely she was ready enough to guess that the poor boy had much ado to be off kissing the lips that smiled on him as well. but then, when the maddalena saw through his heart, and saw all this as plain as i tell it you now, she flinched off with a little sigh, and a chill came. for now, she said, they were grown-up people, responsible and serious, and must behave! and marta zan would not be cross; for look you, marta _cara_, was not this giacinto, her foster-brother, and had they not been rocked to sleep in the same cradle? and had they not eaten the grapes of a dozen vintages at her father's little castle in the hills, and heard the dogs bark all across the plain below in the summer nights? so marta, though she looked mighty glum over it, kept her thoughts for her own use, with due consideration how she might get most profit from what she foresaw, and yet keep her footing firm with her great duke. she was a cunning old black spot, was marta, and quick to scheme her own advantage, for all she was near seventy. but she saw no reason for meddling to check her young _duchessa's_ free flow of spirits, and she invented a good apology for letting her alone. _she_ was not going to mar the portrait by making the sitter cry and look sulky: red eyes and swelled cheeks were no man's joy. so she told her employer. and she thought to herself, see how content the old man is, and how clever am i to hoodwink him so! be sure, though, that she did not know how he was passing his time, more and more, in that little chapel of knavery in the wall, but a few yards from the two happy young folk, as they laughed and talked over their old days. only, in this you may believe me, that never a word passed between them--for all that so many came to the lips of both and were disallowed--that might not have been spoken, almost, in the presence of the gracious duke himself--nay, quite!--if he had not been so corrupt and tainted an old curmudgeon that he would have found a scutch on the leaf of a lily new-blown, and read dishonour into innocence itself. so there he sits in his evil eyrie, day by day, hatching false interpretation of every word and movement, but all silence and caution, for come what may he will not spoil the portrait. it will be time enough when it is quite done. time enough for what? we shall see. meanwhile, as well to keep his eye on them! small trust to be placed in marta zan! so, all this while, i grew and grew. and the laugh that you see on my lips is maddalena's as she sat looking down on her young painter, and the joy and content of my eyes are her joy and content; and the loose lock of hair that ripples, a stream of golden red, over the red-gold of the brocaded gilliflower on the bosom of my bodice, is the lock of hair maddalena had almost told giacinto he might cut away and take, to keep for her sake. but she dared not, because of that dried old fig, old marta, and the grim eye of her owner. yet she might never see giacinto again! she suspected, in her heart, that he would be schemed away from her once more, as before. but i grew and grew. and now the hour is near when no pretence can prolong the sittings that have been the happiness--the more than happiness--of six whole autumn weeks. how quick they had run away! could it be six weeks? yes, it was. and there was an ugly, threatening look in the duke's old eye; but he said little enough. no doubt _messer il pittore_ knew best how long was needed to paint a portrait; but he had said three weeks, at the outset. so it must needs be. and this, to-day, was the last sitting; and the picture--that was i--would be complete, and have a frame, and hang on the wall in the great room of state, where already were hanging the two portraits of the former wives of his excellency; whereof the last one died three years before, and left the old miscreant free to affiance himself to the little maddalena, who was then too young to marry, being but fourteen years old. so at least said her mother, and his excellency was gracious enough to defer his nuptials, in spite of his years. and our most holy father pope alexander was truly convinced by this that the charge of the duke's enemies made against him of having poisoned his second wife was groundless. for with so young a bride in view, would not any man have deferred poisoning a lady who was still young and comely, at least until the object of his new passion was old enough to take her place? so said his holiness, and for my part i think he showed in this his penetration and his wide insight and understanding of his fellow-men. for man is, as saith scripture, created in the image of god, and it is but seemly and reasonable that his vicar on earth should know the inner secrets of the human heart; albeit he may have small experience himself of love, as is the manner of ecclesiastics. i will now tell you all i saw on that day of the last sitting, being now as it were full-grown and able to see and note all; besides being, as i have tried to show, able to feel all the lady maddalena had felt and to follow her inmost thought. when they were come to the end of the work i could see that both were heavy at heart for the parting that was to come; and i knew of myself that maddalena had slept little, and i knew, too, that this was not because _sua eccellenza_ the duke snored heavily all night, for had that been so, poor maddalena would have been ill off for sleep at the best of times. no!--she had lain awake thinking of giacinto; and he of her, it may be. but what do i know? i could see he was not happy: could you expect it? and his hand shook, and he did no good to me. and he would not touch my face and hands with the colour, and i well knew why. therefore, when he had tried for a little and could not work to any purpose, my lady _la duchessa_ says, as one who takes courage--for neither had yet spoken of how they must part--"come, my giacinto, let us be of better cheer, and not be so downcast. for who knows but the good god may let us meet again one happy day when his will is? let us be grateful for the little hour of our felicity, and make no complaint now that it was not longer. but you cannot work, my giacinto, and are doing no good to the beautiful picture. leave it and come and sit here by me, and we will talk of the old days, the dear old time. and as for the old marta, she is sound asleep and snoring; only not so loud as my old pig of a husband all last night!" indeed, it was true of old marta, but for my own part i think she was only pretending to be asleep, for my maddalena had talked to her of how this would be the last time, and softened her, and given her ten venetian ducats and a cap of lace. but, for the snoring of the old duke, it had done some service; for the little joke about it had made maddalena speak more cheerfully, and giacinto could find a laugh for it, though he had little heart to laugh out roundly at anything. la maddalena went near to make him, though! for she talked of how thirteen little puppies all came at once of three mothers, and she christened them all after the blessed apostles and judas iscariot, and every one was drowned or given away except judas iscariot; and how she would hold up judas for giacinto to kiss, saying he was a safe judas this time, as how could he be else with that little fat stomach, and not a month old. so i was finished, and giacinto would have put his signature in one corner had he not thought it best to wait until _sua eccellenza_ the duke had seen it, for who could say he would not have it altered? messer angelo allori had finished a portrait of _la principessa_ gonzaga, and just as he was thinking to sign it, what does her ladyship do but say she would rather have been painted in her _camorra di seta verde_; and thereat he had to paint out the old dress and paint in the new, for none might say nay to _la principessa_. so that is how it comes that this picture--that i am--is unsigned; and that the art critics, for once, are not unanimous about who was the author. but _i_ know who that author was, and i can see him still as he sits at the feet of his lady, _la duchessa_ maddalena, and his thick, black hair that had got him the nickname of _spazzolone_; which is, or would be as speech goes now, the scrubbing-brush. and i can see his beautiful olive-tinted throat, more fair than tawny, like ivory, and his great black eyes, like an antelope's. i can see her, la maddalena, seated above him--for he is on the ground--her two white hands encircling her knees, with many rings on them, one a great opal, the one you see on my finger now; and her face, with the red-gold hair, you see on my head, but somewhat fallen about it, for it had shaken down; and the face it hedged in was white--so white! it was not as you see me now; rather, indeed, the face of the sad maddalena before ever she saw _lo spazzolone_, than mine as i have it before you. look awhile upon my face, and then figure it to yourself as it would be if the lips wanted to tremble, and the eyes to weep, but neither would do so, from sheer courage and strength of heart against an evil cloud. then you will see la maddalena as she sat there with eyes fixed on giacinto, knowing each minute nearer the end; but all the more taking each minute at the most, as one condemned to die delays over his last meal on earth. the gaoler will come, and the prison-guard, and he knows it. how long, do you ask me, did the pair sit thus, the eyes of each devouring the face of the other; the lips of each replying to the other in a murmured undertone i could not have heard from where i stood on my easel, had it not been that i too, myself, was la maddalena, and spoke her words and heard his voice? i can only tell you the time seemed too short--though it was none so short a time, neither! but i do not know. i do know this, though--and i wish you too to know it, that you may think no thought of blame of my maddalena--that never a word passed her lips that any young wife might not fairly and honestly speak to her husband's friend. and scarce a word of his in return that might not have been fairly and honestly spoken back; and for such a slight forgetfulness, as it seemed to me, of what was safe for both--will you not forgive the poor boy? remember, he was but a boy at best, for all his marvellous skill. and was not his skill marvellous? for look at my lips, and see how they are drawn! look at my eyes and say, have they moved or not--or will they not move, in an instant? look at the little bright threads of gold in my cloud of hair! and then say, was he not a wondrous boy? but a boy for all that! and to my thinking it was _because_ he was a boy, or was only just a man having his manhood forced painfully upon him by sorrow, that he gave the rein for one moment to his tongue. and it was such a little moment, after all! listen, and i will tell you, if you will not blame him. promise me! they had talked, the two of them--or of us, as you choose to have it--over and over of the old days at the castello, of the old cappellano who winked at all their misdeeds, and stood between them and the anger of her parents, many a time. how they had frightened him half to death by making believe they had the venetian plague upon them, by dropping melted wax on their skins with little strawberries in the middle. and how giacinto undeceived him by eating the strawberries. and what nasty little monkeys they were in those days, to be sure! that made them laugh, and they were quite merry for a while. but then they got sad again when la maddalena told how fra poco--that was what they called _il padre_ buti the cappellano, for he was a little man--was the only one of them all that had had a word to say against her marriage, and how he had denounced her father one day as for a crime, and invoked the vengeance of god upon the old duke's head for using his power to defraud a young virgin of her life, and saying let him have the lands and enjoy them as he would, and rather go out and beg on the highways for alms than sacrifice his own flesh and blood. and how she had overheard all this speech of fra poco, and had said to herself that, come what might, she would save the old domain for her father and her brother. and how that very day her brother, who was but young, had beaten her with her own fan, and then run away with it; and little he knew what she was to suffer for him! but in truth _she_ knew little enough herself, for what does a girl-chit know! and it may have been _her_ fault, too, or mine, for talking thus of her marriage, and none of the boy's own, that my giacinto should have, as i say, half forgotten himself. for it was but just after she had spoken thus, and they had sat sad and silent for a space, that the big bells of san felice hard by must needs clang out suddenly in the evening air, and then they knew their parting had come, too soon, and that then they might never meet again. and on that my giacinto cried out as one whose heaviness of heart is too sore to be borne, "_o sorellaccia mia_! _mia carina--mio tesoro_! oh if it might but be all a dream, and we might wake and find it so, at the old castello in the hills, and hear the croaking of the frogs and the singing of the nightingales when the sun had gone to bed, and be punished for staying out too late to listen to them! oh, maddalena _mia_!--the happy days when there were no old dukes!..." but la maddalena stopped him in his speech, saying, but as one says words that choke in his throat, "enough--enough, signore giacinto! remember what we are now--remember what i am!--what you are!" for this, said she, was not how _sua eccellenza_ the duke should be spoken of in his own house. and then the great bells, that were so near they went nigh to deafen you, stopped jangling; but the biggest had something to say still, a loud word at a time, and far apart. and what he said was, that now the hour had come, and they should meet no more. and then he paused, and they thought he was silent. but he came back suddenly once again, to cry out "never!" and was still. then comes the old marta from her corner, rubbing her eyes, for she had been very sound asleep. and her mistress, as one who will not be contradicted, points her on in front, and she passes out, and her black dog. then says my maddalena to the painter, "and now, farewell, my friend," and holds out her hand for him to kiss, for is she not the duchess? and he kisses it without speech, but with a sort of sob, and she gathers up her train, and turns to go. but as she reaches the door, she hears behind her the voice that tries to speak, but cannot. then she turns, and her despair is white in her face. and giacinto's eyes are in his hands--he dares not look up. but she goes back and he hears her, and his name as she speaks it. and then he looks up, and see!--they are locked in each other's arms, as though never to part. and then maddalena knows, and i know with her, what love is, and what life might have been. to think now, at such a moment, of the abhorred caresses that must be endured, later! no, my maddalena, nothing to be thought of now, nothing said, nothing seen nor heard, just for those few moments that will never come again! that was so, and therefore neither of these imprudent young people heard the gasp or snarl of anger that came through the little slot in the wall above. down comes my lord, unheard; reaches the room, unheard. but not alone! for there are behind him two of his retinue, rough troopers, buff-jerkined and morion-capped with steel, ready for any crime at their master's noble bidding. so silently have they come that the first sound that rouses the young artist and his _sorellaccia_ from their little moment of rapture--for which i for one see little reason to blame them--and brings them back to conscious life and the knowledge of their lot, is the slight ring of the short sword-dagger one of them draws from the scabbard. their eyes are opened now, and _lo spazzolone_ sees his executioners; while maddalena and i see a cold, hard old face to which all pleading for mercy--if there had been a crime--would have been vain; and which would make a crime, inexorably, of what was none, from inborn cruelty and jealous rage. it is all over! all over! yes, for any chance of life for giacinto, for any chance of happiness for la maddalena for the rest of her term of life. but it may give pleasure to you to know--as it gives me pleasure--however little!--that our young painter, who was strong and active as a wild cat, got at the old man's wicked throat and wellnigh choked him before his assassins could cover the three or four steps between them; and before the one whom maddalena did not stop--for she flung herself bodily on the man with the sword--could strike with a mace he had. and the blow fell on the olive-tinted neck i had loved so well, and the poor giacinto fell with a thud and lay, killed or senseless. but the old devil had felt his grip with a vengeance, and the two men-at-arms looked pleased, and lifted up and bore away the seeming dead giacinto with admiration. the old man choked awhile, and la maddalena remained marble-white as a new cut block at massa carrara, and as motionless, until her old owner had drunk some wine and done his choking; and then he pinched her tender white wrist savagely--i could show you where he made his mark, but i cannot move--and drew her away, saying, "you come with me, young mistress!" but first he goes and stands opposite the picture, still gripping her wrist. then says he, "_non c'e male_"--not bad--and leads her away, dumb. and they leave me alone in the _stanza delle quattro corone_, and i hear the door locked from the outside. and the night comes, and i hear the voices of the frogs in the flat land, and think of the boy and girl that heard them together in that other old castello i remember so well, but have never seen. and the sun comes again and shines upon some blood upon the floor. it is not giacinto's--it is maddalena's, where she cut herself on the man with the sword. after that i remember no more till two men came to measure for the frame i now have on. they came next day, accompanied by the old marta, who unlocked the door. but her little dog came with them, too, and no sooner had he run once all round the room, to see for cats or what might be else, than he goes straightway to the blood-mark on the floor. and so shrewd is he to guess what it is--remember, he had gone away with marta when all the riot came about--that he looks round from one to the other for explanation, and tries hard to speak, as a dog does. whereat each of the three also looks to the other two, and makes believe the dog is gone mad, to be making little compassionate whines and cries, and then, going to each one in turn to tell of it, touching them with his fore-paws, and then back again to the blood. but none would give him a good word, and as for la marta, she must needs slap him, to the best of her withered power, on his clean-shaved body; which very like hurt but little, but the poor dog cried out upon the injustice! for he knew well this that he smelt was blood. as i believe, so did the three of them; however, in that household each knew that blood, anywhere, was best not seen by whoever wished to keep his own in his veins. so they took the measure for my frame, and went their way. and presently, when they have gone back, comes the old woman, but no dog, and brings with her burnt wood-ash, such as the fire leaves in the open grate, quite white and dry. and she makes a heap on the blood-stain with it, and water added, and goes away again and locks the door without, as before. after which the sun goes many times across the brick floor, stopping always to look well upon the blood-spot; and the night comes back, and i see a little sharp edge of silver in the sky, beyond the window-grating, and i remember that it was the new moon, in the days of the old castello; and i say to myself, now i shall see it grow again, as it grew in those old days when giacinto watched it with me. and it grows to be a half-moon before la marta comes again and gathers up the ashes, and leaves the floor clean. but then i know they will soon come with the frame. so it happens; and then i am in my frame and am carried away to the great old castle in the apennines, and hanged upon the wall in the state banqueting-room; and after a while, i know not how long, the old duke comes to see, and is pleased to approve. and my maddalena comes, or rather he leads her, stark dumb, and white as the ashes that dried up the drops of her blood upon the floor. and then day follows day, and each day my lord leads a thinner and a whiter maddalena to the head of his board, and each day she answers him less when he speaks to her, which he does with an evil discourtesy when none other is there to check it; and a courtesy, even worse to bear, when they are in the presence of the household, or of noble guests on a visit. he sees, as i see, that her eyes are always fixed on me, as i hang behind his chair, for well he knows she would not be giving him her eyes--not she! so he tells the _primo maggiordomo_, who is subservient, but dropsical, and goes on a stick, to see that i am moved to a place in a bay to the left of his mistress; the old devil having indeed chosen this place cleverly so that la maddalena might not easily see me by turning her eyes only; but when she gives a little side turn to her head as well, then she may see me plainly. and, of course, it fell out as the cunning fox had foreseen, and the poor maddalena's eyes wandered more and more to her picture, and then, as they came back, they would be caught in the cold gaze that came at her from the other table-end, and would fall down to look on the food she was fain to send away untasted. this goes on awhile, and then my duke speaks out when they are alone. _he_ knows, he says, what all these sly glances mean--all this furtive peeping round the corner--we are hankering after that old lover of ours, are we not? and there are things it is not easy to forget--ho, ho! and he laughs out at the poor girl and her sorrow. but she is outspoken, as one in despair may well be, and says to her old tormentor that if he means by the word "lover" that she has in any way whatever made light of her wifely duty to his lordship, it is false, and he knows it; for the boy was no more to her than any foster-brother might have been, brought up with her from the cradle. only, let him not suppose, for all that, that she held him, husband as he was, and all his lands and hoarded wealth, and titles from his holiness the pope, one tithe as dear as the shoelace or the button on the coat of the boy he had murdered. on that his _eccellenza_ sniggered and was amused. "i should have thought so much," says he, "from the good round buss you gave him at parting. but who has told you your so precious treasure is dead? none has said so to me, so far. when last i heard of him, he was down below, beneath your feet, '_con rispetto parlando_,'" which is a phrase folk use in tuscany, not to be too plain-spoken for delicacy about feet and the like. but now i must tell you something the old miscreant meant when he said this, and pointed down below the great table, which else might be hard to understand. for this great table stood over a trap or well-hole in the floor, and this well-hole went straight down to the dungeons under the castle, where, if all tales told were true, there was still living a very old man who was first incarcerated forty years since, and had lived on, god knows how! and others as well, though little was known of them by those above in the daylight. but this old man had made some talk, seeing that he was first confined there in the days of the old duke, our duke's father, a just man and well-beloved, for a crime committed near by, on the evidence of his wife and his brother. of whom, having lived some while _par amours_, the brother having died by poison, and the woman having died in sanctity as mother superior of the nuns of monte druscolo in umbria, it was known that the latter made confession on her death-bed that her paramour was truly, but unknown to her, the author of the crime for which his brother was condemned. now, this came to her knowledge by a chance, later. on which she, learning with resentment the concealment of this from herself; and seeing that the victim of this crime had been a young girl under her care and charge, had compassed the death of the real culprit for justice' sake, but had not thought it well to proclaim the truth about her husband's innocence, for she might have found it hard to look him in the face. so he was left where he was, the more that it was thought he might die if brought out into the sun; and, indeed, he was very old, and the holy abbess in extreme old age when she made her confession. but he is not in my tale, nor she, and i speak of him only because of the chance by which he made known to me the existence of this same well-hole beneath my lord's dining-table. for it was the telling of this story at the banquet that caused it to be spoken of, and also how in old days its use was to be opened after the meal, that the guests might of their _gentilezza_ throw what they had not cared to eat themselves to the prisoners below. and the prince cosmo dei medici, who was graciously present, was pleased to say it would have been a pretty tale for boccaccio--or perhaps even the great lodovico ariosto might not scorn to try his hand upon it? but now you may see, plain enough, what the wicked old man meant when he pointed down in that way. he thought to make his young wife believe that her lover--as he would call him; though he knew the word, as he used it, was a lie--was still living, and that, too, underground, where a ray of light might hardly penetrate, at high-noon; and almost surely, too, the victim of starvation and tortures she shuddered to think of; even for witches or jews--aye, even for heretics! she could see the whole tale in the cruelty of her princely husband's eyes; except, indeed, his victim was really dead, slain by the cruel blow she herself had seen; and seeing it, what wonder was it that she longed only to know that he was dead; for then she could die too? but to slip away and leave giacinto still alive!--in a damp vault with the old bones of those who had died and been buried there, so that none should know of them; and neither day nor the coming of night, but only one long darkness, and not one word from her, and ignorance of whether she herself still lived or died. surely, if she were to die and leave him thus in ignorance, her ghost would rise from the grave to be beside him in the darkness of his dungeon; and then how her heart would break to speak with him, and be--as might chance--half-heard, and serve only to add a new terror to his loneliness. such things i could guess she felt in her heart. i could not feel them now myself, not being la maddalena as she was at this moment. i am still, as i was then, the maddalena as she laughed back, from the daïs she sat on, her delight in response to the pleasure in her young painter's eye; and all she became after is--to me--like a tale she might have heard, or some sad pretty ballad one gives a tear to and forgets. but i can fancy, and maybe you can too, how her whole young soul was wrenched as she flung herself at her old tormentor's feet, and besought him in words that i would myself have wept for gladly--had god not made me as i am--to tell her truly, only to tell her, was he living or dead? she would ask no more than just that much of his clemency. what wrong had she done him?--what had giacinto?--that he should make her think the sun itself a nightmare; for it would shine on her, but never reach the black pit below them, where, for all she knew, giacinto might be now, at this very moment? oh, would he not tell her? it was so little to ask! but the old miscreant had not paid her yet for that kiss, and he would have his account discharged in full. so he takes her face in his two old hands, and pats her on the cheek, and tells her, smiling, to be of good cheer, for she will never know any more of the young _maestro_, nor whether he be alive or dead. but if she wishes to throw down some dainty titbits from the dinner-leavings, on the chance they shall reach the lips she kissed, why it is but telling raouf and stefano to lift the trap. it may be a bit rusty, but if it were oiled on the hinges this time, the less trouble the next! at this _la duchessa_ gave a long shriek, holding her head tight on, on either side, and then fell backward on the floor, and lay so, stark motionless. and then my great duke seats himself on the nearest chair; and he has in his hand his crutched stick, to lean on against the gout in his foot. he takes it in his left hand, and just digs with it at the girl's body on the ground, either to rouse her or see if she be dead. but she does not move, and he has her carried away to bed; and his face is contented, as is that of a man who has worked well and deserved his fee. i wish i could remember more of this old tale of four hundred years ago, but i had no chance to do so; for, after the scene i have just described, the noble duke, hobbling a short space about the hall, brings up short just facing the bay where i have been hanged by his orders to spite la maddalena; and then, after choking a little--as indeed he often did since that fierce grip of my young _maestro, lo spazzolone_--he calls out to his fat _maggiordomo_, and bids him to see that i am removed to his own private room and hanged under the picture of ganymede. but now he must only take it down and remove it to the old stone chamber, where the figs are put to dry on trays; and so leave it, to be hanged in his room when he is away at rome, as will be shortly. so he hobbles away and i hear him getting slowly up the little stair that goes to his private room, and his attendants following him. the dropsical _maggiordomo_ stays to see that another man should come, with a ladder and a boy, to help, and they get me down from my hooks, and carry me off; and i can smell the dried figs, and the _stoia_ that is rolled up in a stack, and the empty wine-flasks. but i can see nothing, for they place me with my face against the wall, and cover me over with a sacking; and i can hear little more; and then the great door clangs to and is locked, and i am alone in the dark, without feeling or measurement of time, and only catching faint sounds from far-off. i could guess, rather than hear, the sound of a footstep when one came, rarely enough, in the long corridor without. i could feel its rhythm in the shaken floor, but i could be scarcely said to hear it. i was aware of a kind of scratching close to me, that may have been some kind of beetle or scorpion, but of course it was quite invisible. there was one sort of _scaraflaggio_ that would come, even between me and the wall one time, and make a noise like a thousand whirlwinds, and beat against me with his wings, and i should have liked to be able to ask him to come often. but he seemed not to care about me; and i could just hear him boom away in the darkness, joyous at heart and happy in his freedom. oh, if he could have known how different was my lot! i thought of how he would float out into the sunlight, whirring all the while like the wheels of the great _orologio_ at the old castello when fra poco let it run down at noon so that he might reset it fair from the sundial on the wall in the cortile where the well was--_our_ well! it may have been days, or it may have been weeks or months, before a change came, and i again heard human voices. but it would not be longer than two or three months at most; seeing that it was immediately, as far as i could judge, on the top of a little chance that is dear to my memory now, after--so i gather--some four hundred years. for a sweet firefly came, by the blessing of god, between me and the dry wall, and paused and hung a moment in the air that i might get a sight of his beauty. you have seen them in the corn, how they stop to think, and then shoot on ahead, each to seek his love, or hers: so it is taught by those who say they know, and may be truly. this one also must needs go on, though i would have prayed him to stay, that _i_ might be his love. yet this could not be, for neither did i know his tongue, nor was aught else fitting. so he went away and left me sad-hearted. he was a spot of light between a gloom behind and a gloom before, even as the star of bethlehem. but about this that i was telling of. i had a sense of half-heard turmoil without. then the lock in the door, and the imprecations of a man that could not turn the key. he swore roundly at him who made it, and at all locksmiths soever, as persons who from malevolence scheme to exclude all folk from everywhere; and i wished to rebuke him for his injustice, for how can a locksmith do less than make a key? and it was for him to choose the right key, not to keep on twisting at the wrong one, and swearing, which is what he was doing. but he was a noisy, blustering person, for when he did get in, being helped to the right key by a clever young boy who saw his error, he was much enraged with that boy for telling him; and he was ill-satisfied with such a place as this to stow away the furniture, but he supposed they must make it do. then came much moving in of goods. and i could gather this, but no more, from the conversation of those who brought it in--that it was the furniture of someone who was little loved, and only spoken of as "he" or "_il vecchiostro_"--that he was gone on a journey, and much they cared how soon he arrived at the end of it. the boy, who was young and inquisitive, then asking whither this was that he had gone, they told him with a laugh that it was to his oldest friend, another like himself; to whom he had given his whole soul, and who would not care to part with him in a hurry. they hoped he would have a cool bed to sleep in. and when the boy hoped this too, they were very merry. but they worked hard, and brought in a great mass of furniture, which they stacked against the wall where i was, so that i was quite hidden away. there would be new fittings all through the castle now, they said. but one said no--no! it would only be in the _vecchiostro's_ own private rooms. "'tis done that he should be soonest forgotten," said one of them. but it was only just when they had brought in the last of it that this same one said that if ever he--this _vecchiostro_--came back from hell there would be all his gear ready for him. and then i saw this was some dead man's property that his successor would have put out of his sight. then says my young boy to his father, who was the man who had sworn at the key, why did they not take the signora's portrait down instead of leaving it there, because everyone loved her; and for his part, she kissed him once, and said he was _carino_. then says his father, what portrait? and he answers, "in there--behind." for he had peeped in round my frame thinking he knew me again; being in fact the same that had helped to get me down in the banqueting-hall, how long since i could not say. but his father calls him a young fool not to say so before it was too late; and as for him, it was time for his supper and bed, and whoever else liked the job might move all the chairs and tables again to fish her ladyship out. and as all were of one mind they laughed over this and went noisily away. and the door was locked and i heard no more. and the darkness was darker still and the silence deeper. and i longed for the _scaraffaggio_ to come and whirr once more, and for the sweet light of the _lucciola_. but there was none such for me. and my maddalena must be surely dead, i thought, else that young boy would tell her i was here, and she would come to find the picture giacinto painted of her in that merry time. but i waited for her voice in vain, and had nothing for myself but the darkness and the silence. just as the diver holds his breath and longs for the sudden air that he must surely meet--in a moment--in another moment!--so i held as it were the breath of expectation, and believed in the coming of those who could not but seek me; for at first i felt certain they would come. they would never leave me here, to decay! but there came no voice, no glimmer of light, and i fell into a stupor in which all memory grew dim, even that of my maddalena. what i suffered through that long period of silence and darkness i cannot tell, nor could you understand. the prisoner in his solitude is grateful for each thing that enables him to note the flight of time; and the fewer such things are the drearier is the sameness of his lot. can you imagine it if they were all removed--a condition of simple existence in black space, with no means of marking time at all? would you become, on that account, unconscious altogether of weariness from the long unalleviated hours? no, indeed! take my word for it. rather, you would find it, as i found it, a state of bondage such as one would long and pray might be the lot of such as had been, in this life, devils against the harmless; but going on through all eternity, no nearer the end now than when it started countless ages ago, an absolute monotone of dulled sense without insensibility--even pain itself almost an alleviation. that is what my life, if you can call it life, was to me through all that term; but, as thought is dumb, though i know the time goes on, how long it goes on i know not. when i next hear human speech, the voices are new and the words strange and barbarous. also, when i am taken from the wall and turned round to the light, i can see nothing, and i know not why. perhaps it is all dark here at all times, and they have brought no light. i shall see, though, well enough when i am hanged up under ganymede, and see my bad old duke again, and even my other self, my maddalena. i have a longing on me to see her once more, and to see her more like me, if it may be. it seems so long! so much longer than the time when i was left alone in the _stanza delle quattro corone_. but what you may find hard to understand is this, that though i could not know how long this dreadful waking sleep had been, neither could i be sure it had not been a few hours only. i now know, for i have learned since, that it was over three hundred years. yet when the end came it found me not without a hope of maddalena; or if not maddalena, at least the duke. but i do not see them, either of them. nor old marta zan and her little dog. nor the dropsical old _maggiordomo_. that there is no giacinto is little wonder to me. for i believe him dead, killed by that fell blow on the olive neck i loved so well, just behind the ear. i wonder, though, that i see none of the others. but indeed i have much ado to see anything. all is in a mist of darkness. also, i am presently stunned by the clash of many voices. i can catch from the words of those who speak maddalena's language, the tongue that i can follow, that there is a great wranglement over me and my sale price. for i am to be sold, and the foreigners who wish to buy me are loud in their dispraise of me; so much so that i do not understand why they should wish to possess me at all. in fact, they do actually go away after much heated discussion, speaking most scornfully of pictures as things no man in his senses would ever buy, and of pictures with frames like mine as the most valueless examples. i gather all this from repetitions made by others, in maddalena's tongue, nearly but not exactly. presently back comes one of them to say he will go to six hundred pounds, but not a penny more. then says a woman's voice, "ah, signore! six hundred and fifty!" then he, six hundred and twenty-five. and then some price between the two. and so we are agreed at last. and i am to be put in a box and sent to a place whose name i have never heard, that sounds like l'ombra, a name that frightens me, for it sounds like the inferno of the great poet, dante. but i should tell you that, before this riot, and noise, and disputation over me and my price, i had heard the unpacking and removal of the great stack of furniture that hid me. only, as the persons who removed it have no interest for us, and did not seem from their conversation to be especially cultivated or intelligent, but rather the reverse, i have not said anything of them, nor of their valuations in _lire_ of each article as it was brought to light. their voices were the very first that i heard; but though their words sounded strange to me, they only made me think that maybe they were from milan or genoa or some other place in italy. i should not have guessed them tuscans; that is all. indeed, i hardly distinguished much of what they said until they had removed the last of the furniture and i was turned round to the light. then i saw things in a cloud, and heard indistinctly. i made out, however, that i was thick with dust, and must be brought out and cleaned before anyone could see what i was like. then i was carried away down some stairs, and in the end i was aware, but dimly, as in a dream, that i was again in the great chamber where i last saw la maddalena lying on the ground insensible, while the old duke prodded at her with a stick. i could see there were many people in the room, talking volubly. but i could not catch their words well until a signora, who seemed to take the lead, wiped my face over with a wet sponge; and then i heard more. her voice was clearest, and what she said was "_ecco, signori_! now you can see the ear quite plain. _ma com'e bella_! _bella bella_!"--and then it was i came to hear all the clamour of voices of a sudden. then follows all the bargaining i told you of. the signora's husband would not sell an old picture--not he!--for a thousand pounds in gold; not till all the dirt was off and he could see it fairly. all applauded this, and said in chorus neither would they! who could tell what might not be, under the dirt? however, they knew so little about it that they would not mind buying this one, on the chance. but for a decently reasonable price--say five thousand italian lire. on which the owner said, "_come mai_! _e pochissimo_!" then the _signori inglesi_ took another tone, and would have none of the picture, nor any picture, at any price! they would not know where to hang it. they did not like pictures on their walls. all the walls were covered with pictures already, all favourites, that must not be moved. but why need i tell you all this? you have heard folk make bargains, and the lies they tell. the english signori departed, having bought me for near six hundred and fifty english pounds. and then my lady and gentleman are mightily delighted, and dance about the room with joy. now they will go to monte carlo and win back all they lost last year. then i hear them talking in an undertone, thus:-- (he) "i hope they never suspected it was none of ours----" (she) "ah, _dio mio_! and i had told them we were only _inquilini_"--that is, tenants. (he) "_non ti confondi_? don't fret about that. they don't know what _inquilini_ means. they can only say '_mangia bene, quanto costa_!'" (she) "_speriamo_! but what a fine lot of old furniture! couldn't we sell some of it, too?" and this young signora, who was very pretty and impudent, and what i have since heard called svelte, danced about the room in high glee. but the good gentleman stopped her. (he) "_troppo pericolo_! the fat old marchesa would find out. no, no! the picture is quite another thing----" (she) "_perche?_" (he) "can't you see, thickhead? if the old _strega_"--the old witch, that is--"had known the picture was there, do you suppose she wouldn't have had it out, long ago? and that other picture in front of it, with the eagle.... don't dance, but listen!" (she) "... picture in front of it, with the eagle ... yes, go on!" but she won't quite stop dancing, and makes little quick tiptoe movements, not to seem over-subservient and docile. (he) "i would have sold that, too, only it's too big for safety. this one will go in a small case. the _famiglia_ will have to be well paid. what was it la filomena told you first of all about the room and the furniture? do stop that dancing!" (she) "there, see now, i've stopped! but you _have_ been told, once!" (he) "then tell again!" (she) "it wasn't la filomena. it was that old, old prisca who knows all about the castello--more than the marchesa herself. she told me there was an old room in the great tower that had not been open for hundreds of years, as no one dared to go near it for fear of the wicked old duke's ghost. i told her we were _liberi pensatori_"--that is to say, free-thinkers--"and he would not hurt us, and where was the key? we would not touch anything--only look in!" (he) "won't she tell about it all?" (she) "not till we go! besides, she doesn't know. la filomena won't tell her; she knows i know all about her and ugo pistrucci. and she's the only person that goes near the old prisca, who hasn't been off her bed for months. oh no! _she's_ all right. as for the man, i told them la prisca said the _mobiglia_ was to be taken out and dusted and placed in the passage. _stia tranquillo, mio caro_!" (he) "what a happy chance these pig-headed rich milords happened to come in just as we got it. they might have gone before we found it! only to think of it! _seicento e cinquante lire_...!" and so they went on rejoicing, and thinking of new schemes, and how they would get me packed off the very next day, and not a soul in the castle would ever know i had ever been there. they were certainly very bad, unprincipled adventurers. you should have heard them talk of what fun they would have telling the old marchesa about the great discovery of treasures they had made, and the care they had taken nothing should be lost. and then who knows but she might trust them to get a sale for all her old rubbish in england, and what a lot of money they might make, with a little discretion. if i had remained there i should have been longing always for a chance of telling the old _strega_, as they called her, what a nice couple she had let her castle to for the summer months. for i am convinced, not only that they were thieves, but that they were not even lawfully married. however it may have been, i saw no more of them. for next day the same man that had done the removal of the furniture came with a box, and i was carefully packed, and saw nothing more, and distinguished little sound, for weeks it may have been, even months. as the solidity of the box absorbed all sight and hearing, and i knew nothing till i found myself on an easel in a sort of studio in a town that i at once perceived to be l'ombra. for what else could it have been? at this point mr. pelly, who had been listening intently, interrupted the speaker. "i think you have got the name of the place wrong," he said. "i imagine it must have been london--_londra_--the english metropolis--not l'ombra. the sounds are very similar, and easy to mistake." "possibly i was misled by the darkness. it made the name seem so appropriate. but it was not exactly night. there was a window near me, and i could see there was a kind of yellow smoke over everything. but there was music in the street, and children appeared to be running and shouting. other things gave me the impression the time had been intended for morning, but that something had come in the way. it was a terrible place, much like to that dark third circle in hell, where dante and virgilio saw the uncouth monster cerberus. "but let us forget it! why should such a place be remembered or spoken of? i was there for no great length of time: long enough only for the picture-cleaner, in whose workshop i was, to remove the obscurations of four hundred years, and safeguard me with a glass from new deposits. for i understood him to say that i should be just as bad as ever in a very short space of time, in this beastly sooty hole, but for such protection. "and yet this place was not entirely bad, nor in darkness at all times, for at intervals a phenomenon would occur which i supposed to be a peculiarity of the climate, causing the lady of the house to say, 'there--the sun's coming out. i shall get my things on. are you going to stay for ever in the house, and get fustier and fustier, or are you going to have a turn on the embankment? you might answer me, instead of smoking, reginald!' but i noticed that this phenomenon, whatever its cause, never seemed to attain fruition, the lady always saying she knew how it would be--they had lost all the daylight. i only repeat her words. i observed another thing worthy of remark, that it very seldom held up. i am again repeating a phrase that was to me only a sound. i have no idea what 'it' was, nor what it held up, nor why. i am only certain that the performance was a rare one, however frequently it was promised. but the gentleman who restored me seemed to have confidence in its occurrence, conditionally on his taking his umbrella. otherwise, he said, it was cocksure to come down cats and dogs, and they would be in for a cab, and he only had half a crown. "these persons were of no interest in themselves, and i should never remember or think of them at all but for having been the unwilling witness of a conjugal misunderstanding, which may quite possibly have led to a permanent breach between them. it is painful to think that the whole difference might have been made in the lady's jealous misinterpretation of her husband's behaviour towards a maiden named _la sera_--who, as i understood, came in by the week at nine shillings, and always had her sunday afternoons, whatever those phrases mean; no doubt you will know--if i had been able to add my testimony to her husband's disclaimer of amorous intent. for it was most clear that the whole thing was but an innocent joke throughout, however ill-judged and stupid. i saw the whole from my place on the easel, and heard all that passed. i cannot tell you how i longed to say a word on his behalf, when, some days later, two friends paid him a visit, who had evidently been taken into his confidence, but who seemed to think that he had withheld something from them, not treating them so frankly as old friends deserved. whereupon he warmly protested that his wife had no solid ground of complaint against him, having gone off, unreasonably, in what he called "a huff"; but that he had just paid _la sera_ her wages and sent her packing, so that now he had to make his own bed and black his own shoes. "i am sorry to say that these two friends showed only an equivocal sympathy, winking at each other, and each digging the other in the ribs with strange humorous sounds, as of a sort of fowl. also, they shook their heads at their friend, though not, as i think, reproaching him seriously, yet implying thus, as by other things said, that he was of a gay and sportive disposition that might easily be misled by the fascinations of beauty, which they were pleased to ascribe to _la sera_. this was, however, scarcely spoken with an earnest intent, since this maiden, despite the beauty of her name--for one might conceive it to ascribe to her the tender radiance and sad loveliness of the sunset--was wanting in charm of form and colour, and had not successfully cultivated such other fascinations as sometimes make good their deficiency; as sweetness and fluency of speech, or a quick wit, or even the artificial seductions of well-ordered dress. i derived, too, a most unfavourable impression from a comment of her employer--to the effect that if, when she cleaned herself of a sunday morning, she couldn't do it without making the whole place smell of yellow soap, she might as well chuck it and stop dirty. "but i should grieve to think that this signore's wife should have left him permanently for so foolish a quarrel. for, though their lives seemed filled with a silly sort of bickering, i believed from what i saw that there was really no lack of love between them, and i cannot conceive that they will be any happier apart. indeed, had she been indifferent to her husband, could she have felt a trivial inconstancy, implying no grievous wrong, of such importance? but, indeed, it is absurd to use the word _inconstancy_ at all in such a case, though we may condemn the ill-taste of all vulgar trifling with the solemn obligations of conjugal duty. i wish i might have spoken, to laugh in their faces and make a jest of the whole affair. but silence was my lot. "i have hung here, as i suppose, for six months past, and have often striven to speak, but none has heard me till now. think, dear signore, how i have suffered! think how i have longed to speak and be heard, when my madeline, my darling--who loves me, and says she loves me--has talked to her great dog of her lover that was killed in the war...." mr. pelly interrupted. "are you referring to young captain calverley?" he said. "because, if so, it is not certain that he _is_ dead. besides, i suppose you know that miss upwell and the captain were not engaged?" and then the old gentleman fancied he heard a musical laugh come from the picture. "how funny and cold you english are!" said the voice. "was _i_ engaged to my darling, my love, that only time he pressed me to his bosom; that only time i felt his lips on mine? was i not the bond-slave for life to the evil heart and evil will of that old monument of sin, soaked deep in every stain of hell? was i not called his _wife_? yet my heart and my soul went out to my love in that kiss, and laughed in their freedom in mockery of the laws that could put the casket that held them in bond, and yet must perforce leave them free. and when that young soldier tore himself away from my madeline--i saw them here myself; there by the shiny fish, in the glass case--was their parting kiss less real than ours was, that hour when i saw him last, my own love of those years gone by?" "a--it isn't a subject i profess to understand much about," said mr. pelly. he blew his nose and wiped his spectacles, and was silent a moment. then he said, "but whatever the sentiment of the young lady herself may be, there can be no doubt about her mother's. in fact, she has herself told me that she is most anxious that it should not be supposed that there was any engagement. so i trust--if you ever do have the opportunity of speaking to anyone on the subject--that you will be careful not to give the impression that such was the case. i do not, perhaps, fully realise the motives that influence lady upwell--a--and sir stopleigh,--of course it's the same thing...." mr. pelly stopped with a jerk. he found himself talking uncomfortably and inexplicably to space, beside the embers of a dying fire, and in the distance he could hear the carriage bringing the absentees back through the wintry night, and the ringing tread of the horses on the hard ground. "poor uncle christopher all by himself, and the fire out!" said the first comer into the library. it was the young lady who came to see the italian picture at the restorer's studio in chelsea, a little over six months past. she had changed for the older since then, out of measure with the lapse of time. but her face was beautiful--none the less that it was sad and pale--in the glow as she brought the embers together to make life worth living to one or two more faggots, just for a little blaze before we went to bed. "i was asleep and dreaming," said the old gentleman. "such a queer dream!" "you must tell it us to-morrow, uncle christopher. i like queer dreams." this young lady, madeline upwell, always made use of this mode of address, although the old gentleman was no uncle of hers, but only a very old friend of the family who knew her father before she was born, and called him george, which was his christian christian-name, so to speak, "stopleigh" being outside family recognitions--a mere bartitude! but the picture, which might reasonably have protested against mr. pelly's statement, remained silent. so, when his waking judgment set the whole down as a dream, it was probably right. chapter iv a retrospective chapter. how fortune's toy and the sport of circumstances fell in love with one of his nurses. prose composition. lady upwell's majesty, and the queen's. no engagement. the african war, and justifiable fratricide. cain. madeline's big dog cæsar. cats. ormuzd and ahriman. a handy little veldt. madeline's japanese kimono. a discussion of the nature of dreams. never mind athenæus. look at the prophet daniel. sir stopleigh's great-aunt dorothea's twins. the circulating library and the potted shrimps. how madeline read the manuscript in bed, and took care not to set fire to the curtains. the story of madeline, the young lady who is going one day to inherit the picture mr. pelly thought he was talking to last night, along with the surley stakes property--for there is no male heir--is an easy story to tell, and soon told. there were a many stories of the sort, just as the clock of last century struck its hundred. whether the young captain calverley, whom the picture alluded to, was a hero because, when, one day in the hunting-field, our young heiress and her quadruped came to grief over a fence, he made his horse swerve suddenly to avoid disastrous complications, and thereby came to greater grief himself, mr. pelly, at any rate, could form no judgment. it was out of his line, he said. so, according to him, was the sequel, in which the sadly mauled mortal portion of the young soldier, with a doubt if the immortal portion was still in residence, was carried to surley stakes and qualified--though rather slowly--to resume active service, by the skill of the best of surgeons and the assiduity of an army of nurses. but, hero or not, he was credited with heroism by the young lady, with all the natural consequences. and no doubt his convalescence was all the more rapid that he found himself, when he recovered his senses forty-eight hours after his head struck the corner of a stone wall in his involuntary dismount, in such very delightful company, with such opportunities of improving his relations with it. in fact, the scheme for his removal must have developed very soon, to give him a text for a sermon to the effect that he was fortune's toy and the sport of circumstances, that he accounted concussion of the brain and a fractured thigh-bone the only real blessings his lot had ever vouchsafed to him, and that happiness would become a thing of the past as soon as he rejoined his regiment. he would, however, devote the remainder of his life to treasuring the memories of this little hour of unalloyed bliss, and hoping that his cherished recollections would at almost the rarest possible intervals find an echo somehow and somewhere that his adoration--badly in love as he was--failed in finding a description for, as the climax of a long sentence. and perhaps it was just as well that his resources in prose composition gave out when they did, as nothing was left then but to become natural, and say, "you'll forget all about me, miss upwell, you know you will. that's what i meant"--the last with a consciousness that when we are doing prose composition we are apt to say one thing and mean another. madeline wasn't prepared to be artificial, with this young dragoon or anyone else. she gave him the full benefit of her large blue eyes--because, you see, she had got him down, as it were, and he couldn't possibly become demonstrative with a half-healed fracture of the thigh--and said, "i hope i _shan't_. i shall try not to, anyhow." but this seemed not to give entire satisfaction, as the patient said, rather ruefully, "_you could_, if you tried, miss upwell!" to which the young lady, who was not without a mischievous side to her character, answered, "of course i could!" but immediately repented, and added. "one can do anything one likes, if one tries hard enough, you know!" it would only be the retelling of a very old story, the retreading of very old ground, to follow these young people through the remainder of their interview, which was interrupted by the appearance of madeline's mamma; who, to say the truth, had been getting apprehensive that so many _têtes-à-tête_ with this handsome patient might end seriously. and though his family was good, he was only a younger son; and she didn't want her daughter to marry a soldier. fancy "mad" being carried off to india! for in the bosom of her family this most uncomfortable of namelets had caught on naturally, without imputation of hanwell or colney hatch. however, her ladyship was too late, this time. no clinical practice of any hospital includes kissing or being kissed by the patient, and "mad" and her lover were fairly caught. nothing was left for it but confession at high tension, and throwing ourselves on the mercy of the court. but always with the distinct reservation that neither of us could ever love another. lady upwell, a very beautiful woman in her day, was indulging in a beautiful sunset, and meant to remain fine till midnight. there was a gleam of the yellow silver of a big harvest moon in the hair that had been gold. she was good, but very majestic; in fact, _her_ majesty, when she presented her daughter to her queen, competed with that of the latter, which has passed into the language. to do her justice, she let it lapse on hearing the full disclosure of these two culprits, and had the presence of mind to ask them if they had no suspicion that they might be a couple of young fools, to fancy they could know their own minds on so short an acquaintance, etc. for this was barely seven weeks after the hunting-field accident. "you silly geese!" she said. "go your own way--but you'll quarrel in a fortnight. see if you don't!" _she_ knew all about this sort of thing, though mr. pelly didn't. the latter was right, however, and prudent, when in his dream he laid stress on the wish of madeline's parents that there should be "no engagement." this stipulation seemed to be accounted by both of them--but especially by the baronet--as a sort of panacea for all parental responsibilities. it could not be reiterated too often. the consequence was that there were two concurrent determinations of the relative positions of madeline and the captain; one an esoteric one--a sort of sacramental service of perpetual vows of fidelity; the other the exoteric proclamations of a kind of many-headed town-crier, who went about ringing his bell and shouting that it was "distinctly understood that there was no engagement." mr. pelly's repetition of this in his dream may have had an intransitive character; but he was good and prudent, just the same. how we behave in dreams shows whether the high qualities we pride ourselves on are more than skin-deep. but all the efforts of the exoteric town-crier were of no avail against the esoteric sacramental services. the most unsettling condition lovers can have imposed upon them--that of being left entirely to their own devices, and never stimulated by so much as a hint of a _chaperon_--failed to bring about a coolness. and when within a year after his accident jack calverley was ordered away with his company to south africa, where war had all but broken out, the sacramental service the picture--or someone--had witnessed, just by the glass case with the big fish in it, was the farewell of a couple of heartbreaks, kept under by the upspring of hope in youth, that clings to the creed that the stricken classes, the mourning classes, are other people, and that to them pity shall be given from within our pale of well-fenced security. it was a wrench to part, certainly, but jack would come back, and be a great soldier and wear medals. and the other people would die for their country. and then came the war, and the many unpleasant discoveries that always come with a war, the most unpleasant of all being the discovery of the strength of the enemy. the usual recognitions of the obvious, too late; and the usual denunciations of everybody else for not having foreseen it all the time. the usual rush to the money-chest of unexhausted credit, to make good with pounds deficiencies shillings spent in time would have supplied; the usual storms of indignation against the incompetence in high places that never spent, in time, the shillings we refused to provide. the usual war-whoops from sheltered corners, safe out of gunshot; and the usual deaths by scores of men on both sides who never felt a pang of ill-feeling to each other, or knew the cause of quarrel--yes, a many of whom, had they known a quarrel was pending, would have given their lives to avert it! the usual bearing, on both sides, of the brunt of the whirlwind by those who never sowed a wind-seed, and the usual reaping of a golden harvest by the judicious investor, he who buys and sells, but makes and meddles not with what he sells or buys, measuring its value alone by what he can get and must give for it. and a very respectable person he is, too. the history of madeline's next few months made up for her a tale of anxious waitings for many mails; of pangs of unendurable tension over journals that, surrendered by the postman, would not open; that, opened at last, seemed nothing but advertisements; that, run to earth and convicted of telegrams, only yielded new food for anxiety. a tale of three periods of expectation of letters from jack, by every mail. the first of expectation fulfilled; of letters full of hope and confidence, of forecast of victories easily won and a triumphant quick return. the second of expectation damped and thwarted; of victories revised; of hope's rebukes to confidence, the coward who fails us at our need; of the slow dawn of the true horrors of war--mere death on the battlefield the least of them--that will one day change the reckless young soldier to an old grave man that has learned his lesson, and knows that the curse of cain is on him who stirs to war, and that half the great names of history have been borne by devils incarnate. and then the third--a weary time of waiting for a letter that came not, for only one little word of news to say _yes_ or _no_ to the question we hardly dare to ask:--"is he dead?" for our poor young friend, after distinguishing himself brilliantly, and yet coming almost scathless out of more than one action, was _missing_. when the roll was called after a memorable action from which the two opponent armies retreated simultaneously, able to bear the slaughter by unseen guns no longer, no answer came to the name--called formally--of captain calverley. the survivors who still had breath to answer to their names already knew that he was missing--knew that he was last seen apparently carried away by his horse, having lost control over it--probably wounded, said report. that was all--soon told! and then followed terrible hours that should have brought more news and did not. and the hearts of those who watched for it went sick with the fear that no news would ever come, that none would ever know the end of that ride and the vanished rider. but each heart hid away its sickness from its neighbour, and would not tell. and so the days passed, and each day's end was the grafting of a fresh despair in the tree nourished in the soil of buried hopes; and each morning madeline would try to reason it away and discover some new calendar rule, bringing miscalculation to book--always cutting short the tale of days, never lengthening them. she talked very little to anyone about it, for fear her houses of cards should be shaken down by stern common sense; or, worse still, that she should be chilled by the hesitating sympathy of half-hearted hope. but her speech was free to her great dog cæsar, when they were alone together. cæsar was about the size of a small cart-horse, and when he had a mind--and he often had--to lie on the hearthrug, and think with his eyes shut, he was difficult to move. not that he had an opposive or lazy disposition, but that it was not easy to make him understand. the moment he knew what was wanted of him he was only too anxious to comply. as, for instance, if he could be convinced of cats, he would rise and leave the room abruptly, knocking several persons down, and leaving behind him the trail of an earthquake. but his heart was good and pure, and he impressed his admirers somehow that he was always on the side of ormuzd against ahriman: he always took part with the right. so madeline, when she found herself alone with cæsar, in those days, would cry into his fur as he lay on the rug, and would put sentiments of sympathy and commiseration into his mouth, which may have been warranted by the facts, only really there was nothing to show it. in these passages she alleged kinship with cæsar, claiming him as her son. "was he," she would say, "his own mamma's precious angel? and the only person in the house that had any real feeling! all the other nasty people keep on being sorry for her, and he says he knows jack's coming back, and nobody need be sorry at all. and when jack comes home safe and well, his mamma's own heavenly angel shall run with the horses all over household common--he shall! and he shall catch a swallow at last, he shall, and bring it to his own mamma. bless him! only he mustn't scratch his darling head too suddenly; at least, not till his mamma can get her own out of the way, because she's not a bull or an elephant, and able to stand anything.... that's right, my pet! now he shall try and get a little sleep, he shall." this was acknowledgment of a deep sigh, as of one who had at last deservedly found rest. but it called for a recognition of its unselfish nature, too. "and he never so much as thought of going to sleep till he'd consoled his poor mamma--the darling!" and really her interviews with cæsar grew to be almost madeline's only speech about her lost lover; for her father and mother, though they talked to each other, scarcely dared to say a word to her, lest their own disbelief in the possibility of jack's return should show itself. and so the hours passed and passed, and the days grew to weeks, and the weeks to months; and now, at the time of the cold january night when mr. pelly dreamed the picture talked, the flame of hope was dying down in the girl's tired heart like the embers he sat by, and none came bringing fuel and a new lease of life. but the way she nursed the flame that flickered still was brave. she kept up her spirits entirely on the knowledge that there was no direct proof of jack's death. she fostered a conception in her mind of a perfectly imaginary veldt, about the size of hyde park, and carefully patrolled day and night. they would have been certain to find him if he were dead--was her thought. what a handy little veldt that was!--and, oh, the intolerable leagues of the reality! but it did help towards keeping her spirits up, somehow or other. her father and mother ascribed more than a fair share of these kept-up spirits to their great panacea. they laid to their souls the flattering unction that if there _had_ been a regular engagement their daughter would have given way altogether. think what a difference it would have made if she had had to go into mourning! lady upwell took exception to the behaviour of jack's family at calverley court, who had rushed into mourning six weeks after his disappearance, and advertised their belief in his death, really before there was any need for it. her daughter, on the contrary, rather made a parade of being out of mourning. perhaps it seemed to her to emphasize and consolidate her own hopes, as well as to rebuke dispositions towards premature despair in others. therefore, when this young lady came upon old mr. pelly, just aroused from his dream, she was certainly not clad in sackcloth and ashes. she had on her rose colour _voile de soie_; only, of course, mr. pelly didn't see it until she took off her seal-colour musquash wrap, which was quite necessary because of the cold. and the third evening after that, which was to be a quiet one at home for mr. pelly to read them the memoranda of his dream in the library, she put on her jap kimono with the embroidered storks, which was really nearly as smart as the _voile de soie_; and, of course, there was no need to fig up, when it was only mr. pelly. and whatever tale her looks might tell, no one could have guessed from her manner she had such a sorrow at heart, so successfully did she affect, from fear of it, a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; knowing perfectly well that if she made any concession, she must needs break down altogether. "fancy your being able to remember it all, and write it out like that!" said she to mr. pelly when they adjourned into the library after dinner. "we must bear in mind," he replied, "that the story is a figment of my own mind, and therefore easier to recall than a communication from another person. athenæus refers to an instance of..." "never mind athenæus! how do you know it is a figment of your imagination?" "what else can it be?" "lots of things. besides, it doesn't matter. look here, now, you say it was a dream, don't you?" "i certainly think so." "well!--and aren't dreams the hardest things to recollect there are? look at the prophet daniel, and nebuchadnezzar." mr. pelly thought to himself that he would much sooner look at the speaker. but he only said, "suppose we do!" to which the reply was, "well, then--of course!..." "of course what?" "why--of course when you can recollect things that proves they're not dreams." "then, when daniel recollected--or, i should rather say, recalled his dream to nebuchadnezzar--did that prove that it wasn't a dream?" "certainly not, because he was a prophet. the chaldeans _couldn't_ recollect, and that proved that it was." the baronet and his lady remained superiorly silent, smiling over the heads of the discussion. the attitude of debrett towards human weaknesses--such as philosophical speculation, or the use of the globes--was indicated. when mr. pelly had finished reading his account of the dream--on which our relation of it, already given, was founded--discussion ensued. it embodied, intelligently enough, all the things that it is dutiful to say when we are disconcerted at the inscrutable. the baronet said we must guard ourselves carefully against being carried away by two or three things; superstition was one of them. it did not require a scientific eye to see that there was nothing in this narrative which might not be easily ascribed to the subconscious action of mr. pelly's brain. it was quite otherwise in such a case as that of his great-aunt, dorothea, whose wraith undoubtedly appeared and took refreshment at knaresborough copping at the very time that she was confined of twins here in this house. the testimony to the truth of this had never been challenged. but when people came and told him stories of substantial tables floating in the air and accordions being played, he always asked this one question, "was it in the dark?" that question always proved a poser, etc., etc.--and so forth. from which it will be seen that sir stopleigh belonged to that numerous class of persons which, when its attention turns towards wondermongering of any sort, loses its heads promptly, and runs through the nearest available gamut of accepted phrases. her ladyship said she was not the least surprised at anything happening in a dream. she herself dreamed only the other night that lady pirbright had gone up in a balloon shaped like a gridiron, and the very next day came the news that old canon pirbright, at trenchards plaistowe, had had a paralytic stroke. it was impossible to account for these things. the only wonder to her was that mr. pelly should have recollected the whole so plainly, and been able to write it down. she would give anything to recollect that dream about the circulating library and the potted shrimps. her ladyship discoursed for some time about her own dreams. mr. pelly entirely concurred in the view that the whole thing was a dream. in fact, it would be absurd to suppose it anything else. when he got an opportunity to read professor schrudengesser's translation of the italian ms. to his friends, they would readily see the source of most of the events his mind had automatically woven into a continuous narrative for the picture-woman to tell. he would rather read it to them himself than leave them the ms. to read, as there were points that would require explanation. he could not offer to do so till he came back from his great-grandniece constance's wedding at cowcester. a little delay would not matter. they would not have forgotten the dream-story in a fortnight. to this, assent was given in chorus. but madeline was not going to have the story pooh-poohed and made light of. "i believe it was a _ghost_, uncle christopher," said she. "the ghost of the woman in the picture. and you christened her after me by subconscious thingummy. _maddalena's_ italian for madeline. but they never give their names right. ask anyone that has phenomena." then she lit candles for all parties to go to bed, and kissed them all, including her alleged uncle, who laid stress on his claim for this grace in duplicate, as he had no one to kiss him at home. "poor uncle christopher," said she, "he's been shut up in the dark with a ghost.... oh yes!--i'm in earnest, and you're all a parcel of sillies." then she borrowed his written account of the dream to re-read in bed, and take care the lamp didn't set fire to the curtains. she said she particularly wanted to look at that last sentence or two, about when the picture was in chelsea. chapter v mr. aiken's sequel. pimlico studios. mr. hughes's idea. aspects of nature. mr. hughes's foot. what had mr. aiken been at? _not_ fanny smith. it was sairah!! who misunderstood and turned vermilion? her malice. the regent's canal. mr. aiken's advice from his friends. woman and her sex. how mr. hughes visited mr. aiken one evening, and the post came, with something too big for the box, while mrs. parples slept. mr. aiken's very sincerely madeline upwell. her transparency. how the picture's photo stood on the table. interesting lucubrations of mr. hughes. what was that? but it was nothing--only an effect of something. the vernacular mind. negative juries. how mr. aiken stopped an echo, so it was mr. hughes's fancy. the story's brief reference to mr. aiken's life after his good lady forsook him, may be sufficient for its purposes, but the author is in a certain sense bound to communicate to the reader any details that have come to his knowledge. mr. aiken's first step was to take an intimate friend or two into his confidence. but his intimate friend or two had a quality in common with the pickwickian bottle or two. an intimate friend or six would be nearer the mark--or even twelve. he did not tell his story separately to each; there was no need. if the mention of a private affair within the hearing of cat or mouse leads to its being shouted at once from the top of the house--and that was the experience of maud's young man who went to the crimea--how much more public will your confidences become if you make them to a tenant of a studio that is one of a congeries. pimlico studios was a congeries, built to accommodate the artists of a great age of art, now pending, as though to meet the needs of locusts. for there can be no doubt that such an age is at hand, if we are to judge by the workshop accommodation that appears to be anticipating it. an ingenious friend of the author--you must have noticed how many authors have ingenious friends?--has been able to determine by a system of averages of a most convincing nature, that the cubic area of the studios in chelsea and kensington alone exceeds that of the lunatic asylums of the metropolis by nearly seven and a quarter per cent. this gentleman's researches on the subject are consequent upon his singular conviction that the output of the fine arts, broadly speaking, is small in proportion to the amount of energy and capital devoted to them. we have reasoned with him in vain on the subject, pointing out that the fine arts have nothing in common with the economics of manufacture, least of all in any proportions between the labour expended and the results attained. were it otherwise, the estimation of a painter's merit would rise or fall with his colourman's bill and the rent of his studio. this gentleman--although he is a friend of the author--has no soul. if he had, the spectacle of the life-struggle which is often the lot of genius would appeal to him, and cause him to suspend his opinion. it is always, we understand, desirable to suspend one's opinion. he would do so, for instance, in the case of an artist, a common acquaintance of ours, whom at present he condemns freely, calling him names. this artist has five studios, each of them full of easels and thrones. the number of his half-used colour tubes that won't squeeze out is as the sands of the sea, while his bundles of brushes that only want washing to be as good as new, may be likened to corn-sheaves, in so far as their stems go--a mere affair of numeration. but their business ends are another pair of shoes altogether; for the hairs of the brushes have become a coagulum as hard as agate, calling aloud for benzine collas to disintegrate them--to the tune, this artist admits, of threepence each--whereas the ear of corn yields to less drastic treatment. contrivances of a specious nature in japanned tin and celluloid abound, somewhat as spray abounds on oceans during equinoxes, and each of these has at one time fondly imagined it was destined to become that artist's great resource and stand-by, the balustrade his genius would not scorn to be indebted to. but he has never drawn a profile with the copying-machine that has legs, nor availed himself of the powers of the graphoscope--if that is its name--that does perspective, nor done anything with the countless wooden figures except dislocate their universal joints; nor, we fear, for a long time paid anything on account of the quarterly statements that flutter about, with palette-knives full of colour wiped off on them, that are not safe to sit down upon for months. but no impartial person could glance at any of the inaugurations of pictures on the thousand canvases in these five studios without at once exclaiming, "this is genius!" the power of the man is everywhere visible, and no true lover of art ever regrets that so few of them have been carried into that doubtful second stage where one spoils all the moddlin' and the colour won't hold up, and somehow you lose the first spirit of the idear and don't get any forwarder. it never occurs to any mature critic to question the value of this artist's results, even of his least elaborated ones. and, indeed, an opinion is current among his friends that restriction of materials and of the area of his studios might have cramped and limited the free development of a great mind. they are all unanimous that a feller like tomkins must have room to turn round, or where are you! and, if, as we must all hope, the growth of genius such as his is to be fostered as it deserves, no one should look with an ungenerous eye upon such agglomerations of art-workshops as the pimlico studios, or sneer at them as uncalled for, merely because a philistine plutocracy refuses to buy their produce, and has no walls to hang it on if it did. we for our part can only note with regret that any studios should be so badly adapted to their purpose, and constructed with so little consideration for the comfort of their occupants, as these same pimlico studios. we have, however, been tempted away from our subject, which at present is the community of artists that occupied them; and must return to it to say that these very drawbacks were not altogether without their compensations. for though these studios were, like the arguments of dissent, unsound--being constructed to admit rainwater and retain products of combustion, each of its own stove and the studio beneath it--these structural shortcomings were really advantages, in so far as they promoted interchange of social amenities between the resident victims of the speculative builder who ran up the congeries. sympathy against their common enemy, the landlord, brought all the occupants of pimlico studios into a hotchpot of brotherly affection, and if the choruses of execration in which they found comfort have reached the ears for which they were intended, that builder will catch it hot, one of these odd-come-shortlies. this expression is not our own. when mr. reginald aiken, with his domestic perplexity burning his tongue's end and crying aloud for utterance, called upon the artist from whom we have borrowed it, that gentleman, mr. hughes, one of his most intimate friends, was thinking. he had been thinking since breakfast--thinking about some new aspects of nature, which had been the subject of discussion with some friends the evening before. they were those new aspects of nature which have been presented so forcibly by van schronk and le neutre; and of which, in this artist's opinion, more than a hint is to be found in hawkins. he was thinking deeply when mr. aiken came in, and not one stroke of work had he done, would that gentleman believe him, since he set out his palette. mr. aiken's credulity was not overtaxed. mr. hughes wanted to talk about himself, and said absently, "you all right, crocky?" addressing mr. aiken by a familiar name in use among his intimate friends. he was not well disposed towards a negative answer when mr. aiken gave one; an equivocal one certainly, but not one to whose meaning it was possible to affect blindness. the words were "middlin'--considerin'!" but mr. hughes was not going to be too coming. "wife well?" said he remotely. mr. aiken sprang at his inattentive throat, and nailed him. "ah, that's it," said he. "that's the point." mr. hughes was forced to inquire further, and stand his idea over, for later discussion. but he might just as well have let it alone--better, if you come to that. he really was a stupid feller, hughes, don't you know? "i say," said he, "don't you run away and say i didn't tell you what would happen." for he had interpreted his friend's agitated demeanour and equivocal speech as the result of a recent insight into futurity, showing him in the position of a detected and convicted parent, without the means of providing for an increasing family. for they do that, families do. "don't be an ass, stumpy," said he, using a familiar name no fact in real life warranted. "it's not that sort of thing, thank god! no--i'll tell you what it is, only you mustn't on any account mention it." "all right, crocky! i never mention things. honest injun! go ahead easy." mr. hughes was greatly relieved that his surmise had been wrong. good job for mr. aiken, as also for his wife! mr. hughes desired his congratulations to this lady, but withdrew them on second thoughts. because, you see, her escape from the anxieties of maternity was entirely constructive. mr. hughes felt that he had put his foot in it, and that his wisest course would be to take it out. he did so. but mr. aiken had something to say about his wife, and made it a corollary to her disappearance from the conversation. "she's bolted!" said he lugubriously. "went away thursday, and wrote to say she wasn't coming back, friday. it's a fact." mr. hughes put back his foot in it. "who's she bolted with? who's the feller?" mr. aiken flushed up quite red, like any turkey-cock. "damn it, stump!" said he, "you really ought to take care what you're saying. i should like to see any fellow presume to run away with euphemia. draw it mild!" he became calmer, and it is to be hoped was ashamed of his irritability. but really it was mr. hughes's fault--talking just like as if it was in a novel, and euphemia a character. "i beg your pardon," said that offender humbly. "it was the way you put it. besides, they are generally supposed to." mr. aiken responded, correctively and loftily: "yes, my dear fellow, on the stage and in novels." he added, with something of insular pride, "chiefly french and american." "what's her little game, then?" asked mr. hughes. "if it's not some other beggar, _what_ is it she's run away with?" "she has not run away with anybody," said mr. aiken with dignity. "nor anything. perhaps i should explain myself better by saying that she has refused to return from her aunt's." "any reason?" said mr. hughes, who wanted to get back to his idea. "i'm sorry to say it was my fault, stumpy," came very penitently from the catechumen. interest was roused. "i say, young man," said mr. hughes, with a tendency of one eye to close, "what have you been at?" "absolutely nothing whatever!" "yes, of course! but along of who? who's the young woman you _haven't_ been making love to? tell up and have done with it." "you are under a complete misconception, stump. really _nobody_!" mr. hughes thought a moment, as though he were at work on a conundrum. then he pointed suddenly. "fanny smith!" said he convictingly. mr. aiken quite lost his temper, and got demonstrative. "fanny smith--fanny grandmother!" he exclaimed meaninglessly! "how can you talk such infernal rot, stumpy. do be reasonable!" "then it was _somebody_," said his tormentor, and mr. aiken felt very awkward and humiliated. however, he saw inevitable confession ahead, and braced himself to the task. "really, stump," said he, "it would make you cry with laughing to know who it was that was at the bottom of it. i said 'fanny grandmother,' just now, but at any rate fanny smith's a tailor's wife with no legs to speak of, who sits on the counter, and a very nice girl if you know her. i mean there's no fundamental absurdity in fanny smith. this was." which wasn't good speechwork, but, oh dear, how little use accuracy is! "who was it then?" mr. hughes left one eye shut, under an implied contract to reopen it as soon as the answer came to his question. "well!" said mr. aiken reluctantly. "if you _must_ have it, it was sairah!" he was really relieved when his friend looked honestly puzzled, repeating after him "sairah! what!--the gurl!" in genuine astonishment. it was now evident that the idea would have to stand over. mr. hughes said farewell to it, almost audibly; then said "stop a minute!" and lit a pipe; then settled down in a rocking chair to listen, saying, "now, my boy!--off you go." he was a long and loose-limbed person who picked his knees up alternately with both hands, as though to hold his legs on. whenever he did this, the slipper in that connexion came off, with the effect of bringing its owner's sock into what is called keeping with the rest of the studio, one which many persons would have considered untidy. after which mr. aiken went off, or on--whichever you prefer. "of course i don't expect you fellers to do anything but chaff, you know. but it's jolly unpleasant, for all that. it was like this, don't you see? a young female swell had brought her sweetheart--i suppose, unless he was her cousin--to see a picture i'm cleaning for her parent, who's a bart. in worcestershire. know him? sir stopleigh upwell." mr. hughes didn't, that he could call to mind, after a mental search which seemed to imply great resources in barts. "well--she was an awfully jolly girl, but quite that sort." mr. aiken tried to indicate by gesture, a fashionably dressed young lady with a stylish figure, and failed. but mr. hughes, an impressionist artist, could understand, and nodded prompt appreciation. so mr. aiken continued: "when they cleared out, euphemia said the young woman was 'up-to-date.' and i suppose she was...." "oh certainly--quite up to date--not a doubt of it!" "well--i made believe not to know the meaning of the expression, just to take a rise out of euphemia. and you know she has just _one_ fault--she's so matter-of-fact! she said everyone knew the meaning of 'up-to-date,' that knew anything. ask anybody! ask her aunt priscilla--and i certainly wasn't going to run the risk--like bearding a tigress in her den with impertinent questions!--or mrs. verity the landlady. or, for that matter, ask the gurl, sairah! that's where _she_ came in, stump." mr. aiken seemed to hang fire. "but," said mr. hughes, "she only comes in as an abstraction, so far. i can't see her carcass in it." from which we may learn that mr. hughes thought that abstract meant incorporeal; or, at least, imponderable. it is a common error. "what did _you_ say?" he asked. "i said 'suppose i ask sairah!' and rang for her, for a lark. euphemia was in an awful rage and pretended to go, but stopped outside to listen." the speaker's hesitation appeared to increase. "well--and when she came?..." "why, the stupid idiot altogether misunderstood me. damn fool! what the dooce she thought i meant, i don't know...." "what did you say? out with it, old chap!" mr. hughes seemed to be holding intense amusement back, with a knowledge that it would get the bit in its teeth in the end. mr. aiken, seeing this, intensified and enlarged his manner. "i _merely_ said--no, really it's the simple honest truth, every word--i _merely_ said, 'your mistress says you know the meaning of "up-to-date," sairah.' and what does the beast of a girl do but turn vermilion and stand staring like a stuck pig!" mr. hughes began shaking his head slowly from side to side. but he did not get to the direction _accelerando_, for he stopped short, and said abruptly, "well--what next?" mr. aiken assumed a responsible and mature manner, rather like that of a paterfamilias on his beat. "i reasoned with the girl. pointed out that her mistress wouldn't say things to turn vermilion about. i tried to soothe her suspicions...." mr. hughes interrupted, saying dubiously: "i see. no tong-dresses, of course?" mr. aiken explained that that was just where the misapprehension had come in. if his wife had been inside the room instead of on the _stairs_, she would have seen that there was absolutely _nothing_. mr. hughes looked incredulous. "there must have been somethin', old chap, to set your missis off. don't tell me!" but mr. aiken _would_ tell mr. hughes--would insist on doing so. "it was the horrible, shameless brute's diabolical malice!" he shouted. "nothing more nor less! what does she do but say out loud just as my wife was coming into the room, 'you keep your 'ands off of me, mr. aching!' and of course, when euphemia came in, she thought i had just jumped half a mile off. and it was rough on me, stump, because really my motive was to save my wife having to get another house-and-parlourmaid." "motive for what?" said mr. hughes shrewdly. he had touched the weak point of the story. "did you, or did you not, young man, take this young person round the waist or chuck her under the chin?" "my dear hughes," said mr. aiken, with undisguised impatience, "i wouldn't chuck that odious girl under the chin with the end of a barge-pole. nor," he added after reflection, "take her round the waist with one of the drags in readiness at the lodge." the barge-pole had conducted his imagination to the regent's canal, and left it there. mr. aiken had had no intention when he called on his friend hughes to take the whole of pimlico studios into his confidence. but what was he to do when another artist dropped in and mr. hughes said, "you won't mind triggs? the most discreet beggar _i_ ever came across!" what could he say that would arrest the entry of mr. triggs into the discussion of his family jar that would not appear to imply that that gentleman was an indiscreet beggar? and what course was open to him when mr. hughes told yet another artist, whose name was dolly, that he might come in, but he wasn't to listen? and yet another, whose name was doddles? even if there had been no other chance visitors to the studio during the conclave on mr. aiken's private affairs, there would have been every likelihood of complete publicity for them in the course of a day or two at most. for nothing stimulates rumour like affidavits of secrecy. it's such fun telling what is on no account to go any farther. but as a matter of fact more than one gentleman who would have resented being called a _flâneur_, looked in at mr. hughes's studio casually that morning to talk over that gentleman's idea, mooted yesterday at the club, and found himself outside a circle whose voices subsided down to inaudible exchanges of postscripts to finish up. as each newcomer acted upon this in the sweet and candid manner of this community, saying unaffectedly, "what's the fun?" and some friend of his within the circle usually said to him, "shut up! tell you after!" and as moreover it was invariably felt that a single exclusion only embarrassed counsel, no opportunity was really lost of making europe acquainted with the disruption of mr. aiken's household. and it was a pity, because so much gossip doesn't do any good. besides, the time might have been profitably employed ventilating mr. hughes's idea, and getting a sort of provisional insight into the best means of carrying it out. as it was, when, some time after midday, someone said, "i say, stump, my boy, how about that idea of yours we were talking about at the club yesterday?" everyone else looked at his watch, and said it was too late to get on to that now; we must have lunch, and have a real serious talk about it another time. then we went to lunch at machiavelli's, and it was plenty early enough if we were back by three. mr. aiken received a good deal of very sound advice from his friends as to how he might best deal with his emergency. he turned this over in his mind as he turned himself over on his couch when he got home about three in the morning, and was rather at a loss to select from it any samples from different mentors which agreed upon a course. in fact, the only one thing they had in common was the claim made by their respective promulgators to a wider and deeper knowledge of that mysterious creature woman than mr. aiken's inexperience could boast. one said to him--speaking as from long observation of a sex you couldn't make head or tail of--that, depend upon it, she would come round, you see if she didn't. they always did. another, that this said sex was obstinacy itself, and you might depend upon it she would stick out. they always did. another, that a lot the best thing for a husband in like case to do was to go and cosset the offended lady over with appropriate caresses, before which she would be sure to soften. they always did. another, that if you could convince her by some subtle machinations that you didn't care a twopenny damn how long she stayed away, back she would come on the nail. they always did. in the multitude of counsellors there is wisdom, no doubt, but when the multitude is large enough to advise every possible course, it is just as easy to run through all the courses open to adoption by oneself, and choose one on the strength of its visible recommendations. more particularly because so many advisers insist on your taking their advice, and go on giving it, cataballatively, if you don't. mr. aiken felt, when he retired for the night, like the sheet aunt sally hangs up behind her when she folds it up at the end of a busy day on epsom downs. it was a great pity that mr. aiken's domestic upset did not occur a few days later, because then mr. hughes's idea would have had such a much clearer stage for its _début_. as it was, what with one thing and what with another, the mature discussion of this subject was delayed a full week. next day triggs had to go to paris, and of course it was nonsense to attempt anything without him--for look at the clearness of that man's head! then, when triggs came back, a day later than expected, his aunt must needs invite her nephew down to suddington park, which is her place in shropshire, which had earned for mr. triggs the name of the pobble--you remember aunt jopiska's park, if you read your lear in youth--and which was an expectation of his, if he kept in favour with the old lady. of course, the idea didn't depend on triggs, or any one man. no, thank you! but triggs had a good business head on his shoulders, and was particularly sound on the subject of premises. it is a singular and noticeable thing that whenever any great motive or scheme germinates in the human brain, that brain, before it has formulated the conditions thereof, or fully defined its objects, will begin to look at premises, and while it is examining some very much beyond its means--in piccadilly, for instance, or old bond street--will feel that the project is assuming form, and that now we shall get on to really _doing_ something, and come to the end of this everlasting talk, talk, talk, that leads to nothing, and only sets people against us. so really very little could be done till the pobble came back from aunt jopiska. when he did come back there was some other delay, but it's always well to be beforehand. the enthusiasts of this idea could look at premises; and did so. all this has little or nothing to do with the story. but it serves to individualize mr. hughes, who, but for it, would be merely a long artist with a goatee beard, who not infrequently looked in to smoke a pipe on the split wild boar whose head endangered the safety of self-warmers on mr. aiken's floor in the studio near the stove where he found the vestas that were all stuck together. mr. hughes was standing there, a good many weeks after our last date, chatting with mr. aiken, who was becoming quite slovenly and dirty with nobody to look after him--because, of course, mrs. parples, who came in by the day, hadn't the sense to see to anything; and, moreover, he was that snappy at every turn, there wasn't, according to mrs. parples, many would abear him. he had been hoping that the first of his advisers whom we cited was right, and that if he waited a reasonable time he would see if his wife wouldn't come round. if they always did, she would. but he was beginning to be afraid they sometimes didn't. he had even impatiently expressed a view equivalent to that which identified her with obstinacy itself, the quality. but this was only temper, though no doubt she might stick out. they might sometimes, those curious examples of a perfectly unique sex. he really wanted to go to her with persuasive arts and procure a reconciliation. but he was too proud. besides, if that was possible now, it would be equally so three months hence. as to the fourth alternative, that of showing he didn't care, that would be capital on the stage, but he wasn't going to burn his fingers with it in real life. so he passed his days working, in his own conceit; and smoking in a chair opposite to his work, in mrs. parples'. perhaps neither conception was quite correct. his evenings he mostly passed seeing bad plays well acted, or good plays ill acted--these are the only sorts you can get free paper for. it was ridiculous for him, knowing such a lot of actors, to pay at the door. now and again, however, he stayed at home, and a friend came in for a quiet smoke. even so mr. hughes, this evening. "things improvin' at all, crocky?" said he, not exactly as if he thought he wasn't inquisitive. mr. aiken kept an answer, which was coming, back for consideration. he appeared to reject it, going off at a tangent by preference. he had made up his mind, he said, not to fret his kidneys any more over his wife's absence. she would come round before long, and eat humble-pie for having made such a fool of herself. he preferred the expression "damn fool," but chivalry limited its utterance to a semi-_sotto voce_. "i might get a letter from her any minute," said he. "why, when the post came just now, i fully expected it was a letter from her." he appeared to confuse between expectation's maximum and its realization. "there he is again. i shouldn't be the least surprised if this one _was_." he left the room with a transparent parade of deliberation. but before he had reached the staircase the postman knocked again, and mr. aiken came back saying: "it isn't her. it's something that won't go in the box." this was slack language and slack reasoning--confusion confounded. but mr. aiken retired on it with dignity, saying: "mrs. parples attends to the door." the something continued to refuse, audibly, to go in the box, and mrs. parples didn't attend to the door. the postman put all his soul into a final knock, which seemed to say, "i am leaving, half-out, what may be only an advertisement, or may be vital to your hereafter, or somebody's;" and then washed his hands of it and took up next door's case. mr. aiken listened for mrs. parples, who remained in abeyance, and then went out again and returned with a very ill-made-up consignment indeed, and a normal square envelope with a bespoken "m" embossed on its flap, directed in an upright hand, partly robust, partly æsthetic, an expression applied nowadays to anything with a charm about it. this handwriting had one. "parples is sleeping peacefully," said mr. aiken. "it would be a shame to disturb parples. i know who this is." he opened the envelope with difficulty, but looked stroked and gratified. the latter was from his very sincerely madeline upwell. just you notice any male friend of yours next time you have a chance of seeing one open a letter from youth and beauty which remains--however theoretically--his very sincerely, and see if he doesn't look stroked and gratified. mr. hughes picked up the delivery that had given the letter-box so much trouble, and looked through it at each end. mr. aiken was busy reading his letter over and over; so he could only throw out a sideways carte-blanche to mr. hughes to unpack the inner secret of the roll. this was what he was reading: "dear mr. aiken, "i think you may like a copy of the photo captain calverley (who perhaps you will remember came with me to your studio) made of this beautiful picture, which i am never tired of looking at. i think it so good. please accept it from us if you care to have it. believe me, dear mr. aiken, with kind regards to yourself and mrs. aiken, in which my mother joins, "yours very sincerely, "madeline upwell. "p.s.--i know you will be sorry to hear that captain calverley's regiment is ordered out to south africa. of course, it makes us very anxious." "transparent sort of gurl!" said mr. hughes, when mr. aiken read the letter aloud to him. "of course, captain carmichael's her sweetheart. anybody can see that with half an eye." "calverley," said mr. aiken. "yes--they get like that when it's like that." and both pondered a little, smoking, over the peculiarities of humanity, especially that inexplicable female half of it. "chuck it over here and let's have a look at it," he added, and mr. hughes chucked him over the photograph. he contemplated it for a moment in silence; then said: "i expect she wasn't far out, after all. euphemia, i mean." "chuck it back again and let's have another look," said mr. hughes. mr. aiken did so, and let him have the other look. "yes," said he. "they went it in italy about that time, don't you know! fifteenth or sixteenth century. that sort of thing!" for mr. hughes knew a lot about italy, and could quote browning. he uncrickled a result of the shape of that letter-box, or tried to, and then stood the photograph so that they could both see it, while they talked of something else, against the gres-de-flandres straight-up pot that was so handy to stand brushes in, like umbrellas. they had plenty to talk about, because at this time the idea of mr. hughes that was destined to fill so important an horizon in the history of modern art, and was also pregnant with incalculable consequences to several things or persons, besides having an indirect bearing on several others, and challenging the bedrock of modern art criticism--for it had the courage of its convictions, and stuck at nothing--this idea was taking form slowly but surely, and was already making itself felt in more ways than one. it was easy to laugh at it--this was indisputable--but he who lived longest would see most. it had a future before it, and if you would only just wait twenty years, you would see if it hadn't. you mark the words of its disciple, whoever he was you were talking to--that was all he said--and see if he wasn't right! he was a little indignant--some samples of him--with audiences who decided to wait, his own enthusiasm believing that the results might be safely anticipated. however, the idea prospered, there is no doubt of that, and the circle of enthusiasts who had leagued themselves together to foster it and promote a true understanding of it had already taken premises, and their telephone number was , western. "it's true," said mr. hughes, "that the light in the galleries is bad, and the hot-air system of warming will destroy any ordinary oil-picture in a month. but altering all that is the merest question of money--comes off the guarantee fund, in fact. and one thing nobody but a fool can help seein', at the first go off, is that the galleries are rum. rumness is half the battle." this expressed so deep and indisputable a truth that mr. aiken could not assent strongly enough in mere words. he nodded rapidly and most expressively, without speech. however, when he had reached the natural limits of a nod's assenting power, he added, "right you are, stumpy, my boy. gee up!" and mr. hughes resumed: "i ain't sayin', mind you, crocky, that any sort of hocus-pocus is justifiable in any case. when i use the expression 'rum,' i am keepin' in view the absolute necessity for a receptive attitude of mind in the visitor to the galleries. tell me such an attitude of mind is possible without a measure of rumness as a stimulant, and i say 'humbug!'" mr. aiken said again, "right you are, stumpy." but he did not rise to enthusiasm--seemed low and depressed. "it all connects with the fundamental root of the idea," mr. hughes continued. "no one would be more repugnant than myself to any ramification in the direction of wardour street ... you understand me?..." "rather!" said mr. aiken. and he seemed to do so. it is not necessary for the purposes of this story to prove that either of these gentlemen understood what they were talking about, or anything else, but their conversation has a bearing on their respective characters and their preoccupations at this moment, which are part of it. mr. hughes had mounted a rhetorical hobby, and wished to have his ride. he rigged up three fingers of his left hand, holding them in front of him to check off three heads on, as soon as he should come to that inevitable stage. he did not know what they would be, but his instinctive faith made nothing of that. they would be needed, all in good time. "i am not saying," he pursued, "that wardour street, in its widest sense, has nothing to recommend it. i am not saying that it makes no appeal. i am not disputing its historical and ethical standpoints ... you see what i mean?" this was a concession to the difficulties that await the orator who expects to round up his sentences. mr. aiken interjected, to help this one out of an embarrassment: "couldn't be better put! let it go at that;" and knocked some ashes out of his pipe. mr. hughes was grateful, because he had had no idea what to say next. his indebtedness, however, had to be ignored; else, what became of dignity? an enlarged manner accepted a laurel or two due to lucidity, as he continued: "but i do say this, that, considered as a basis--perhaps i should say a fulcrum--or shall i say as a working hypothesis of the substratum or framework of the idea?..." the speaker hesitated. "that's the safest way to put it," said mr. aiken, but rather gloomily. he was re-lighting his pipe. "i think so," said mr. hughes judicially. "considered as ... what i said just now ... wardour street is, to my thinkin', played out. quite distinctly played out.... what's that?" "what's what?" the questions seemed to refer to something heard and unheard, by each speaker respectively. mr. aiken did not press for an answer, but went to the door, persuading his pipe to draw by the way. "want anything, mrs. parples?" said he, looking out. but no answer came. "mrs. p. is sleeping happily in the kitchen," said he, returning. "it wasn't her. it was an effect of something." "i suppose it was. thought i heard it, too!" perhaps, if you ever chanced to hear a conversation about nobody could exactly say what, you noticed that nobody did say anything very exactly, and everybody talked like these two gentlemen, who certainly had heard something, but who decided that they hadn't, because they couldn't find out what it was. it was too slight to discuss. they each said "rum!" and settled down to chat again, after turning down the gas, which made a beastly glare. mr. hughes had forgotten about the three heads, though, and taken his fingers down. he did, however, pursue the topic which claimed his attention, having embarked upon it, and feeling bound to conduct it to a close. he said something to this effect, and we hope our report is fairly accurate. he certainly appeared to say that something, which could hardly have been anything, grammatically, but the close to which he conducted the topic, embodied the point which underlay the whole of the extensive area which the idea opened up for development, and turned upon the indisputable truth that the highest art--sculpture, music, painting, poetry--is never intelligible to the vernacular mind. how could any inference be more incontestable than that no art could rise above mediocrity until a quorum of commonplace persons should be found honestly incapable of attaching any meaning to it? by making unintelligibility to the banal mind a criterion of superiority in art, we established a standard of criticism, and eliminated from consideration a wilderness of insipidity which mr. hughes did not hesitate to call a nightmare. for his part, he was so confident that the system of negative juries, as they had been called, was sounder than any appeal to popular applause that he was quite willing that his own work should stand or fall by the decision of the commonplace intelligence as to which side up the picture should be looked at. he would go that length, and take the consequences. let the selection committee of their proposed annual exhibition consist entirely of such intelligences, and let the hanging committee hang all the pictures they were unable to make head or tail of, and such a galaxy of productions of genius would be accumulated every year on their walls as the world had never before seen. "not work in practice?" said mr. hughes, replying to a morose doubt of mr. aiken's. "just you redooce it to practice. take the case that your jury guesses the subject of a picture. out it goes! did you ever know that class able to make head or tail of the subject of a work of genius? gradual and infallible elimination, my boy--that's the ticket!" the speaker, who, though perhaps rather an idiot--only, mind you, he was subject now and then to something almost like inspiration--threw himself back in his chair as though he had exhausted the subject, and might rest. "don't b'lieve it would work," said mr. aiken, sucking at his pipe. but he was evidently in a temper this evening, and mr. hughes paid no attention to his nonsense. however, it was no use talking about the idea to him until he was more sympathetic. he would come right presently. to cajole him into a better frame of mind, mr. hughes began talking of something else. "queer sort of studio, this of yours, crocky," said he. "what do you make out's queer about it, stumpy?" said mr. aiken. "such peculiar echoes!" "i don't hear any echoes." "well, when you went to the door--you heard that?" "oh, that wasn't an echo: that was somebody spoke outside." "somebody spoke outside? what did she say? what was it you heard?" "couldn't say. what did you?" "well, what i heard sounded like a sort of bastard italian." mr. hughes said this to sound grand. "you shut up and listen a minute." mr. aiken shut up, and the two sat listening in the half-dark. now, whenever sounds are listened for, they show a most obliging spirit, becoming audible where you thought silence was going on peacefully alone. the first sound that made mr. hughes say "there now!--what's that?" turned out to be the gas, which, at a carefully chosen point, rippled. the next proved to be an intermittent spring fizzing on the hot stove from a water-jar placed upon it. the third was a spontaneous insect unknown to entomology, which had faced the difficulties of self-making, behind the skirting, and evidently was not going to remain a mere cipher. the fourth was something or other that squeaked on the table, and if one changed the places of things, noises like that always stopped. so mr. aiken shifted the things about, and said mr. hughes would see that would stop it. he faced the responsibilities of the investigator by quenching the phenomenon, a time-honoured method. he wrapped up the photograph, and put it away in a drawer to show to euphemia. it would be interestin' to see if she recognized it.... oh yes! she would be back in the next few days--sure to! and mr. hughes saw that the shifting about of the things on the table _had_ stopped the noise he called an echo, and what more could he or anybody want? so he sat down again and had some toddy, and talked about the idea. and towards one in the morning he got the opportunity of checking off three heads on his three fingers, and feeling that he ought to have been in parliament. he had felt previously rather like a seneschal with three spears vacant over his portcullis, longing for a healthy decapitation to give them employment. the foregoing chapter, apart from the way in which it emphasizes mr. aiken's loneliness and discontent as a bachelor, would be just as well left out of the story, but for the seemingly insignificant incident of the echo, or whatever it was, which might have been unintelligible if referred to hereafter, without its surroundings. chapter vi follows mrs. euphemia aiken to coombe and maiden. proper pride. you cannot go back on a railway ticket, however small its price. one's aunts. how miss priscilla bax was not surprised when she heard it was reginald. of the upas tree of reputations--the pure mind. how aunt prissy worked her niece up. of the late prince regent, and tiberius. never write a letter, if you want the wind to lull. ellen jane dudbury and her mamma. of ju-jutsu as an antidote to tattle. of the relative advantages of immorality to the two sexes. of good souls and busy bodies, and of the groobs. how that odious little dolly was the modern zurbaran. but he had never so much as called. colossians three-eighteen. miss jessie bax and her puppy. miss volumnia bax. the delicacy of the female character. of the radio-activity of space and how mr. adolphus groob sat next to mrs. aiken. the godfrey pybuses. but they have nothing to do with the story. how time slipped by, and how mr. aiken employed him till the year drew to an end. euphemia aiken, be it understood, had not brought definition to bear on her motives for running away to her aunt priscilla at coombe. it seemed the nearest handy way of expressing her indignation at her profligate husband's conduct--that was all. by the time she had got to clapham junction her indignation had begun to cool. but no ruction would hold out for five minutes if it depended on legitimate indignation. unfortunately, when that emotion gets up, it always awakens pride, with whom--or which--it has been sleeping. and pride, once roused--and she or it is not a sound sleeper--won't go to bed again on any terms, not even when indignation is quite tired out, and ready for another snooze. so when euphemia got to clapham junction, it was not her drowsy indignation that made up its mind she should take a third-class single ticket, but her proper pride, which said peremptorily that even a weekly return would be absurd. besides, there weren't any weekly returns. besides, it was only threepence difference. anyhow, she wasn't going to come back till she had given reginald a severe lesson. her condition of mind was no doubt the one her husband described by an expression obscure in itself, but too widely accepted to be refused a place in the language. he said that her monkey was up. there is a sense of the irrevocable about the taking of a railway ticket. even when it is only ninepence-halfpenny--the sum euphemia paid to go third to coombe and maiden--one's soul says, as the punch bites a piece viciously out of it, that the die is cast. if you were to hear suddenly that bubonic plague had broken out at, for instance, pegwell bay, you having booked to ramsgate, would not you feel committed to your visit, plague or no? would not your wife say, "but we have taken our tickets"? ours would. was it any wonder that, with pride at her elbow and her ticket inside her glove. mrs. reginald aiken resisted a faint temptation to get out at wimbledon and go back by the next up-train that would promise to stop at clapham junction? the story cannot pretend it is sorry she did not, because it would have lost much interest for the general reader by her doing so. we ourselves believe that if it had not been for miss priscilla bax, she might have returned to her husband next day. the human race has, however, to stand or fall by its aunts, as it finds them, they being almost always _faits accomplis_ when its component individuals are born. miss bax had been one some forty years when her niece euphemia came on the scene, and one of the good lady's strong points was the low opinion she had of persons who married into her family. she was, however, a kind-hearted old lady, in spite of her disapproval of her niece's choice of a husband, and his choice of a profession; and had not only countenanced the marriage, but had allowed the couple, as above related, a hundred a year. being the only well-off member of her family, she was expected to do this sort of thing. like the well-off members of other families, she was only permitted to have property on condition that she did not keep it for herself. when euphemia's cab from the station drove her up to athabasca villa, her aunt's residence, this lady had got through her seven o'clock dinner, and couldn't imagine who that could possibly be. it was such a queer time for visitors. it must be a mistake. she was so satisfied of this that she inaugurated a doze, listening through its preamble for something to explain the mistake. she was betrayed by the doze, which might have had a minute's patience, and was roused from what it insidiously became by a voice saying groundedly: "oh dear, i'm afraid i waked you up!" "i was not asleep," said miss priscilla, with dignity, kissing the owner of the voice. "i was listening." however, it took time to wake quite up, and until that happened the old lady did not fully grasp the surprising character of so late a visit; and indeed, until she became aware that a box was being carried upstairs, had but dreamy impressions of the event. in time reality dawned, and she showed it by saying: "i suppose, euphemia, you will want your bed made up." as this was the case, and no human ingenuity could soften the fact, mrs. aiken only said: "i know it's very troublesome." to which miss priscilla replied: "nothing is troublesome, so long as you only say distinctly. now, do you want anything to eat? because dinner is taken away." reviving decision, after sleep, became emphatic. self-respect called for self-assertion. mrs. aiken shuffled. she wasn't hungry, she said. "have you _had_ dinner? because if you have not had dinner, you must have dinner. ring the bell twice, and pemphridge will come." pemphridge came, and could warm the chicken. pemphridge did warm the chicken, and mrs. aiken hardly touched it. after which she returned, looking extremely miserable, to her aunt in the drawing-room, who said majestically: "and now perhaps, euphemia, you will tell me what all this means." "it's reginald," said euphemia. "i am not surprised," said her aunt. "but you don't _know_ yet." "i know nothing whatever. but i am not surprised. is it reasonable, euphemia, to expect me to be surprised? after what i have so frequently had occasion to say. but i am quite prepared to hear that i have said no such thing. pray tell me anything you like. i will not contradict you." aunt priscilla assumed a rigid continuousness, as of one who forms to receive aspersions. truth will triumph in the end; meanwhile there is no harm in portending that triumph by an aggressive stony patience. "only you don't know what it is, aunt prissy," said her niece. no more she did, speaking academically. she was, however, quite prepared for every contingency. "i do not think _you_ are the person to say that to me, euphemia, seeing that you have told me nothing--absolutely nothing! but i can wait." she waited. as she lay face upwards on the sofa--the nearest approach to an early victorian recumbent effigy that the nature of things permits--she presented the appearance of a deserving person floating on her back in a sea of exasperation. unless this image justifies itself, it must be condemned. nothing in literature can excuse it. mrs. euphemia was so used to her aunt, with whom she had lived since the death of her parents fifteen years since, that she knew she might never get a better moment than this for telling the story of her passage of arms with her husband. she therefore embarked on a narrative of the events we know, and contrived to get them told, in spite of interruptions, the nature of which, after the foregoing sample of aunt priscilla, we can surmise. neither need be repeated. thereafter followed a long conversation, the substance of which has already been given. its effect was to try mrs. euphemia's faith in her husband--which still existed, mind you!--very severely. have you ever noticed--but of course you have--that when inexperience testifies to the sinfulness of the human race _passim_, average experience hides her diminished head, and does not venture on whatever there is to be said on behalf of the culprit. a shocking race, no doubt, but scarcely so bad as pure minds paint it! old single ladies have pure minds, as often as not, and wield them with a fiendish dexterity, polishing off lancelot and galahad, mordred and arthur himself, all in a breath. which of us dares to try a fall with a pure-minded person, in defence of his sex, or anyone else's? miss priscilla, having a pure mind and getting the bit in her teeth in connexion with her nephew-in-law's shortcomings, bolted, and dragged her niece after her through an imaginary society compounded of london in the days of the regency and rome in the days of tiberius, with a touch of impending divine vengeance in the bush, justifying reference to sodom and gomorrah. she succeeded in making the young woman thoroughly uncomfortable, and causing the quarrel to assume proportions--which is what things that get bigger are understood to do nowadays--such as it never dreamed of at first. for mrs. euphemia's scheme of life allowed for everlasting bickerings, never-ending recriminations, last words _ad libitum_, short tiffs, long tiffs, tempersomeness and proper spirit--all, in fact, that makes life drag in families--but always under chronic conditions that precluded a crisis. if her worthy aunt's suggestion that this incident of sairah was the merest spark from _ignes suppositos cineri_, and that her husband had never been even as good as he should be--if this indicated a true view of his character, she for one wasn't going to put up with such conduct. corinthians or no! this _was_ a crisis, only it was one that never would have come about but for miss priscilla. so, as we mentioned some time since, mrs. euphemia cried herself to sleep, and next day, galled by ill-considered moral precepts about the whole duty of woman, wrote an infuriated letter to her dear reginald--not her dearest; she might have any number of dearer reginalds on draught--stating at a very high figure the amount of penance she would make a necessary condition of reconciliation, and even then it would never be the same thing underlined. she was, however, so completely the slave of a beautiful disposition, that no course was open to her but forgiveness, subject only to a reduction of some ninety-per-cent. at the dictation of a rarely sensitive consciousness of obligation to duty, which she gave him to understand was her ruling passion. the letter demanded the assimilation of an amount of humble-pie outside practical politics--so mr. aiken said to a friend after reading it; the phraseology is his. he hadn't done anything to deserve the character imputed to him in language he could identify by the style as aunt priscilla's, shorn of much of its scriptural character. it incensed him, and caused him to write a letter which widened the breach between them. then she wrote back, and the breach fairly yawned. there is nothing so effective as correspondence to consolidate a quarrel. she had been at all times since her marriage a frequent visitor enough at athabasca villa for the inquisitiveness of her aunt's circle of friends to remain unexcited; for a week or so, at any rate. but that good lady's unholy alacrity in disclaiming all knowledge of her niece's domestic affairs stimulated a premature curiosity. when the peter dudburys called, aunt priscilla might quite easily have said, in reply to mrs. peter dudbury's "and how is the artist?" that she believed the said artist was enjoying good health. instead of which she was seized with a sort of paroxysm, exclaiming very often: "don't ask me! i know nothing whatever about it. nuth, thing-what, ever!" and shaking her head with her eyes tight shut. whereupon ellen jane dudbury said, "shishmar!" and stamped cruelly on her mother's foot. now really that amiable woman had only expanded into her gushy inquiry after mr. aiken because she knew that she and her three daughters had asked more than once after everyone else. she felt hurt, and resolved to have it out with ellen jane, and indeed began to do so as soon as they were out of hearing. "wellmar," said ellen jane, "what is one to do when you won't take the slightest notice?" she went on to explain that any person of normal shrewdness would have seen, the moment mrs. aiken made excuses and went upstairs, that there was something. you could always see when there was anything if you chose to use your eyes. it was no use telling her--ellen jane, that is--that there was nothing. she knew better. it was complimentary to ellen jane's penetration that her mother and sisters hoped aloud at the next house where they called, and captured the tenants to inquire after them, that there really was nothing between young mrs. aiken and her husband, and most likely it was all fancy, because there was nothing whatever to go upon, and such absurd stories did get about. to our thinking it is clear that the receptivity of the peter dudburys was caused by that paroxysm of aunt priscilla's. an adoption of a like attitude with other visitors tended to enrich the gossip of coombe and maiden at the expense of mrs. euphemia aiken. miss priscilla did not have paroxysms of this class in her niece's presence, so of course the latter had the less chance of guessing that the cause of her visit to athabasca villa had become common property. she did, however, wake up to the fact that coombe and maiden were commiserating her. the impertinence of those neighbourhoods! she would have liked to knock their heads together. the worst of it was that no one put commiseration into a concrete form, such as "how is dear mr. aiken's infidelity going on?" or "we are so shocked to think how your most sacred affections are being lacerated." then she might have flown at such like sympathizers with a poker, or got them down and cricked their joints by ju-jutsu. this practice of talking about everyone else's private affairs to every-other else, never to their proprietor, is good for our father the devil, but bad for his sons and daughters. amen. the truth is that, for some unexplained reason, a lady who runs away from her husband gets no sort of credit or glory by doing so, but only puts herself in an uncomfortable position; unless, indeed, she takes up with some other male, preferably a reprobate. then an unhallowed splendour envelops her, and protects her from the cards of respectability, which has misgivings about her possible effect on its sons and husbands. we wonder, is this what is meant when one hears that some lady is living under the protection of duke baily or duke humphy? are those--is one of them, we mean--protecting her from mrs. peter dudbury? honour to his grace, whichever he is, if he acts up to his description! with the nobler sex the reverse is the case. whether deserting or deserted, he is rather looked up to by his more securely anchored male friends as the subject of a wider and more illuminating experience than their own. of course, the forsaken example does not shine with the radiance of a self-supporting inconstancy. it may be that he comes off best in the end, if he is a man of spirit, and finds consolation elsewhere. for then he can not only crow, farmyard-wise, but he has the heartfelt satisfaction of being an ill-used man into the bargain. if he cottons to someone else's ill-used wife, he has nothing left to wish for. nothing of all this has any application in this story, unless it attaches to the fact that mr. aiken found some consolation in the company of his friends, while his wife found none in that of her acquaintances. as both parties were perfectly blameless in the ordinary sense of the word--geese are most blameless birds--none of the numerous advantages of wickedness were secured by either. their interests in belial never vested. mrs. aiken never meant not to go back in the end, as soon as she had made her husband knuckle down, and confess up. and he was consciously keeping his home unsullied by anything too bohemian, in order that when euphemia came back--as of course she would--no memory of the interregnum should clash with the restoration. euphemia had the worst of it; but then she was the weaker party. if weaker parties take to expecting the emoluments of stronger parties, what shall we come to next? this feeling of the unfairness of things in general and destiny in particular, tended towards exasperation and intensification; and the south cone--metaphors may be fetched from any distance--remained up in the districts of coombe and maiden. time passed and mrs. euphemia had perforce to endure the commiseration of those districts. the neighbourhood of athabasca villa might be classed as a congested district, and its population as consisting, broadly speaking, of good souls and busy bodies. every resident was both, be it understood. "oh yes!" said euphemia to her aunt, one breakfast-time. "of course the groobs are goodness itself. but why can't they mind their own business?" for although it may appear incredible, a family residing in the neighbourhood was actually named groob. "my dear," said miss priscilla, "do not be unreasonable and violent. mr. latimer groob is, i understand, a wine-importer in quite a large way of business, with more than one retail establishment; and his son, mr. adolphus groob, has, i am told, talent. he has had several pictures on the line, somewhere, and comes down to see his family on saturdays, and to stop till monday." "well, then!" said euphemia. "it wasn't the peter dudburys this time. at least, it needn't have been, for anything i can see." "why not? ... do take care of the tablecloth! anne has put one of the best out by mistake. i must speak to her.... why not the peter dudburys this time?" "i am not cutting the cloth. the knife is miles off. why not the peter dudburys? why, because i know that odious little dolly groob. he's a friend of reginald's, and comes to the studio. i can _see_. i'm not a baby. of course, reginald has been talking to him." mrs. euphemia bit her lips, and was under the impression that her eyes flashed. but they didn't really--eyes never do; it's a _façon de parler_. miss priscilla ignored this petulance. "you had better let me pour you out some fresh coffee," she said. "yours is getting cold. i cannot say, my dear, that i think 'that odious little dolly groob' is at all the way to speak of an artist who has had pictures on the line. and his father, now i think of it, is in paris also. besides, i see he is distinguishing himself by his connexion with something." "with what?" "it was in yesterday evening's paper. perhaps anne hasn't burned it. anyhow, i do not think the expression 'odious little' well chosen.... oh yes--that's it! give it to miss euphemia." that is to say, anne the parlourmaid, not having burned yesterday's evening paper, had produced it as by necromancy, in response. the way aunt priscilla spoke of her niece was an accident, not a suggestion that mr. aiken was cancelled. it caused "miss euphemia," however, a slight twinge of an indescribable discomfort. possibly, if this is ever read by any lady who has ever been in exactly the same position, she will understand why. the story knows of it because, when anne had left the room, mrs. aiken looked up from the newspaper, where she had found what she was looking for, to say: "i think, aunt prissy, you might be more careful before the servants." her aunt replied with dignity: "what you are referring to, my dear euphemia, i cannot profess to understand." of course she _did_, perfectly well. what she meant was, "i know you cannot get a conviction, so i can tell a fib." mankind, securely entrenched, fibs freely. "why--'miss euphemia,' of course!" said the niece, quoting incisively. "but i know it's no use my asking you to pay the slightest attention." she became absorbed in her paper. "i think you are nonsensical, my dear," said the aunt. she retired behind something morally equivalent to the lines of torres vedras; but was still audible outside, saying: "i think you might say whether you have, or have not, found about mr. adolphus groob." the niece made no response for a moment, but continued reading; then said, as one who, coming up from diving, speaks without quite locating his audience: "oh yes--there's about mr. groob here. i can't read it all, there's such a lot. is there some coffee left? ... three-quarters of a cup, please!" please observe that, although this aunt and niece always conversed more or less as if each was straining the patience of the other past endurance, no sort of ill-will was thereby implied on either part. it may be that it was only that they emphasized the ordinary intercourse of british families. perhaps you know how much the average foreign family nags, _en famille_. we do not. mrs. aiken read the newspaper paragraph aloud, skipping portions. what she read described the formation of the new modernism, the artistic society about which so much was being said among well-informed circles of the art world, with the reservation that nothing must be accepted as official. the editor was breaking confidence in telling so much; but then he really was unable, with that pitiful heart of his, to bear the yearning faces and heartrending cries for information of his reading public. the only course open to him was to put aside all conscientious scruples, and divulge what had reached him, as it were, under the seal of confession. such a thirst must be satiated, or worse might come of it. the object of this society was to develope its promoters' ideas, and exhibit their works in bond street. the underlying theory of their new gospel of art appeared to be--only the writer did not express it so coarsely--that success in pictorial effort, in the future, must turn on the artist never having learned to draw, and not knowing how to paint. what was wanted was clearly his unimpaired self, unsoiled by the instruction of the schools. the near future was entitled to liberation from the stilted traditions of the remote past, not only in painting, but in sculpture, music, poetry, the drama--what not? here was an opportunity to make a beginning, seized by a brilliant coterie of talented young men, whom a rare chance had brought together under one roof. if the writer was not much mistaken, pimlico studios stood a fair chance of becoming the mecca of the art world. "i can't read all this," said the niece. "i don't see where mr. groob comes in. oh yes--it's here! 'the modern zurbaran.'..." this gentleman was, of course, the artist familiarly spoken of as "dolly" at the pimlico studios. mrs. aiken went on reading to herself, and then said suddenly: "i do hope reginald won't be a fool, and make himself responsible for anything." "mr. adolphus groob would be able to tell us all about it," said miss priscilla. "his sister arethusa is almost sure to call this afternoon, and you can ask her to find out." "i shall do nothing of the sort, and i beg you won't say anything to her. i particularly dislike mr. groob, and just now nothing could be more unpleasant to me. please no mr. groob on any account!" "you need not be so testy, euphemia. nothing is easier than for me to make no reference to mr. groob, who has never so much as called. his sister arethusa is, of course, not the same thing as he is himself, but no doubt she may know something about this society." "i thought her an odious girl. anyhow, i don't want to know anything at all about the society, and it's no concern of mine. reginald must go his own way now, and put his name down for subscriptions just as he likes.... oh yes, i shall answer his last letter, but only to say that, if he wants me to read his next one, the _tone_ must be very different." her aunt said, as one with whom patience is habitual, and tolerance a foregone conclusion: "it is perfectly useless for me to repeat, euphemia, what i believe to be your duty as a christian towards your lawful husband, which reginald is and continues to be, however disgracefully he may have behaved; and you acted with your eyes open in the face of warnings of his lawless bohemian habits. _he--is--your_--husband, and your obvious duty is..." "oh, do shut up with corinthians!" was the rude, impatient, and indeed irreligious interruption. "if you mean that a woman is bound to put up with anything and everything, no matter what her husband says or does ... what?" "my dear euphemia, if i have told you once, i have told you fifty times, that it is _not_ corinthians, but colossians--colossians three eighteen. besides, i'm sure there was a ring at the bell." there was, and therefore the chronic guerilla warfare--for this sort of thing always went on until visitors stopped it--was suspended until the next opportunity. the ring at the gate-bell was--or was caused by--miss jessie bax, another niece, who was shy and seventeen. she began everything she said with "oh!" the first words she uttered were, "oh, i mustn't stop!" but she had previously said to anne, at the gate, "oh, i mustn't come in!" and when overcome on this point by euphemia, who came out and kissed her, not without satisfaction--because she was that sort--she only just contrived to say, "oh, i only came to bring these from volumnia. it's to-morrow night at the suburbiton athenæum, where the psychomorphic meets till the new rooms are ready, and she hopes you'll come." miss jessie explained that she was, strictly speaking, an emanation from her sister volumnia. that young lady was thirteen years her senior, and was a powerful individuality. she entered into inquiries, and advocated causes. miss jessica, on the contrary, flirted. was it, this time, advocating causes, or entering into inquiries? mrs. aiken, fearing the former, was consoled when she found it was the latter. she would look at the syllabus tendered, whatever it was, and wouldn't detain miss jessie, whose anxiety not to come in need not have been laid so much stress on. it presently appeared that this wish to stop out was not unconnected with charley somebody, who was playing with a puppy on the other side of the road. a suggestion that charley somebody should come in too was met with so earnest a disclaimer of intention to disturb any fellow-creature anywhere, at any time, that it would have been sheer downright cruelty to press the point. so the young lady and master charley, whoever he was, escaped, and were heard whistling for the puppy, who was getting quite good, and learning to follow beautifully. "what is it?" said aunt priscilla. "oh, some reading papers and nonsense," said her niece. "i never have any patience with that sort of twaddle. it only irritates me." it suited miss priscilla to take up a tone of superiority to such childish petulance, combined with an enlightened attitude of open-mindedness, and a suggestion of being better informed than most people about what is doing. to this end she picked up the prospectus her niece was ostentatiously neglecting, and read it aloud in an atmosphere above human prejudices, specially designed for her own personal use. it related to a lecture "on the attitude of investigation towards the unknowable," with magic-lantern slides, and a discussion to follow. "it does not say," said aunt priscilla, "who is the medium." it is possible that the good lady had in her own mind confused something with something else. one does sometimes. "i'm not sure that i shan't go, if it isn't the suffrage," said euphemia. she took the prospectus, and seemed reassured on re-reading it. yes, she might go if there were pictures on a sheet. but not if it was to be women's rights. "with your peculiar, new, advanced views, my dear," said her aunt, "it certainly seems to me that you ought to sympathize with your cousin." this, however, was because of miss priscilla's exceptional way of looking at social and political subjects. she divided all the world--the thoughtful world, that is--into two classes, the one that went in for movements and things, and the one that consisted of sensible persons. the latter stayed at home and minded their own business, sometimes going for a drive when it held up, and, of course, to church on sundays, and having hot crossed buns on good friday, and so on. she made no distinction between agitators on the score of the diversity of their respective objects. could she be expected to differentiate between shades of opinion that would now be indicated by the terms--then uninvented--of suffragettes and anti-suffragettes? volumnia bax would have belonged to the latter denomination. women, that young lady said, were not intended by an all-wise providence to mix in public life. their sphere was the home. she belonged to a league whose chief object was to prevent women becoming unfeminine. if it was not woman's own duty to make a stand against these new-fangled american notions, which could only end in her being completely unsexed, whose was it? if she did not exert herself to avert this calamity, who would? so this league consisted entirely of women, pledged to resist, by violence if necessary, but in any case by speaking out at meetings, and getting up petitions, and so on, these insidious attempts to destroy the delicacy of the female character, which from time immemorial had been its principal charm. this was the point on which aunt priscilla certainly failed in discrimination, for she drew no distinction between the various shades of political impulse. she objected to anyone leaving the groove, even with the motive of pushing others back into it. her niece euphemia shared her views to a great extent, and when she used the expression "women's rights," it was probably in a sense much less circumscribed than its usual one. "but," said she to miss priscilla, justifying her determination to go on saturday evening to this lecture, or whatever it was, "it can't be minutes and resolutions and jaw, jaw, jaw, if there's a magic-lantern. so do come, aunty dear!" miss priscilla gave way, and consented to accompany her niece, but not without a misgiving that she might be compelled to come away in the middle of the entertainment. a re-perusal of the syllabus had engendered in her mind a doubt whether it was quite. that is how she worded it. the story only chronicles; it takes no responsibilities. euphemia assured her that it could not be otherwise than quite, seeing that so respectable an athenæum as the suburbiton would be sure to be most careful. besides, it was metaphysical. so they had the fly from dulgrove's--as it appears, and we think we know what is meant--and dulgrove's representative touched one of its hats, which was on his own head, and promised upon the honour of both to return at half-past ten to reimpatriate the two ladies at athabasca villa, which is two miles from coombe proper. though mr. groob's sister arethusa did not happen to call, as miss priscilla anticipated, mrs. reginald aiken was destined to be brought in contact with her odious brother, the artist, who was acquainted with her husband. it happened that miss bax was desirous that another brother of arethusa's should come to the lecture. this gentleman, mr. duodecimus groob, had a clear head, and a cool judgment, and belonged, moreover, to a class which is frequently referred to, but whose members cannot always be differentiated with certainty, the class of persons who are not to be sneezed at. others may be, without offence or injustice. now, it chanced that miss jessica bax had been employed by her sister as a species of bait to induce this gentleman to accompany his sister arethusa--who, of course, was coming to the lecture--by sending her to be driven over in the groob brougham, she herself accepting a lift from the peter dudburys, who had no room for more than one. miss volumnia, you see, intended to speak at the discussion, and was naturally anxious that mr. groob should bring his clear head and cool judgment to hear and appreciate the powerful analysis she intended to make of the lecturer's first exposition of the subject. it is impossible in this story to enter at length into the intricate and difficult questions touched upon; but it may be noted that miss volumnia, who had read the typed manuscript of this lecture, was prepared to combat its main argument, to take exception to its author's fundamental standpoint, to scrutinise fearlessly his pretensions to scientific accuracy, and to lay bare its fallacies with a merciless scalpel. she was naturally anxious that a b.sc., london--for mr. duodecimus groob was so designate--should hear her do it, being so close at hand; and when she said to jessica, "tell arethusa i expect her to bring a brother," she did so with a shrewd insight into the souls of brothers whose sisters very pretty girls accompany to even the humblest entertainments--penny readings and what not. this mr. groob came, and what was more, mr. adolphus, whom we saw _en passant_ at pimlico studios, accompanied him. both had come to stay till monday at their father's residence--where there were bronzes and dresden china in the drawing-room, and ruins by panini all round the dining-room, and a wolf hunt, snyders, in the entrance-hall. we repeat that _both_ came, although there was hardly room in the small brougham, and mr. adolphus had to go on the box and wrap up. and our belief is that if it had been an omnibus, and there had been young men enough to fill it, they would all have gone to that lecture. insignificant as this visit to the suburbiton athenæum may seem, it has its place in this story, and that place is given to it by its most unimportant details. as you can scarcely be expected to turn back to it, please note now what it was that really happened. in the lobby, when mrs. aiken and her aunt arrived, miss volumnia bax was, as it were, marshalling europe. she was a leading mind, overlooking gregariousness through a pince-nez. gregariousness was shedding its fleeces and taking little cardboard tickets in exchange. "you know mr. adolphus groob," said miss volumnia to her cousin, sternly, almost reproachfully. "yes--you know my brother," said miss arethusa groob confirmatorily. and miss priscilla--oh dear! one's unmanageable aunts!--must needs, as it were, go over to the enemy, saying in honeyed tones, with a little powdered sugar over them: "_you_ know mr. adolphus groob, euphemia." it was quite the most dastardly desertion on record. there was nothing for it before such an accumulation of testimony but to plead guilty. what can, anybody do with such treachery in the camp? euphemia admitted grudgingly that she knew mr. adolphus, who had long hair and was like our idea of a german student. he, for his part, was horribly frightened and got away. for, you see, he knew all about the row between aiken and his wife; and although in the absence of that unearthly sex, the female one, he was ready to lay claim to a deep and subtle knowledge of its ways, he was an arrant coward in the presence of a sample. "i say, bob," said he aside to his brother duodecimus, using a convenient, if arbitrary, abbreviation of that name. "what's the fun, dolly?" said bob, who was a chap who always made game of everything. "why, look here! when a customer you know quarrels with his wife, and she does a bunk..." "she _what's_?" "hooks it, don't you know! well, when she runs away, and you come across her, and you know all the story about the shindy, being in the beggar's confidence, don't you see?--and she knows you know it, only, mind you, there's nothing exactly to swear by, and you know she knows you know it, and she knows you know she knows--up and down and in and out--intersectitiously, don't you see...?" but the heroic effort to express a situation we have all had a try at and failed over was too much for mr. adolphus, and his sentence remained unfinished. consider that he had supplied an entirely new word, and be lenient! "want'n'er for yourself, dolly?" said that frivolous, superficial beast, bob. "don't you, that's my advice! she's a head and shoulders taller than you. you'll look such an ass!" whereupon mr. adolphus, not without dignity, checked his brother's ill-timed humour, pointing out that he had done nothing to deserve the imputation of personal motives, and hinting that his well-known monastic bias should have saved him from it. "very well, then!--let her alone!" said bob. "but it's very embarrassing, you must admit," said dolly. "h'm!--don't see why." "the position is a delicate one." "can't see where the delicacy comes in. you keep out of her way. _she_ won't tackle _you_." this was just about the time when the disengagement of their fleeces had enabled a congestion of the flock to pass on towards the lecture-hall, leaving access clear to miss priscilla, her niece, and others. euphemia's fleece was one that gave trouble; she said it always got hooked. it certainly did so this time, and mr. adolphus, passing on after his colloquy with his brother, was able to render squire's service, unhooking it as bold as brass. whereupon the lady and her aunt gushed gratefully, as in return for life saved. their rescuer passed on, feeling internally gratified, and that he had shown presence of mind at a crisis--was, in short, a man of the world. but he did not know that from thenceforward he was entangled in a certain perverse enchantment--a sort of spell that constantly impelled him to dally with the delicate position he was so conscious about. he must needs go and stick himself four seats off mrs. aiken, in the two-shilling places, the intervening three seats being vacant. now, if only lean men, operating edgewise, had attempted to pass into these seats, things might have gone otherwise. fate sent a lady over three feet thick all the way down, and apparently quite solid, to wedge her way into one or more of these seats. mr. adolphus shrank, for all he was worth, but it was a trying moment. the lady was just that sort the inquisition once employed so successfully; one with spikes, that drew blood from anyone that got agglutinated with her costume. she might, however, have got through without accident--you never can tell!--if the trial had been carried out. it was suspended by a suggestion from mrs. aiken that mr. adolphus groob should come a little farther along and make room; and when he complied, to the extent of going one seat nearer to her, a second suggestion that he should come nearer still, to which he assented with trepidation. resistance was useless. a galaxy of daughters had already filled in the whole row behind the stout lady, and were forcing her on like the air-tight piece of potato in a quill popgun, only larger. so in the end mr. adolphus groob found himself wedged securely between the stout lady and mrs. euphemia aiken, quite unable to speak to the former, for though they had certainly met--with a vengeance--they had never been introduced. this really _was_ a very delicate position. mrs. aiken might at least have said, "you know mrs. godfrey pybus, i think?" that was the stout lady's name. then he could have avoided talking with mrs. aiken, by becoming absorbed in mrs. pybus, and shouting round her to her nearest daughters beyond. as it was, he was fairly forced to make careful remarks to his other neighbour, scrupulously avoiding allusion to husbands, wives, quarrels, studios, chelsea, london, servant-girls, picture-cleaning ... this is only a handful at random of the things it would never do to mention in such delicate circumstances. he held his tongue discreetly about every one of these in turn, and talked of little but the weather. do not run away with the idea that anything interesting or exciting grew out of this chance meeting, in the story. the introduction of it, at such length, is only warranted by the fact that, without its details, it would have absolutely no relevance at all. whatever it has will, we hope, be made clear later. a little conversation passed between the two, but it was of no more importance than the sample which follows. "do you know what the lecture is about?" said mrs. aiken. "couldn't say," was the reply. "never know what lectures are about! i'm an artist, don't you know! my brother bob could tell you. he's a scientific chap--knows about telephones and things that go round and burst." "is there anything that goes round and bursts in the lecture, i wonder?" "shouldn't be much surprised. here's the syllabub--i mean syllabus." mr. adolphus handed his information to his neighbour. caution made him uncommunicative. naturally, he was of a more talkative disposition. mrs. aiken studied the heads of the lecture. "what is meant, i wonder, by the radio-activity of space?" said she. now in asking this question she was deferring to the widespread idea that man understands science, and can tell woman all about it. he doesn't, and can't. observe, please, that mr. groob was under a mixed influence. he happened to have been rather disgusted because miss jessica bax, instead of appreciating his self-sacrifice in riding outside and wrapping up, had shown a marked preference for a flirtation with his brother. slightly miffed by this, he had become the victim of a mysterious spell or fascination connected with that hook-and-eye accident, which had caused him--not to sit down beside its victim; he never would have presumed to do that--but to hover near her, and in doing this to be remorselessly forced into her pocket by the dead weight of mrs. godfrey pybus. things being so, what could he do but rejoice at the radio-activity of space, as a topic surely removed from any wives that had bolted from any husbands? what could be safer as a resource against embarrassing reference to the painful _status quo_? he accepted the position of instructor his sex conferred on him. "it's got somethin' to do with four dimensions," he said. "can't say i've gone much into the subject myself, but i've talked to a very intelligent feller about it. did you ever see any radium?" "me? no. my husband saw some, though. he looked through a hole." "that's it. it destroys your eyesight, i believe, and loses decimal point something of its volume in a hundred thousand years. there is no doubt we are on the brink of great discoveries." "how very interesting! i wish the lecturer would begin. oh--here he is!" "very bald feller! he ought to use petrol. you have to rub it in and keep out of the way of artificial light. this chap's first cousin lost the use of both legs through investigatin'. it was x-rays, i believe. you may depend on it we've got a deal to learn." and so on. upon the honour of the narrative this sample is a fair one of what passed between this lady and gentleman on this occasion. there was more, but it was exactly the same sort. in due course the lecture was begun and ended; then the discussion followed, and mrs. godfrey pybus and her six daughters didn't stop to hear miss volumnia bax's analysis and refutation, but went away in the middle and made a noise on purpose. it was just like them, and they were perfectly odious people. it is most extraordinary how time will slip away when the catching hold of his forelock depends on ourselves. each morning may bring that forelock again within reach, and each morning the same apathy that made us yesterday too languid to stretch out a hand and grip the old scamp and employ him for our own advantage keeps us in the same stupid abeyance, and we lose the chance for another twenty-four hours. every postponement makes a new precedent, and every new precedent stiffens the back of inaction. it was so with mr. and mrs. reginald aiken. not a morning passed without an unfulfilled impulse on either part to cross the gulf between them, and terminate their idiotic separation, bridged by correspondence which really did more harm than good. there is one precept which it is quite impossible for the human race to observe too closely--_never write letters_! if only those words could replace little liver pills and so forth on those atrocities that flank the railways and hide the planet, its inhabitants would be the gainers. mr. reginald had an extraordinary faculty for undoing in a postscript any little concession he had made at the outset, and mrs. euphemia, for her part, was becoming quite a proficient in sarcasm--three-line whips of scorpions describes her style, or the style she aimed at. for a superficial literary education did not help her up to its perfection. "very good, mrs. hay!"--thus, on receipt of a letter, would run her husband's commentary, embodying transposed quotation in its text, "'pray go my own way'--that's it, is it?--'on no account give the slightest consideration underlined to the wishes of your underlined wife.' oh, very well--i won't. 'if my conscience with a big c didn't turn a deaf ear to the pleadings of my better self with a big b and a big s'--what's all this? can't read it--oh! i see--yes, at least i see what it comes to!--i should come to my sences--spelt wrong--and overcome the ridiculous false pride that stands between me and something or other underlined--h'm! h'm!--'consult my own dignity'--h'm, h'm--something's something else i can't make out in the truest sence of the word, underlined. i dare say. i know what all this rot comes to in the end. i'm to go and ask forgiveness and show contrition, and i shouldn't wonder if i was expected to beg aunt priscilla's pardon. and be taken to church, as like as not! i say, stumpy, that would be rather jolly, wouldn't it? fancy the wicked man turnething away from his wickedness and aunt priscilla taking care visibly not to look at your humble servant, so as not to hurt his feelings!" "i tell you what, crocky,"--thus mr. hughes, on the occasion the above is chosen from, some time in november--"i tell you what: if i was you, i shouldn't be an ass. just you mozey off to athabasca villa and make it up. i believe mrs. gapp's right." "that old sot been talking? parples was the best of the two. i'll have parples back." for mrs. gapp had taken mrs. parples' place, under pretence of greater accomplishments and better training. "at my invitation, mr. aiken," said mr. hughes with some show of dignity--"at my invitation, observe!--mrs. gapp, who has buried three husbands and really ought to know a good deal about connubiosity--conjugosity--what the dooce is the word?..." "well--married life, anyhow! what did old boozey say?" "she had great faith in a spirit of mutual conciliation. that is not precisely the way she put it. her exact expression was 'a good 'ug's the thing, mr. stumpy' .... yes--that is what mrs. gapp calls me, misled by your example.... i must say i think the course she indicated has much to recommend it." mr. aiken looked moody, and did not reply at once. then he said: "that's all very fine, stump, my boy. but--sairah! sairah's the point. now, mind you, i'm not suggestin' anythin'. but just you look at it this way. there was a rather nice lookin' gyairl, with a bird's wing in her hat, came for the place, and euphemia wouldn't hear of her, don't you know! suppose it had been her!--puts the matter on a more human footin', shouldn't you say?" mr. hughes reflected, and spoke as one whose reflections had borne fruit. "not being a married beggar myself, i can't say. speaking as a single cuss, my recommendation to you would be--speaking broadly--not to make an ass of yourself. see what i'm driving at?" "that means," said mr. aiken, "that you consider i ought to go and beg euphemia's gracious pardon, and take the blame of the whole how-do-you-do on my own shoulders, and as like as not have to go to church with aunt priscilla. well--i won't, and there's an end of it!" and mr. aiken didn't, and prolonged his uncomfortable circumstances quite to the end of the year. but it is only right to say that his wife contributed all her share to their extension and consolidation. in fact, if this story has achieved the wish of its compiler, ourself, it should be clear to its reader that mr. reginald and mrs. euphemia aiken were precisely six of the one and half a dozen of the other. chapter vii the upwell family in london. how madeline promised not to get mixed up. a nice suburban boy, with a two-power standard. no jack now! the silver teapot. miss priscilla's extraction. imperialism. horace walpole and john bunyan. the tapleys. how an item in the _telegraph_ upset madeline. how she failed in her mission, but left a photograph behind her. the late lady betty dusters's chin. how mrs. aiken stayed downstairs and went to sleep in an arm-chair, and of a curious experience she had. how she related the same to her cousin volumnia. of icilia ciaranfi and donnina magliabecchi, and of the dust. the psychomorphic report. how miss volumnia did not lose her train. "_why_ do you want the carriage, darling?" "to call on a lady somewhere near richmond, or combe, i think it is." "won't it do to-morrow?" "not so well as to-day." "then i suppose you _must_ have it, darling." "not if you want it, mumsey!" the speaker got the head of the person she addressed in chancery, to kiss it, using the chair-back of the latter as a fulcrum. lady upwell, the victim of this manoeuvre, said, "take care, mad dear; you'll spoil my _ruche_ and put your eyes out." so her daughter released her, and sat at her feet. she had on her tussore in saxe-blue, trimmed with guipure lace, and was as pretty as ever, and as sad. "_who_ is it you want to go and see, darling?" said her ladyship. "that mrs. aiken," said madeline. "oh," said her mother, "but isn't she rather?" but madeline shook her head, with her eyes very wide open, and kept on shaking it all the while as she replied, "oh no, she's not rather at all. it was all her husband." whereupon her mother said, "oh--it was her husband, was it?" and put back a loose lock of hair on her daughter's forehead that was getting in her eyes. this wasn't at surley stakes. the family had come up to eaton place for a week or ten days. and these ladies were sitting in a small jury drawing-room that did duty on flying visits. the real drawing-room was all packed up, and must have been rather savage when the family came to town, yet left it _in statu quo_. and very savage indeed with madeline, who was begging to be allowed to stop in the country and not come to town this season at all. indeed, she would have had her way, had not her father said that come she must, to see the new pair of carriage-horses he was thinking of purchasing, whose owner was willing to lend them for a few days on trial, but only on condition that they should not be taken away from london. so the family coachman had accompanied the family, in a certain sense clandestinely. it is needless to tell anyone who knows, that of course these ladies were themselves only theoretically in town, with those shutters all up. madeline helped to get the lock of hair back, remarking, "it always does," without an antecedent. it was a pity there was no one there--mothers don't count--to see how pretty her wrist looked, with the blue veins in it, as she did so. she continued talking about that mrs. aiken, but semi-apologetically, as if she felt abnormal in wanting to see that mrs. aiken. her mother attempted to rationalise and formulate her daughter's position. "i _can't_ understand, dear child," she said. "you only saw this lady that one time, and only for a few minutes then. what makes you want to see her again? she doesn't seem to have produced a--a favourable impression exactly." "n-n-not very!" is the reply; the prolonged initial conveying the speaker's hesitation to condemn. "but it isn't that." "what isn't it, child?" "what she's like. it's because i went there with jack." "i see, dear." but it isn't so very clear that her ladyship does see. for she adds:--"i quite understand. of course. yes!" in a tone which seems to invite further explanation. her daughter at least puts this interpretation on it. "don't you see, mumsey dear?" she says. "it's because i recollect me and jack, and her and her husband, all talking together in that muddle of a studio, and the lay-figure with its head on backwards. they seem to come into it somehow." the further particulars are slight, one would say, but they carry conviction, for her mother says, "i understand that, but can you do any good?" as if the substratum of a debatable point might be considered settled. madeline goes on, encouraged to confidence. "i think _perhaps_. because those baxes we met..." "those _whats_?" her ladyship interrupts; adding, however, "oh. i see--it's a name! go on." "a grim big one and a little rather jolly one. that evening at lady presteign's. the grim big one talked about it to me in a corner, because her sister's too young to know about such things--only she's nearly my age, and i don't see why--and told me she believed it was a perfectly ridiculous quarrel about a horrible maidservant, who was quite out of the question. and of course this miss bax doesn't know what _we_ know." "my darling madeline!" a large amused maternal smile irradiates the speaker. "_know_! what a funny child you are!" "well. mumsey, don't we know, or as good as know? do you really think uncle christopher made all that up? _i_ don't." "it was the action of his brain, my dear, not his own doing at all! let me see--what's it called?--something ending in _ism_." "hypnotism?" "no! oh dear, i shall remember directly...." "mesmerism?" "no, no!--do be quiet and let me think...." "vegetarianism?" "you silly girl! i had just got it, and you put it out of my head ... there! ... stop! ... no! ... yes--_i've_ got it. _unconscious cerebration_! how on earth did i manage to forget that? unconscious cerebration, of course!" "but it doesn't end in _ism_. it ends in _ation_." "never mind, child! anyhow, i _have_ recollected it, and it's a thing one ought to be able to say. don't let's forget it again." to lady upwell this world was a theatre, and the name of the piece was society. she was always on the sweetest terms with the management, and her benevolence to the worn-out and broken-down actors was heartfelt. still, one had to talk one's part, and dress it. "unconscious cerebration" was useful gag. "but," said she, returning to the main point, "i don't see what you can _do_, child." "no more do i, mumsey dear. but i may be able to do something for all that. i should like to try, anyhow. i'm sure the picture was right. besides, see what that miss bax said. you may say what you like, but she _is_ mrs. aiken's first cousin, after all!" "no doubt she's right, dear! and no doubt the picture's right." her ladyship retires with the dignity of one withdrawing herself from mundane matters, olympuswards. but one can never touch pitch and not be defiled. some has clung to her, for she adds absently, "i wonder where thyrza presteign picks up all these odd people." in the end she forsakes speculation to say, "of course have the carriage, darling; i don't see that any harm can come of it. only don't get mixed up." "_i_ won't get mixed up," says miss upwell confidently, and kisses her mother on both sides, for granting the carriage to go on such a crazy quest. she for the tenth of a second associates the two kisses with the beautiful pair of greys that draw it. she loves horses very much, and gives them too much sugar. if any tongue's tip is ready with a denial of the possibility of such an impression as this, it only shows that the tongue's owner has not had a similar experience. the kisses were cash down for each horse--does that make it clearer? anyhow, the greys' eight hoofs rang sweetly next day on a frosty road, going south-westwards, as soon as they left the traffic--that road-spoiler--far enough behind. the sun had taken a mean advantage of its being such a glorious day, to get at nice clean frozen corners and make a nasty mess. but there were many havens of security still where what was blown snow-dust in the early morning might still have a little peace and quiet, and wait with resignation for inevitable thaw. such a one was--or had been--on a low window-sill of the cheshire cheese, behind the horse-trough which the steaming greys suggested they should empty, but were only allowed to sample. _had been_, because of a boy. a boy is a reason for so many things in this world. this one, a very nice specimen, coming, well-informed, from a gothic school near by, was showing how indifferent chubbiness can be to chilblains, by manipulating the snow on this window-sill in the manufacture of two snowballs, of which one was complete. his was a two power standard, evidently. "ask that little boy where this place is," says miss upwell, from inside furs; because the carriage-lid is set back by request, and the rider is convinced of cold, but won't give in on principle. "he's a native, and ought to know. ask him, james." "where's athabasca villa, young un? ... don't believe he knows, miss." "where's athabasca villa, little man? ... don't you know? well--where does miss priscilla bax live?" "oh--i know _she_! over yarnder." a vigorous illumination speaks to the force of miss priscilla bax's identity. "over yonder" is, however, vague; and you may have eyes like sloes, and crisp curly brown hair, and ruddy cheeks, and yet have very small powers of indicating complex routes past daddy's--not otherwise described--and round to the left, and along to the right, and by farmer phipps's barn, and so on. but this is a young gentleman of resource, and he has a suggestion ready: "you let i royd up behind, and _i'll_ poyunt out where to drive." the lady accedes to this proposal, though james is evidently uneasy lest a precedent should be established. "let him ride behind--he won't do any harm--" says madeline, between whom and this youth a bond of sympathy forges itself unexpectedly. it might have been more judicious to deprive him of ammunition. for the two power standard, in his case, seemed to involve a policy of aggression. his first snowball was aimed too low; and though it struck its object, the incumbent of the parish, that gentleman only laughed. the second landed neatly under the back-hair of a stout lady, and probably went down her back behind, as her indignation found voice proportionate to such a result. miss upwell--to her shame be it spoken--pretended not to see or hear; refusing, gallio-like, to listen--but in this case to gentiles--and saying to james, "please don't stop, james--go on quick." the infant was, however, as good as his undertaking, conducting the carriage intelligently to athabasca villa, and taking an unfair advantage of permission to pull its bell; he was, in fact, detached from it with some difficulty. he seemed surprised and pleased at the receipt of a _douceur_, and danced. "oh dear!" said poor madeline to herself, as she heard him die away, with some friends he met, in the distance. "how jack would have liked that boy!" there was to be no jack, it seemed, now! mrs. aiken, at one of the bays that flanked the doorway of athabasca villa, looked out upon the top and bottom half of a sun up to his middle in a chill purple mist, and waited for tea. tea waited to be made, like eve when she was a rib. but with a confidence based on precedent; for tea was made every day at the same time, which eve wasn't. besides, miss priscilla bax made tea, and wouldn't let anyone else make it. not that there appears to be any suggestion in the story of eve that there was ever any talk of underletting the job. miss priscilla bax had a cap out of last century, about half-way, and the cap had ribbons which had to be kept entirely out of the tea. these ribbons had no function or practical object, though an imaginative mind might have ascribed to them that, being alike on both sides, they helped the sense of equilibrium necessary to safe conduct of the unmade tea from a casket on four gouty feet, whose lid wouldn't keep up, to a black rockingham teapot, which did for when there was no one. only, this time there _was_ someone--some carriage one--and his, her, or its approach caused mrs. aiken to exclaim, "good gracious, aunty, i'm afraid it's people!" miss priscilla was watching the tap of the urn run--her phrase, not ours. "how many?" said she. then dialogue worked out as follows: "i think i see who it is." "how many?" "only one. i fancy it's that miss what's-her-name. i wish it wasn't. it's too late to say not at home. she's seen me at the window. but you'll have to put in another heaped-up spoonful. whenever will they stop ringing that bell?" at this point presumably the mercenary was strangled off it, and rewarded, for the lady added, "yes, it's her. she's talking to a boy. what on earth has brought her here? i shall go." "you can't. you've been seen. don't be a fool. who do you mean by 'her'?" "oh--_you_ know! miss upsley pupsley of curly something. that place in worcestershire the picture was to go to. _you_ know! they've a house in eaton square." "_then_ we must have the silver teapot, and i shall have to make fresh tea." the house in eaton square settled that. a hurried aside caused the appearance of the silver teapot in all its glory, and a new ebullition, over the lamp, of a fresh kettle of water at par. thereupon miss upwell found herself within reach--academically speaking--of talking with this mrs. aiken of that lady's private domestic dissensions. but, oh, the impossibility of it! madeline felt it now, too late. even getting to speak of the subject at all seemed hopeless. and in another moment she became horribly aware that she was inexplicable--couldn't account for her visit at all. still, she had too much grit in her to dream of giving in. and then, look at the motive! besides, she had in her heart a strong suspicion that she was a beauty, and that that was why people always gave way to her. her beauty was of no use, now that jack was gone. nothing being of any use to her, now, at least let it help her to do a good turn to a fellow-woman in tribulation. if this picture-ghost--so she said to herself--had told this mrs. aiken where jack was, would _she_ not come and tell, on the chance? of course she would! courage! the most terrifying obstacle in her path was aunt priscilla. if this lady had been the inoffensive tabby madeline's wish had been father to her thought of, she could have been treated as a negligible factor. but what is to be done when your aunt, living under an impression that in early life she mixed in circles, recognises your distinguished young friend as having emerged from a circle. this way of putting the case transfers the embarrassment from miss upwell to mrs. aiken. probably that lady felt it, and wished aunt priscilla wouldn't go on so. the fact is she was getting curious to know the reason of her visitor's unexpected appearance. there _must_ be _some_ reason. it lost its opportunity of being divulged at the outset. the visitor's parade of the utter indefensibility of her intrusion, and her fib--for a fib it was in the spirit, however true in the letter--that she "was in the neighbourhood" worked on the imagination, and made the position plausible. mrs. aiken dropped all attempts to look amiably surprised, as one courteously awaiting a revelation, and candidly admitted an extremely clear recollection of miss upwell's visit to the studio. of course she was delighted to see her, on any terms. but the reason of her coming could get no chance of a hearing, when the first flush of conversation had once failed to give it an opening. miss priscilla's extraction had to be reckoned with. if only that appalling old lady had not been there, or would even have been content to play second fiddle! but as soon as she heard the name of the village of grewceham in worcestershire mentioned as the nearest township to surley stakes, she identified that county as the cradle of her race, saying, "we came from sampford plantagenet, i believe," in a tone suggestive of remote epochs, and considerable yeomen farmers, at least, vanishing into the mists of antiquity. "but my mother's family," she added, "were all brocks, of sampford pagnell." madeline, anxious to oblige as she was, could go no farther than to believe, as an abstract truth, that there were still brocks in sampford pagnell; speaking of them rather as if they ran away when seen, but might be heard occasionally, like bitterns. she could not do any baxes at sampford plantagenet. however, her father would know the name bax, and his heraldic sympathies would be stirred by it like the war-horse in job at the sound of battle. this anticipation was founded solely on his daughter's desire to fill out the order for baxes. miss priscilla always preferred to pour the tea herself, not without a certain imperial suggestion in the preference. vespasian would have insisted on pouring out the tea, under like circumstances. but the tea, when poured, brought with it no clue to the cause of miss upwell's visit. it had furnished a certain amount of relief, during its negotiation, by postponing discussion of the point, and by the claim it made for a chapter to itself. for a short chapter of your life-story begins when you get your tea, and ends when you've done your tea. when madeline had ceased to be able to pretend that this chapter had not ended, her suspended sense of incomprehensibility cropped up again, and she grew painfully aware that her hostesses would soon begin waiting visibly for enlightenment, which she was no nearer being able to give than at first. how could she have guessed it would be so difficult? she was even conscious of gratitude to miss priscilla for her persistency in atavism, and at heart hoped that the good lady would not stop just yet. no fear of that! the brocks were not nearly over, and they had to be disposed of before the baxes could be taken in hand. their exponent picked them up where she had dropped them. "my mother's family," she resumed, "were well known during the middle ages. there were brocks in sampford pagnell as early as fourteen hundred and four. they are even said to have been connected with john of gaunt. unhappily all the family documents, including an autograph letter of alice piers to edward the black prince, were destroyed in the great fire of london." on lines like these, as we all know, a topic may be pursued for a very long time without the pursuer's hobby breaking down. it went on long enough in this case for madeline to wish she could get a chance of utilising some courage she had been slowly mustering during the chase. this being hardly mature yet, she took another cup of tea, thank you! and sat on, supplying little notes of exclamation and pleased surprise whenever the manner of the narrator seemed to call for them. "it seems only the other day," aunt priscilla continued, with her eyes half-closed to express memory at work upon the past, "that i was taken as a little girl of six, to see my great-grandmother, then in her hundredth year. she was a friend of horace walpole. _her_ mother could remember john bunyan." "is it possible!" said madeline, very shaky about dates, but ready with any amount of wonderment. she added idiotically, "of _course_ my father must have known _all_ your people, _quite_ well." which did not follow from the apparent premisses. mrs. aiken muttered in a warning voice, for her visitor's ear only, "when aunt gets on her grandmother she never gets off. you'll see!" she took advantage of the old lady's deafness to keep up a running comment. miss priscilla then approached a subject which required to be handled with the extremest delicacy. "i think, euphemia," she said, "that after so long a time there can be no objection ... you know what i am referring to?" "objection?--why should there be? oh yes, _i_ know. horace walpole and your great-grandmother. no--none!" to madeline mrs. aiken said in an undertone, "i told you how it would be." that young lady affected a lively interest in scandal against queen elizabeth, which was what she anticipated. "i myself," said aunt priscilla, in the leisurely way of a lecturer who has secured an audience, "have always held to the opinion that there was a marriage, but what the motives may have been for concealing it can only be conjectured...." this was too leisurely for her niece's patience. it provoked a species of _sotto voce_ abstract of her aunt's coming statement thus, "oh yes--do get on! you cannot otherwise understand how so rigid an observer of moral law as your great-grandfather, however lamentable his religious tenets may have been, could have brought himself to marry the widow. _do_ get _on_!" which proved to be the substance of the original, as soon as the latter was published. but it certainly got over the ground quicker, and made a spurt at the winning-post, arriving almost before the other horse started. "this," resumed aunt priscilla, after a small blank for the congregation to sniff and cough, if so disposed, "was some considerable time before his accession to the earldom. the only clue that has been suggested as a motive for concealment of the marriage was his unaccountable aversion to the title, which he could scarcely have indulged if ... there's a knock. do see if it's the tapleys, and don't let them go." mrs. aiken rose and went out, reciting rapidly another forecast, "he-never-took- his-seat-in-the-house-of-lords-and-signed-his- letters-'the-uncle-of-the-late-earl-of-orford.' she'll have done that by the time i'm back," as she left the room. miss upwell felt a little resentment at this lady's treatment of her aunt. after all, is not man an atavistic animal? is not ancestor-worship the oldest of religions? it _was_ the tapleys, if madeline had not heard the name wrong; who had already had tea with the outstrippingtons, subject to the same reservation. but she may easily have got both names wrong. she thought she saw a chance of speaking with the niece by herself, and at any rate appointing a counter-visit before she went back to the stakes, if she cut her own short before she became involved with the tapleys, as might happen; and that would be fatal, she felt. so she suddenly perceived that she must not keep the greys standing in the cold, and got past the incoming tapleys, who seemed to be in mourning for the human race, as far as clothes went; but not sorry at all, if you came to that. she had failed, and must give up the object of her visit, and acknowledge defeat. and, oh dear, how late it was! she could, however, get a word or two with the niece before departing, unless that young woman consigned her to a servant and fled back to her tapleys, who were shouting about how late they were, as if they had distinguished themselves. however, mrs. aiken had evidently no such intention, but, for some reason, very much the contrary. the reason came out as soon as the door shut the shouters in, leaving her and her visitor in the passage, with a cap and a white apron hanging on their outskirts, ready for prompt action. first mrs. aiken said, "i am afraid aunt must have bored you dreadfully, miss upwell. she and her family! oh dear!" madeline answered rather stiffly: "it was very interesting. i enjoyed listening." for she would have been better pleased with this young person if she had taken her aunt's part. her own mother prosed, copiously, about ancestors; but she herself never tried to silence her. however, her displeasure melted when mrs. aiken--having told the cap it needn't wait; she would call--coloured and hesitated, and wanted to say something. "yes," said madeline. "i was--was so grieved--to see about your friend.... oh dear!--perhaps i oughtn't to talk about it...." miss upwell felt she had to be dignified. after all she and jack were _not_ engaged. "you mean captain calverley, mrs. aiken," said she. "we are hoping now--i mean his family are hoping--to hear from him every day. but, of course, they are--we all are--_very_ anxious." mrs. aiken looked dubiously at her visitor's face, seeming not to see the hand that was suggesting a good-bye shake. then she said, very hesitatingly, "i--i didn't know--is there a hope? i only see the _telegraph_." then, an instant after, she saw her mistake. she might at least have had the sense to say nothing about the _telegraph_. madeline felt her colour come and go, and her heart getting restless. "a hope? oh _dear_, yes!" how bravely she said it! "you know there is no proof whatever of his..." but she could not say "death." "oh no--no proof, of course! ... i should be so glad ... i suppose they only meant..." all madeline's courage was in the voice that succeeded in saying, "dear mrs. aiken, do tell me what was said. i dare say it was all nonsense. the newspapers get all sorts of stories." mrs. aiken would have given something to be allowed to say no more about it. she stumbled a good deal over an attempt to unsay her blunder. she really couldn't be positive. quite as likely as not the paragraph might have referred to someone else. she was far from sure, after all, that the name wasn't silverton. yes, it certainly was, major silverton--that was it! "you are only saying that," said madeline, gently but firmly, "to make my mind easy. it is kind--but--but you had better tell me now. haven't you got the _telegraph_? i can buy one, of course, on my way home. but i would much rather know now." mrs. aiken saw no way of keeping it back. "it's in here--the _telegraph_" said she. that is, it was in the parlour opposite to the one they had left. there it was, sure enough, and there, in clear print, was the statement of its correspondent at something-fontein or other, that all hopes were now given up of the reappearance of captain calverley, who had been missing since the action at burghersdrift, as some of his accoutrements had been found in the river below kroondorp, and it was now looked upon as certain that he was drowned shortly after the action. madeline knew quite well that she had in herself an ample store of fortitude if only she could get a fair chance to exercise it. but a horrible sort of ague-fit had possession of her, and got at her teeth and spoiled her speech. it would go off directly, and she would be able to know practically, as she now did theoretically, that it was no use paying attention to any newspaper correspondence. she would soon get right in the air. if this mrs. aiken would only have the sense to see that what she wanted was to get away and have herself to herself until at least her teeth stopped chattering! but instead of that the tiresome young woman must needs say, "oh dear, you look so ill! shan't i get you something?" which was silly, because what on earth could she have got, except brandy, or some such horror? madeline made a bad shot at speech, wishing to say that she would be all right directly, but really saying, "i shall be reckly." collapse into a proffered chair enabled her to add, "leave me alone--it's nothing," and to sit still with her eyes shut. nervous upsets of this sort soon pass off; and by the time mrs. aiken--who felt that some remedy _must_ be exhibited, for the honour of the house--had got at one through an emissary, she was able to meet it half-way. "oh yes--eau-de-cologne, please! it's always delightful!" whereat mrs. aiken felt proud and successful, and madeline mopped her forehead, feeling better. but she must get away now as quick as possible. her card-castle had collapsed. and, indeed, she felt too late the absurdity of it all from the beginning. so far from being able to produce her ghost, or whatever it could be called, in extenuation of this young lady's reprobate husband, she had not seen her way to mentioning him at all, even under a pretext with which she had flattered her hopes, as a last resource, that she knew nothing about his quarrel with his wife and their separation. it might have brought him on the tapis, with a successful result. there was no chance now, even if she had felt at her best. and here she was, morally crippled by a severe shock! for though, of course, she was not going to pay attention to newspaper stuff, it was a severe shock all the same. so she gathered herself up to say good-bye, and with profusest gratitude for the eau-de-cologne departed. and mrs. aiken, after watching the brisk start of the greys, and thinking how bored they must have been, went slowly back into the house, to wonder what on earth could have brought an up-to-date young lady out of the smart set to such an unpretending mansion as athabasca villa. she wondered also whether those interminable tapleys were going to talk like that till seven o'clock, and would aunt p. go and ask them to stay to supper? very likely! and she would have to be civil to them all the evening, she supposed. reflecting thus, her eye rested on the corner of the mahogany hall-bench, with a roll at each end; to prevent very short people falling over sideways, presumably. what she saw made her say, "what's this, anne?" "which, ma'am?" said anne. "perhaps the missis knows." this thing was inside brown paper, and rectangular. the corners were hard, but the middle clicketted. probably a _passe-partout_. at least, it could be nothing else. so if it wasn't a _passe-partout_, it was non-suited, _quoad_ existence. mrs. aiken opened the drawing-room door, meeting a gust of the tapleys, both speaking at once. it didn't matter. aunt priscilla heard all the plainer for a noise. there certainly was one. her niece said, through it, "have you ordered a photograph, aunty?" no, no photograph had been ordered. "then i shall have to look at it, to see what it is," said mrs. aiken. the tapleys sanctioned and encouraged this course, with loud shouts. and it really is a capital step to take when you want to find out what a thing is, to look at it and see. it was a photograph, and was recognised at once by mrs. aiken as a copy from the surley stakes picture. it was a print of the photograph that madeline had sent a copy of to mr. aiken at the studio, a long time before. you remember how it stood on the table while he talked with mr. hughes? "i see," said euphemia; "miss upwell must have left it behind. we must get it back to her." and she was proceeding to wrap it up again; not, however, without seeing enough of it to be sure of its identity. but she was reckoning without her guests, who pounced simultaneously on the back of the photograph, crying out, "stop!--it's written on. read behind." whereupon it was read behind that this photograph was for mrs. reginald aiken, athabasca villa, coombe. "i suppose she brought it for me," said that lady, rather sulkily. "whatever she came for i can't make out," said the niece to the aunt after supper, and indeed after the departure of the tapleys. for mrs. aiken's worst anticipations had been fulfilled, and they had been invited to stay to supper and had done so remorselessly. the aunt could throw no light on this sudden appearance of miss upwell. "she has great charm of manner," she said. "she reminds me a little of the late lady betty dusters. it is in the turn of the chin." but miss bax's chin, cited in action to confirm this turn, was unconvincing. her niece ignored the late lady betty. "i think the girl was going lengths in coming at all," she said. "after all, what did it amount to? just that she and this young soldier of hers came to the studio to see a picture. and supposing it did happen on the day when reginald behaved so detestably with that horrible girl! doesn't that make it all the other way round?" she wished to express that if miss upwell had come to know about her quarrel with her husband, she should have kept her distance the more on that account. but she was not equal to the effort, and perhaps acknowledged it when she said, "you know what i mean, so it's no use drum-drum-drumming it all through, like a cart-horse or a barrel-organ. anyhow, miss upsley pupsley would have shown better taste to keep away, to _my_ thinking!" "i thought you seemed to like her, euphemia," said the aunt meekly. "i didn't say i didn't," said the niece. "then i won't speak." which resolve of miss priscilla's is inexplicable, unless due allowance is made for the fact that familiar domestic chat turns quite as much on the way it omits, as the way it uses words. the younger lady's manner was that of one in whom exasperation, produced by unrighteous conspiracy, was being kept in check by rare powers of self-control. that of the elder indicated constitutional toleration of the waywardness of near relations; who are, as we know, a crotchety class. when one of these, in addition to tapping with her foot and looking flushed and ready to cry on small provocation, bites articles of _virtu_, surely a certain amount of forbearance--an irritating practice--is permissible. "you'll spoil the paper-knife," said miss priscilla. "and it was a present from your great-uncle john bulstrode, when he came from india." mrs. aiken put the paper-knife down irritably, because she knew, as you and i do, that when those little mosaic pieces once come out, it's no use trying to stick them in again. but she said, "bother the paper-knife!" and for a few moments her soul was content to find expression in foot-tapping and lip-biting; while her aunt forbore, and took up her knitting. then she got up and paced about the room restlessly. the lamp was going out, or wanted seeing to. she turned it up; but if lamps are going out for want of oil, turning them up does no good, and only burns the wick away. they have to be properly seen to. it was too late to be worth putting fresh oil in, this time. candles would do, or for that matter, why not do without? the firelight was much nicer. mrs. reginald aiken walked about the room while miss priscilla bax looked at the fire and knitted. it was getting on for bedtime. suddenly the walker stopped opposite the knitter. "aunty!" said she, but in a voice that almost seemed to add, "do talk to me and be sympathetic. i'm quite reasonable now." her aunt seemed to accept the concession, skipping ratifications. "certainly, my dear euphemia," she said, with dignity. "do you know how long i've been here?" those who know how inconsequent daily familiarity makes blood relations who live together, will see nothing odd in miss priscilla's reply: "my dear niece, listen to me, and do not interrupt. what was the expression i used when you first announced your engagement to reginald? ... no--i did not say it was a come-down...." "yes, you did." "afterwards perhaps, but _at first_, euphemia? be candid. did i, or did i not, use the expression, 'artists are all alike?' ... i did? very well! and i said too--and you cannot deny it--that any woman who married them did it with her eyes open, and had only herself to thank for it. they are all alike, and reginald is no exception to the rule." at this point miss priscilla may have had misgivings about sustaining the performance, for she ended abruptly on the dominant, "and then you ask me if i know how long you have been here!" "because it's six months, aunty--over six months! is it any wonder that i should ask? besides, when i first came i never _meant_ to stay. i was going back when reginald wrote that letter. fancy his daring to say there was no--what was that he called it?--you know--'casus belli!' an odious girl like that! and then to say if i really believed it i ought to go into court and swear to things! how _could_ i, with that sairah? oh dear--if it had only been a lady!--or even a decent woman! anything one could produce! but--sairah!" this young lady--mind you!--was only trying to express a very common feeling, which, if you happen to be a young married woman you will probably recognize and sympathize with. suppose you were obliged to seek legal ratification of your case against a faithless spouse, think how much more cheerfully you would appear in court if the opposition charmer was a countess! think how grateful you would be if the culprits had made themselves indictable in terms you could use, and still know which way to look; if, for instance, they had had the decency to reside at fashionable hotels and pass themselves off as the spenser smyths, or the poole browns. these are only suggestions, to help your imagination. the present writer knows no such persons. in fact, he made these names out of his own head. but--sairah! just fancy reading in the _telegraph_ that the petitioner complained of her husband's misconduct with ... oh--it would be too disgusting for words! after all, she, the petitioner, had a right to be considered a--she detested the expression, but what on earth were you to say?--lady! what had she done that she should be dragged down and degraded like that? it had been miss priscilla's misfortune--as has been hinted already--to contribute to the prolongation of her niece's residence with her by the lines on which she herself seemed to be seeking to bring it to an end. nothing irritated this injured wife more than to be reminded of feminine subordination to man as seen from an hierarchical standpoint. so when her aunt quoted st. paul--under the impression that extraordinary man's correspondence so frequently produces, that she was quoting his master--her natural irritation at his oriental views of the woman question only confirmed her in her obduracy, and left her more determined than ever in her resentment against a husband who had read st. paul very carelessly if at all, and who took no interest in churches apart from their music and architecture. therefore, when aunt priscilla responded to her niece's exclamation, which has been waiting so long for an answer, with her usual homily, it produced its usual result. "i can only urge you, my dear euphemia, to turn your thoughts to the words of one who is wiser than ourselves. it is no use your saying it's only colossians. besides, it's ephesians too. the place where it occurs is absolutely unimportant. 'wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as it is fit in the lord.' those are the words." miss priscilla handled her capitals impressively. the music stopped on a majestic chord, and her rebellious niece was cowed for the moment. not to disturb the effect, the old lady, having lighted her own bedroom candle, kissed her benedictionally, with a sense of doing it in jacobean english--or should we say jacobean silence?--corresponding thereto, and left her, accepting as valid a promise to follow shortly. but there was a comfortable armchair still making, before a substantial amount of fire, its mute appeal, "sit down in me." the fire added, "do, and i'll roast you for twenty minutes more at least." it said nothing about chilblains, but it must have known. mrs. aiken acted on its advice, and sat looking at it, and listening to an intermittent volcano in one of its corners. the volcano was flagging, subject to recrudescence--for a certain latitude has to be given to derby brights and wombwell main--before mrs. aiken released her underlip, bitten as a counter-irritant to scripture precepts. aunt priscey _was_ trying! but, then, how good she was! where on earth would she, euphemia aiken, have gone to look for an anchorage, if it hadn't been for aunt priscey? she calmed down slowly, and colossians died away in the soothing ripple of the volcano. but the fire was hot still, and she wanted a screen. she took the first thing her hand lighted on. it was the photograph. it would do. but she hated the sight of it when the volcano made a spurt, and set the shadows dancing over the whole room. she turned it away from her towards the fire, to see the blank back only, and calm down in the stillness, unexasperated. presently, for some reason, it became irksome to hold it up. but it must be kept between her face and the fire. she let it fall forward on her face, still half holding it, and listened to the volcano. she could sit and think about things, and not go to sleep. of course she could. it would never do to spoil her night's rest. was it really six whole months since she quarrelled with reginald? she recited the months to make herself believe them actual, and failed. it did not really matter, though, how long it was. if reginald had been ill, she could have gone back any time, and without any sacrifice of pride. aunt priscey would have found out a text, proving it a christian duty more than ever. a little seductive drama crept through her mind, in which reginald, smitten with some disorder of a good practicable sort for the piece--not a dangerous or nasty one, you know!--had put all his pride in his pocket, and written a letter humbly begging her forgiveness; acknowledging his weakness, his evil behaviour, and acquitting her of the smallest trace of unreasonable punctilio. it was signed, "your lonely husband, reginald hay," that being a form domestic pleasantry in the past had sanctioned. something choked in her throat over this touching episode of her own creation. but it dispersed obsequiously when at a moment's notice--in her dream, you understand; dreamt as in the middle of dinner, to establish self-sacrifice as her portion--she started and arrived in time to save reginald from a sinister nurse, whose elimination made an important passage in the drama. she got as far as the commencement of a letter to her aunt, describing this achievement. at this point drowsiness got the better of her, presumably. for her imaginary pen became tangible, and her paper was beautiful, only it was stamped "at aunt's," which seemed absurd. and she could only write the words "my pride," which seemed more so. then she woke, or seemed to wake, with a start, saying aloud, to no one, "this will never do; i shall spoil my night's rest." but on the very edge of her waking someone had said, in her dream, in a sort of sharp whisper, "perhaps it is." and it was this voice that had waked her. she found it hard to believe that an outside voice had not spoken into her dream. but no one was there, and had the room been full of folk, none of them could have read the words on her dream-paper. and to her half-awake mind it seemed that "perhaps it is" could only apply to what she had succeeded in writing. however, there can be no doubt that, at this moment, she believed herself fully awake. later she had reason to doubt it. or rather, she became convinced of the contrary by the subsequent course of events, which need not be anticipated now. during what followed, one would say that she must have had misgivings that she was dreaming. but she seems not to have had many or strong ones; although she may have made use of the expression, "i could hardly believe i was awake," as a mere phrase of wonderment--just as you or i have used it before now. for when next day she described this experience to her cousin volumnia, who had been much in her confidence during these last months, who said to her, "of course, you _were_ asleep, because that is the only way of accounting for it reasonably," her reply was, "then we shall have to account for it _un_reasonably, because i _was_ awake." "well--go on, and tell," was the reply. this cousin volumnia, the elder sister of that little monkey jessie, was of course the grim big miss bax miss upwell had met at lady presteign's; and, as we have seen, she was a very determined person, one who would stand no nonsense. "start from where the voice woke you, cousin euphemia," said she. she shut her eyes, and frowned, so as to listen judicially. "i _laid_ the _pho_tograph _on_ the _ta_ble," said mrs. aiken, with circumflex accents over every other syllable, which is how to tell things clearly. but miss volumnia said, "you needn't pounce. i can hear." so she became normal. "i was absolutely certain there was no one else in the room. and everything seemed as usual; not the least like a dream. but for all that ... you won't believe me, volumnia..." "very likely. go on!" "for all that i heard a voice--the same voice that waked me up...." "of course! you were still asleep. _i_ know. go on! what did the voice say?" "no, i won't go on at all, volumnia, if you're going to be nasty." "oh yes, do go on. i'm greatly interested. but you must remember that we hear thousands of these things every week at the psychomorphic. we had a very interesting case only the other day. a man heard a dog barking.... however, go on." "very well, only you mustn't interrupt. what was i saying? ... oh yes--the voice! i heard it quite distinctly, only very small.... nonsense!--you know quite well what i mean.... what did it say? what i _heard_ was, 'hold me up, and let me look at you.' now i know, my dear volumnia, you will say i am making it improbable on purpose...." "not at all, my dear euphemia! the case is commoner than you suppose, even when the subject is wide awake. please tell it _exactly_ as you recollect it. soften nothing." the implication was that psychomorphism would know how much to take, and how much to reject. "i am telling it exactly as it happened. it said..." "what said?" "the picture said." "the picture! oh, we hadn't come to that. now what does that mean? the picture said!" "volumnia!--if you interrupt i can't tell it at all. do let me go on my own way." "yes--perhaps that _will_ be better. i can analyse afterwards." "well--the voice seemed to come from the picture--the photo, i mean. it said quite unmistakably, but in a tiny voice, 'pick me up, and let me look at you.'..." "you said 'hold' before. now it's 'pick.'" "really, cousin volumnia, i declare i won't go on unless...." "all right--all right! i'll be good." a little pause came here owing to mrs. aiken stipulating for guarantees. a _modus vivendi_ was found, and she continued, "i did as the voice said, and held the picture up, looking at it. i can't imagine how i came to take it so coolly. but you know, volumnia, how it is when a perfect stranger speaks to you in an omnibus, and evidently takes you for somebody else, how civil you are? ... well--of course, i mean a lady! how can you be so absurd? i said to it that i had never heard a photograph speak before. the voice replied, 'that is because you never listen. mr. perry hears me because he listens.' i asked who this was, and the voice replied, 'the little old gentleman who comes here.' i said, 'no little old gentleman comes here. do you know where you are?' and do you know, volumnia, the voice said, 'in the library at surley stakes, over the stoofer.' what could that mean?" "can't imagine. but i'm not to speak, you know. that's the bargain. go on." "well--i told the woman in the photograph where she was, and the voice said, 'i suppose you know,' and then asked if this was the place where she saw me before. i said no--that was my husband's studio. 'but,' i said, 'you were not made.' she seemed not to understand, and persisted that she remembered seeing me there." "do excuse my interrupting just this once," said miss volumnia. "i won't do it again. i only wish to point out how clearly this shows the dream-character of the phenomenon. is it credible that, admitting for the sake of hypothesis an independent intelligence, that intelligence would recollect occurrences before it came into existence. it seems to me that the picture-woman's claim to identity carries its own condemnation. how could ideas existing in the mind of the original picture reappear in the mind of a photograph, however carefully made?" "it was the same woman, volumnia," said mrs. aiken, beginning to stand on the rights of her phenomenon, as people do. "i do think, dear, you are only cavilling and making difficulties." "i think my objection holds good. when we consider the nature of photography..." "why is it more impossible than the original picture seeing me and recollecting?" "the demand on my power of belief is greater in the case of a copy, however accurate. and it would become greater still in the case of a copy of a copy. and so on." this was not original. a paper read at her society was responsible for most of it. "however," she added, "we needn't discuss this now. go on." "then don't prose. you really are straining at gnats and swallowing camels, volumnia. well--where was i? ... oh yes, the studio! the voice went on--and now this _does_ show that it didn't come out of my own head--'i remember the studio, and i remember a misunderstanding between yourself and your husband that might easily have led to serious consequences.' now you know, volumnia, that could _not_ have come out of my own--my own inner consciousness.... is that right?--now _could_ it?" miss volumnia shook an unbiassed head, on its guard against rash conclusions. "the same is true," she said, "of so many dream-impressions. did you make the photograph acquainted with the actual position of things?" mrs. aiken seemed to hesitate a moment. "was i bound to take it into my confidence?" she said. "anyhow it seemed to me at the time most uncalled for." "what did you say?" "i said--because as it was only a photograph i thought it didn't matter--i said that fortunately no such result had come about. i then pressed it to say more explicitly what it was referring to.... what?" "nothing--go on.... well, i was only going to say that in my opinion you were playing with edged tools. the slightest departure from the principle of speaking the truth is fraught with danger to the speaker.... yes--and then?" "well--_did_ it matter? anyhow, let me get on. i asked what it meant--what misunderstanding it referred to. and do you know, volumnia, the voice began and gave a _most accurate_ account of miss what's-her-name--pupsley wupsley's--visit to the studio, and described that poor young captain thingumbob _most accurately_. all i can say is that it did not make a single mistake...." "of course not!" "why 'of course not'?" "because it was merely your own memory unconsciously at work; doing the job on its own, as my young nephew would say. it may have been wrong, but would seem to you right." "then why doesn't what followed after i left the studio seem to me right too?" miss volumnia said, as from the seat of judgment, "let's hear it." thereupon her friend gave, with conscientious effort to report truly, the photograph's version of what passed in the studio between her husband and the odious sairah. it corresponded closely with that already given in this story. as miss volumnia's interruptions became frequent towards the close of this narrative, it may be best to summarise it, as near as may be, in the words of the photograph, which had said, or seemed to say: "i did indeed tremble to think what misconstruction might be put on half-heard words of this interview of this young english maiden with your husband. for i could remember well how at the little castello in the apennines icilia ciaranfi, a girl of great spirit, finding her new-made husband enacting some such pleasantry as this--but quite blamelessly--with donnina magliabecchi, stabbed both to death there and then; and her great grief when donnina's lover beppe made it clear to her that this was but a foolish jest to which he himself was privy. and thinking of this painful matter i rejoiced that you, signora, yourself should have been guided by counsels of moderation, at most withdrawing for a term--so i understood--to the house of a relation as to a haven, when no doubt all asperity of feeling would soon give place to forgiveness. i could see that in your case, had you yielded to the mistaken impulse of icilia, no such consolation as she found could have been yours. for i understood this--though i was young at the time--that so deeply was beppe touched by icilia's remorse for her rash action, and she so ready to give her love in compensation for what he had lost, that each flew as it were to the embrace of the other, and the two of them fled then and there, and thence icilia escaped the officers of justice. now this surely would have been an impossible resource to yourself and the lover of _la sera_, who, unless i am mistaken in thinking that those who 'keep company' are lovers in your land, was the person i heard spoken of as 'the dust.' which is in our tongue '_la mondezza_.' but i understood that while he was a man, and in that sense competent for love, although called by a name fitter for a woman, yet was he socially on a level with those whom we others in italy call _spazzini_, and no fit mate for a signora of gentle birth and breeding. "so that although i heard afar that the signore and yourself came to high words on this subject, and gathered that you had departed in wrath to seek shelter with an aunt, i thought of this dissension as one that would soon be forgotten, and a matter of the past. the more so that your signore's own words to his friends reassured me; to whom he said more than once that you would be the best woman in the world but for a defect i did not understand from his description, that when you flew into a blooming rage you could not keep your hair on, but that it wouldn't last and you would be back in a week, because you knew he couldn't do without you. he set my mind at rest by treating the idea of any lasting breach between you as something too absurd for speech. but i tell you this for certain, that i saw all that passed between him and _la sera_, and that if you are keeping your resentment alive with the thought that he was guilty of anything but an ill-judged joke, you are doing grievous injustice to him as well as yourself. return to him, signora, forthwith; and beware henceforward of foolish jealousy and needless quarrels!" the foregoing is a much more complete version of what the photograph seemed to say than mrs. aiken's fragmentary report to her cousin. she had not mr. pelly's extraordinary memory, and, moreover, she had to omit phrases and even sentences that were given in italian. miss volumnia bax, when not interrupting, checked off the narrative with nods at intervals, each nod seeming to be fraught with confirmed foresight of the preceding instalment. when it ended, she launched at once, without a moment's pause, into a well-considered judgment, or rather abstract of a report of the case, which her mind was already scheming, to read at the next meeting of the psychomorphic. this report, printed recently by the society, containing all that miss volumnia said to her cousin on first hearing the tale, as well as many valuable remarks, commences as follows: "case a. dream or pseudodream, reported by miss volumnia bax. the subject of this experience, whom we will call mrs. a., is reluctant to admit that she was not awake when it happened, however frequently the absurdity of this view is pointed out to her. so strong is this impression that if other members of her family had been subject to hallucination or insanity, or even victims of alcoholism, we should incline to place this case in some corresponding class. as it is, we have nothing but the word of the narrator to warrant our assigning it a place outside ordinary somnistic phenomena." this story is not answerable for the technical phrases of what is, after all, merely a suburban research society. the report goes on to give, very fairly, the incident as already narrated, and concludes thus: "it will be observed that nothing that the dreamer put into the mouth of the photographic speaker was beyond her imaginative powers, subconscious or superconscious. it may be urged that the absurdly romantic italian story implies a knowledge of italian matters which the dreamer did not possess, or at least emphatically disclaims. but nothing but the verification of the story can prove that the names, for instance, were not due to subconscious activity of the dreamer's brain. on the other hand--and this shows how closely the investigator of psychic phenomena has to follow their intricacies--inquiry has elicited the fact that mrs. a.'s husband once spent a week in florence at a pension in the piazza indipendenza and no doubt became familiar with the habits of italians. what is more likely than that she should unconsciously remember passages of her husband's italian experience, as narrated by himself? we are certainly warranted in assuming this as a working hypothesis, while admitting our obligation to sift italian history for some confirmation of the dramatic (but not necessarily improbable) incident of icilia ciaranfi and donnina magliabecchi--both, by the way, suspiciously florentine names! we repeat that, failing further evidence, we are justified in placing this story in section m , as a pseudo-real hyper-mnemonism." the report, of course, said nothing of the advice its writer had felt warranted in giving mrs. a., as a corollary to her summary of the views she afterwards embodied in it. "if you want my opinion, cousin euphemia," she said, "it is that the sooner you make it up with your husband the better! it's quite clear from the dream that you want to do so." "how do you make that out?" asked mrs. aiken. "clearly! your subconscious self constituted this nonsensical photograph the exponent of its automatically cryptic idea, while you were in a state of self-induced hypnosis...." "does that mean while i was asleep?" "by no means. it is a condition brought about by fixing the attention. you had, by your own admission, been looking at the fire." "no--i held up the photograph." "then you had been looking at the photograph." "only the back." "it's the same thing. i am distinctly of opinion that it was self-induced hypnosis. in this condition the subconscious self may as it were take the bit in its teeth, and energize whatever bias towards common sense the subject may happen to possess. in your case the photograph's speech and its grotesque fictions were merely pegs, so to speak, on which to hang an exposition of your own subconscious cryptic idea. does not the fact that you are at this moment prepared to deny the existence of this idea prove the truth of what i say?" "i dare say it's very clever and very wise. but i can't understand a word of it, and you can't expect me to. all i know is, that if it's to be submission and colossians and ephesians and stuff, back to reginald i don't go. and as far as i can see, science only makes it ten times worse.... so there!" "your attitude of mind, my dear euphemia," said miss volumnia, "furnishes the strongest confirmation possible of the truth of my interpretation of the phenomenon. but i must go or i shall lose my train." "how i do hate patronizing people!" said mrs. aiken, going back into the drawing-room after seeing her cousin off. chapter viii how mrs. euphemia aiken found madeline at home, who consequently did not go to a bun-worry. but she had met miss bax. how these ladies each confessed to bogyism, of a sort, and madeline said make it up. how mr. aiken took mr. tick's advice about diana, but could not find his transparent oxide of chromium. man at his loneliest. no tea. and what a juggins he had been! of mrs. gapp's dipsomania. the boys. how mr. aiken lit the gas, and heard a cab. how he nearly kissed madeline, who had brought his wife home, but it was only a mistake, glory be! was there soap in the house? mrs. aiken tortured her speculating powers for awhile with endeavours to put this curious event on an intelligible footing, and was before long in a position to "dismiss it from her mind"; or, if not quite that, to give it a month's notice. it certainly seemed much less true on the second day after it happened than on the first; and, at that rate, in a twelvemonth it would never have happened at all. but her passive acceptance of a thing intrinsically impossible and ridiculous--because, of course, we know, etc., etc.--was destined to undergo a rude shock. after taking her aunt's advice about the duration of the usual pause--not to seem to have too violent a "_sehnsucht_" for your card-leavers--the lady paid her visit to miss upwell at her parents' stuck-up, pretentious abode in eaton square. we do not give the number, as to do so would be to bring down a storm of inquiries from investigators of phenomena. she gave her card to the overfed menial, who read it--and it was no business of his! he then put it upside down--_his_ upside down--on a salver, for easy perusal by bloated oligarchs. the voice of an oligarch rang out from the room he disappeared into, quite deliciously, and filled the empty house. madeline was delighted to see mrs. aiken; had been going to a bun-worry. _now_ she should do nothing of the sort; she would much rather have tea at home, and a long talk with mrs. aiken. she confirmed this by cancelling her out-of-door costume, possibly to set the visitor at her ease. anyhow, it had that effect. in fact, if either showed a trace of uneasiness, it was madeline. she more than once began to say something she did not finish, and once said "never mind," to excuse her deficit. of course mrs. aiken had not the slightest idea of what was passing in her mind; or rather, imputed it to a hesitation on the threshold of sympathetic speech about her own domestic unhappiness. now the portion of this conversation that the story is concerned with came somewhere near the middle of it, and was as follows: "i think you said you had met my cousin, volumnia bax?" "at lady presteign's--yes, of course i did! with a splendid head of auburn hair, and a--strongly characteristic manner. we had a most amusing talk." "she has a red head and freckles, and is interested in psych[oe]opathy." an analogue of hom[oe]opathy, which would have stuck in the gizzard of the clarendon press, and even the daily this and the evening that would have looked at a dictionary about. "oh," said miss upwell dubiously. "_i_ thought her a fine-looking woman--a--a lifeguardswoman, don't you know! and her nose carries her _pince-nez_ without her having to _pincer_ her _nez_, which makes all the difference. she talked about you." "oh, did she? i was going to ask if she did. what did she say about me?" "you mustn't be angry with her, you know! it was all very nice." "oh yes, of course! it always is very nice. but--a--what _was_ it? you _will_ tell me, won't you?" "certainly--every word! but i may have mistaken what she said, because there was music--katchakoffsky, i think; and the _cello_ only found he'd got the wrong op., half-way through." "i suppose she was telling you all about me and reginald. i wish she would mind her own ... well, i wish she would psych[oe]opathize and leave _me_ alone." "dear mrs. aiken!--you said you wouldn't be angry. and it was only because _i_ mentioned you and talked of that delightful visit--of--of ours to the studio.... oh no, no!--there's no more news. not a word!" this came in answer to a look. madeline went on quickly, glad to say no more of her own grief. "it was not till i myself mentioned you that she said, 'i suppose you know they've split?'" "that was a nice way to put it. split!" "yes--it looked as if it was sea-anemones, and each of you had split, making four." miss upwell then gave a very truthful report of what miss bax had told her, neither confounding the persons, nor dividing the substance of her narrative. when she had finished, mrs. aiken began to say, "i suppose----" and underwent a restless pause. then, as her hostess waited wistfully for more, she went on, "i suppose she said i ought to go back and be a dutiful wife. i'm quite sick and tired of the way people talk." "she said"--thus madeline, a little timidly--"that she thought you had acted under a grievous misapprehension. that was what she said--'a grievous misapprehension.'" "oh yes!--and i'm to go back and beg pardon. _i_ know.... but that reminds me...." she reined up. "reminds you...?" madeline paused, for her to start again. "reminds me that i've never thanked you for the photograph." "i thought you might like it. i can't tell you how fond i am of the picture, myself. i wanted to get you to be more lenient to the poor girl. it is the loveliest face!" "oh, i dare say. but anyhow, it was most kind of you to give it me. let me see!--what _was_ it reminded me of the photograph? oh, of course,--volumnia bax." "i was wondering why you said 'reminded.'" now mrs. aiken had two or three or four or five faults, but secretiveness was not among them. in fact she said of herself that she "always outed with everything." this time, she outed with, or externalised--but we much prefer the lady's own expression--what proved of some importance in the evolution of events. "oh, of course, it was because of the ... but it was such nonsense!" so she spoke, and was silent. the cat was still in the bag, but one paw was out, at least. miss upwell had her own share of inquisitiveness, and a little of someone else's. "never mind! do tell _me_," she said, open-eyed and receptive. the slight accent on "me" was irresistible. "it was silliness--sheer silliness!" said mrs. aiken. "an absurd dream i had, which made volumnia say it was evident i was only being obstinate about reginald, because of science and stuff. and so going back and begging pardon reminded me. that was all." "but what had the picture to do with the dream? that's what _i_ want to know," said madeline. "the picture was _in_ the dream," said mrs. aiken. "but it was such _frightful_ nonsense." "oh, never _mind_ what nonsense it was! do--do tell me all about it. i can't tell you what an intense interest i take in dreams. i do indeed!" "if i do, you won't repeat it to anybody. now will you? promise!" "upon my word, i won't. honour bright!" thereon, as mrs. aiken really wanted to tell, but was dreadfully afraid of being thought credulous, she told the whole story of the dream, with every particular, just as she had told it to miss volumnia bax. her hearer contrived to hold in, with a great effort, until the story reached "well--that's all! at least, all i can tell you. wasn't it absurd?" then her pent-up impatience found vent. "_now_ listen to _my_ story!" she cried, so loud that her hearer gave a big start, exclaiming, "what--have _you_ got a story? oh, do tell it! i've told you mine, you know!" then madeline made no more ado, but told the whole story of mr. pelly's dream, omitting all but a bare sketch of the italian narrative--just enough to give local truth. "then," said mrs. aiken, when she had finished, "i suppose _you_ mean that i ought to go back and beg reginald's pardon, too." "i _do_," said madeline, with overwhelming emphasis. "_now_, directly!" "but you'll promise not to tell _anyone_ about the dream--my dream," said mrs. aiken. that same afternoon mr. reginald aiken had been giving careful consideration to diana and actæon, unfinished; because, you see, he had a few days before him of peace and quiet, and rest from beastly restoration and picture-cleaning. one--himself, for instance--couldn't be expected to slave at that rot for ever. it was too sickening. but of course you had to consider the dibs. there was no getting over that. however, apart from cash-needs, there were advantages about these interruptions. you came with a fresh eye. mr. aiken had got diana and actæon back from its retirement into the studio's picked light, to do justice to his fresh eye. two friends, one of whom we have not before seen in his company, were with him, to confirm or contradict its impressions. this friend, a sound judge you could always rely upon, but--mind you!--a much better critic than an artist, was seated before the picture with a short briar-root in his mouth, and his thumbs in the armholes of a waistcoat with two buttons off. the other, with a calabash straining his facial muscles, and his hands--thumbs and all--in his trouser-pockets, was a bit of a duffer and a stoopid feller, but not half a bad chap if you came to that. mr. aiken called them respectively tick and dobbles. and they called him crocky. so there were five fresh eyes fixed upon the picture, two in the heads of each of these gentlemen, and the one mr. aiken himself had come with. mr. tick's verdict was being awaited, in considerate silence. his sense of responsibility for its soundness was gripping his visage to a scowl; and a steadfast glare at the picture, helped by glasses, spoke volumes about the thoroughness of its source's qualifications as a critic. mr. aiken became a little impatient. "wonder if you think the same as me, tick?" said he. "wonder if you think the same as 'im!" said dobbles. but criticism--of pictorial art at least--isn't a thing to hurry over, and mr. tick ignored these attempts at stimulus. however, he spoke with decision when the time seemed ripe. only, he first threw an outstretched palm towards the principal figure, and turned his glare round to his companions, fixing them. and they found time, before judgment came, to murmur, respectively, "wonder if he'll say my idea!" and "wonder if he'll say your idear?" "wants puttin' down!" shouted mr. tick, leaving his outstretched fingers between himself and diana. and thereupon the artist turned to mr. dobbles and murmured, "what did i tell you?" and mr. dobbles murmured back, "ah!--what did you tell me?" not as a question, but as a confirmation. "what i've been thinking all along!" said mr. aiken. then all three gave confirmatory nods, and said that was it, you might rely on it. diana was too forward. had actæon been able to talk, he might have protested against this. for see what a difference the absence of the opposite characteristic would have made to actæon! conversation then turned on the steps to be taken to get this forward goddess into her place again, mr. tick, who appeared to be an authority, dwelt almost passionately on the minuteness of the change required. "when i talk of puttin' down," said he, "you mustn't imagine i'm referrin' to any _perceptible_ alteration. you change the tone of that flesh, and you'll ruin the picture!" his hearers chorused their approbation, in such terms as "right you are, tick, my boy!"--"that's the way to put it!"--"bully for you, old cocky-wax!" and so on. mr. tick seemed pleased, and elaborated his position. "strictly speakin'," said he, "what is needed is an absolutely imperceptible lowerin' of the tone. don't you run away with the idea that you can paint on a bit of work like that, to do it any good. you try it on, and you'll come a cropper." this was agreed to with acclamations, and a running commentary of "caution's the thing!"--"you stick to caution!"--and so on. the orator proceeded, "now, i never give advice, on principle. but if i was to do so in this case, and you were to do as i told you, you would just take the _smallest possible_ quantity--the least, _least_, least touch--no more!--of..." but mr. tick had all but curled up over the intensity of his superlatives, and he had to come uncurled. "what of?" said mr. aiken. and said mr. dobbles, not to be quite out of it, "ah!--what of?" because a good deal turned on that. mr. tick had a paroxysm of decision. he seized mr. aiken's velveteen sleeve, and held him at arm's length. "look here, crocky!" said he. "got any transparent oxide of chromium?" "yes--somewhere!" "well, now--just you do as i tell you. got a clean number twelve sable? ... no?--well, number eleven, then ... that'll do!--dip it in benzine collas and give it a rinse out. see? then you give it a rub in your transparent oxide, and wipe it clean with a rag. what's left will go all over diana, and a little to spare..." "won't she look green?" mr. aiken seemed reluctant. "rather! but you do as i say, young feller, and ask no questions.... 'what are you to do next?'--why, take an absoli-y_oo_tly white bit of old rag and wipe her quite clean from head to foot." his audience suggesting here that no change would be visible, he added, "that's the idear. don't you change the colour on any account. but you'll see! diana--she'll have gone back!" "there's somethin' in what old tick says," said mr. dobbles, trying to come out of the cold. he nodded mysteriously. mr. aiken said he'd think about it. mr. tick said, "i ain't advisin'. i never advise. but if i was to--there's the advice i should give!" then he and mr. dobbles went their ways, leaving mr. aiken searching for his tube of transparent oxide of chromium. now, mr. reginald aiken always knew where everything was in his studio, and could lay his hand on it at once. provided always that you hadn't meddled and shifted the things about! and he knew this tube of colour was in his old japanned tin box, with the folding palette with the hinge broke. it might be difficult to get out by now, because he knew a bottle of siccatif had broken all over it. but he was keen to make diana go back, and if he went out to get another tube he would lose all the daylight. so he sat down to think where the dooce that box had got put. he lit a cigarette to think with. one has to do things methodically, or one soon gets into confusion. he passed before his mind the epoch-making _bouleversements_ of the past few years; notably the regular good clean-up when he married euphemia four years since, and took the second floor as well as the studio floor he had occupied as a bachelor. he finished that cigarette gloomily. presently he decided that what had happened on that occasion had probably occurred again. history repeats itself. that box had got shoved back into the recess behind the _cassettone_. he would have up mrs. gapp, who came in by the day, in the place of mrs. parples, who had outstayed her welcome, to help him to shift that great beastly useless piece of lumber. mrs. gapp was, however, easier to call over the stairs to than to have up. the number of times you called for mrs. gapp was according; it varied with your own tenacity of purpose and your readiness to believe that she wasn't there. mr. aiken seemed easily convinced that she was at the william the fourth, up the street. that was the substance of his reason for not shouting himself hoarse; that is to say, it worked out thus as soliloquy. he went back and tried for the japanned tin colour-box, single-handed. he had much better have gone out to buy a new tube of this useful colour, as in five minutes he was one mass of filth. only getting the things off the top of that box was enough!--why, you never see anything to come near the state they was in. and if he had only rang again, sharp, mrs. gapp would have heard the wire; only, of course, no one could say the bell wasn't broke, and maintain a reputation for truthfulness. we are incorporating in our text some verbal testimony of mrs. gapp's, given later. but mrs. gapp could not have testified--for she was but a recent char, at the best--to the desolation of her unhappy employer's inner soul when, too late for the waning light of a london day, he opened with leverage of a screwdriver the lid of that japanned tin-box, and excavated from a bed of thickened resin which he knew could never be detached from the human hand, or anything else it touched, an abject half-tube of colour which he had to treat with a lucifer-match before he could get its cap off. and then only to find that it had gone leathery, and wouldn't squeeze out. if we had to answer an examination question, "when is man at his loneliest? give instances," we should reply--unless we had been otherwise coached--"when he is striving, companionless, to get some sort of order into things; working on a basis of chaos, feeling that he is the first that ever burst into a dusty sea, choked with its metaphorical equivalent of foam. instance mr. reginald aiken, at the end of last century, in his studio at chelsea." anyhow, if this question had been then asked of anyone and received this answer, and the examiners had referred back to mr. aiken, before giving a decision, he would certainly have sanctioned full marks. but he gave himself unnecessary trouble. one always does, in contact with disinterred lumber, in which a special brood of spooks lies hid, tempting him to the belief that this flower-stand only wants a leg to be of some use, and that that fashionable armchair only wants a serpentine segment of an arm and new straps under the seat to be quite a handsome piece of furniture. yes, and new american leather, of course! mr. aiken had not to deal with these particular articles, but the principle was the same. he foolishly tampered with a sketching umbrella, to see if it would open: it certainly did, under pressure, but it wouldn't keep up nor come down, and could only be set right at the shop, and a new one would be cheaper in the end. pending decision, a large black beetle, who had hoped to end his days undisturbed, fell off the underside as its owner opened it, and very nearly succeeded in getting down his back. the things that came out of that cavern behind the _cassettone_!--you never would have thought it! a large can of genuine amber varnish that had had its cork left out, and wouldn't pour; the skeleton's missing right scapula, only it wouldn't hold now; and, besides, one never wanted the skeleton; a great lump of modelling-wax and apparently infinite tools--no use to mr. aiken now, because he never did any modelling, but they might be a godsend to some art-student; folio volumes of anatomical steel-plates, that the engravers had hoped would last for ever--a hope the mice may have shared, but they had done pretty well already; mr. aiken's old ivory foot-rule, which was the only accurate one in the british empire, and what the dooce had become of it he never could tell; plaster heads without noses, and fingers without hands, and discarded fig-foliage, like a pawnshop in eden; things, too, for which no assignable purpose appeared on the closest examination--things that must have been the lifework of insane artisans, skilful and thorough outside the powers of language to express, but stark mad beyond a doubt. and a dutch clock that must have been saying it was a quarter-past twelve, unrebuked, for four years or so past. mr. aiken need not have tried to pour out the amber varnish; where was the sense of standing waiting, hoping against hope for liquidation? he need not have hunted up a pair of pliers to raise vain hopes in the scapula's breast--or its equivalent--of a new lease of life. he need not have tried to soften the heart of that wax. nor have turned over the plates to see if any were left perfect. nor need he have reconsidered the inexplicables, to find some plausible _raison d'être_ for them, nor tried to wind up the dutch clock with sporadic keys, found among marine stores in a nail-box. but he was excusable for sitting and gloating over his ivory foot-rule, his sole prize from a wrestling-match with intolerable filth--or only tolerable by a londoner. he was weary, and the daylight had vanished. and even if he had got a squeeze out of that tube, he couldn't have used it. it was much too ticklish a job to do in the dark. he sat and brooded over his loneliness in the twilight. how in heaven's name had this odious quarrel come about? nonsense about sairah! that absurd business _began_ it, of course. serious quarrels grow out of the most contemptible nonsense, sometimes. oh no--there was something behind; some underlying cause. but he sought in vain to imagine one. they had always been such capital friends, he and euphemia! it was true they wrangled a great deal, often enough. but come, i say! if a man wasn't to be at liberty to wrangle with his own wife, what _were_ we coming to? he believed it was all the doing of that blessed old aunt of hers. if she hadn't had athabasca villa to run away to,--why, she wouldn't have run away at all! she would have snapped and grizzled at him for a time, and then made it up. and then they would have had an outing, to folkestone or littlehampton, and it would all have been jolly. instead of which, here they were, living apart and writing each other letters at intervals--for they kept to correspondence--and, so far as he could see, letters only made matters worse. he knew that the moment he took up his pen to write a regular sit-down letter he put his foot in it. he had always done that from a boy. probably, throughout all the long summer that had passed since his quarrel with his wife, he had not once missed saying, as a morning resolution to begin the day with, that he wouldn't stand this any longer. he would go straight away, after breakfast, to athabasca villa, and beard aunt priscilla in her den, his mind seeming satisfied with the resolution in this form. but every day he put it off, his real underlying objection to going being that he would have to confess to having made himself such an unmitigated and unconscionable juggins. his jugginshood clung to him like that siccatif to his fingers. it was too late to mitigate himself now. and six months of discomfort had contrived to slip away, of which every day was to be the last. and here he was still! if he had understood self-examination--people don't, mostly--he might have detected in himself a corner of thought of a juggins-mitigating character. however angry he felt with his wife, he could not, would not, admit the possibility that she believed real ill of him. his loyalty to her went further than geraint's to enid, for he imputed to her acquittal of himself, from sheer ignorance of the sort of thing anybody else's wife might impute to anybody else's husband. because, you see, he had at heart such a very exalted view of her character. perhaps she would not have thanked him for fixing such a standard for her to act up to. he sat on--on--in the falling darkness; the little cheerfulness of his friends' visit had quite vanished. the lumber he had wallowed in had grimed his heart as well as his garments. he would have liked tea--a great stand-by when pain and anguish wring the brow. but when you are too proud to admit that your brow is being wrung, and you know it is no use ringing the bell, because mrs. gapp, or her equivalent, is at the william the fourth, why, then you probably collapse and submit to fate, as mr. reginald aiken did. it didn't much matter now if he had no tea. no ministering angel was there to make it. he sat, collapsed, dirty and defeated, in the austrian bent-wood rocking-chair. what was that irruption of evening newsboys shouting? repulse of some general, english or dutch, at some berg or drift; surrender of some other, dutch or english, at some drift or berg. he was even too collapsed to go out and buy a halfpenny paper. he didn't care about anything. besides, it was the same every evening. damn the boers! damn cecil rhodes! the shouters had passed--a _prestissimo_ movement in the street symphony--selling rapidly, before he had changed his mind, and wished he had bought a _star_. never mind!--there would be another edition out by the time he went to dinner at machiavelli's. he sat on meditating in the gloom, and wondering how long it would be before it was all jolly again. of course it _would_ be--but when? a sound like a nervous burglar making an attempt on a chubb lock caught his ear and interested him. he appeared to identify it as mrs. gapp trying to use a latchkey, but unsuccessfully. he seemed maliciously amused, but not to have any intention of helping. presently the sound abdicated, in favour of a subterranean bell of a furtive and irresolute character. said mr. aiken, then, to space, "mrs. verity won't hear that, you may bet your sunday garters," and then went by easy stages to the front-door, to see--so further soliloquy declared--how sober his housekeeper was after so long an absence. a glance at the good woman convinced him that her register of sobriety would stand at zero on any maker's sobriometer. she said that a vaguely defined community, called the boys, had been tampering with the lock. mr. aiken, from long experience of her class at this stage, was able to infer this from what sounded like "boysh been 'tlocksh--keylocksh--inchfearunsh." this pronounced exactly phonetically will be clear to the student of alcoholism; be so good as to read it absolutely literally. "lock's all right enough!" said mr. aiken, after turning it freely both ways. "nobody's been interfering with it. you're drunk, mrs. gapp." mrs. gapp stood steady, visibly. now, you can't stand steady, visibly, without a suspicion of a lurch to show how splendidly you are maintaining your balance. without it your immobility might be mere passionless inertia. mrs. gapp's eyes seemed as little under her control as her voice, and each had a strange, inherent power of convincing the observer that the other was looking the wrong way. "me?" said mrs. gapp. "yes--you!" said mr. aiken. mrs. gapp collected herself, which--if we include in it her burden, consisting of some bundles of firewood and one pound four ounces of beefsteak wrapped in a serial--seemed in some danger of redistributing itself when collected. she then spoke, with a mien as indignant as if she were boadicea seeking counsel of her country's gods, and said, "_me_ r-r-runk! _shober!_"--the last word expressing heartfelt conviction. some remarks that followed, scarcely articulate enough to warrant transcribing, were interpreted by mr. aiken to the effect that he was doing a cruel injustice to a widow-woman who had had fourteen, and had lived a pure and blameless life, and had buried three husbands. much stress was laid on her own habitual abstention from stimulants, and the example she had striven to set in her own humble circle. her third had never touched anything but water--a curlew's life, as it were--owing to the force of this example. let persons who accused her of drunkenness look at home, and first be sure of their own sobriety. her conscience acquitted her. for her part she thought intoxication a beastly, degrading habit--that is to say, if mr. aiken interpreted rightly something that sounded, phonetically, like "bishley grey rabbit." at this point one of the wood-bundles became undone, owing to the disgraceful quality of the string now in use. mrs. gapp was dissuaded with difficulty from returning to the shop to exchange it, but in the end descended the kitchen-stairs, lamenting commercial dishonesty, and shedding sticks. the artist seemed to regard this as normal charing, nothing uncommon. he returned to the austrian bent-wood chair, and sat down to think whether he should light the gas. he began to suspect himself of going imbecile with disheartenment and depression. he was at his lowest ebb. "i tell you what," said he--it was space he was addressing--"i shall just go straight away to-morrow after breakfast to coombe, and tell mrs. hay that if she doesn't come back i shall let the studio and go to japan." but space didn't seem interested. it had three dimensions, and was content. he might as well light the gas as not; so he did it, and it sang, and burned blue. then it stopped singing, and became _transigeant_, and you could turn it down or up. mr. aiken turned it down, but not too much, and listened to a cab coming down the street. "that's not for here," said he. he had no earthly reason for saying this. he was only making conversation; or rather, soliloquy. but he was wrong; at least so far as that the cab was really stopping, here or next door. and in the quadrupedations, door-slammings, backings, reproofs to the horse, interchange of ideas between the captain and the passengers of a hansom cab of spirit, a sound reached mr. aiken's ear which arrested him as he stood, with his finger on the gas-tap. "hullo!" said he, and listened as a musical critic listens to a new performance. when towards the end of such a symphony, the fare seeks the exact sum he is named after, and weighs nice differences, some bars may elapse before the conductor--or rather the driver, else we get mixed with omnibuses--sanctions a start. but a reckless spendthrift has generally discharged his liability, and is knocking at the door or using his latchkey, before his late driver has done pretending to consider the justice of his award. it happened so in this case, for before mr. aiken saw anything to confirm or contradict the need for his close attention, eight demisemiquavers, a pause, and a concussion, made a good wind-up to the symphony aforesaid, and the cab was free to begin the next movement on its own account. he discarded the gas-tap abruptly, and pounced upon his velveteen, nearly pulling over the screen he had hung it on. "that drunken jade must _not_ go to the door," he gasped, as he bolted from the room and down the stairs. he need not have been uneasy. the jade was singing in the kitchen--either the grandfather's clock or the lost chord--and was keeping her accompanist waiting, with an intense feeling of pathos. mr. aiken swung down the stairs, got his collar right in the passage, and nearly embraced the wrong lady on the doorstep, so great was his hurry to get at the right one. "never mind!" said madeline; and her laugh was like nightingales by the arno in may. "don't apologize, mr. aiken. look here!--i've brought you your wife home. now kiss _her_!" "you're not fit to kiss anybody, reginald; but i suppose there's soap in the house." so said mrs. aiken. and then, after qualifying for a liberal use of soap, she added, "what _is_ that hideous noise in the kitchen?" "oh, that?" said her husband. "_that's_ mrs. gapp." chapter ix madeline's report, next morning. charles mathews and madame vestria. how well madeline held her tongue to keep her promise. an anticipation of post-story time. how a deputation waited on mrs. aiken from the psychomorphic. mr. macanimus and mr. vacaw. gevartius much more correct for miss jessie to listen to than the laughing cavalier. of self-hypnosis and ghosts, their respective categories. the mad cat's nose outside the blanket. singular autophrenetic experience of mr. aiken. stenography. a case in point. not a phenomenon at all. how miss volumnia's penetration penetrated, and got at something. suggestion traced home. enough to explain any phenomenon. "i'm afraid you _did_ get mixed up, darling, this time. but i dare say they're all right." this was lady upwell's comment at breakfast next morning, when her daughter had completed a narrative of her previous evening's adventure, which had assumed, between the close of last chapter and the ensuing midnight, all the character of a reckless escapade. indeed, it had been long past that hour when the young lady, who had wired early in the evening that she was "dining with aikens shall be late," returned home in better spirits than she had shown for months--so her mother said to sympathetic friends afterwards--to find her pupsey getting uneasy about her, and fidgetting. because that was pupsey's way. madeline's parents at this time would probably have welcomed any diversion or excitement for the girl; anything to take her mind away from her troubles. they were not at all sure about these aiken people; but there!--they would have welcomed worse, to see this little daughter of theirs in such spirits as hers last night. touching the cause of which they were a little puzzled, as she had stuck loyally to her promise to tell nothing of mrs. aiken's dream and the share the italian picture had in her reconciliation with her husband. all she said was that she had persuaded euphemia to go back to reginald; she having, as it were, borrowed from each the name each called the other--in a certain sense, quoting it. "euphemia, i suppose, is mrs. aiken?" said her ladyship temperately--with a touch of graciousness, like queens on the stage to their handmaidens cicely or elspeth. "euphemia 's mrs. aiken, but he calls her mrs. hay as often as not." perplexity of both parents here required a short explanation of middle-class jocularity turning on neglect or excess of aspirates. after which madeline said, "that's all!" and they said, "we see," but with hesitation. then she continued her story. "it was such fun! _i_ knocked at the door, and reginald came rushing out because he heard euphemia outside, and clasped me in his arms ... oh, well--it's quite true! you see, he was in such a hurry he didn't stop to look, and he took me for euphemia." for the baronet had laid down his knife and fork and remained transfixed. but a telegraphic lip-movement of her ladyship reassured him. "this," it said, "is exaggeration. expect more of the same sort." however, his daughter softened the statement. "it wasn't exactly negotiated, you know. and i don't think it would have been any satisfaction either, because he was so horribly dirty, reginald was." the baronet completed a contract he had on hand with some kippered salmon, and said, before accepting a new one, "well--_you're_ a nice young woman!" but he added forgivingly, "go on--gee-up!" the nice young woman went on. "and do you know, i don't believe that a more filthy condition than that house was in--why, mrs. aiken had been away ten months! and there was a drunken cook singing in the kitchen all the while." "you are an inconsecutive puss," said the baronet, very happy about the puss nevertheless. "you didn't finish your sentence. 'filthy condition that house was in'--go on!" "bother my sentence! finish it yourself, pupsey. well--reginald and euphemia made it up like a shot. couple of idiots! then the question was--dinner. i said come home here, but they said clothes. there was some truth in what they had on, so i said hadn't we better all go and dine where mr. aiken had been going. because i didn't call him reginald to his face, you know!" "and you went, i suppose?" "i should think so. we dined at mezzofanti's in great compton street, soho--no, it wasn't; it was magliabecchi's--no!--machiavelli's. and i talked such good italian to the waiter. it _was_ fun! and what do you think we did next? ... give it up?" her father nodded. "why--we went to the adelphi theatre--there! and we saw 'charley's aunt,' and we parted intimate bosom friends. only euphemia is rather fussy and distant, compared to us, and i had to stick out to make her kiss me." a slight illustration served to show how the speaker had driven a coach-and-six through the bosom-friend's shyness. "well," said the baronet. "all i can say is--i wish i had been there with you. if i go to the play now--there i am, dressed in toggery and sittin' in the stalls! lord, i remember when i was a young fellow, there was charles mathews and madame vestris ... you can't remember them...." "of course i can't. i was only born nineteen years ago." the baronet, however, added more recent theatrical experiences, but only brought on himself corrections from his liege lady. "my dear, you're quite at sea. fancy the child recollecting lord dundreary and buckstone! why, she wasn't born or thought of!" but when this baronet got on the subject of his early plays and operas, he developed reminiscence in its most aggravated form. he easily outclassed aunt priscey on the subject of her ancestors. her ladyship abandoned him as incorrigible, without an apology, but his daughter indulged him and sat and listened. all things come to an end sooner or later, and reminiscence did, later. then poor madeline ran down in her spirits, and sat brooding over the war news. it was only a temporary sprint. reginald and euphemia vanished, and jack came back. madeline kept all this story of the talking photograph to herself. to talk of it she would have had to tell her friend's dream, and that she had promised not to do. she was so loyal that when a day or two later she met the formidable miss charlotte bax, she kept a strict lock on her tongue, even when that lady plunged into a resumé of the dream-story as she had received it, and an abstract of her commentary on it, still waiting delivery at the psychomorphic. "i hoped we should meet at mrs. ludersdorff priestley's," said she, "because i wanted to talk about it. their teas are so stupid. ethel ludersdorff priestley said you were coming." "oh yes--that was the unfulfilled bun-worry. mrs. aiken came in to see me, and i stayed." then, as an afterthought, "i suppose you know they've made it up?" admission that there was something unknown to her did not form part of miss charlotte's scheme of life. she left the question open, saying merely, "in consequence of the advice i gave my cousin, no doubt!" madeline said nothing to contradict this--all the more readily perhaps that she was not prepared to supply the real reason. she, however, could and did supply rough particulars of the reconciliation, giving miss charlotte more than her due of credit as its _vera causa_. that lady then proceeded to give details of her scientific conclusions about the phenomenon. a portion of this may be repeated, as it had a good deal of effect in confirming her hearer's growing faith in its genuineness. "what i rest my argument on," said miss charlotte, touching one forefinger with the other, like sir macklin in the "bab ballads," "is the isolated character of this phenomenon. let the smallest confirmation of it be produced by proof of the existence of analogous phenomena elsewhere, and then, although that argument may not fall to the ground, it may be necessary to place it on an entirely new footing. i would suggest that, in order to sift the matter to the bottom, a sub-committee should be appointed, charged with the duty of listening to authentic portraits to determine, if possible, whether any other picture possesses this really almost incredible faculty of speech. the slightest whisper from another picture, well authenticated by a scientific authority, would change the whole venue of the discussion. pending such a confirmation, we are forced to the conclusion that the subjectivity of the phenomenon is indisputable." at this point, miss upwell, who was really getting anxious about _secondly_--which she was certain the speaker would forget, while it was impossible for her, without loss of dignity, to draw one forefinger from the other--was greatly relieved when the withdrawal was made compulsory by the offer of a sally-lunn, and the resumption of it became unnecessary, and even difficult. for this entertainment was not merely a bun-worry, but--choosing a name at random--a sally-lunn sedative, or a tea-cake lullaby. it only enters for a moment into this story to show how powerfully miss upwell's belief in the picture's personality had been reinforced before the time came for mr. pelly to read professor schrudengesser's florentine manuscript. perhaps if miss volumnia had then been in a position to lay before her friend the results of a subsequent interview with her cousin, in which she elicited some most important facts, this belief might at least have been suspended, and miss upwell's attitude towards the pardonable scepticisms of her father and mr. pelly might have been less disrespectful. but as a matter of fact miss volumnia only came to the knowledge of these facts months later, when she called upon mrs. reginald aiken with the secretary, mr. macanimus, and mr. vacaw, the chairman of the psychomorphic; the three constituting a deputation from the society, which was anxious for repetition and confirmation of the story before appointing a sub-committee to listen to well-painted pictures. this interview may be given here, for the sake of those curious in psychological study, but its place in the succession of events should be borne in mind. it is really a piece of inartistic anticipation. "we shouldn't come pestering you like this, cousin euphemia," said miss volumnia, after introducing the deputation, "if it had not been that we have so much trouble in getting volunteers to guarantee the amount of listening which we consider has to be gone through before the negative conclusion, that pictures cannot talk, is accepted as practically established. my sister jessie has undertaken to listen to any picture at the national gallery the sub-committee may select, provided that either mr. duodecimus groob or charley galsworthy accompanies her, and listens too. i can see no objection to this, but i prefer that they should listen to gevartius. i think it perhaps better that so young a girl should not hear what the laughing cavalier, franz hals, is likely to say. or charley galsworthy either, for that matter. mr. duodecimus groob is a graduate of the university of london...." mr. reginald aiken, who was present at this interview, looked up from his easel, at which he was retouching a sketch of no importance, to say that he knew this mr. groob, who was an awful ass; but his brother dolly was quite another pair of shoes, of whom the world would soon hear more. the interruption was rude and discourteous, and mrs. aiken was obliged to explain to the deputation that it was quite unnecessary to pay any attention to it. her husband was always like that. his manners were atrocious, but his heart was good. as for mr. adolphus groob, he was insufferable. "shall we proceed to business?" said mr. macanimus, a piercing man, who let nobody off. "i will, with your permission, run through mrs. reginald aiken's deposition...." "i never made any deposition," said that lady. "my dear euphemia," said her cousin. "if you wish to withdraw from the statement you made to me..." "rubbish, volumnia! i certainly don't withdraw from anything whatever. still less have i any intention of making any depositions. if we are to be beset with depositions in everyday life, i think we ought at least to be consulted in the matter. depositions, indeed!" mr. vacaw interposed to make peace. "we need not," he said, "quarrel about terms." he for his part would be perfectly content that the particulars so kindly furnished by mrs. aiken should be referred to in whatever way was most satisfactory to that lady herself. he appeared to address mr. macanimus with diffidence, almost amounting to humility, approaching him with somewhat of the caution which might be shown by a person who had undertaken to encumber a mad cat with a blanket so as to neutralise its powers of tooth and claw. mr. macanimus conceded the point under protest; and mrs. aiken then, who was not disobliging, consented to repeat her dream experience, each point being checked off against the formulated report of her first statement, transmitted to the society by miss volumnia. it is creditable to that lady's accuracy that very few corrections were necessary, especially as the first narrator seemed in a certain sense handicapped by doubts as to what the exact words used were, though always sure of their meaning. had mrs. aiken understood any italian, mixed speech on the picture's part might have accounted for this. as it was, an undeniable vagueness helped miss volumnia's classification of the incident as a case of self-hypnosis. that the deputation was unanimous on this point was soon evident. it was then that an incident came to light that, at least in the opinion of miss volumnia, went far to establish this classification beyond a shadow of doubt. mr. reginald, who had been at no pains to conceal his derision of the whole proceeding, allowed this spirit of ridicule, so hostile to the prosecution of scientific investigation, to master him so completely that he quite forgot the respect he owed to his visitors, and indeed to his wife, for she at least deserved the credit which is due to sincerity, even if mistaken. he shouted with laughter, saying did anyone ever hear such glorious rot? a talking picture--only fancy! why, you might as well put down anything you heard in your ears to any picture on the walls. one the same as another. of course everyone knew that euphemia was as full of fancies as an egg is full of meat. just you leave her alone for a few minutes in a dark room, or a burying-ground, and see if she didn't see a ghost! "that's _quite_ another thing," said miss volumnia and mr. macanimus simultaneously. and mr. vacaw added, as pacific confirmation, "surely--surely! ghosts belong to an entirely different category." a feeling that ghosts could not be coped with so near lunch may have caused an impulse towards peroration. it was not, however, to fructify yet, for mr. macanimus appealed for a moment's hearing. "with your leave, sir," said he, addressing mr. vacaw as if he was the speaker, "i should like to put a question to this gentleman," meaning mr. aiken. mr. vacaw may be considered to have allowed the mad cat's nose outside the blanket, on sufferance. then mr. macanimus, producing a memorandum-book to take down the witness's words, asked this question: "what did mr. aiken mean by the expression, 'anything heard in your ears'?" but the witness was one of those people who become diffuse the moment they are expected to answer a question. his testimony ran as follows, tumbling down and picking itself up again as it did so. "oh, don't you know the sort of thing i mean; a sort of tickle--nothing you can exactly lay hold of--not what you think you hear when it's there--comes out after--p'r'aps your sort don't--it goes with the party--there's parties and parties--if you don't make it out without a description, it's not in your line--you're not in the swim." the members of the deputation looked at each other inquiringly, and each shook a negative head, as disclaiming knowledge of this peculiar phenomenon. they were not in the swim, but could all say, and did, that this was very interesting. mr. macanimus struck in with perspicuity and decision: "allow me. will mr. aiken favour us with a case in point? such a case would enable the society to ascertain whether this phenomenon is known to any of its members." he concentrated his faculties to shorthand point, holding a fountain-pen in readiness to pounce on a clean memorandum page, virgin but for [shorthand characters], or something like it, which meant, "singular autophrenetic experience of mr. reginald aiken communicated direct to society at his residence." stenography is a wonderful science. mr. aiken complied readily. "any number of cases in point! why, only the other day there was stumpy hughes, sitting on that very chair you're in now, heard a voice say something in italian, or french. what's more, i heard it too, and thought it was mrs. gapp in liquor--in more liquor than usual. i told you all about that, mrs. hay." mrs. gapp, when the mistress of the house returned, had followed in the footsteps of sairah and mrs. parples. mrs. euphemia suddenly assumed an air of mystery. "oh yes," said she. "you told me all about _that_. _i_ understood." "didn't i tell you?" said her husband, appealing to the company. "didn't i tell you females might be relied on to cook up somethin' out of nothin' at all?" he had done nothing of the sort, and merely chose this form of speech to fill out his share in the conversation. his wife was indignant. "i don't know," she said, "what nonsensical imputations you may have been casting on women, who, at any rate, are usually every bit as clever as you and your friends. but i do know this, because you told me, that when that happened you were both close to the _exact duplicate_ of the very photograph you are now accusing me of credulity with, and it's ridiculous--simply ridiculous. and it's off the selfsame negative. you know it is." mr. vacaw deprecated impatience. a new avenue of inquiry might be opened up as a consequence of this experience of mr. aiken's, provided always that we did not lose our heads, and allow ourselves to be misled by an _ignis fatuus_ of controversy into a wilderness of recrimination. mr. vacaw's style drew freely on the vast resources of metaphor in which the english language abounds. mr. aiken followed his example so far as to say that he couldn't see any use in flaring up, and that if hair and teeth were flying all over the shop, a chap couldn't hear himself speak. as for the identity of the photographs, he wouldn't have mentioned stumpy's little joke about where the voice came from if he had thought his wife was going to turn it into a spirit manifestation and davenport brothers. he saw no use in such rot. this was only an idea, and had nothing supernatural about it. mr. hughes's little joke, whatever it was, did not reach the ears of the story at the time of writing--you can turn back and see--but mr. aiken heard and remembered it, and had evidently repeated it to his wife, who had been comparing notes upon it. her indignation increased, and she would certainly have taken her husband severely to task for his levity and unreason, if it had not been for the sudden animation with which miss volumnia cried out, "aha!" as though illuminated by a new idea. she also pointed an extended finger at mr. aiken, as it were transfixing him. at the same moment mr. macanimus exclaimed resolutely: "yes--stop it at that! 'identity of the photographs.' now, miss bax, if you please!" miss volumnia accepted what may be called the office of chief catechist, and proceeded on the assumption usual in investigation, that she was examining an unwilling witness with a strong inherent love of falsehood for its own sake. "you admit then, cousin reginald, that on this occasion a suggestion was made that the voice came from this photograph?" mr. macanimus nodded rapidly, and said, "yes--keep him to that!" and conferred a moment apart with mr. vacaw, who murmured: "yes, yes--i see your point. quite correct!" "it was stumpy's little joke!" said mr. aiken. "not a phenomenon at all! you'll make anythin' out of anythin'. i shall tell stumpy, and he'll split his sides laughin' at you." "pray do, cousin reginald. only let me ask you this one question--what was the exact date of this occurrence?" miss volumnia had abated the pointed finger, but not quite suppressed it. her colleagues nodded knowingly to each other and each said, "you'll see we shall see." mr. aiken's answer was vague. "a tidy long while ago," said he. "couldn't say how long. after stumpy came back from aunt jopiska's, anyhow." "when was that?" "three or four months ago. more! no--less! stop a bit. i know what'll fix it. that receipt. where the dooce is it?" mr. aiken had a paroxysm of turning miscellanea over. "what is it you are looking for, reginald?" paid his wife forbearingly. "if you would tell me what it is. i could find it for you, without throwing everything into confusion. why can you not be patient and methodical? what is it?" "receipt for rates and taxes--oh, here it is--seventh of november--that fixes the time. it was the day before that." and then mr. aiken, in the pride of his heart at the subtlety of his identification of this date, dwelt upon the subject more than was absolutely necessary. it was because he had talked--didn't you see?--to a feller who had sketched a plan of the new rooms in bond street on the back of this very identical receipt--didn't you know?--telling him of stumpy and the hearing the voice, the day before--didn't you see?--so that fixed the date to a nicety. and the feller was a very sensible clever penetratin' sort of feller--didn't you see?--and had made some very shrewd remarks about starts of this sort. "and who was this intelligent gentleman?" asked mrs. aiken, not entirely without superiority, but still with forbearance. "not a man you know much of. remarkable sort of chap, though!" "yes--but who _was_ he? that's what _i_ want to know." "don't see that it matters.... well--dolly groob, then." "mis-ter adolphus groob...." mrs. aiken was beginning, and was going to follow up what her intonation made a half-expression of contempt, by a comment which would have expressed a whole one. was it mr. adolphus groob all the fuss was about? but she came short of her intention, being interrupted by miss volumnia, whose "aha!" threw her previous delivery of the same interjection into the shade. "_now_ we are getting at something!" cried that young lady triumphantly. "well, what does that mean?" said mrs. euphemia scornfully. "getting at something! getting at what?" "my dear euphemia," said her cousin, with temperate self-command--she was always irritating, and meant to be--"i ask you, can you conscientiously deny that mr. adolphus groob sat next you at mr. entwistle parkins's lecture, at the suburbiton athenæum, on the radio-activity of space?" "well, and what if he did?" "we will come to that directly, when you have answered my questions. can you deny that mr. entwistle parkins's lecture on the radio-activity of space was delivered at least a week after your husband had communicated to mr. adolphus groob the very curious experience he has just related?" "and what if he did....?" "one moment--excuse me.... or that your own very singular--i admit the singularity--pseudo-dream or self-induced hypnotism was _subsequent_ to this lecture?" "it was in january. what if it was?" miss volumnia turned with an air of subdued triumph to the other members of the deputation. "i appeal to you, mr. vacaw--to you, mr. macanimus. is, or is not, the conclusion warranted that this pseudo-dream, as i must call it, had its origin by suggestion from the analogous experience of mr. aiken, who had by his own showing narrated it to mr. adolphus groob?" "but mr. adolphus groob never said a single word to me about it. so _there_!" thus mrs. aiken with emphasis so distributed as to make her speech almost truculent. miss volumnia's reply was cold and firm. "you admit, cousin euphemia, that mr. adolphus groob sat next to you throughout that lecture?" "certainly. what of that?" "are you prepared to make oath that no part of your conversation turned on psychic subjects?" "he talked a great deal of nonsense, if that's what you mean, and said we were on the brink of great discoveries. but i won't talk to you if you go on about being prepared to make oath, like a witness-box." mr. aiken, perhaps with a mistaken idea of averting heated controversy, interposed saying: "cert'nly dolly groob did say he'd met the missus at a beastly place that stunk of gas out coombe way, and that she conversed very intelligibly--no, intelligently--on subjects...." miss volumnia interrupted, although the speaker had to all seeming scarcely finished his sentence. "that is tantamount," she said, "to an admission that they had been talking on subjects. what subjects?" "sort of subjects they were talkin' on, i s'pose," said he evasively. "very well, reginald," said his wife indignantly. "if you are going over to their side, i give up, and i shan't talk at all." and she held to this resolution, which tended to put an end to the conversation, until the deputation took its leave, shaking its heads and making dubious sounds within its closed lips. we were on very insecure ground, and things had very doubtful complexions, and all that sort of thing. "what a parcel of fools they were," said the lady when they had departed, "not to ask about what the old gentleman dreamed at madeline's!" that was first hand from the original picture. "i really do think one cannot depend on photographs." "must make a difference, i should say. don't pretend to understand the subject." thus the artist, absorbed again in retouching the sketch of no importance. and do you know, he seemed rather to make a parade of his indifference. in which he was very like people one meets at manifestations, only scarcely so bad. for a many of them, face to face with what they are pretending to think their own _post mortem_, remain unimpressed, and cut jokes. then, of course, we have to remember that it is usually a paid medium--that may make a difference. we think, however, it is safe to say that had miss volumnia, when she conversed with miss upwell at the second, or fulfilled, bun-worry, been in possession of the facts elicited at this interview, she might have detailed them so as to induce in that young lady's mind a more lenient attitude towards the incredulity of her father and mr. pelly about the picture. as it was--and it is very necessary to bear this in mind in reading what remains to be told--this interview had not then taken place, and did not in fact come about till nearly two months later, when the compiling of the society's quarterly report made the adoption of a definite attitude towards the picture story necessary. chapter x how mr. pelly, subject to interruption, read aloud a translation from italian. who was the old devil? who was the duchessa? of the narrator's incarceration. of his incredible escape. whose horse was that in the avenue? how mr. pelly read faster. was uguccio killed? sir stopleigh scandalised. but then it was the middle ages--one of them, anyhow! how only duchesses know if dukes are asleep. of the bone mr. polly picked with madeline. but what becomes of unconscious cerebration? ambrose paré. marta's little knife. love was not unknown in the middle ages. the end of the manuscript. but sir stopleigh went out to see a visitor, in the middle. how madeline turned white, and went suddenly to bed. what was it all about? seventy-seven could wait. of course you recollect that mr. pelly, when he came back from his great-grandniece's wedding at cowcester, was to read the manuscript professor schrudengesser had sent him from florence, which had been the probable cause of all that fantastic dream-story he wrote out so cleverly from memory? dear uncle christopher!--how lucky he should recollect it all like that! especially now that it had all turned out real, because where was the use of denying it after mrs. aiken had heard the photograph speak, too? if a mere photograph could make itself audible, of course a picture could--the original! mr. pelly's reading of professor schrudengesser's translation of the florentine manuscript was fixed for the evening after madeline's return to surley stakes. uncle christopher dined alone with his adopted niece and her parents, after which he was to read the manuscript aloud in the library where the picture was hanging. this was a _sine qua non_ to madeline. the picture simply _must_ hear that story. but of course she said nothing of the reasons of her increased curiosity on this point to anyone, not even to mr. pelly himself. behold, therefore, the family and the old gentleman settling down to enjoy the manuscript before the picture and the log-fire beneath it. the reader preliminarises, of course; wavering, to do justice to his impending start. "now, uncle christopher dear, don't talk, but begin reading, and let's hear the picture-story." so spoke miss madeline when she thought mr. pelly had hesitated long enough. but this did not accelerate matters, for the old gentleman, perceiving that her perusal of his dream-narrative had landed her somehow in the conclusion that the picture and the manuscript must be connected, felt bound to enter his protest against any such rash assumption. "we must bear in mind," he said, "that there is absolutely nothing to connect this manuscript with that picture over the chimneypiece except the name raimondi. and although the picture was certainly purchased from a castle owned by a family of that name, there is no reason whatever to suppose it to be a portrait of a member of that family. and the fact that a portrait of a lady is spoken of--as we shall see directly--in this manuscript, no more connects the story with this picture than with any other picture. my friend professor schrudengesser, although it would be difficult to do justice to his erudition, and impossible to quarrel with most of his conclusions, is impulsive in the highest degree, and no one is more liable to be misled by a false clue. in this case, however, he admits that it is the merest surmise, and that at least we are on very doubtful ground." mr. pelly felt contented, as with a satisfactory peroration, and was going to dive straight into the manuscript, which he had really folded to his liking, this time. but the baronet, to claim a share in erudition for the landed gentry, must needs look weighty with tightly closed lips, and then open them to say, "very doubtful--very doubtful--ve-ry doubtful!" and this, of course, provoked his daughter to a renewed attitude of _parti pris_, merely from contradiction, for really she knew no more about the matter than this story has shown, so far. "don't go on shaking your head backwards and forwards like that, pupsey dear," said this disrespectful girl. "you'll shake it off. besides, as to her not being a member of the raimondi family, isn't it logical to assume that everybody is a member of any family till the contrary is proved? at least, _you'd_ say it on your side, you know, if you wanted it, and i should be frightened to contradict you." this provoked incredulity and even derision. after which, a remark about the clock caused mr. pelly actually to begin reading, with a word of apology about the probable imperfection of the translation. even then he stopped to say that he hoped he had clearly stated the herr professor's opinion that the date of the manuscript would be about , as it speaks to the "duchessa isabella," to whom it is written, of "your recent nuptials." he added that no doubt this lady was isabella dei medici, daughter of cosmo, the second of the name, who in married orsini, duke of bracciano. "never mind them," said madeline, interrupting, "unless he poisoned her or there was something exciting and mediæval." "well," said mr. pelly, rather apologetically, "he certainly _did_ poison her, strictly speaking. that is, if webster's tragedy of victoria corombona is historically correct. if you get a conjurer to poison your portrait's lips, with a full knowledge that your wife makes a point of kissing them every night before she goes to bed...." "that's the sort of thing _i_ like. go on!" "why ... of course you place yourself in a very equivocal position." "yes," said madeline, "and what's more, it shows what pictures can do if they try. of course he murdered her. what are you looking so sagacious for, pupsey?" for the bart's head was shaking slowly. he showed some symptoms of a wish to circumscribe the middle ages--to stint them of colour and romance. "it might be a case to go to a jury," said he grudgingly. whereupon mr. pelly began to read in earnest. "'to the most illustrious duchessa isabella, most beautiful among the beautiful daughters of her princely father, queen of all poesy, matchless among musicians, mistress of many languages, to whose improvisations accompanied on the lute the stars of heaven stop to listen....' this goes on for some time," said mr. pelly. "skip it, uncle christopher. i dare say she was a stupid little dowdy." "very likely! h'm--h'm--h'm! yes--suppose i go on here: 'in obedience to your highness's august commands i have set down here the full story of my marvellous escape from prison in the castello of montestrapazzo, where i passed a _semestre sottoterraneo_'--six months underground--the professor seems to have left some characteristic phrases in italian. i won't stop to translate them unless you ask--shouldn't like to appear patronising!--'over twenty-five years since, being then quite a young man--in truth, younger than my son gherardo, who is the bearer of this, whom you may well recognise at once by his marvellous likeness to his mother, whose affectionate greetings he will convey to you more readily than i can write them. for when i look upon his face it seems to me i almost see again the face as i painted it years ago, the _sognovegliante_ look'--the professor fancies the writer invented this word--_dream-waking_, that sort of thing--'the _sognovegliante_ look of the eyes, the happy laughter of the mouth. and, indeed, as you know her now, she is not unlike the boy, and she changes but little with the years. for even the beautiful golden hair keeps its colour of those days....'" at this point madeline interrupted: "but that's the picture-girl down to the ground. how can anybody doubt it? why, look at her!" mr. pelly was dubious. "i don't know. i couldn't say. there's hardly enough to go upon." "that's exactly like a scholarly old gentleman! but, uncle christopher dear, do just get up a minute and come here and _look_!" mr. pelly complied. generally speaking, we thought it might be rash to allow ourselves to be influenced by a description; it was always safest to suspend judgment until after something else, or something still later than something else. we had very little to go upon, independently of the fact that the name raimondi connected itself with both the portrait and the manuscript. "then go independently! however, let's come back and get on with the story." the speaker went back to her place at her mother's feet, and mr. pelly resumed. "where were we? oh--'colour of those days'--oh yes!--'and the curvature of the line of his nostril that is all his mother's....'" madeline inserted a _sotto voce_: "of course, it's the picture-girl!" the reader took no notice. "... that he will prove himself of service to his excellency the duke i cannot doubt, for the boy is ready with his pen as with his sword, though, indeed, as i myself was in old days, a thought too quick with the latter, and hot-headed on occasion shown. but him you will come to know. i, for my part, will now comply as best i may with your wish, and tell you the story of my imprisonment and escape. "i was then in my twenty-first year; but, young as i was, i already had some renown as a painter. and i think, had god willed that i should continue in the practice of the art that i loved, my name might still be spoken with praise among the best. yet i will not repine at the fate that has made of me little better than a _poderista_, a farmer, for see now how great has been the happiness of my lot! figure it to yourself in contrast with that of a man--such a one have i seen, of whom i shall tell you--full of life and health, all energy and purpose, cast into a prison for the crime of another, and unable to die for the little poisonous hopes that would come, day by day, of a release that never was to come itself. his lot might have been mine too, but for the courage and decision of the woman who has been my good throughout--who has been the one great treasure and happiness of my life. yet one thing i do take ill in my heart--that the picture i painted of her, the last i ever touched, should have been so cruelly destroyed.'" mr. pelly paused in his reading. "the herr professor and myself," said he, "are divided in opinion about some points in connexion with this--but perhaps i had better read on, and we can talk about it after." "'for it was surely the best work i had ever painted. and none other can paint her now as i did then. but i must not indulge this useless regret. let me get to my story. "'know, then, that, being in my twenty-first year, and in love with no woman, in part, as i think, owing to a memory of my boyhood i treasured in my heart--a memory i did not know as love, but one that had a strange power of swaying my life--that i, being thus famous enough to be sought out by those who loved the art, whether for its own sake, or to add to their fame, was sent for to paint the young bride of a great noble, the duke raimondi, at his villa that stands out in the plain of the arno, nearer to pistoia than to firenze. thither, then, i go with all speed, for the raimondi was a noble of great weight, and not to be lightly gainsaid. but of this young bride of his i knew nothing, neither of her parentage, nor even of her nationality; indeed, i had been told, by some mistake of my informant, that she was by birth a _francese_. you may well believe, then, that i was utterly astounded when i found she was...'" here mr. pelly paused in his reading, and wiped his spectacles. "i am sorry to say," said he, "that we come to a gap in the manuscript here--a _hiatus valde deflendus_--and we cannot tell how much is missing. there is, of course, no numbering of the pages to guide us. italians, it seems, are in the habit of remaining stupefied--a phrase i have just translated was '_son rimasto stupefatto_'--on the smallest provocation, and the expression might only mean that this bride of the raimondi was an _inglese_, and plain." "we are plain, sometimes," madeline admitted. "but what geese antiquarians are! you should always have a girl at your elbow, to tell things. why, of course, this young person was the memory he had treasured in his heart!" "i should think it very likely," said mr. pelly, "from what follows later. only, nothing proves it, so far. i should like the arrangement you suggest, my dear madeline; however, we must get along now, if that clock's right." he nodded at one on the chimneypiece, with time, made in gold, as a mower of hay; then continued reading: "'oh, with what joy my fingers closed on that accursed throat! one moment more, and i had sent my old monster whither go the accursed, who shall trouble us no further, yet shall bear for ever the burden of their sins, a debt whereof the capital shall never be repaid, even to the end of all eternity, amen! but alas!--that one moment was not for me, for the knave who bore the mace, though he missed my head, struck me well and full, half-way betwixt the shoulder and the ear; and though it was a blow that might not easily kill a young man such as i, yet was i stunned by the shock of it, and knew no more till i found myself...'" "what on earth is all this about?" said madeline. "surely the wrong page, uncle christopher." "very wrong indeed! but it can't be helped. we must lump it. it may be one folded page missing or it may be half a dozen; we have no clue. we must accept the text as it is." and mr. pelly went on reading: "'... found myself on the back of a horse, going at an easy amble up a hilly road in mountains. i was bound fast behind a strong rider, of whom i could see nothing at first but his steel cap or morion--and i thought i knew him by it, the basnet thereof being dinted, as the man whose sword my beloved had shed her blood to stop, that else had ended my days for me then and there. for in those days, _eccellenza_, i had such eyes to note all things about me as even youth has rarely. on either side of us rode another man-at-arms, one of whom i could recognise as him who had struck at me with his mace, also missing of slaying me, by the great mercy of god. "'i had little heart to speak to either of them, as you may think, and, indeed, was a mere wreck of myself of two hours ago; for i judged of how time had gone by the last smouldering red of the sundown above the dark, flat, purple of the hills. my thirst was hard to bear, and the great pain of my head and shoulder, shaken as both were by the movement of the horse. but i knew i might ask in vain, though i saw where a wine-flask swung on the saddle-bow of him of the mace. it is wondrous, _eccellenza_, what youth, and great strength, and pride can endure, rather than ask a _gentilezza_ of an enemy! "'thus, then, we travelled on together, my guards taking little heed of each other, and none of me in my agony; seeming, indeed, to have no care if i lived or died. they rode as fellows on a journey so often do when they have said their most on such matters as they have in common, and are thinking rather of the good dinner and the bed that awaits them at their journey's end than of what they pass on the road, or of what they have left behind. one of them, the knave that had struck me down, who seemed the most light-hearted of the three, would at such odd times as pleased him break into a short length of song, which might for all i know have been of his own making, so far as the words went; while as for the tune, it was a cadence such as the vine-setter sings at his work in tuscany, having neither end nor beginning, and suited to any words the singer may choose to fit to it. taking note that he did this the more as the third man, whom i had not recognised, rode on a short distance ahead as he did at intervals, i judged this last one to be his superior in command; and that, if i could find voice for speech at all, my best chance of an answer would be from himself and not from this superior, who would most likely only bid me be silent at the best, even if he gave no worse response. so i caught at the moment when he had ended a rather longer cadence than usual, judging therefrom that my speech would reach at most him and the man behind whom i myself was riding. where was i being taken so fast, i asked, and for what? and he answers me thus: "'"to a good meal and a long rest, _mio figlio_. to the castello del bel riposo. they sleep a long night at that _albergo_--those who ride there as you ride. i have ridden more than once with a guest of his excellency. but there has always been a good meal for each, _pasta_, and meat, and a flask of _vino buono puro_, before he went to rest." whereon he laughed, but there was no joy for me in that laugh of his. i speak again. "'"i see what you mean, accursed one! that flask of wine will be my last on this earth." "'"you speak truly, _caro mio figlio_. it will be your last flask of wine. you will enjoy it all the more." "'"you are a good swordsman----?" "'"i am accounted so. but this good taddeo, whom you are permitting to ride in front of you--ho! ho!--he also is a good swordsman. but we may neither of us grant what i know well you were going to ask. you will never hold a sword-hilt again, my son, nor rejoice in face of an enemy. i could have wished otherwise, for you are a brave boy; and i would gladly have been the butcher to so fine a young calf." "'"you are quick to grip my meaning. but i could have outmatched you both on fair ground. now listen! you have a good-will towards me--so i judge from your words. tell me, then, this:--how will they kill me?" "'"i have never said they would kill you, my son. i have said only this--that you will have a rare good supper of _pasta_ and meat, and a rare good flask of red wine, before you go to rest. and let me give you this word of advice. before you go to rest at the castello del bel riposo, take a good look at the sunlight if it be day, at the stars of heaven if it be night, for you will never see them again, for all your eyes will remain in your head, even as now." "'sometimes, _o illustrissima_, when i wake in the night, it comes back to me, that moment. and there below me is the musical tramp of the horses' feet on the bare road, and i hear the voice of my friend sing again a little phrase of song--_che ognuno tirasse l' acqua al suo mulino_--and i heed him very little, though i can read in his words a wicked belief about my most guiltless and beloved treasure. i see the sweet light where the sun was, through the leaves of the olive-trees that make a _reticella_ (network) against the sky; and the great still star they never hide for long, rustle how they may! but i can but half enjoy the light that is dying, and the star that burns the more the more it dies; for the pain is great in my shoulder where the blow struck, and in my head and eyes, and my body is sore at its bonds and stiff from being held in one position. and yet i may never see that star again--the star we called our own, my maddalena and i, and made believe god made for us, saying "this star i make for giacinto _e la sua sorellaccia_"--neither that star, nor its bath of light, nor the sun that will make all heaven glad to-morrow, unseen by me. for i can guess the meaning of what my friend has said....'" here a little was quite illegible. but no conversation ensued on that account, both reader and listeners wanting to hear what followed. mr. pelly read on:-- "'now i call this man my friend, and, _eccellenza_, you will see, as i tell my tale, that this is no derisive speech. i think that what showed me he was not all hostility to me in his heart was that he would--i felt sure--if left to himself, have granted the boon i would have asked of him, and fought fairly with me to the death of one or other. so there was love between us of a soldierly sort. and i, too, could see how it had grown. for i had half suspected him of not showing all the alacrity he might have done with his mace when i had my grip on the old devil's throat....'" madeline interrupted: "it's perfectly maddening! what wouldn't i give to know what it's all about?" "i'll tell you presently the herr professor's conjectural history," said mr. pelly. but this did not satisfy the young lady. "tell us now! i'm the sort that can't wait," said she. the benignity of mr. pelly's face as he replied to her was a sight to be seen. "the herr professor thinks it is quite clear that this young man, on his arrival at the palace of the great noble whose wife he was to paint, fell in love with some girl of her retinue, possibly having recognised some friend of early childhood; and that the duchess fell in love with _him_. naturally--because we must bear in mind this was in the middle ages, or nearly--jealousy would prompt assassination of one or both of the young lovers...." "but who was the old devil? that's what i want to know." "evidently the wicked duchess herself." "what did she want to have her portrait painted for if she was old?" "the herr professor conjectures that the reason our young painter remained stupefied when he first saw the duchess was that she turned out not to be young at all, but old and repulsive." madeline looked doubtful. "then the idea was that the duchess personally conducted the examination of the girl--caught the two young people spooneying, and had her murdered on the spot. and that the young man thereon went straight for her throat. after which she naturally felt that it would be difficult to get on a tender footing with him, as she had wished to do, and had him consigned to a dungeon for life." madeline disagreed. "no," said she, "i don't think the professor's at all a good theory. mine's better. go on reading. i'll tell you mine presently." mr. pelly refound his place and went on reading. "'... had my grip on the old devil's throat. and also i had felt his approval in his hands as he helped to bear me away from the _stanza delle quattro corone_, though my senses failed too fast for me to understand what he said to his comrade. yet i thought, too, it sounded like "_un bel giovane per bacco!_" so when at last i was unbound, and stood in the forecourt of a great castle in the middle of a group of men, some of whom had torches--for it was then well on into the night--and dogs that i had heard barking through the last short half-hour of our approach up the steep and stony ascent to the great gates that had now clanged to, as i judged then, for my last passage through them either way--i, though stiff and in pain, and in a kind of dumb stupor as i stood there, could still resolve a little in my mind what might even now be done to help me in my plight. "'i caught the words of the third horseman--he who had ridden on in front--to a huge bloated man who seemed to be the seneschal or steward in charge of the place, who went hobbling on a stick, seeming dropsical and short of breath. "'we have brought another guest, _sir ferretti_, for your hospitality. _sua eccellenza_ hopes you have room; good accommodation--a clean straw bed or some fresh-gathered heather. _sua eccellenza_ would not have needless discomfort for your guests at the castello. a long life to them is the _brindisi_ of _sua eccellenza--sempre sempre_." that is to say, for all time. "'and then the fat man answered wheezily, "it shall be done, _ser capitano_. and he shall sup well and choose his company; it is an old usage and shall be observed." he then turned to me and said, with a mock reverence, "whom does the signore choose to sup with before he retires to rest?" "'i turned to the man i had spoken with as we rode, and laid my hand on his shoulder. "_sicuro_," i said, "with none other than _messer nanerottolo_ here." this was my pleasantry, for he was a monstrous big man, but not ill-favoured. i went on, "i owe you a supper, my friend, for that _piccolo vezzeggiamento_ you have given me----" "what does that mean?" thus his hearers, in concert. "a little caress. i don't know why the professor has left some of the italian words. _nanerottolo_ means a very little dwarf indeed, and he could hardly have translated. but he might have said caress just as well." he resumed reading: "'"i can feel it in my shoulder still." at this he laughed, but said again i was a _bel giovane_, and _molto bravo_. "and it is to you," i said, "that i owe my supper here to-night." but his _capitano_ gave a laugh, and said, "_piuttosto a quel piccolo vezzeggiamento che tu desti alia duchessa_----" here the reader paused to interpret the italian again, which was hardly needed; then said, "there is another gap in the manuscript here, and it is a pity. the professor thinks a few more words from what followed would have made his theory a certainty." "why?" asked madeline. "because 'the caress you gave the duchess' could only mean that he owed his supper to having half strangled the old _duchessa_. they couldn't mean anything else in the context." "couldn't they? never mind, uncle christopher! go on now. i'll tell you presently." uncle christopher obeyed, recommencing as before after the gap in the middle of a sentence: "'... prison for life accords ill with life and hope and youth and the blood that courses in its veins. whereas despair in an exhausted frame, and pain and hunger, breed a longing for the worst, and if it may be, for an early death. hence, _illustrissima_, my good supper, which was given ungrudgingly, while it made me another man, and better able to endure the pain left from the blow of my friend who sat at meat with me, gave me also strength to revolt against the terrible doom that awaited me. also, hope and purpose revived in my heart, and i knew my last word with the world of living men must be spoken before midnight; for this was told me by the dropsical castellan, with an accursed smile. so i watch for the moment when my friend, whose name was attilio, is at his topmost geniality with the good wine, and then i speak, none being there to hear, but only he. i speak as to a friend: "'"you love the good red wine, messer attilio, and you love the good red gold. is it not true? which do you love the most?" and to this he answered me, "surely the good red gold, _ser pittore_. for wine will not purchase _all_ one asks. there is nothing gold will not purchase--enough of it!" "'"listen! where are they going to hide me away? do you know the castello?" "'"i was born here. i can tell you all. there is good accommodation in the _sotterraneo_. it is extended, but it is not lofty. you will have company, but the living is poor, meagre. i have said that you would not see the sun again, but you may! for in one place is a slot, cut slantwise in the stone, that the guests of the duke who come to stay may not want air. through the slot, one day in the year only, and then but for a very little space, comes a ray from the sun in heaven. in the old days of the warrior duke, when there would be many prisoners of war, they would count the days until the hour of its coming, and then fight for a good place to see the gleam when it came. but the few you will find there will have little heart for that, or anything else." "'"is that the only outlet?" "'"no! there is the door you go in by. one stoops, as one stoops to enter the little prisons of venezia, deep below the water. and there is the _buco della fame_...." "that is to say," interjected mr. pelly, "the hunger hole, or hunger pit." "'"what is that?" i then asked. "'"what they were used to throw bones down, when they had made merry and sucked them dry, to the prisoners below. and there is a drain." "'"how large is it?" "'"large enough for the rats to pass up--no larger. i used to watch them run in at the outlet, when i was a youngster. but the _buco_--that is large enough for a man to pass up and down--a sort of well-hole. not the _ser ferretti_ there; he would stick in it. i have seen it all, for my father was the gaoler in old days." "'"listen now, _ser attilio_! you want the good red gold, in plenty. and you shall have it if you do my bidding. when you leave this--are you marking what i say?--go straight to _la marta_, she who attends always on the _duchessa_, and say to her simply this--that on the day i regain my liberty, there will be five hundred crowns for her. tell her where i am. and for this service to me you shall receive...."'" mr. pelly stopped reading again. there was another gap; a portion of the manuscript was missing as before. he remarked upon the loss to the reader, apparently, of the whole account of the young man's first introduction to the dungeon, in which he seemed to have passed a considerable time--the best part of six months as far as could be made out--before we are able to follow his narrative. he then read on, without comment: "'little wonder we should find day and night alike for their complete monotony, though, indeed, we could distinguish between them by the light through the air-slot, the only ventilation through all this extent of vaulted crypt. but for incident and change, from day's end to day's end, there was none beyond the daily visit i have spoken of, of uguccione the gaoler, carrying always his little lamp of brass and a basket of coarse black bread, and a pitcher of water. is it not strange, _illustrissima_, that a man should live, should go on living, even when the stupefaction of despair comes to his aid, without light or movement or the breath of heaven on his face. none the less these others that i told you of had done so, some more, some less; and the very old man who was but as an idiot, and could tell nought of his name and his past, had been there already many years when uguccione first took the prisoners into his charge. he was a merry, chatty fellow, this uguccione, and talked freely with me at first, and told me many things. but he said i should not talk for long, for none did. see now, he said, he would speak to the old alberico, and never an answer would he get. and thereon flashed his lamp across the old man's face, and asked him some ribald question about _la giustina_. but the old man only shrank from the light, and answered nothing. who was _la giustina_? i asked. nay, he knew not a whit! but he knew that the former gaoler, old attilio, from whom he took the keys, had told him that if he would enrage old alberico, he had but to speak to him of _la giustina_. and thereon he flashed his light again in the old eyes, to see them flinch again; and gave me black bread and water, and went his way. "'but this man told me many things, before i, too, began to settle into the speechless gloom of unvarying captivity. he told me that, even now, the great duke, after banqueting in the hall above, would sometimes for his mere diversion have the trap opened at the top of the _buco della fame_, and throw down what might be left on table, except it were such as might serve for the cook again, or to be eaten at the lower table. and he warned me to be ready and at hand if i should hear any sound from above, as then i might get for myself the best pick of the bones or bread-crusts that might come down in a shower. and i laid this to heart. "'and now, as i must not weary your excellency's illustrious eyes to read needless details of my sufferings in my imprisonment, i will leave its horrors to your imagination, saying only this, that whatever you may picture to yourself, there may easily have been something still worse. i will pass on to the moving of the trap-door above me. "'of a sudden, in what i thought was night, but which must have been midday, i hear a sound as of hinges that creak and strain. it comes from the _buco della fame_; and i can hear, too, but dimly, what i take to be the murmur of voices in the room it leads to. i rise from the straw i lie on, and move as best i may, for i am free to move about only slowly, because my right hand is manacled to my left foot, and from stiffness and weakness, towards the opening of the hole in the low arch above me. i can touch its edge with my hand. i look up through the long round tube, and can see its length now by the size of the opening at the top. it may be, as i reckon it, at least twenty _bracchie_ from the ground i stand on. "'as i gaze, a little dazzled by the light, i hear plainly the voices above me of those who are merry with the banquet. and then a face looks down and darkens the opening for a moment; but it is only like a dark spot, and my eyes are thwarted by the change from dark to light, so that i cannot guess if it be man or woman. then i hear a laugh from above that i compare in my heart to the laugh a saint in heaven might give as he looks down a narrow shaft that leads to hell, and rejoices in his freedom and the great justice of god. but i myself am nowise better off than the sinners, heretics and jews that are consumed in fires below, yet die not. then, as i think of this, down comes a shower of what seems to me good kitchen stuff. whereof i secure a piece of turkey for myself, and of capon for the very old man; but he shall have his choice, if, indeed, he can eat either. then come other prisoners for their share, from afar off in the crypt, one of whom i had never seen, so dark was his corner. but i had heard him moan and mutter. only, before he comes with the others i have time to choose somewhat else from the mess, always sharing as i think fairly. and as i do this i am taken aback by a sheet of written paper that has fluttered down the shaft. and i have caught it, and the trap above closes with a clang, and the voices die above, and the darkness has come again, and the silence. "'know, _illustrissima_, that the eyesight that lives long in darkness may grow to be so keen that not only the outline of the prisoner's hand that he holds before him may be seen by him, but even the seams and lines thereon, by which may be known the story of his life and the length of his days. but i had not yet come to that perfection of vision, and could read nought of the paper in my own place; for all that the crypt was then at its brightest, it being late midday, and the gleam from the slot at the far end strong enough for me to see dimly the face of the old man as i held out to him in turn the turkey and the capon. but he would none of either, and hardly noted what i did, as one in a maze. so in the end i leave him and go nearer the light, to read what i may. "'it is all like a strange dream now. but, _illustrissima_, as i look back to that moment, what i remember is a huge beating of a heart that will not be still. it is there, and a gleam of light through a narrow wall-slot in the masonry is there; but should you ask me how i read, until i knew by rote, what was written on that paper, i could not tell you. yet i can repeat every word now: "'"this is to be destroyed, should it reach you, before the next round of l'uguccione. "'"i can get speech of you through the slot. watch there always in the early night. it must be when the old wretch, my master, is in his deepest sleep. "'"your word came to me through la marta, months ago, from l'attilio. they are keen for their reward. take heart, oh my dearest one, and watch for me. "'"i have sat at the board of my tyrant, and each day he has taunted me, and pointed down to the cruel prison of my darling. oh, if, after all, it is a lie that you still live! pray god attilio is right, and that this may reach you! "'"oh, my beloved, if no better may be, at least i may compass that you shall receive a tiny flask of poison; whereof i too may take a fatal draught, and each may know of the other that trouble is at an end." "'she had signed no name, but none was needed. hope waked in my heart, for i knew that attilio...'" here mr. pelly stopped reading. another hiatus! "the loss of this passage," said he, "is especially irritating, as it might have supplied a clue to the identity of the writer of this letter. the remainder of the story, as i recollect it, leaves us quite in the dark as to who she was, though i am inclined to surmise, from the use of the expression 'my master,' that she was a young person attached to the household of the duchess." but for all that, mr. pelly's dream about the picture disturbed his memory. how could his inner consciousness have concocted it, consistently with this interpretation of the manuscript? still, he was bound to "dismiss it from his mind," and give his support, provisionally, to the theory of the herr professor. how could he cite a mere dream in refutation of it? so he "dismissed it from his mind," and when madeline said, "never mind that now, uncle christopher! do go on and see if it doesn't all come right in the end. we'll talk about who she was, after," he was rather glad to resume, without further comment: "'... i am hanging in mid-air. below me is an awful precipice. if attilio were to fail me, or the rope break, what should i do? but i care not; i care only to succour my darling love, in his dungeon underground. do not speak again, dear love, lest you be overheard within. attilio says that if i whisper to you through the little opening no other prisoner need hear.... i will tell you all. attilio knew from his boyhood that the _sfiatatoio_...'" the reader stopped to explain that this appeared to be a word equivalent to "blow-hole" in english, used by founders for the opening left for escape of air when the metal is poured in. "'... the _sfiatatoio_ opened under the south tower in the wall that is flush with the precipice, that one may see the sun blaze on all day summer and winter. none can approach it from below; but ser attilio is strong--oh, the strength of his arms!--and he can let me down from the great high tower like a child, and then i hang some little space from the window-ledge. but i swing a little, and then i hold by the stonework, and i am safe and can speak. it is bright in the moonlight and still, and i am speaking to my darling. stretch out your hand, my love, without speech, and seek not i charge you to hold my living hand, however great the joy thereof, but take from it the file i have made shift to steal from the armourer's boy, who will be beaten for its loss, but whom i will kiss once and more for his reward. _pazienza, carissimo mio_....'" mr. pelly put the manuscript on his knee, and opened his hands out with a deprecating action. "i'm _very_ sorry, madeline. i really _am_! but i can't help it. it is, as you say, most aggravating. just as we were getting to the interesting bit! but you understand what happened?" "oh yes! i see it all as plain as a pikestaff. and, what's more, i saw the very place itself--the great precipice and the castle wall that shoots straight up from it. an _awful_ place! but _what_ a plucky little duchess!" "duchess? i don't quite follow----" "that's because you are so _stupid_, uncle christopher." "my dear mad! really----!" this was the bart, and her ladyship. because mr. pelly wasn't offended. "well, it's true i said i would tell mr. pelly all about it, and then i didn't." she went across to mr. pelly, and leant over him, which he liked, to get at the manuscript. "look here! where is it? oh--the old devil! yes--that wasn't the duchess at all! that was her horrible old husband, the duke. and she was the memory of his boyhood, don't you see? oh, it's all quite plain. and my picture-girl's her. and it's no use your talking about evidence, because i know i'm right, and evidence is nonsense." "it certainly is true," sir stopleigh said, "that the castle wall is exactly as madeline describes it, for i have seen it myself, and can confirm her statement." he seemed to consider that almost anything would be confirmed by so very old a baronet seeing such a very large wall. "suppose we accept madeline's theory as a working hypothesis, and see how we get on. if we quite understand the last bit, and i think we do, what follows is not unintelligible." and mr. pelly continued reading: "'... working thus patiently in long and dreary hours, and keeping the link of my manacle well in the straw to drown the grating noise, i come to know, on the third day of my labour, that but a very little more is wanted and the ring will be cut through; and then i know the chance is it will spring asunder and leave the two links free. but i do not seek to complete the cut until near the day appointed, for does not uguccione now and again examine all those fetters, sometimes striking them with a small hammer to make sure they have not been tampered with? so i keep the ring hidden as best i may, and the cut i have made i fill in with kneaded bread. and one time uguccione does come and strike the irons, and i tremble. but by great good luck he strikes so that they ring, and i am at my ease again. "'then comes what was my hardest task: the making of footholes in the shaft that i might climb and reach the underside of the trap. but first i must tell you why i need do this. for you will say, why could not attilio let down a cord and pull me up through the trap? so he could, in truth, were it possible to open the trap from overhead. but it was closed with a key from above that came through a great length to the lock below. only i could well understand from the description that this lock would be no such great matter to prize back from underneath could i once make shift to reach it. therein lay the great difficulty, shackled as i was, although the links should be parted, to climb up this long shaft and work at the opening of this lock, standing on what poor foothold i could contrive in total darkness. "'nevertheless, _illustrissima_, be assured that i go to my work with a good-will, though with little hope. and on the first night i succeed in loosing three bricks from their place in the wall, at such intervals that each gives a foothold i may reach to from the one below it on the other side. and the next night again three more. and so on for six nights, working patiently. and now i can touch the lock that is above me. but understand that i did not remove these bricks, else had i been at a great loss where to hide them from uguccione. i left them loose in their places, so that i could twist them out sideways, and thus make a kind of step. for you know how strong our tuscan bricks are. yet i had much ado to hide away the loose mortar that came from between the joints. and had it not been that the fetter on my wrist, now free, served to prize out the bricks when the mortar was clear from the ends, and loosened above and below, i had been sore put to it to detach them, so firm were they in their places. and all this work, _illustrissima_, had to be done in black darkness, by guidance of feeling only! "'and now, please you, image to yourself that i have made my topmost step, and only await a word of signal through the _sfiatatoio_. and this was, believe me, my worst time of all. for i knew that the most precious thing to me in all this world, the life of my maddalena, must be risked again to give me that signal! nay! i did not know, could not know, that she had not already tried to give it, and, so attempting it, been precipitated to the awful rocks below, where whoso fell might readily lie unheeded, and not be found for years. "'but i hold to my purpose in a silent despair. i watch through hours of the still mornings. but nothing moves again in front of the little stars that come and go, for many days. i do not let myself count the days nor the hours, and always strive to think of them at their fewest. then one night a meteor shoots across the span of sky that i can see, blinding out the little stars, and leaving sparks of fire to die down as they may. and my heart lifts, for i count it a harbinger of good. and so it proves, for i next hear--because, understand me, this meteor shot across heaven's vault with a strong hissing sound, like _fuochi artificiati_--the slack of the rope that lets my darling down to me with her message of...'" another hitch in the narrative. mr. pelly stopped with a humble apologetic expression, having reference rather to the young lady than to her parents. "really, my dear," said he, "i feel quite guilty--as if i was to blame--when these abominable blanks come." "yes! and you know i always think it's your fault; and i do get so angry. poor uncle christopher! what a shame! what's that, mumsey?" "nothing, dear. only i thought i heard the step of a horse in the avenue." "so did i. only it can't be anything at this time of night." the knowledge that a guest was pending shortly--one of the sort that comes and goes at will--caused the baronet to say: "it might be general fordyce--only he said he wouldn't come till tuesday." to whom his wife and daughter replied conjointly: "oh no! the general!--not at midnight--well!--at half-past eleven! look at the clock. anyhow, his room's all ready," etc., etc. after which madeline spoke alone: "now, mr. pelly, go on again. i do so hope it's a plummy bit." then, illogically, "besides, it wasn't a carriage." she silenced a disposition of her parents to interpose on mr. pelly's behalf by saying: "oh no, we shan't tire uncle christopher to death. shall we, uncle christopher?" "god bless me, no! the idea! besides, there's really not so very much more to read. unless i'm keeping you up?" "pupsey and mumsey can go to bed, and leave us to finish." "oh no! we want to hear the end of it." pupsey and mumsey were unanimous. "very well, then! i can fill up uncle's glass and pupsey's, and we can go on and finish comfortably. now, fire away!" and mr. pelly read on: "'... i can hear them in the room above me. the voice of my darling herself. but oh--this black darkness! one little gleam of light, and i know i can manage this accursed lock. but i can see nothing; and who knows but by trying and trying stupidly, in the dark, i may not make matters worse. but i will try, again and again, rather than fail now.... oh, she is so near me--so near, i can hear her voice.... "'all suddenly, a gleam of light from below. a miracle, but what care i? i can see the lock now, plain! ah, the stupidity of me! i was forcing it the wrong way all the time. now for a sharp, sharp strain, with all the strength i have left! and back goes the lock with a snap! i can hear its sound welcomed above, and another strain on the trap, and the first creak of its hinge. it will shriek; and they stop, as i think, to make it silent with a little oil. "'then my glance goes down the shaft to ask what was my light, that came to save me in such good time. it was surely the holy mary herself, or a blessed saint from heaven, that took pity on me.... "'no! it is uguccione the gaoler, with his little lamp of brass. "'"aha--ha--ha!--my friend. come you down--come you down! or shall i get a little fire and smoke, to tickle you and make you come? it is useless, _caro mio_! the wise player gives up the lost game. come you down! it is not thus folk say farewell to the _castello del bel riposo_. come you down, my friend! or shall i wait a little? i can wait! no hurry, look you!" "'i am sad at heart to have to do it, but there is no other way. whether he lived or died i know not, but i should grieve to think he died. for i had no hatred for uguccio, who, after all, did but his duty. but there is no other way. i am standing on two bricks that i have placed over against each other, for firmer foothold and better purchase on the lock. one of them i loosen out, standing only on the other and leaning shoulder-wise against the wall. and then i send it down the shaft, with a blessing for uguccio. i can see his face, turning up to me in the light of his little broken lamp. "'the brick strikes him full on the temple, but it also strikes out his light. i hear him fall. i hear a groan or gasp. but i see only black darkness below, and the red wick-spark of the lamp, that grows less and less, and will die. then only darkness. "'then my last senses fail me. but i know the trap opens, and a strong arm comes down and grips my wrist from above. and then i find myself lying on the floor of a great hall in a dim light. and into my eyes, as i lie there, little better than a corpse, if the truth be told, are looking the sweetest eyes surely god ever made....'" here madeline exclaimed, interrupting, "oh, how jolly! now they're there! but do go on; i mustn't interrupt. go on, uncle kit." the reader continued, "'... and her two hands stroke my face and hold me by my own....'" at this point sir stopleigh interposed respectably. "a--really," said he, "we must hope that this young lady, whoever she was, was not the duke's wife. you will excuse me, my dear madeline, but that is certainly what i understood you to suppose." his daughter interjected disreputably. "oh, bother! never mind pupsey--go on." then mr. pelly said apologetically, "it _was_ the middle ages, you know. let's see, where were we? oh--'hold me by my own'"--and went on reading: "'... and her dear voice is in my ears, and if i die now, at least i shall have lived. so said i to myself, as attilio worked hard with a file to free my limbs. and they moisten bread with wine, and put it in my mouth. for, indeed, what i say is true, and the last of my strength went in sending that little _ambusciata_ to the poor uguccio. still, revival is in me, though it comes slowly. but i can only utter the one word "love," and can only move to kiss the hand i hold and the pale face that comes to mine. then i hear the beloved voice i had never hoped to hear again: "'"can we trust that wicked old marta, attilio? if she betrays us we are lost." "'"_che che_! she owes him an old grudge, and will pay him--now or later! and a thousand crowns, _per bacco_! no, no--trust her!" "'"but i hear a footstep coming down his stair; if it is she, it is to say he is waked. if it is he, she has betrayed us." "'"neither the one nor the other, i wager. see, the signore is getting the blood in his face. he will eat soon, and all will be well." "'then i feel in my neck a dog's nose, that smells, and the touch of his tongue; that licks. but what he would say we know not, though he tries to speak, too, dog wise. i know him for the _cagnoletto_ of la marta, the old woman--for had i not seen him in the days when i painted my maddalena in the _stanza delle quattro corone_?...'" madeline interrupted again. "_now_ i hope you're convinced. he was sent for to paint the duchess. and he painted maddalena. of course, maddalena _was_ the duchess!" "the herr professor's theory is that he painted two ladies, one of whom was maddalena, some beautiful attendant with whom he was in love, the other the duchess. he may have, you know!" "he may have done anything, uncle christopher! but he didn't. what's the use of being so roundabout? besides, if she wasn't the duchess, how did she know the duke was asleep?" her parents may have been anxious to avoid critical discussions, and suggested that perhaps the reading had better go on. it is just possible, also, that mr. pelly, who was a typical little old bachelor, saw rocks ahead in a discussion of the duke and duchess's domestic arrangements, for he introduced a point of which the baronet and his lady did not see the importance. "stop a bit, miss mad!" said the old gentleman, laying down the manuscript. "i've a bone to pick with you." "don't be too long. i want to know what that old woman had been at. it's only some scientific nonsense, i expect. go on." "it's not scientific this time. it's the other way round." miss upwell pricked up her ears. "i want to know, if there was a duchess named maddalena, what becomes of the theory that i christened the picture-ghost after you by subconscious cerebration?" "i see. of course. i didn't see that." it had produced a visible impression. madeline appeared to cogitate over it in an animated way, and then to mellow to a conclusion suddenly. "well--but that proves it wasn't a dream at all, but a genuine phenomenon, and all sorts of things. i'm right, and you're wrong, and the picture was telling the truth all through. i knew she was." her three hearers smiled from within the entrenchments of their maturity at the youthful enthusiasm of the speaker, and then said very correct things about this coincidence and that being really remarkable, and how we must not allow our judgments to be swayed by considerations, and must weigh everything deliberately, and accept everything else with caution, and hesitate about this, and pause before that, all with a view to avoiding heterodox conclusions. after which mr. pelly resumed: "'then, as attilio holds his hand a moment from filing, as one who awaits some issue before he may begin his labours afresh; and as my darling, whom alone i see--for i see nothing else--awaits it, too, i hear a step that halts, and then a door is pushed from without, and the step halts into the room, as some clocks tick. and it is then i begin to know of a great pain in my right hand. "'and here i may say to you, _illustrissima_, that had this chanced but a few years later, this hand of mine that was my joy to use, the source and very life of all my skill, might even have been saved, and i might many times again have painted the dear face of my maddalena. for what is there that is not possible to the skill of the great francese ambrogio?'" "this would be ambrose paré," said the reader, "who would have been about the same age as cosimo dei medici, the father of the lady to whom this is written..." but he resumed abruptly, in obedience to a shade of impatience in madeline: "'yet have i not been altogether disabled. for do i not write this with my left hand? i am, however, but an _egoista_--a selfish person--to dwell on this; though i know your excellency will pardon this fault in an old man. "'i hear, then, the halting step approach. and both await the words that will follow it in silence. it is the old marta zan. "'_sta tranquillo--sta tranquillo per bene_!' he is quiet--he is quiet for good! her voice has a little laugh in it. it is not a sweet laugh to hear. "'"does he still sleep--will he sleep?" it is my maddalena who asks. and la marta replies, "_non c'e pericolo_! no fear!" but i see across the shoulder of my darling, as she stoops over me again and tries to clear my brow of tangled hair--but, you may well think, to little purpose--i see that the old woman holds somewhat up, hanging from betwixt her finger and old thumb, to show to attilio. and he laughs to see the little knife and its sharp point, but below his breath, as guilt laughs to guilt. but this my beloved heeds not; she is busy with my hair. "'i can tell but little now from what i saw with my own eyes of what happened in the sequel, till i found myself here again in the little old castello in the hills where i passed all the early years of my boyhood, in the family of my wife's father, now dead; though her mother still lived, and for many years after that. what i do remember comes to me as the speech of those about him reaches the sleeper who half wakes, to sleep and dream again. "'i can recollect riding, behind attilio this time, down the stony road i had come up in such pain behind his comrade. i can just recollect the barking of the great dogs in the castle court when we came away; whereon my maddalena spoke earnestly to one of them, leone, and he went and carried her speech to the others, and they were silent, though some made protest under their full utterance. and though i saw the janitors and porters at the great gate in deep sleep, i did not then know of the cunning work of the old marta, who, indeed, was learned in the use of drugs, and could as easily have poisoned them all as made them sleep. indeed, it was said by many that the clever duchess of ferrara, the sister of cesare borgia, had learned somewhat of the art of poisoning in her youth from this same marta zan. but of this i can say nothing with certainty. "'but this i do know, that this marta, who was then near on eighty years of age, having received the reward she had earned of five hundred crowns, and another five hundred for a _buona mano_, did not accompany us, on the score of her age, being unable to mount a horse. but, as you may guess, eccellenza, it was she who had occasioned the old duke's death, and none of my doing, as was said by some, though the certainty that the knife used was the girdle-dagger of the fat castellan ferretti was held a sure proof of his guilt, and led to his being _giustiziato_ some months later. and she chose this way of sending her old betrayer to hell rather than that of poison, seeing that her skill in this last was so well known to all that there was none other in the household on whom suspicion could have fallen. on which account, as i have since understood, she returned again to his bedside to see her work secure, and replaced the knife in the wound, whereby the guilt of his death was fixed on the fat ferretti. i can in nowise guess why la marta so long deferred her revenge against the duke, except it was...'" mr. pelly stopped despairingly. "half a page gone! we must remain unenlightened--as well as on a good many other points. there is not very much more. i may as well finish:-- "'how great my happiness has been with my maddalena you, _illustrissima_, may know from your most illustrious father, who has known of me throughout. life is made up of good and ill, and what right has one so truly blessed as i have been to complain of the cruelty of fate in depriving him of his right hand and its power of work? think of what his lot is to him to whom night and day alike give the sun in heaven to his soul! contrast it with that of the sated blow-fly, of the world-compelling tyrant, at whose pleasure are all the contents, at choice, of all the world's treasure-houses, except love. that is the one thing wealth cannot buy, that the behests of kings command in vain! and that has been mine, in all its fulness; a fruit whose sweetness has no compeer, a jewel whose light mirrors back the glow that shines for ever in the eyes of god....' the reader paused, for there was an interruption from without. "what on earth _can_ it be, at this time of night? i'm sure it's a carriage this time! do look out and see--oh no! go on and let's have the rest. it can only be the general--he changed his mind, and his train was late. we shall see in a minute--let's have the last page...." this was collective speech, which ended when mr. pelly said, "there isn't very much." he went on reading rapidly, subject to a sense of advent elsewhere in the house: "'one only thing, as i have said, is to me a constant thorn of regret--the destruction of the picture i painted in those early days, of my maddalena. it was all my heart and strength could do, and would have served to tell of all i might have done had god but spared me my right hand. but _fiat voluntas tua, domine_! none knows for certain how it was destroyed, nor by whom. for the statement of the old devil to my maddalena, that it was burned, for that it was judged worthless by men of great knowledge in art, and condemned as rubbish, is of little weight. in those last days what could have been the motive of such a statement but to add to my darling's pain? it was averred by the ferretti, even to the day that he went to the gibbet, that it was removed to a place of safety by order of the duke; but either he did not choose to say to what place, or possibly did not know. and when all the contents of the rooms the duke had lived in were removed, and the late duke, his son, came and took possession of the castle, so deep was his hatred of his father's memory--as, indeed, he believed his mother had been poisoned by his orders--that he had all the furniture removed, and all the pictures that might bring back the wicked old man's memory to his mind. and there was no such picture among them, as i saw myself; for by invitation of duke giulio, with whom i have always been on friendly terms, i inspected every picture as it was removed from the ducal apartments, the walls of which, as you know, were so worthily decorated afterwards by francesco primaticcio, to whom i would so proudly have shown that one little work by mine own hand. but, alas! there is, i fear, no doubt that for once only the old duke spoke without lying, and that in truth he had had it burned, for a _dispetto_ to me, and to give a little more pain to my darling....'" at this point mr. pelly, being close to the end, read quicker and quicker, to make a finish before the outcome of the carriage, whatever it was, should be made manifest and break up the _séance_. but the time was too short, as mr. stebbings the butler appeared, charged, as it seemed, with some communication, but hesitating about the choice of language in which to make it. "general fordyce, your ladyship. the general desired me to say, sir stopleigh, would you be so good as speak to him a half a minute?" but sir s. was slow of apprehension, perhaps sleepy, and said hay what! both ladies spoke together. "it _is_ the general! don't you understand? he wants you to go out and speak to him." "me go out and speak to him--what for?" "you'll find that out by going. look alive, pupsey!" "i'm coming, stebbings! what on earth can the general want to say to me?" "do go and see him, and find out." this was in chorus, from both ladies, as before. exit pupsey. "i wonder what it can be! however, we shall hear directly. is there any more to read, uncle christopher?" mr. pelly read in a slighting, conclusive sort of way:-- "'so now i cannot show you, _illustrissima_, as i so gladly should have done, how little change has come in the golden hair of my maddalena, in all these thirty years! nor the painting of that one well-remembered lock that fell all in ripples on the sunflower brocade upon her bosom----'" madeline got suddenly up and stood again facing the picture. "now," she said, "come here and see and be convinced, mr. incredulous." and mr. pelly came, and stood beside her. "well, my dear child," said he. "that certainly _does_ look----" "very like indeed! doesn't it? but you'll see pupsey will want to have his own way. he always does!" "whatever can your father be talking--talking--talking to the general about? why can't they come in? what on earth can it be?" this is from her ladyship--a semi-aside. she is listening to the talking at a distance. then madeline said, "i hope you are convinced, mr. pelly," and after one more long look at the picture turned and went to the door, opened it, and listened through it. her mother said maternally, "madeline--my dear!" but for all that she stood and listened, as though she heard something. and mr. pelly, following her mother's eyes, turned and watched her as she stood. it seemed to him that something like a gasp took her, as though her breath caught with a sudden thrill, visible in her shoulders as her dress was cut, and that her white left arm, that was farthest from the door, caught up tight, and as it were grasped her heart. her ladyship, looking at her over her shoulder, began, "why--child--!" and immediately got up and crossed the room to her, saying, "is anything wrong?" then, as the girl closed the door and turned round. mr. pelly saw that she had gone ashy white, near as white as the clean art-paint on the door she stood by. but she only said, "i shall be all right in a minute." her mother said, "come and sit down, darling," which she did; but sat quite still, looking white. "i wish sir stopleigh would come," said her mother. mr. pelly was frightened, but behaved well, for a little old bachelor. presently her colour came again, and she said, "it must have been my fancy"; and her mother said, "_what_ must, dear? do tell us!" but she only said, "how on earth can i have been such a fool?" then her mother said again, "but what was it, dear?" and she answered uneasily. "nothing, mumsey." her mother and mr. pelly looked at one another, puzzled. sir stopleigh put his head in at the door, saying to his wife would she come out for a minute and speak to him? on which madeline said suddenly, "i shall go to bed. good-night, uncle christopher!--good-night, pupsey and mumsey!" and lit a candle and went away quickly upstairs. "how very funny of mad," her mother said, as she followed her husband from the room. "not at all like her! i'll say good-night, uncle christopher, but you do as you like." the momentary vision of sir stopleigh--who said he would come back directly--left mr. pelly with an impression that he was very full of something to tell. and certainly there came a great sudden exclamation of glad surprise from her ladyship almost as soon as the door closed behind her. "i shall hear all about it in good time," said mr. pelly. "at least, i suppose so." he sat down contentedly in the large armchair opposite the picture, and looked at the fire. seventy-seven can wait. the murmur of a distant colloquy, heard through doors and passages, and quenched by carpets, assorts itself into its elements as the silence in the library gets under weigh, and sharpens mr. pelly's hearing. he is clear about the woman's voice: his hostess's, of course--no other. but is that george's, or the general's, the unexplained outsider's? surely that was a third voice, just now? never mind, mr. pelly can wait! chapter xi how the picture spoke again. abstract metaphysical questions, and no answers. how the picture's memory was sharpened, and how mr. pelly woke up. mr. stebbings and mrs. buckmaster. the actule fax. jack's resurrection, without an arm. full particulars. all fair in love. how mr. pelly knew the picture could see all, and how madeline had not gone to bed. captain maclagan's family. fuller particulars. general fordyce and the bart, not wanted. what the picture must have seen and may have thought. good-bye to the story. mere postscript. it is scarcely fair play to make a merit of patience--isn't cricket, as folk say nowadays--when you are in a comfortable armchair before a warm fire, and are feeling drowsy. but, then, mr. pelly was under an entirely wrong impression on this point, and had scheduled himself as wakeful, but content to bide his time. yet he might reasonably have suspected himself of drowsiness when james, the young man, coming to wind up the contents of the room, and revise the shutters, retreated with apologies. for had he been really awake, he would certainly have said, "all right, james! come in. never mind me!" as it was, he deferred doing so a fraction of a second, and the consequences were fatal. he remained wide awake, no doubt--people always do. but he had not the slightest idea that james had gone, closing the door gently, when the picture said to him from the chimneypiece, in exactly the voice he had heard before, "is it all true?" mr. pelly found that, mysteriously, he took it as a matter of course that this should be so. "i presume," he said, "that you are alluding to the substance of the manuscript we have just read. i am scarcely in a position to form an opinion." "why not?" said the picture. at least, she said "_perche_" and this translates "why not?" in english. "because i am conscious of a strong bias towards accepting it as true, occasioned by the details of your own italian experience, which you were so kind as to give me--perhaps you will remember?--some while since--let me see?--before i went away to see that niece of mine married at cowcester. now, this narrative of yours--so my reason tells me; and i may add that i have already committed myself to this opinion when awake--can only be regarded as a figment of my own imagination, based on a partial perusal of the manuscript you have just heard--that is to say, _would have_ just heard had you been objective. i am borrowing a phrase from my friend, professor schrudengesser. i do not see that any harm can come of my speaking plainly, as if you happen to have an independent existence you will appreciate the difficulties of the position, and if you haven't, i don't see that it matters." "mr. pelly," said the picture impressively, "i should like, if you will allow me, to say a serious word to you on this subject. i refer to the reality of our existence, a subject to which the most frivolous amongst us cannot afford to be indifferent. have you never considered that the only person of whose existence we have _absolute_ certainty is _ourself_? outside and beyond it, are we not painfully dependent on the evidence of our senses? what is our dearest friend to us but a series of impressions on our sight, touch, and hearing, _plus_ the conclusion we draw--possibly unsound--that what we touch is also what we see, and that what we hear proceeds from both? have you attached due weight to...?" mr. pelly interrupted the voice. "you will excuse me," he said, "but in view of the fact that i may wake at any moment, is it not rather a tempting of providence to discuss abstract metaphysical questions? no one would be more interested than myself in such discussions under circumstances of guaranteed continuity. but..." mr. pelly paused, and the voice laughed. the picture itself remained unmoved. "circumstances of guaranteed continuity," it repeated mockingly. "when have you ever had a guarantee of continuity, and from whom? if you were suddenly to find yourself extinct, at any moment, could you logically--could you reasonably--express surprise?--you who had actually passed through an infinity of nonentity before you, at any rate, became a member of society! why should not your nonentity come back again? what has been, may be." mr. pelly's mind felt referred to sudden death, but his reply was, "guaranteed continuity of communication was what i meant." then he reflected that perhaps sudden death might be only suspension of communication--however, he had had no experience of it himself, and could only guess. the picture continued sadly: "that makes me think how hard it is that you should wake to live in the great world i cannot join in; to move about and be free, while i must needs be speechless! give me a thought sometimes, even as the disembodied spirit, as some hold, may give a thought to one he leaves behind. yet even that one is better off than i; for may not he or she rejoin those that have gone before? while i must grow fainter and fainter, and be at last unseen and forgotten; or even worse, restored! rather than that, let me peel and be relined, or sold at christie's with several others as a job lot." mr. pelly endeavoured to console the speaker. "you need not be apprehensive," he said. "you are covered with glass, and in a warm and dry place. nothing is more improbable than change, in any form, at surley stakes. indeed, the first baronet, over two hundred and fifty years ago, is said to have accepted his new dignity with reluctance, on the score of its novelty. this library is three hundred years old." "and i," said the voice, "was over one hundred years old when it was built. but tell me--tell me--was it not all true, the story? you know it was!" "it rests on the intrinsic evidence of the manuscript. there is nothing to confirm it. and, as i have pointed out to you, your own narrative may be a mere figment of _my_ imagination--you must at least admit the possibility----" "i will if you insist upon it; it is of small importance to me what others think, so long as i may hang here undisturbed, and dream over the happy days i must have passed, in the person of my original, four hundred years ago. but oh, to think of that hateful time of bondage, with my darling hidden in the darkness underground, sore with manacles and starved for want of food! think of my joy when i could see and feel his own dear face, all clammy though it was with the dungeon damps from below! think of my exultation at his returning life--life to be lived for me! and believe me--for this i can know, for i _was_ maddalena, and now it comes, like a dim memory--that i shuddered when they told me that the sodden old horror that had been my owner was well started on his flight to hell, sent by the swift little knife-spike of my marta. oh how often have i seen that little knife itself in the long girth that could but just span the bloated carcass of the ferretti!--for _he_ is a clear memory to me. and to think that that knife--_that knife_--was to..." mr. pelly felt constrained to interrupt. "pardon me," he said, "if i venture to recall to you that the duty of christians, of all denominations, is to forgive; and besides, entirely apart from that, all this occurred such a very long time ago." "how long is needed, think you"--and as the voice said this, it almost grew cruel in its earnestness--"how long, for a girl, to forgive the utmost wrong god in his wisdom has put it in the power of man to inflict on woman? still, i did shudder--have i not said it?--at what they told me; though they showed me not the knife, and that was well. i _did_ shudder, it is true; but now, as you say, it is best forgotten. better for me to think of our days that must have been, of the babes that were born to us that i never saw, of how we watched them growing in the happy passing hours, in the little old castello in the hills. better for me to know, as i know now, that i, while this thing that i am now--this thing of paint and canvas--lay hid in a garret, even i could be to him, my love, a slight half-solace for his ruined hand. how slight, who can tell who does not know what a lost right hand means to the artist whose life is in his craft?..." it seemed then to mr. pelly that the voice continued, though he heard it less distinctly, always dwelling on the life of its prototype, as revealed to it by the manuscript, in a manner that the dream-machinery of his mind failed to account for. his impression was that it continued thus for a very long time--some hours--during the last half of which it changed its character, becoming slowly merged in that of another voice, familiar to mr. pelly, which ended by saying with perfect distinctness, "the captain wished his arm to be broke gradual to his family. 'ence what i say!" and then mr. pelly was suddenly aware that he had dropped asleep for five minutes, and had been spoiling his night's rest. also that he was now quite awake, and that mr. stebbings the butler had spoken the last words to mrs. buckmaster the housekeeper; and that both were unaware that he was on the other side of the large armchair-back--and, indeed, it was large enough to conceal something bigger than mr. pelly. he abstained from making his presence known, however; more, perhaps, because he thought he was scarcely awake enough for words than to hear what should come next. he fancied the crushed hand incident of the dream had mixed itself into mr. stebbings' last speech, and made nonsense of it. but then, how about the sequel? "'his arm broke gradual,' mr. stebbings?" mrs. buckmaster repeated. and her perception of the oddity of the speech reassured mr. pelly, who began to suspect he might be awake. but he waited for the reply. "quite so, mrs. buckmaster. broke gradual. from consideration for family feeling. and that, if an amanuensis, suspicion would attach, and, in consequence, divulge." mr. stebbings's style assumed that if he used the right words, somewhere, it didn't matter what order they came in. it didn't really matter; his respectability seemed more than a makeweight for slighted syntax. mrs. buckmaster was a venerable and sweet institution of forty years standing, that spoke to every member of the household as "my dear"; and conveyed an impression, always, of having in her hands a key with which she had just locked a store-room, or was going to unlock one. or, rather, not so much a key, as a flavour of a key. mrs. buckmaster was a sort of amateur mother of several county families, whose components all but acknowledged her, and paid her visits in her private apartments when they came to call at the stakes. her reply to mr. stebbings now was, "merciful heaven! and the girl nursed him. and she a dutch woman!" mr. pelly roused himself. his sensitive conscience recoiled from further eavesdropping. "what's all that, stebbings? what's all that, mrs. buckmaster?" he said, becoming manifest, and evoking apologies. mr. stebbings had had no idear! mrs. buckmaster said: "well, now--to think of that!" then, collecting herself, added, "tell mr. pelly, thomas, what you know. thomas will tell you, sir, what he knows." thomas perceived distinction ahead, and braced himself for an effort. "respecting the actule fax, sir, they are soon told. after the lamentable disaster to both armies at stroomsdrift, accompanied with unparalleled 'eroism on both sides, the captain's horse became restive, and ensued. no longer under the captain's control, having received a bullet through the upper arm--unfortunately the right, but, nevertheless, in the service of his country. wonderful to relate, he retained his presence of mind"--mr. stebbings's pride in this passage was indescribable--"and arrived without further disaster, though unconscious...." it was perhaps as well that the baronet called mr. stebbings away at this point, as mrs. buckmaster knew the whole story. "why on earth couldn't stebbings begin at the beginning?" said mr. pelly rather irritably. "is captain calverley alive or dead?--that's what _i_ want to know. and who's that outside, talking to sir stopleigh and the general?" "it's the captain himself, sir," said mrs. buckmaster. "looking that well--only no arm! his right, too." and then she cleared matters up, by telling how, after the battle, the young soldier, badly wounded in more places than one, had, nevertheless, contrived to keep his seat on a half-runaway horse he could scarcely guide, which carried him away in a semi-conscious state to a lonely farm on the veldt, tenanted only by a dutch mother and daughter. these two, hating _roineks_ in theory, but softening to a young and handsome one in practice, had kept the wounded man and nursed him round, but could get no surgical help advanced enough to save his arm, which he had been obliged to leave in south africa. the daughter had evidently regarded the captain as her property--a fair prisoner of war--and had done her best to retain him, writing letters to his friends for him at his dictation, which were never despatched in spite of promises made, and heading off search-parties that appeared in the neighbourhood. mrs. buckmaster condemned this conduct on principle, but said: "ah, poor girl--only think of it," in practice. that was really the whole of the story, so far. but like a continuous frieze, it would bear any quantity of repetition, as the captain's reappearance always suggested his first departure, five months ago, and led to a new recital. the frieze, however, was not to remain unbroken; for mrs. buckmaster was balked of her fourth _da capo_ by the reappearance of the baronet, with general fordyce, both of them also knee-deep in recapitulations. sir stopleigh was in a state of high bewilderment. "just listen to this. uncle kit.... oh, you know--mrs. buckmaster's told you. never mind, general, tell us again how it happened--it has been queer! tell mr. pelly how you came to hear of it." "it was like this," said the general, who was collected. "a month ago i was knocked over by receiving this telegram. here it is." he produced it from a pocket-book and read: "'am alive and well if news that am marrying dutch girl contradict otherwise keep silent till i come jack.' well, george, i saw nothing for it but to bottle up, and i assure you i was pretty well put to it to keep my own counsel. however, i really hadn't any choice. very well, then! that goes on till ten days ago, when another wire comes from madeira, 'passenger by _briton_ in london this day week jack.' and sure enough my young friend bursts into my chambers four days ago, with, 'tell me about madeline--is she engaged?' 'not that i know of, my dear boy,' said i. 'and i think i should know if she were.' then says he, 'oh, what a selfish beast i am! but you'll forgive me, general, when you know.' however, i didn't want to know, but forgave him right off." "and then i suppose he told you all he's been telling us downstairs--about the dutch girl and the farmhouse on the veldt?" "yes, he seems to have known very little from the moment he was struck until his senses came back to him at the farm. i must say they seem to have behaved wonderfully well to him...." "i can't say i think burning his letters and cutting him off from all communications was exactly good behaviour." thus the baronet. but the general seemed doubtful. "we-e-ell!--i don't know. i shouldn't quite say that. remember it was only this poor girl that did it, and one sees her motive. no--no! all's fair in love, george. i'm sorry for her, with all my heart." mrs. buckmaster murmured under her breath: "what was i saying to mr. christopher?" and thereon mr. pelly felt in honour bound to testify to her truthfulness. "yes--mrs. buckmaster thought so." nobody was very definite. "but did he come here with you, general?" asked mr. pelly, who was gradually toning down to sane inquiry-point. mixed replies said that the captain had not been long in the house. lady upwell was interviewing him--they were, in fact, audible in the distance. the general supplied further information. "you see," he said, "master jack and i had just arranged it all beautifully. i was to come here to let it out gently and not frighten miss upwell, and also to find how the land lay. because, you see after all, they were not engaged...." "oh no! they were not _engaged_." this was a kind of chorus; after which the general continued: "anyhow, miss upwell might have picked up with some other young fellow. however, she hasn't. well!--i was to come here and take the soundings, and his ship was to follow on; he meanwhile going down to inflict a full dramatic surprise on his own family at granchester towers. he said their nerves were strong enough, and it would do them good. he was to come on as soon as he could, unless he heard to the contrary. and then, as he was riding through sampford pagnell on his way here, what must be come upon but a man of his own company, who had been invalided home after enteritis, who had been drinking and got into a row. he stopped to see him out of his difficulties--had to go bail for him--and then came on here. but it made him late. and i should have been here sooner myself, only something went wrong with the trains. it made me so late that i almost made up my mind, if jack wasn't here, to go back to the inn at grewceham, so as not to frighten you all out of your wits." "there's my wife coming up. i wonder what they've settled." thus the baronet. then her ladyship came in, and following her, in tiptoe silence, the young soldier himself. but alas!--it was all true about the arm. there was the loose right sleeve, looped up to his coat. but its survivor was still in evidence, and mr. pelly, as he took the hand that was left in his own, wondered if he was not still dreaming, so full was his mind of the story of that other hand, lost four hundred years ago. he could not dismiss the picture from his thoughts; and as he stood there talking with the young soldier, in whom he could see the saddening of his terrible experience through all the joy of his return, he was always conscious of its presence, conscious of its eyes fixed on all that passed before it--conscious of its comparison between the lot of its original, and madeline's. and it made the old gentleman feel quite eerie and uncomfortable. so he resolved to say good-night, and did so as soon as a pause came in an earnest conversation aside between the baronet and his lady, who seemed to be enforcing a view by argument. mr. pelly heard the last words: "i have told this dear, silly fellow mad must speak for herself. i won't say anything.... no--not to-morrow; she had better be told and come down now." here a subcolloquy. "wouldn't she have gone to bed? oh no, eliza said not. besides, she could slip something on." and then the mainstream again. "you must give me a little time to tell her, you know. one o'clock, isn't it? that doesn't matter. just think if it was a party! you'll find i'm right, george." for when lady upwell is pleased and excited she calls her husband by his christian name without the sir. when she had departed the general went back on a previous conversation. "but we can't make out yet, jack, how we came not to get any wire about it--as soon as it was known you were alive. it ought to have been in the papers a month ago." "nobody knows out there yet, except head quarters. don't you see? as soon as i was fit to get on a horse, i rode all night across the veldt, and reported myself in the early morning. i begged them to keep me dark for a bit, and old pipeclay said he could manage it...." "but why did you want it kept dark?" "i'll tell you directly. when i had settled that, i made a rush for port elizabeth, and just caught the _briton_. do you know, i was so anxious nobody should know anything about it till i knew about madeline that i travelled as captain maclagan. and when i got to southampton there was a mrs. maclagan and two grown-up daughters inquiring for me! so really no one knew anything at all about me till you did." then the baronet would know more of jack's two months of nursing at the dutch farm. he thought he could understand about the girl; and he wouldn't ask any questions. but why had jack thought madeline was engaged to sir doyley chauncey? _he_ was engaged to another girl? yes, he was; but that was just it! it _was_ another girl, of the same name--another madeline. master jack coloured and was rather reserved. then he spoke: "i'll tell you if you like. i told the general." who nodded. "but you mustn't blame poor chris. remember she was brought up a boer, though she had some english education. it was a newspaper notice--court and fashionable game--'a marriage is arranged between sir doyley chauncey of limp court, gloucestershire, and miss madeline...' and there the paper was carefully cut away between the lines with scissors--one can always tell a scissor cut. i was sure poor chris had done it, for her own reasons. i had told her all about mad. there was no humbugging at all." "but you silly boy," said the general, "don't you see what i told you is true? if she had seen the name upwell, on the next line, she _wouldn't_ have cut it. of course, she wouldn't leave the name farrant--it's lina farrant, george; old farrant's daughter at kneversley--man thinks bacon wrote shakespeare----" "of course not! i see that all now. but one isn't so cool as one might be sometimes. i got quite upside down with never hearing, and, of course, i couldn't write myself. i was quite dependent on poor chris. but i was going to tell why i wanted to keep it dark that i was alive. you see, if mad _had_ got engaged--to _anyone_--well, i don't exactly see how to tell it...." he hesitated a good deal. "well, then..." "well, then what?" "do you know, i think i would almost soonest not try to talk about it. but there was nothing _wrong_, you know, anywhere." "oh no! nothing wrong. we quite understand." "only when a girl has nursed you like that--even if..." "even if you don't love her--is that it?" jack was relieved. "yes--that's about it! all the same, if madeline _had_ been engaged, i _might_ have gone back and married her--to do the poor girl a good turn." "in spite of her squelching your letters?" said sir stopleigh. "why, ye-es! look at why she did it!" "there, they are coming down," said the general. "come along, george! we aren't wanted here. good-night, jack!" and then off they go, leaving the young man alone, pacing backwards and forwards between the door and the picture. there is but one lamp left burning, on a small table near, and it is going out. he picks it up and holds it nearer to see the picture. but his hand shakes; one can hear it by the tinkle in its socket of the ring that carries an opal globe that screens the light. and he does not see much, for he can hear, a long way off, madeline's voice and her mother's--a mere murmur. then the murmur flashes up a little louder for a moment, and the voices of the baronet and the old general are bidding each other good-night, a long way off. then a girl's footstep on the stair. the tinkle of the lamp stops as the young soldier puts it back on its table. that lamp will go out very soon. but a log on the fire, that seemed dead, breaks out in a blaze, and all the shadows it makes on the walls leap and dance in its flicker. for the lamp is making haste to die. that is a timid touch upon the handle of the door. the young soldier's face of expectation is a sight to see, a sight to remember. his one hand is bearing on the table where he placed the lamp--almost as though he were for the moment dizzy. then, in the wavering light he can see the loose, many-flowered robe of madeline, such a one as she wears for the toilette, and her white face, and her cloud of beautiful hair that is all undone. they are all there in the leaping light of the fire, and he hears her voice that says, "oh jack---oh jack---oh jack!" and can say no more. and he, for his part, cannot speak, but must needs grieve--oh, how bitterly!--for the loss of the one strong arm that is gone. how he would have drawn her to him! but he still has one, and it is round her. and her two white arms are round his neck as their lips meet, even as those arms in the picture must have met round the neck of _her_ beloved, even as their lips must have met, when the dungeon closed again on the dead gaoler and its prisoners, in that castle in the apennines, four hundred years ago! the picture still hangs over the chimney-shelf in the library at surley stakes, and you may see it any time if you are in the neighbourhood. mr. stebbings will show it to you, and give you an abstract of the _cinquecento_ in italy. but he sometimes is a little obscure; so our recommendation to you is, to ask for mrs. buckmaster, who can never tire of talking about it, and who will strike you as being the living image of mrs. rouncewell in "bleak house." make her talk freely, and she will tell you how whenever "our young lady," otherwise lady calverley--for our friend jack unexpectedly came to the inheritance of granchester towers two years since--visits the stakes she always goes straight to the picture and looks at it before anything else. and how she tells little madeline, her eldest girl, who is old enough to understand, that pictures can really see and hear; and, indeed, has told her the story of the picture long ago. of which the crown and summit of delight to this little maid of four seems to have been its richness in murder. chiefest of all, the impalement of the old raimondi on marta's knife. you will gather that requests are made for a recital of this part of the story at untimely moments--coming home from church on sunday, and so on. she is going to tell it to baby herself as soon as he is old enough. but he isn't one yet; he has to be reckoned in months. to think of the joys there are before him! mrs. buckmaster will tell you too--if you work her up enough--of the dutch girl, and the miles of veldt sir john bought and gave her as a wedding present. but to get at all this you must first get her out of the library, for while she is there she can talk of little but the picture. "i always _do_ have the thought," she will very likely say, as she has said it to us, "that the picture can as good as hear us speak, for all the world as if it was a christian, and not an inanimate object. because its eyes keep looking--looking. like reading into your mind, whatever mr. stebbings may say! we must all think otherwise, now and again, and mr. stebbings's qualifications as a butler none can doubt." mrs. buckmaster will then tell you of the three different artists three separate eminent critics have ascribed it to. but there can be no doubt that the family incline to boldrini, on the strength of mr. pelly's dream. to be sure, no such artist is known to have existed. but is not the same true of the _nipote del fratello di latte del bronzino_, whom the coryphæus of these art critics invented to father it on? anyhow, there hangs the picture, night and day. if it sees, it sees its owners growing older, year by year. it sees their new grandchildren appear mysteriously, and each one behave as if it was the first new child in human experience. it sees a one-armed soldier keen on organization of territorial forces, and a beautiful wife who thinks him the greatest of mankind. and it sees, too, now and again, a very old, old gentleman whom death seems to overlook because he is so small and dry; whom you may see too, by-the-by, if you look out sharp at sotheby's, or wilkinson's, or puttick's, or simpson's, or quaritch's, or the museum reading room. some believe mr. pelly immortal. if it hears, it hears the few sounds the silent north has to show against the music and the voices of the south. it can listen to the endless torrent of song from its little brown-bird outside above the meadow, poised in the misty blue of a coming day, or the scanty measure of the pleading of the nightingale, heard from a thousand throats among the apennines in years gone by, welcome now as a memory that brings them back. it can hear the great wind roar in the chimney at its back through the winter nights, and the avalanches in miniature that come falling from the roof above when the world awakes to fight against its shroud of snow. but there is one thing it heard in our story it may listen for in vain--the bark of the great dog cæsar. for cæsar died of old age at eighteen, the age at which many of us fancy we begin to live, and the great bark shakes the universe no more. other dogs eat small sweet biscuits now from the hand of the mistress who loved him, with precisely the same previous examination of them, with the identical appearance of condescension in taking them at all. but cæsar lies--his mortal part--in a good-sized grave behind the lawn, where it can be pointed out from the library, and his _hospis comesque corporis_ may be among the shades, may have met for anything we know the liberated soul of marta's poodle, and they may have considered each other sententiously, and parted company on the worst of terms. cæsar never could have stood that poodle, on this side. but the picture is there still, for those who are curious to see it. whether it would not hang more fitly in the little castello in the hills, if it could be identified, is matter for discussion. if pictures could really speak, what would this one say? the end an apology in confidence _the present writer has a weight upon his conscience. but he has no desire to disburden himself at the expense of the future reader of his works. this is addressed solely to those whom he has acquired the right to apostrophize as "my readers"; and, indeed, properly speaking, only to such of them as were misled by a too generous appreciation of his first four novels, into purchasing his fifth. for he cannot free himself from a haunting sense that he was guilty of a gross neglect in not giving them fuller warning that the said fifth volume was not early victorian, either in style or substance._ _it is well understood nowadays--and it is not for so humble an individual as the p. w. aforesaid to call in question the judgments of everybody else--that each living author, whether he be painter or writer, shall produce at suitable intervals, preferably of twelve months, a picture or volume on all fours with the work from his hand which has first attracted public attention. and the p. w. cannot conceal from himself that in publishing, without a solemn warning addressed to possible purchasers, such a novel as his last ("an affair of dishonour": heinemann), he has run the risk of incurring the execration or forgiveness--the upshot is the same--of many of his most tolerant and patient readers, to remain on good terms with whom is, and always will be, his literary ambition._ _for the "affair" is certainly not an early victorian story in the ordinary sense of the words. a certain latitude has been claimed by some critics in the choice of names for the periods treated of in the other humble performances of its author; but so far no commentator has called its epoch--that of charles ii.--"early victorian." it has been spoken of freely as sixteenth and eighteenth century; but that is immaterial. in fact, it is difficult to resist the conviction that in what may be called sporting chronology--a system which seems to have a certain vogue of its own--so long as the writer says "century," one number does as well as another to make the sentence ring. the expression "early victorian," however, is embarrassingly circumscribed in its meaning. if cannot be applied at random to any period whatever, without danger of the sciolist, or the merest tyro, going to the british museum and getting at haydn's "dictionary of dates," and catching you out. still, it does not do to be too positive; seeing that the p. w. has here--and can show it you in the house--what seems a description of the restoration as "pre-cromwellian." there it is, before him, as he presently writes, on the shiniest paper that ever made an old fogy wish he had been born fifty years earlier._[#] [#] _i will be just and generous to this writer simultaneously. the protector was born in . pre-cromwellian days were the sixteenth century, clearly. in the sixteenth century st. james's and piccadilly would not be includable in residential quarters, because the latter was not born or thought of. if by pre-cromwellian this writer means pre-commonwealth, the inclusion of piccadilly in the description of a country girl's conception of swell london, written a hundred years later, when piccadilly was "fait accompli," seems to me not unnatural. i am bound to say, however, that when i first read the passage (p. )--immediately after i had written it--i thought "those days" meant the days of the story. analysis of london topography would have been out of place in treating of the cogitations of a country girl unfamiliar with the metropolis._ _to fulfil the conditions which literary usage appears to dictate, and to signalise his conformity with public opinion, there is no doubt that the writer of "an affair of dishonour"--or, shall i drop the thin veil adopted to avoid egotism, and say i myself--should have made that work not only early victorian, but suburban. for, as i understand, i am expected to be suburban. this is less difficult, as suburbs do not depend on chroniclers, like periods, but remain to speak for themselves. one knows when one is being suburban. among epochs one treads gingerly, like the skater on ice that scarcely bears him. i may take as an instance a book i wrote, called "somehow good," whose cradle, as it were, was the twopenny tube. the frequent reference to this story as an "early victorian" tale has impressed me that early victorianism is an abstract quality, which owes its fascination neither to its earliness, nor to its epoch. i am stating the case broadly, but as this is entirely between ourselves, very great niceties are hardly called for. we may leave the sciolist, and the merest tyro, to fight about niceties. on the other hand, outside opinion, though a little vague about early victorianism, has not been inconsistent about suburbanity. it has shrewdly identified, in my first four novels, the suburban character of tooting, balham, hampstead, putney, shepherd's bush, and wimbledon; and i now perceive that my reader was entitled to expect clapham junction or peckham bye, at least. nothing would have pleased me better, when writing my last book, than to supply the nearest practicable carolean equivalent, had i seen more clearly how the land lay. however, it's done now and can't be helped._ _broadly speaking, then, non-victorianity and defective suburbanity seem to be responsible for my slump in conformity. and, though i have to go to america for distinct proofs of it, i am obliged to recognise suggestions of the same critical decision nearer home. the first three of the following american reviews appeared at intervals in the same journal, showing how deeply the writer had taken my delinquency to heart:_ "_probably written years ago, and found in an old desk._" "_a totally uncharacteristic and thoroughly disappointing 'historical romance._'" "'_a perfectly good cat,' that i have found in the literary ash-pan .... differs from everything that has come to us previously from the author's pen, as lifeless clay differs from living spirit._" "_wherein lies the superiority of fiction that can give us nothing better than this?_" "_it is not, in itself, worth reading ... being an unpleasant, unexciting, and unoriginal experiment in historical romance ... leaving us disappointed of what we hoped for, and unedified by what we get._" "_the ghosts of 'david copperfield' and 'joseph vance,' 'alice-for-short,' and the 'little marchioness,' may together weep pale spirit tears, or nobly repress them, in the hope that 'it never can happen again._'" "_we can but hope for a return from this invented matter and artificial style to an unabashed victorianism, from which it should appear the author is trying to escape._" _there is something spirited in a selection of quotations which begins and ends with such different conjectures as to the genesis of their subject. there can be no doubt about the earnestness of the hope expressed in the last one, for it is confirmed in the same words by more than one american journal_.[#] [#] the force of the unanimity of two or three american papers grows less when their reader perceives the verbal identity of the article throughout--and that their writers are not only unanimous, but unicorporeal. numbers are impressive, but when they play fast and loose with plurality in this way, all their edge is taken off. _another accusation against me is that i have given up nice people, and only write about nasty ones. is this true? i myself thought lucinda a nice enough girl, particularly when she was fishing in the sea for the phosphorescence. all the same, the following seemed to me quite a just comment, and very well worded: "there must have been something of phaedra in lucinda for her to act as she did, unless we are to revert to the belief in a baneful aphrodite no human will can resist." something of phaedra--but still, i submit, not much, for sir oliver was passionately urgent; while hippolytus--to borrow a phrase from mrs. steptoe, a quarter where i have unlimited credit--didn't want to any such a thing._ _every book has a right to an assumption intrinsically improbable, to make the story go. what a flat tragedy hamlet would have been without its fundamental ghost! and my "quidlibet audendi" is a small presumption compared with my giant namesake's. of course, i have no right to the comparison unless you grant like rights to tittlebat and leviathan. "semper fiat aequa potestas," for both. indeed, the dwarf needs artificial latitude more than the giant._ _in my capacity of tittlebat in an estuary of leviathan's great sea--or, should i not rather say, a sandhopper on its coast?--i have assumed that this baneful aphrodite no human will can resist had possession of lucinda; who was, and continued to be, a very nice girl for all that. phaedra was not nice, because of the attitude of hippolytus, as sketched by mrs. steptoe; and even more because of the fibs she told when she found the young man blind to the attractions of his stepmother. lucinda was not a bit the less nice because she was swept away by, absorbed into, crushed under, a passion of which she only knew that it was the reverse of hate, and of which few of us know much more. indeed, all male persuasions get so very mixed, owing to the nature of things, that they are almost a negligible factor in the solution of the problem. now and again, however, it is hinted at by thoughtful male persons--shakespeare and browning, and the like. read this, for instance:_ "_but, please you, wonder i would put my cheek beneath that lady's foot; rather than trample under mine the laurels of the florentine, and you shall see how the devil spends a fire god gave for other ends._ "_i tell you, i stride up and down this garret, crowned with love's best crown, and feasted with love's perfect feast to think i kill for her at least body and soul and peace and fame, alike youth's end and manhood's aim._" /tb _perhaps you will say that no ladylike, well-brought-up girl, ever feels so explosive. about a man too--the idea! but for my part, i don't see that browning's chap need have been a nasty chap. nevertheless, my sense of the proprieties--which is keen--compels me to admit that if i had a daughter, and she were to go on like that, i should feel it my duty to point out to her that if she continued to do so, she would run the risk of being taken for a suffragette, or something. i might get no farther, because i word things badly._ _lucinda, you see, might have gone on like that about oliver; only no doubt the memory of old precepts hung about her, and acted as i trust my remonstrance would have done in the case of my hypothetical daughter. anyhow, i do think that the time-honoured usage which keeps girls as ignorant of life as possible, so that they shall be docile when a judicious hymen offers them a marriage with a suitable parti, ought at least, as a set-off, to go hand-in-hand with leniency towards this ignorance when it betrays its possessor into an indiscretion she has no means of gauging the dangers of. for my belief is that the wickedness of her action seemed purely academical to lucinda. and oliver knew how to manage cases of this sort, bless you!_ _as for him, i readily admit that he was not nice, but i take the testimonials to his nastiness as complimentary. when an italian audience pelts iago with rotten eggs, it is accepted by the actor as heartfelt praise. and you must have devils, as well as fairies, when it's in a pantomime, as we all know. an unhappy author whom lack of material for copy has nearly qualified for earlswood cannot go on for ever writing about good people. he must have a villain, please, sooner or later!_ _nevertheless, some of my correspondents want to deprive me of this innocent luxury. such an appeal as the following makes me feel that i may have to "leave the killing out, when all is done._" "_dear sir, can any 'success' that meets your latest story compensate for the pain, and--so personal have you made our relations to you--the humiliation so many of us feel?_ "_why leave the heights--the sunny hill-slopes--where we met you as a wise, sweet older brother, and lingered long after your story was over, with stilled and strengthened hearts?_ "_i am sure none of us is happier, and none certainly is better for breathing the sickening air into which you have led us...._" now, if i had published this story after a manifesto warning, cautioning, and earnestly entreating all readers who expected it to be victorian and suburban to keep their money in their pockets, i should not be feeling, as i do now, that the writer of the above letter had been entrapped into reading it under false pretences. i can only offer humble and heartfelt apology to the writers, english as well as american, of _the many letters i have received, practically of the same tenor as the above_. _but i am left in a dilemma. i cannot consider myself bound to make my next net volume exclusively victorian, suburban, kindly, gossipy, button-holy--i rather like that word--in the face of some very strong encouragements to have another go-in at barts, or their equivalents, of evil dispositions, or, perhaps i should say, of mediæval dispositions; for i am countenanced by many sporting chronologists in attaching a meaning to this word at war with my boyish understanding of it, which stopped the "moyen âge" at the reformation. however, it doesn't matter; this is all in confidence. i cannot very well cite these encouragements. they form part of a most liberal and intelligent series of reviews--not unmixed praise by any means--which i am sticking at odd times in a big book, to which i shall have to allude more particularly presently. it is enough for us now that several of them speak of "an affair of dishonour" as its author's best production, so far. after that i must really be mediæval, or marry-come-up, or whatever one ought to call it, a little more. there is no way out._ _a reviewer of an isolated and forcible genius also has a share in inducing me to try the same line again. i want to be reviewed by him, please, as often as possible. there is a healthy and bracing tone in his lightest word. listen:_ "_a story-teller ought to be able to tell a story. there is a story in 'an affair of dishonour,' but i pity the reader who tries to excavate it. he must tie a wet towel round his head, and clench his teeth, and prepare to face hours of digging and scraping. and when he has excavated the story from the heavy clay of the style, he will ask why the author took so much trouble to bury it so deep in affectation... mr. de morgan tries to copy the language of the seventeenth century, but he copies it like a schoolboy.... to make the mess complete, the last chapter is taken from a manuscript._ "_if mr. de morgan desired to imitate esmond he ought to have stuck to the esmond method. if he wished to tell a melodramatic story he ought to have told it plainly. the story is stale.... i suppose the rake is meant to be a lovelace, and lucinda a clarissa harlowe. the whole thing is artificial, there is no illusion, and the characters are all sticks. the battle is bad, and the duels are bad, and the dialogue is very bad. and how it bores one!_" _can you wonder that i look forward to being reviewed again by this gentleman? i shall feel an eager anticipation as i search among my press-cuttings, after the appearance of this present volume, for the name of his halfpenny journal. i can fancy his indignation at a picture that speaks--a completer mess even than the dragging in of a manuscript at the end of lucinda! this was shocking--at least, it must have been, as otherwise this gentleman would have been talking nonsense._ _but my button-holed readers must be expecting me to come to the point. it is this. "a likely story" is an honest, if a humble, attempt to satisfy all parties--except, indeed, the last party just cited, whom i should be sorry to satisfy. it combines on one canvas the story of a family incident that is purely victorian--though, alas, the era came to an end so shortly afterwards--with another, of the italian cinquecento, without making any further demand on human powers of belief than that a picture is made to talk. i have also introduced a very pretty suburb, coombe, as the residence of the earliest victorian aunt, to my thinking, that my pen is responsible for. i like this way of shifting the responsibility off my own shoulders._ _however, it is fair to admit that the expedient of making the photographic copy talk, as well as the original, may outrage the sense of probability of some of my more matter-of-fact readers. i shall be sorry, because modification in a second edition will be difficult, if not impossible._ _if i do not succeed in pleasing both sections of my public, i am at least certain of the approval of a very large number of readers who have found my previous productions too long. the foregoing is even less than the , words which seem to recommend themselves as the right length, per se, for a net volume. a slump from a quarter to a twentieth of a million words marks a powerful self-restraint on the part of my "cacoethes scribendi"--an essay towards conformity which seems to me to deserve recognition. i do not understand that anyone has, so far, propounded the doctrine that a story cannot be too short. if that were so the author would save himself a world of trouble by emulating the example of the unknown author of the shortest work of its kind on record--the biography of st. james the less. but perhaps i am mistaken in supposing that jackaminory and the apostle were one and the same personage._ _i am personally more interested in the length of reviews than of books, in connexion with the volume mentioned just now, in which i am collecting my press-cuttings. the page of this volume is fourteen inches by eight, and three reviews thirteen inches long exactly cover it, leaving a little space for the name of the journal and the date. it is too small to accommodate more than three normal press columns in the width. so that a review thirteen inches long is from my point of view the most suitable for my books. of course, twenty-six and thirty-nine inches are equally acceptable. the difficulty only begins when accommodation of fractions becomes necessary. i account that review ill-written which perplexes me with the need for such accommodation._ _i am prepared to accept six shilling volumes of , words, with reviews thirteen inches long, as the true and perfect image of literature indeed._ _man, male and female, is a reading animal: or, what is perhaps more to the purpose, believes himself one. he may be divided into two classes--the studious reader and the general reader. the former never skims books. if he dips into them at all he takes long dips, and when he comes out, leaves a bookmark in to show where he was or which was his machine. he goes steadily and earnestly through the last, last, last word of scientific thought--say, for instance, "an essay towards a fuller analysis of the correlation between force, matter and motion, with especial reference to their relations in polydimensional space"--and wants to just finish a marginal note upon it in pencil when the dinner-gong gets a rumble. he knits his brows and jumps and snorts when he peruses a powerful criticism, with antitheses and things. he very often thinks he will buy that book, only he must just glance at it again before he sends the order. nevertheless, his relations with fiction lack cordiality. they do not go, on his part, beyond picking up the last net volume from the drawing-room table, reading the title aloud, and putting it down again. and he only does this because it's there, and looks new. he wouldn't complain if no fiction came into the house at all._ _not so the general reader. his theory of literature is entirely different. broadly speaking, it is this: that books are meant to be read, up to a certain point; but that, as soon as that point is reached, it is desirable that they should be returned to mudie's or the "times," and something else got, with a little less prosywozying in it; and bounceable young women who ought to know better, but don't; and detectives if possible, and motors and aeroplanes anyhow. the exact definition of this point is difficult, but it lies somewhere about the region in which the general reader gets bored to death, and can't stand this dam rot any longer. it does not matter to him that he may be the loser by his abrupt decisions; if anything, he takes an unnatural pleasure in straining the capacity of his circulating library to the full extent of its contract. he has paid his subscription, and may change whenever he likes. that's the bargain, and no humbugging!_ _so he goes on slap-dashing about, shuttle-cocking back every new delivery, saying "pish!" over this and "tush!" about that; writing short comments on margins such as, "vieux jeu!" or "no woman would"; only occasionally going carefully through a book to find the chapter that reviewer-fellow said was quite unfit for the girls to read, because one really ought to keep an eye on what comes into the house nowadays. his decisions can, however, scarcely be accepted as unfailing guides to a just discrimination of literary merit, as those who know him are never tired of insisting on his inattentive habits, his paroxysms of electric suddenness in action, and, above all, his insatiable thirst for something new. as for me, i am like charles lamb, when he was told there was a gentleman in the room who admired "paradise regained." i should like to feel his bumps._ _nevertheless, he is a personage for whom authors have a great and natural respect. he is so numerous! and just think what fun it would be if each of him bought a copy of each of one's immortal works! consequently, i wish to consult his liking, and am prepared--within reason--to defer to his opinion of what length a book ought to be. it is no doubt quite otherwise with those authors who may be said to belong to the school of inspirationalism--really one feels quite modern, writing such a word--who claim for each of their stories the position or character of a sneeze--an automatic action which its victim, perpetrator, executant, interpreter, proprietor, promoter, parent, mover, seconder--or whatever we choose to call him--has absolutely no control over._ _but i am wandering away from the point of this apology, which is really to say "peccavi," and, please, i won't do so any more. so far, that is, as is practicable. if i drop into a prehistoric problem-novel, by way of a change, or have a try at an autobiography of queen nilocris--just possibilities at random--i will do what i can to head off readers who want one sort only, and know which it is._ _as for the foregoing story, it is just as victorian as it is anything else, though not, perhaps, early enough to give entire satisfaction. one can't expect everything, in this imperfect world. to my thinking the shortness of the story should cover a multitude of sins._ billing and sons, ltd., printers guildford m.p.'s in session. [illustration] from mr. punch's parliamentary portrait gallery. by harry furniss. [illustration] familiar faces. mr. punch (_cartoonist in chief_). "oh, i know all you old models, i want some new 'character'!" _frontispiece._ [illustration] m.p.'s in session from mr. punch's parliamentary portrait gallery my own work harry furniss london: bradbury agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, e.c. . printed by "mr. punch" at [illustration] the printing offices of bradbury, agnew, & co., whitefriars, e.c. m.p.'s in session. _from mr. punch's parliamentary portrait gallery._ [illustration] w. v. harcourt. the speaker. c. n. warton. w. e. forster. r. a. cross. j. g. dodson. h. gladstone. h. labouchere. r. n. fowler. thorold rogers. the chaplain. w. lawson. c. dilke. h. broadhurst. h. lennox. serjeant-at-arms. a. bartlett. j. chamberlain. e. gibson. r. churchill. h. d. wolff. commons summoned to upper house. [illustration: the chaplain. (hon. and rev. f. e. c. byng.) "commons prayers."] [illustration: rt. hon. a. w. peel. the speaker. "order!"] [illustration: assistant serjeant-at-arms. (f. r. gosset.) "au revoir!"] [illustration: leonard h. courtney. deputy speaker. "estimates."] [illustration: lord claud hamilton. "late of liverpool."] [illustration: a. akers-douglas. "an unbroken front."] [illustration: c. bradlaugh. "house of commons' manner."] [illustration: alex. h. brown. "a brown study."] [illustration: j. chamberlain and j. morley. "the rival umbrella."] [illustration: rt. hon. j. h. macdonald. absent from the post of danger.] [illustration: a. j. balfour. in his place at · a.m., tuesday, march , .] [illustration: the g. o. m. "writing to the queen, and committing the 'happy dispatch.'"] [illustration: ashmead-bartlett. extinction of eye. effect of proposed scheme of redistribution on ashmead-bartlett.] [illustration: lord hartington's attitude towards mr. gladstone.] [illustration: mr. bright. "i cannot turn my back on myself." of course he has tried to do so, and this shows him in the act of making the unsuccessful contortionist attempt.] [illustration: j. lowther. sir r. peel. lord h. lennox. sir e. clarke. the new fourth party. imitation is the sincerest flattery.] [illustration: h. chaplin and "the agricultural labourer."] [illustration: baron de worms. col. walrond. akers-douglas. record of the session .-- . "dead heat."] [illustration: sir stafford northcote. "remote, unfriended, _solitary_, slow,"--or, little "tom all-alone" in the lobby.] [illustration: d. h. macfarlane. "the sailing-master."] [illustration: lord r. churchill. the new president of the working-man's conservative association--"a horny-handed son of toil."] [illustration: colonel fras. duncan, c.b. "duncan comes here to-night, the gracious duncan!" _macbeth._] [illustration: lord h. lennox. "most important!" he was with lord salisbury for quite three minutes, and then left.] [illustration: bradlaugh and the beetle. "fetch it up, old hoss!"] [illustration: sir w. v. harcourt. "mr. pecksniff." "lord randolph churchill"--(_groans and hisses_)--"'do not let us groan at our opponents.' nay, my christian brethren, do not let us groan or hiss at our opponents. we can find other ways of dealing with them."--_speech at st. james's hall._] [illustration: sir r. a. cross. "very cross."] [illustration: lord r. churchill. sir j. e. gorst. sir h. d. wolff. "one of us." first appearance of sir j. e. gorst as solicitor-general.] [illustration: r. f. f. campbell. "heavy campbeller with big 'stake in the country.'"] [illustration: p. callan and g. cavendish-bentinck. "muddled moralists."] [illustration: hon. r. bourke. "bourke and hair."] [illustration: c. t. ritchie. de worms. w. h. smith. r. churchill. r. a. cross. hicks-beach. h. chaplin. j. manners. g. hamilton. new men and old attitudes. principals of the new conservative comedy company trying to look as much as possible like the old public favourites.] [illustration: getting gladstone's collar up.] [illustration: c. b. stuart-wortley. "please, sir, i did."] [illustration: sir u. j. k. shuttleworth. "the mildest-mannered man."] [illustration: c. s. parker. "if a man touches pitch, &c."] [illustration: j. p. b. robertson. "ireland again!"] [illustration: h. matthews. "sat smiling."] [illustration: j. gilhooly. "toodjour perdricks."] [illustration: marquis of hartington. "startington."] [illustration: sir c. forster and sir r. a. cross. sir richard (very) cross. off with his hat!... so much for----!] [illustration: lord r. churchill. "a gloomy view of the political situation."] [illustration: lord r. churchill and sir h. drummond wolff. "rapturous delight of the fourth party."] [illustration: j. t. hibbert. "it's very strange."] [illustration: w. agnew. "rapt attention."] [illustration: a. orr-ewing. (orr-anythingelse.)] [illustration: a. illingworth. "waiting for opportunity."] [illustration: sir r. temple. "the sleeping beauty."] [illustration: lord r. churchill. "randolph meditating."] [illustration: f. h. o'donnell. suspended for a week by order of the speaker.] [illustration: christopher sykes, m.p. "who passed the crab and lobster bill."] [illustration: e. gibb. "the eccleston gibb-us makes its presence felt."] [illustration: r. davies. "a lively contest."] [illustration: h. h. cozens-hardy. "our hardy cousin."] [illustration: t. h. bolton. "the member for extraordinary ties--no--tithes."] [illustration: j. b. balfour. "never heard of such a thing!"] [illustration: sir matthew wilson. "posting his farewell address."] [illustration: colonel tottenham. ["irish members, this style, s. d. extra."]] [illustration: leonard h. courtney. "courteous courtney of cornwall."] [illustration: lord r. churchill. "not the shadow of a leg to stand upon."] [illustration: sir r. a. cross. "sir richard 'receives.'"] [illustration: gladstone badgered. "here joseph gillis was in his element."] [illustration: hon. c. r. spencer. "have you paired?"] [illustration: r. w. duff. "wonder if he's paired."] [illustration: mitchell henry. "where is my working hat?"] [illustration: l. l. dillwyn. "woe is me!"] [illustration: j. h. a. macdonald. "ain't i like harcourt?"] [illustration: g. j. goschen. j. chamberlain. sir h. james. sir g. o. trevelyan. marquis of hartington. a back seat.] [illustration: t. healy. here's timothy healy, who spoke too freely.] [illustration: e. j. m. p. de lisle. here's mr. de lisle, who "didn't even smile." (_fancy portrait_.)] [illustration: bill 'arcutt. sir w. vernon harcourt.--"i am in entire sympathy with the costermongers."] [illustration: w. h. smith. "the o'smith. big with fate. the start."] [illustration: the ferocious forester. "penny plain, twopence coloured." [lord randolph churchill was initiated into the mysteries of the ancient order of foresters.]] [illustration: r. chamberlain. j. chamberlain. "chamberlain bros."] the royal westminster academy. [illustration: w. e. g., painted by ld. r. churchill.] [illustration: lord r. churchill, by w. e. g.] [illustration: lord hartington, by sir s. northcote.] [illustration: sir s. northcote, by ld. hartington.] [illustration: sir w. v. harcourt, by sir r. a. cross.] [illustration: sir r. a. cross, by sir w. v. harcourt.] [illustration: j. chamberlain, by j. lowther.] [illustration: j. lowther, by j. chamberlain.] [illustration: the speaker, by himself.] [illustration: the serjeant-at-arms, by himself.] [illustration: w. e. forster, by c. s. parnell.] [illustration: c. s. parnell, by w. e. forster.] [illustration: j. c. mccoan, by j. j. o'killy.] [illustration: j. j. o'killy, by j. c. mccoan.] (_splendid collection of parliamentary portraits, mostly done by "the other fellows." the speaking likenesses speak for themselves and for the artists._) [illustration: lord a. w. hill. "such larks!"] [illustration: the student. lord randolph churchill is delighted at being out of office, as he will now have leisure to study.] [illustration: gen. fraser. "of the cavalry. a light weight."] [illustration: george cavendish-bentinck. "who was moketto?"] [illustration: h. labouchere. w. v. harcourt. w. e. gladstone. labby and "the merry old gentleman." "quips and cranks."] [illustration: j. stansfeld. "local government."] [illustration: d. j. jenkins. "the resolute appearance of the coat-tail."] [illustration: w. h. k. redmond. brutus roscius kean r-dm-nd, jun. "yah! yah!"] [illustration: col. g. salis-schwabe. "don't you hear a smell?"] [illustration: d. h. macfarlane. "he doesn't know how to sit down."] [illustration: col. hughes hallett. "made a desperate attack."] [illustration: g. b. gregory. gregory the great.] [illustration: lord lymington. "with ambling grace."] [illustration: g. beith. "prescience of coming doom."] the royal westminster academy. [illustration: sir charles dilke, painted by ashmead-bartlett.] [illustration: ashmead-bartlett, by sir charles dilke.] [illustration: g. o. trevelyan, by j. g. biggar.] [illustration: j. g. biggar, by g. o. trevelyan.] [illustration: campbell-bannerman, by w. r. smith.] [illustration: w. h. smith, by campbell-bannerman.] [illustration: h. labouchere, by c. newdegate.] [illustration: c. newdegate, by h. labouchere.] [illustration: j. k. cross, by w. woodall.] [illustration: w. woodall, by j. k. cross.] [illustration: j. bright, by himself.] [illustration: j. cowen, by himself.] [illustration: sir w. lawson, by a member who does not agree with him.] [illustration: the member, by sir w. lawson.] (_splendid collection of parliamentary portraits, mostly done by "the other fellows." the speaking likenesses speak for themselves and for the artists._) [illustration: g. c. t. bartley. "put a penny in, and the figure will move."] [illustration: a. blaine. "strolled in just in time."] [illustration: j. carvell williams. "will no more paralyse the church party."] [illustration: lord richard grosvenor. "richard's himself again!"] [illustration: david pugh. "this won't do!"] [illustration: h. labouchere. "turns his back on chamberlain."] [illustration: sir h. vivian. "little hussey!"] [illustration: a. mcarthur. "please, sir, i won't do it again."] [illustration: o'hea. o'shea. "happy combination of circumstances."] [illustration: t. duckham. "a rather melancholy aspect."] [illustration: wilson lloyd. "oratorical attitude eminently seductive."] [illustration: r. strong. "always equal to a quorum."] [illustration: j. rigby, q.c. "resumed debate on home rule."] [illustration: h. richard (_himself again_). "determined to have this out."] [illustration: wm. o'brien. "dealing with the situation."] [illustration: william woodall. "introduces his little miss billimina."] [illustration: w. s. robson. "taken after his defeat."] [illustration: ld. hartington. ld. r. churchill. j. chamberlain. behind the speaker's chair.] [illustration: sir r. temple. "exterior of the temple, by our con-temple-lative artist."] [illustration: j. woodhead. "he always went home to tea."] [illustration: sir donald currie. "just arrived!"] [illustration: h. spicer. "ain't i like lord salisbury?"] henry chaplin. [illustration: chaplin's opportunity.] "a ready wit and a fluent tongue are valuable auxiliaries. but force of character, consciousness of power, masculine ability in grappling with complicated questions, and that species of eloquence, the effect of which arises rather from earnestness, straightforwardness, and elevation of sentiment, than from sparkling or elaborate rhetoric, give a man a position in the house of commons which leaves him little in need of such other gifts as we have mentioned."--_standard, dec. ._ [illustration: j. chamberlain. " to on urgency!"] [illustration: sir p. o'brien. "sir p. o'brien invokes the divine sarah."] [illustration: wm. woodall. "nine times before it burst!"] [illustration: sir g. o. trevelyan. "temporary retirement."] [illustration: w. h. smith. "fancy german portrait of general sir smith, the british secretary of state for war." the reality-- "w. h. smith, esq., war office."] [illustration: dr. tanner. "it's no place for irishmen!"] [illustration: j. j. o'kelly. "the o'kelly!"] [illustration: c. a. v. conybeare. "connybeare him!" (scotch joke.)] [illustration: sir robert peel. "went wrong on the home-rule question."] [illustration: e. heneage. "any age you like."] [illustration: g. o. morgan. "a bard."] [illustration: baron de worms. "that's the diet for worms."] [illustration: h. cecil raikes and sir lyon playfair. "members who have passed the chair."] [illustration: professor rogers. "a classic tone to conversation."] [illustration: j. g. biggar. "i'm agin repression anywhere."] [illustration: g. j. goschen. "a puzzle to himself."] [illustration: w. v. harcourt. j. chamberlain. the round-table conference. (from a report by _our young man_.)] [illustration: g. howell. "urgent public importance."] [illustration: w. r. cremer. "amendment rejected."] [illustration: j. leicester. "so excited."] [illustration: e. h. pickersgill. "has his eye upon him."] [illustration: joseph arch. "but sick in the sowl."] [illustration: c. fenwick and t. burt. "the wail of messrs. fenwick and burt."] [illustration: j. a. picton. [toby has many select portraits in his album, but this is a picton.]] [illustration: j. o'connor. "a note of admiration!"] [illustration: j. a. jacoby. "can't help smiling."] [illustration: sir g. campbell. "and such a horse!"] [illustration: t. sexton. "liar!"] [illustration: mundella. "the old parliamentary noes."] [illustration: t. d. sullivan. "fresh from channel passage."] [illustration: g. j. goschen. "oh, what a surprise!"] [illustration: lord charles beresford. "charlie hornpiping to them."] [illustration: sir e. bates. "could see them moving in the air."] [illustration: w. h. smith. "ready!"] [illustration: r. gent-davis. "davis sum, non oedipus."] [illustration: j. roberts. "all is not flint that looks stony."] [illustration: g. pitt lewis. "go it, little 'un!"] [illustration: christopher sykes. "early to bed," and "early to rise!" or, "keeping up the xtopher."--_march , ._] [illustration: sir b. samuelson. "le pÈre."] [illustration: w. ambrose. "ambrosial eloquence."] [illustration: s. montagu. "something in the city."] [illustration: lord r. churchill and w. e. gladstone. "what! would they gag him?"] [illustration: lord r. churchill. "doesn't put his foot down."] [illustration: sir j. mcgarel hogg. "not going the whole hogg."] [illustration: h. northcote. "burning questions."] [illustration: j. finlayson. "how do you make that out?"] [illustration: o'gorman mahon. "knocking at the door."] [illustration: a. b. winterbotham. "smiles audibly."] [illustration: r. u. penrose fitzgerald. "robinson crusoe, m.p."] [illustration: matt. harris. "awkward question this!"] [illustration: w. davies. "not all beer and skittles."] [illustration: lord john manners. "the new duke."] [illustration: b. hingley. "and, pray, why do you do that?"] [illustration: i. holden. "young 'olden."] [illustration: alderman w. cook. "personally conducted."] [illustration: sir a. borthwick. "who's he?"] [illustration: f. w. maclean and lord r. churchill. _past and present members for woodstock._ "a pretty scene."] [illustration: l. a. atherley-jones. "on the watch."] [illustration: p. esslemont. "waiting for a hearing."] [illustration: col. nolan. "collapsed!"] [illustration: dr. j. farquharson. "thinking it over."] [illustration: h. campbell-bannerman. "order is tim's first law."] [illustration: m. biddulph. "look out!"] [illustration: sir e. clarke. "scandalous!"] [illustration: morgan howard. "how 'ard is my lot!"] [illustration: c. t. ritchie. "mephistopheles, m.p."] [illustration: j. leahy. "that's the worst of these fellows."] [illustration: h. c. e. childers. "h(ere) c(omes) e(verybody) ch-ld-rs."] [illustration: h. j. wilson. "must keep up dignity of parliament."] [illustration: s. smith. "on the prowl."] [illustration: g. newnes. "when found, make a note of."] [illustration: w. abraham. "clywch! clywch!"] [illustration: a. akers-douglas. "the sprightly whip."] [illustration: w. f. lawrence. "a constituent i presume!"] [illustration: sir wm. harcourt. "the morning's reflections."] [illustration: c. wright. "a clause every sixty seconds!"] [illustration: w. johnston. "stop thief!"] [illustration: sir j. h. kennaway. "we've lost two hours' precious time!"] [illustration: small and biggar. "the ould counthry."] [illustration: w. coddington. "£ , !"] [illustration: admiral field. "tindal robertson's convoy."] [illustration: lord ramsay. "promoted."] [illustration: james watson. "whilst joseph gillis passes."] [illustration: sir j. e. gorst. "thinking of the bo'sun."] [illustration: j. c. bolton. "mr. bolton's cogitation."] [illustration: w. s. caine. "columbus, m.p."] [illustration: hon. c. r. spencer, m.p. "masher of parliament."] [illustration: sir w. lawson. "i rise to order."] [illustration: enter sir g. o. trevelyan. "rattling majority."] [illustration: exit e. russell. "popularity with both sides."] [illustration: j. a. balfour. "firmness without rashness?"] [illustration: r. b. finlay. "a q.c., m.p.--the long of it."] [illustration: j. j. o'kelly. "j. j. o'killy, esq., m.p., in his great duellist entertainment, adapted from the french."] [illustration: s. d. waddy. "another q.c., m.p.--the short of it."] [illustration: alderman chaplin, m.p. "and other good men."] [illustration: gen. sir e. b. hamley. "an eloquent speech."] [illustration: j. h. a. macdonald. "the lord advocate's attitude towards scotch members."] [illustration: j. m. mclean. "mclean interposes."] [illustration: c. c. lacaita. "how very abrupt!"] [illustration: lord r. churchill. "dear me! there surely can't be any difficulty in selecting a prime minister!"] [illustration: j. d. pyne. "requires a great deal of forcing."] [illustration: c. bradlaugh. "wants to know."] [illustration: dr. c. cameron. "the cameron pibroch."] [illustration: thomas shaw. "struck all of a heap."] [illustration: t. burt. "still full of fight."] [illustration: g. h. allsopp. "the state in danger."] [illustration: hon. c. r. spencer. "a serious politician."] [illustration: p. a. muntz. "talked it out!"] [illustration: j. dodds. "head of the dodd family."] [illustration: a. j. balfour and the lord advocate. "obstruction!"] [illustration: stephen mason. "exit."] [illustration: sir chas. forster. "still lithe enough."] [illustration: sir j. r. mowbray. "come, come, now!"] [illustration: sir w. c. brooks. "congratulatory cunliffe."] [illustration: j. f. x. o'brien. "looking daggers."] [illustration: t. b. potter. "laid in a good stock."] [illustration: arthur h. d. acland. "education."] [illustration: john bright. "brighter than ever."] [illustration: sir j. simon. "hush! i hear the pieman."] [illustration: h. smith wright. "leading the way."] [illustration: lord claud hamilton. "exit lord claud."] [illustration: r. b. haldane. "haldane, vincit!"] [illustration: the marquis of granby. "demme!"] [illustration: f. lockwood, q.c. "our artist q.c."] [illustration: sir lewis pelly. "pelly-melly."] [illustration: j. e. w. addison. "'spectator' in the house of lords."] [illustration: the speaker. the clerks. j. bright. w. e. forster. w. v. harcourt. w. e. gladstone. r. a. cross. s. northcote. w. h. smith. serjt.-at-arms. a. j. mundella. t. d. hartington. j. chamberlain. ld. j. manners. r. churchill. h. d. wolff.] [illustration: c. n. warton. j. biggar. a. bartlett. c. bradlaugh. c. s. parnell. t. healy. j. j. o'kelly. the westminster wax-works.] [illustration: leonard h. courtney. "courtney's quick change."] [illustration: sir wm. v. harcourt. "uncle pumblechook."] [illustration: r. cuninghame graham. "thinking of the 'orny 'anded one."] [illustration: e. s. w. de cobain. "problem: to find the third bill."] [illustration: sir r. temple. "the taj."] [illustration: p. m'lagan. "the judicious m'lagan."] [illustration: joseph chamberlain. "just in time."] [illustration: h. gardner. "the grand young gardner."] [illustration: g. p. fuller. "g. p. fuller laughed."] [illustration: h. campbell-bannerman and h. labouchere. "humorists of the house."] [illustration: t. w. russell. "goin' bock agen."] [illustration: h. campbell. "the campbell who is not coming."] [illustration: h. matthews. "in the heat of argument."] [illustration: c. s. parnell. "sir parnell."] [illustration: lord r. churchill and w. e. gladstone. "sweets to the sweet."] the royal westminster academy. [illustration: ld. selborne, painted by lord cairns.] [illustration: lord cairns, by lord selborne.] [illustration: earl granville, by marquis of salisbury.] [illustration: mar. of salisbury, by earl granville.] [illustration: earl derby, by lord carnarvon.] [illustration: lord carnarvon, by earl derby.] [illustration: earl spencer, by duke of abercorn.] [illustration: duke of abercorn, by earl spencer.] [illustration: lord sherbrooke, by lord cranbrook.] [illustration: lord cranbrook, by lord sherbrooke.] [illustration: duke of argyll, by himself.] [illustration: bishop of peterborough, by some one's deceased wife's sister.] (_splendid collection of parliamentary portraits, mostly done by "the other fellows." the speaking likenesses speak for themselves and for the artists._) [illustration: col. e. j. saunderson. "whirroo!"] [illustration: w. e. gladstone and lord r. churchill. a collarable imitation. "so sorry you've lost your voice!"] [illustration: sir e. watkin. "lord tannel-chunnel."] [illustration: wm. o'brien. "no gestures!"] [illustration: admiral r. c. mayne. "you may and you mayne't." _old saw_.] [illustration: w. e. gladstone. "shooting season--the gladstone preserves."] [illustration: h. c. e. childers. "sum time! sum time!"] [illustration: sir stafford northcote. "the ways of life are different now."] [illustration: john bright. "j. b., the polite letter-writer."] [illustration: a discord in black and white. hartington. harcourt. russell. gladstone. trevelyan. the speaker. manners. northcote. smith. cross. lowther. worms. warton. mundella. bright. chamberlain. wolff. the clerks. serjeant-at-arms. sir j. e. gorst. chaplin. forster. f. h. o'donnell. j. biggar.] [illustration: . . . . . . . wellington. peel. aberdeen. palmerston. russell. derby. disraeli. retrospects; or, back views.] [illustration: fawcett. trevelyan. gladstone. chamberlain. hartington. dodson. bright. harcourt. childers. dilke. mundella. "the noes-es have it."-- .] [illustration: j. chamberlain. j. bright. sir w. harcourt. lord hartington. w. e. gladstone. w. e. forster. j. g. dodson. some of the heads of the government.-- .] [illustration: viscount wolmer said:--"he saw hon. members toss their heads." our special artist here gives the effect, showing how some hon. members lost their heads, and how others became wrong-headed.] [illustration: "o-dour what can the matter be?" "the nose have it." "you will nose it in the lobby."--_shakspear_.] parliamentary index. - . [_the date attached to each name refers to the no. of "punch."_] page abraham, w. (_aug. , ' _) acland, arthur h. d. (_may , ' _) addison, j. e. w. (_july , ' _) agnew, william (_june , ' _) allsopp, hon. g. h. (_may , ' _) ambrose, william (_apr. , ' _) arch, joseph (_apr. , ' _) ashmead-bartlett, e. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_dec. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) atherley-jones, ll. a. (_july , ' _) balfour, rt. hon. arthur j. (_apr. , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) balfour, rt. hon. j. b. (_may , ' _) bartley, g. c. t. (_june , ' _) bates, sir e. (_apr. , ' _) beach, rt. hon. sir m. hicks- (_july , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) beith, g. (_oct. , ' _) bentinck, rt. hon. g. cavendish- (_aug. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) beresford, lord charles (_mar. , ' _) biddulph, michael (_oct. , ' _) biggar, joseph g. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) blaine, a. (_sept. , ' _) bolton, j. c. (_mar. , ' _) bolton, t. h. (_apr. , ' _) borthwick, sir algernon (_july , ' ,_) bourke, rt. hon. r. (_aug. , ' _) bradlaugh, charles (_dec. , ' ,_) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) brand, rt. hon. sir henry (_july , ' _) bright, rt. hon. john (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) broadhurst, henry (_nov. , ' _) brooks, sir w. c. (_may , ' _) brown, a. l. (_may , ' _) burt, thomas (_oct. , ' _) " (_aug. , ' _) byng, hon. and rev. f. e. c. (_nov. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) caine, william s. (_aug. , ' _) callan, philip (_aug. , ' _) cameron, dr. c. (_mar. , ' _) campbell-bannerman, rt. hon. h. (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) campbell, sir g. (_sept. , ' _) campbell, h. (_july , ' _) campbell, richard f. f. (_apr. , ' _) chamberlain, rt. hon. joseph (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_jan. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) chamberlain, richard (_mar. , ' _) chaplin, rt. hon. henry (_aug. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_jan. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) childers, rt. hon. hugh c. e. (_july , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) churchill, lord randolph (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) , " " (_july , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) clarke, sir e. (_july , ' _) " (_july , ' _) coddington, william (_july , ' _) conybeare, charles a. v. (_sept. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) cook, alderman w. (_aug. , ' _) courtney, leonard h. (_apr. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) cowen, joseph (_july , ' _) cozens-hardy, h. h. (_apr. , ' _) cremer, w. r. (_feb. , ' _) cross, j. k. (_july , ' _) cross, rt. hon. sir richard a. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) currie, sir donald (_mar. , ' _) davies, r. (_aug. , ' _) davies, w. (_may , ' _) de cobain, e. s. w. (_apr. , ' _) de lisle, e. j. m. p. (_aug. , ' _) de worms, baron h. (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) dilke, sir charles (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) dillwyn, lewis l. (_may , ' _) disraeli, rt. hon. b. (_apr. , ' _) dodds, j. (_apr. , ' _) dodson, rt. hon. j. g. (_mar. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) douglas, a. akers- (_sept. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) duckham, t. (_aug. , ' _) duff, robert w. (_may , ' _) duncan, colonel (_feb. , ' _) esslemont, peter (_may , ' _) ewing, a. orr- (_may , ' _) farquharson, dr. j. (_may , ' _) fawcett, prof. henry (_july , ' _) fenwick, c. (_oct. , ' _) field, admiral (_mar. , ' _) finlay, r. b. (_oct. , ' _) finlayson, j. (_june , ' _) fitzgerald, r. u. penrose (_may , ' _) forster, sir c. (_apr. , ' _) " (_aug. , ' _) forster, rt. hon. w. e. (_mar. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) fowler, sir r. h. (_nov. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) fraser, general (_may , ' _) fuller, g. p. (_feb. , ' _) gardner, h. (_july , ' _) gent-davis, r. (_feb. , ' _) gibb, eccleston (_apr. , ' _) gibson, rt. hon. e. (_nov. , ' _) gilhooly, james (_may , ' _) gladstone, rt. hon. w. e. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) gladstone, herbert j. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) gorst, sir j. e. (_aug. , ' _) " (_july , ' _) " (_feb. , ' _) goschen, rt. hon. g. j. (_apr. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) gosset, ralph a. (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) gosset, francis r. (_oct. . ' _) graham, r. cuninghame (_july , ' _) granby, marquis of (_aug. , ' _) gregory, g. b. (_mar. , ' _) grosvenor, lord richard (_oct. , ' _) haldane, r. b. (_nov. , ' _) hallett, colonel hughes (_june , ' _) hamilton, lord claud (_aug. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) hamilton, rt. hon. lord geo. (_july , ' _) hamley, general sir e. (_mar. , ' _) harcourt, rt. hon. sir wm. v. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_jan. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) harris, matthew (_may , ' _) hartington, marquis of (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_mar. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_april , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) healy, t. m. (_june , ' _) " (_aug. , ' _) heneage, rt. hon. edward (_mar. , ' _) henry, mitchell (_may , ' _) hibbert, j. t. (_aug. , ' _) hill, lord arthur w. (_feb. , ' _) hingley, benjamin (_june , ' _) hogg, sir james mcgarel (_feb. , ' _) holden, isaac (_july , ' _) howard, morgan (_oct. , ' _) howell, george (_mar. , ' _) illingworth, a. (_june , ' _) jacoby, james a. (_sept. , ' _) james, sir henry (_apr. , ' _) jenkins, d. j. (_aug. , ' _) johnston, w. (_aug. , ' _) kennaway, sir j. h. (_july , ' _) labouchere, henry (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) lacaita, c. c. (_feb. , ' _) lawrence, w. f. (_sept. , ' _) lawson, sir wilfr. (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) leahy, j. (_july , ' _) leicester, j. (_apr. , ' _) lennox, rt. hon. lord henry (_nov. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) lewis, g. pitt- (_apr. , ' _) lloyd, wilson (_aug. , ' _) lockwood, frank (_july , ' _) lowther, rt. hon. james (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) lymington, viscount (_may , ' _) mcarthur, a. (_june , ' _) mccoan, j. c. (_july , ' _) macdonald, rt. hon. j. h. a. (_may , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) macfarlane, d. h. (_dec. ,' _) " " (_june , ' _) m'lagan, p. (_apr. , ' _) maclean, f. w. (_july , ' _) maclean, j. m. (_aug. , ' _) mahon, col. o'gorman (_sept. , ' _) manners, rt. hon. lord john (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) mason, stephen (_apr. , ' _) matthews rt. hon. henry (_sept. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) mayne, admiral r. c. (_aug. , ' _) montagu, samuel (_apr. , ' _) morgan, rt. hon. g. o. (_mar. , ' _) morley, rt. h. john (_feb. , ' _) mowbray, rt. hon. sir j. r. (_june , ' _) mundella, rt. hon. a. j. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_july , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) muntz, p. a. (_may , ' _) newdegate, charles n. (_july , ' _) newnes, george (_aug. , ' _) nolan, colonel (_may , ' _) northcote, rt. hon. sir stafford (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_mar. , ' _) northcote, hon. henry s. (_sept. , ' _) o'brien, j. f. x. (_apr. , ' _) o'brien, patrick (_aug. , ' _) o'brien, william (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) o'connor, john (_may , ' _) o'donnell, frank h. (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) o'hea, patrick (_aug. , ' _) o'kelly, j. j. (_june , ' _) " (_june , ' _) " (_july , ' _) " (_june , ' _) o'shea, captain (_aug. , ' _) palmerston, lord (_apr. , ' _) parker, c. s. (_july , ' _) parnell, chas. s. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " (_june , ' _) " (_july , ' _) " (_aug. , ' _) peel, sir robert (_apr. , ' _) peel, sir robert ( rd bart.) (_july , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) peel, rt. hon. a. w. (_june , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) pelly, sir lewis (_aug. , ' _) pickersgill, e. h. (_aug. , ' _) picton, j. a. (_mar. , ' _) playfair, rt. hon. sir lyon (_mar. , ' _) potter, t. b. (_apr. , ' _) pugh, david (_aug. , ' _) pyne, j. d. (_feb. , ' _) raikes, rt. hon. h. cecil (_mar. , ' _) ramsay, lord (_may , ' _) redmond, w. h. k. (_june , ' _) richard, henry (_june , ' _) rigby, john (_june , ' _) ritchie, rt. hon. c. t. (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) roberts, j. (_apr. , ' _) robertson, j. p. b. (_may , ' _) robson, w. s. (_aug. , ' _) rogers, j. e. thorold (_nov. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) russell, lord john (_apr. , ' _) russell, sir charles (_aug. , ' _) russell, edward (_aug. , ' _) russell, t. w. (_apr. , ' _) samuelson, sir b. (_apr. , ' _) saunderson, col. e. j. (_july , ' _) schwabe, col. g. salis- (_june , ' _) sexton, thomas (_apr. , ' _) shaw, thomas (_may , ' _) shuttleworth, sir u. j. kay- (_mar. , ' _) simon, sir j. (_may , ' _) small, j. f. (_sept. , ' _) smith, s. (_july , ' _) smith, rt. hon. w. h. (_dec. , ' _) _frontisp._ " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) spencer, hon. c. r. (_mar. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_may , ' _) spicer, henry (_aug. , ' _) stansfeld, rt. hon. james (_apr. , ' _) strong, richard (_oct. , ' _) sullivan, t. d. (_apr. , ' _) sykes, christopher (_apr. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) tanner, dr. (_oct. , ' _) temple, sir richard (_feb. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_feb. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) tottenham, colonel (_may , ' _) trevelyan, rt. hon. sir g. o. (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_apr. , ' _) " " (_oct. , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) vivian, sir hussey (_apr. , ' _) waddy, s. d. (_oct. , ' _) walrond, colonel (_sept. , ' _) warton, charles n. (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) watkin, sir e. (_july , ' _) watson, james (_mar. , ' _) westminster academy (royal) (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) williams, j. carvell (_aug. , ' _) wilson, h. j. (_july , ' _) wilson, sir matthew (_aug. , ' _) winterbotham, a. b. (_june , ' _) wolff, sir henry drummond (_june , ' _) " " (_aug. , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_june , ' _) " " (_july , ' _) woodall, william (_july , ' _) " " (_nov. , ' _) " " (_sept. , ' _) woodhead, j. (_mar. , ' _) wortley, c. b. stuart- (_june , ' _) wright, caleb (_july , ' _) wright, h. smith (_may , ' _) [illustration: "welcome! little stranger."] harry furniss's royal academy. an artistic joke. the exhibition consisted of eighty-seven pictures, in black and white of course, but otherwise similar in size and general appearance to those annually seen on the walls of burlington house. anyone who visited it must have seen that it was the result of many years of labour, and not a few of the pictures possessed an artistic value quite apart from their interest as pictorial travesties. a wish has been very generally expressed that some permanent record, in a portable shape, but in character consonant with the artistic purpose of the exhibition, should be procurable by the public at large, both those who saw and those who did not see the originals at the gainsborough gallery and elsewhere. to meet this wish an #album#, containing reproductions of these #eighty-seven pictures#, with which will be included the contents of #the illustrated catalogue#, has been prepared and largely subscribed for. the issue of these albums, however, which will be the only reproductions of the exhibition, is strictly limited to #one thousand copies#, each of which will be signed by the artist. it may be mentioned that the whole of this undertaking, from its conception to the present time, has been in mr. furniss's own hands. this has enabled mr. furniss scrupulously to maintain the artistic character of the whole enterprise. in the preparation of this album he has spared no time or expense in trying reproductions by the different processes at home and abroad, similar to those used in the album of the royal academy pictures of , and the annual reproductions of the french salon. not, however, being satisfied with any of these cheaper methods, he has, regardless of the great cost, adopted the finest method of photogravure--viz., the photo intaglio process of a. and c. dawson, no. , farringdon street, and hogarth works, chiswick, the reproductions being made under his own supervision. each plate is hand-printed, and will in every way surpass, for artistic quality, anything of the kind ever published. as photogravure is the best and most faithful, as well as the most expensive method, this album is certain to be valuable, and a worthy and complete memorial of the "artistic joke"; whilst the price charged will be only _£ s._, the same as fixed, originally, when the adoption of the cheaper process was contemplated. the size of the album is imperial quarto ( by inches); the plates range, on an average, from × to ½ × inches. the whole is handsomely and tastefully bound in cloth and gilt edged. after the thousand veritable _Édition de luxe_ were printed, the plates were destroyed. _#the whole edition is rapidly being exhausted and the price will be raised to five guineas in a few days#_. _orders should be forwarded to_ the typographic-etching co., _no. , farringdon street_. _#£ s. d.#_ (_including case for packing_). "i have now hit upon a very happy thought."--_happy thoughts._ #"happy thoughts" birthday book.# _selected and arranged from "mr. punch's" pages_ by rosie burnand, [illustration] with #frontispiece portrait# of #f. c. burnand.# profusely illustrated and choicely printed. royal mo, elegant cloth. price s. d. bradbury, agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, london, e.c. #john leech's pictures# #of life and character.# from the collection of "mr. punch." containing nearly pages of pictures. in volumes, price s. d. each, or in one volume, price s. "the genius of leech has never been seen to greater advantage than in this gallery."--_morning post._ "we doubt whether in the whole range of the literary or pictorial art of the period, the earlier portion of the victorian era has been elsewhere so vigorously, so truthfully, as well as so humorously portrayed as in john leech's inimitable pictures. the series has an importance beyond the amusement of the moment--it serves both to commemorate the genius of the artist and the character of the age."--_country gentleman._ * * * # pictures of our people.# [illustration] _sketches from "punch"_ by #charles keene.# super royal quarto, gilt edges, price £ s. bradbury, agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, e.c. "a pictorial key to the history of the queen's reign." #punch's victorian era# an illustrated chronicle of fifty years of the reign of _her majesty the queen_, pictorially arranged with annals of the time from the contemporary pages of #"punch."# "there can be no better book for a drawing-room table, to suggest subjects of talk. the arts of engraving have made rapid progress since these pictures first appeared, but it would be hard to surpass the pregnant humour of the more famous of the political cartoons. they put the points on all the critical periods of our parliamentary history, and indicate in effective outline the action of political celebrities."--_times._ "it is surprising to find how complete a history of the times they present in vivid form, at least in its most salient features; and a history which is not confined to political events, but which catches and stereotypes many of the evanescent phases of popular fashion and opinion, which could hardly be preserved in any other way."--_guardian._ "this chronicle must have a place amongst standard books of reference."--_spectator._ in volumes, royal quarto, elegant, price £ s. bradbury, agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, e.c. our river: _personal reminiscences of an artist's life_ on the river thames. by g. d. leslie, r.a. with fifty original drawings and sketches by the author; and some others by frederick walker, a.r.a., h. s. marks, r.a., and briton riviere, r.a. [illustration: "punt sailing with the stream" (_reduced._)] "mr. leslie has a keen sense of the picturesque, while a genuine enthusiasm for the beauties of scenery to be found in the course of a leisurely boat-trip from putney to oxford, gives life and even force to what he says.... 'our river' is not an exhaustive work, but it should be read by all persons who are in any way interested in the subject."--_times._ "the diction moves in a sort of endless ripple, now telling of water-weeds and bank-flowers and birds, now lingering pleasantly over some of the traditions and old-world lore of which the thames furnishes such a goodly quantity."--_graphic._ demy octavo. cloth elegant, gilt edges. price s. d. bradbury, agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, e.c. #the handy-volume# #scott.# (novels.) complete. (poems.) containing all the waverley novels, and a complete collection of sir walter scott's poetry, making elegant little volumes of high external finish, enclosed in an artistic case, measuring only ¼ inches in width, ¼ inches in height, and ¾ inches in depth. the poetical volumes are adorned with frontispieces and illustrations representative of the best known scottish scenery, or of places which the genius of the poet has made famous. [illustration] contents of the volumes. . waverley. . guy mannering. . old mortality. . rob roy. . the antiquary. . heart of midlothian. . ivanhoe. . monastery. . the abbot. . kenilworth. . the pirate. . peveril of the peak. . bride of lammermoor. . legend of montrose. . fortunes of nigel. . quentin durward. . st. ronan's well. . redgauntlet. . the betrothed. . the talisman. . woodstock. . fair maid of perth. . anne of geierstein. . count robert of paris. . surgeon's daughter. . lay of last minstrel and memoir. . marmion. . lady of the lake. . lord of the isles. . rokeby. . bridal of triermain. . ballads, poems, &c. prices in "case." _£ s. d._ crimson cloth, extra gilt french morocco turkey morocco, or russia prices in "cabinet." _£ s. d._ enamelled boards fine cloth french morocco _each of the volumes can be had separately, price s. in enamelled boards; and in cloth, red edges, price s. d. the novels only (volumes to ) in half red cloth, price s. d. each._ bradbury, agnew, & co., , , , bouverie street, e.c. quotes and images from abraham lincoln. abraham lincoln included here are quotations and references to subjects in the eight volumes of "the writings of abraham lincoln". it begins with his first political address in and ends with a hastily scrawled note on the day of his assassination. i hoped that the design of the html page with quotations scrolling down along the side of various steel engravings and photographs of this great man might give the words a greater impact. d. w. , slaves are now in the united states military service abolishing slavery in washington, dc abraham or "abram" act in such a manner as to create no bad feeling affected contempt of refinement all know where he went in at; can't tell where he will come out at all agreed on this except south carolina and georgia and the war came as i would not be a slave, so i would not be a master ask of you military success, and i will risk the dictatorship bad promises are better broken than kept better for their own good than if they had been successful boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had starved to death bread that his own hands have earned came forward and made a virtue of necessity colonization common right of humanity compensated emancipation conspiracy to perpetuate and nationalize slavery constitution alludes to slavery three times could not afford to make money counterfeit logic crime to tell him that he is free! danger of third-parties declaring the african slave trade piracy direct while appearing to obey dirge of one who has no title to himself distinction between a purpose and an expectation don't think it will do him a bit of good either dred scott endeavoring to blow up a storm that he may ride upon estimated as mere brutes--as rightful property events control me; i cannot control events explanations explanatory of explanations explained familiarize yourselves with the chains of bondage father's request for money female spy first overtures for surrender from davis five-star mother forbids the marrying of white people with negroes forever forbid the two races living together fort pillow massacre four score and seven years ago frankly that i am not in favor of negro citizenship free all the slaves, and send them to liberia fugitive slave law further democratic party criticism general grant is a copious worker general mcclellan's tired horses get along without making either slaves or wives of negroes gingerbread god gave him but little, that little let him enjoy government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free government was made for the white people grant--very meager writer or telegrapher grant's exclusion of a newspaper reporter gratuitous hostility hard to affirm a negative house divided against itself cannot stand i can't spare that man, he fights! i must say i do not think myself fit for the presidency i authorize no bargains and will be bound by none i shall go to the wall for bread and meat i like the system which lets a man quit when he wants to idealization which so easily runs into the commonplace if the minority will not acquiesce, the majority must if slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong if you do not like him, let him alone ills you fly from have no real existence in the course of ultimate extinction irresponsible newspaper reporters and editors is there in all republics this inherent and fatal weakness? it is bad to be poor jibes and sneers in place of argument judges are as honest as other men, and not more so just leave her alone lee's army, and not richmond, is your true objective point letter suggesting a beard lincoln's definition of democracy localized repeal of writ of habeas corpus malice toward none, with charity for all man cannot prove a negative massacre of three hundred colored soldiers men interested to misunderstand mexico middle ground between the right and the wrong?? missouri compromise mixing of blood by the white and black races more a man speaks the less he is understood mother of five sons who have died mrs. lincoln's rebel brother-in-law killed need not have her for either, i can just leave her alone needs new tires on his carriage negro troops never stir up litigation news of grant's capture of vicksburg no wrong without its remedy no man can be silent if he would not appearing on the appointed wedding day not be much oppressed by a debt which they owe to themselves not seldom ragged, usually patched, and always shabby not best to swap horses when crossing a stream nothing valuable can be lost by taking time one long step removed from honest men order expelling all jews from your department order of retaliation ox jumped half over a fence pardoned patronizing if not contemptuous condescension pay and send substitutes peace at any price rose on all sides printing money probably forever forbid their living together public opinion in this country is everything repeal of the missouri compromise repeal of the fugitive slave law repentance before forgiveness reply to secretary seward's memorandum revolutions never go backward revolutions do not go backward right to eat the bread he earns right makes might secession is the essence of anarchy seward's bid for power sherman's march to the sea should be permitted to keep the little he has slave-traders slavery was recognized, by south and north alike, as an evil smallest are often the most difficult things to deal with story of the emancipation proclamation strikes suppressing all declarations that slavery is wrong take advice with candid readiness taking care to cut his expressions close that some should be rich shows that others may become rich the animal must be very slim somewhere thought of their mind--articulated in his tongue too lazy to be anything but a lawyer too silly to require any sort of notice trembled for his country two sons who want to work uncommon power of clear and compact statement wanting to work is so rare a want war at the best is terrible we accepted this war, and did not begin it we do not want to dissolve the union; you shall not what i deal with is too vast for malicious dealing who has the right needs not to fear whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad wilmot proviso wisely given their public servants but little power for mischief world has never had a good definition of the word liberty would make war rather than let the nation survive would accept war rather than let it perish you work and toil and earn bread, and i'll eat it you were right and i was wrong you are not lazy, and still you are an idler if you wish to read the entire context of any of these quotations, select a short segment and copy it into your clipboard memory--then open the appropriate ebook and paste the phrase into your computer's find or search operation. complete letters and speeches of abraham lincoln: http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/etext /lcent .txt the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. paris on sale at ye old paris booke shoppe rue de chÂteaudun _registered at stationers' hall and protected under the copyright law act. first published in complete book form in by messrs. ward, lock & co. (london), first printed in this edition april , reprinted june , september , june , january october ._ _see the bibliographical note on certain pirated and mutilated editions of "dorian gray" at the end of this present volume._ the preface the artist is the creator of beautiful things. to reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. the critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. the highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. this is a fault. those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. for these there is hope. they are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written, or badly written. that is all. the nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of caliban seeing his own face in a glass. the nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. the moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. no artist desires to prove anything. even things that are true can be proved. no artist has ethical sympathies. an ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. no artist is ever morbid. the artist can express everything. thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. from the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. from the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. all art is at once surface and symbol. those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. those who read the symbol do so at their peril. it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. when critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself. we can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. the only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. all art is quite useless. oscar wilde. the picture of dorian gray chapter i the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. from the corner of the divan of persian saddlebags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, lord henry wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of tokio who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. the sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. the dim roar of london was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. in the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, basil hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement, and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. as the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. but he suddenly started up, and, closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "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. look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. how perfectly hideous they are! except, of course, in the church. but then in the church they don't think. a bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. i feel quite sure of that. he is some brainless, beautiful creature, who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. don't flatter yourself, basil: you are not in the least like him." "you don't understand me, harry," answered the artist. "of course i am not like him. i know that perfectly well. indeed, i should be sorry to look like him. 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 anyone. 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 daresay, 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. i sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "i hate the way you talk about your married life, harry," said basil hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "i believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. you are an extraordinary fellow. you never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. your cynicism is simply a pose." "being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know," cried lord henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together, and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. the sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. in the grass, white daisies were tremulous. after a pause, lord henry pulled out his watch. "i am afraid i must be going, basil," he murmured, "and before i go, i insist on your answering a question i put to you some time ago." "what is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "you know quite well." "i do not, harry." "well, i will tell you what it is. i want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit dorian gray's picture. i want the real reason." "i told you the real reason." "no, you did not. you said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. now, that is childish." "harry," said basil hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. the sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. it is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. the reason i will not exhibit this picture is that i am afraid that i have shown in it the secret of my own soul." lord henry laughed. "and what is that?" he asked. "i will tell you," said hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "i am all expectation, basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "oh, there is really very little to tell, harry," answered the painter; "and i am afraid you will hardly understand it. perhaps you will hardly believe it." lord henry smiled, and, leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass, and examined it. "i am quite sure i shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, i can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." the wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. a grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. lord henry felt as if he could hear basil hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "the story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "two months ago i went to a crush at lady brandon's. you know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. with an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stockbroker, can gain a reputation for being civilised. well, after i had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge over-dressed dowagers and tedious academicians, i suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. i turned halfway round, and saw dorian gray for the first time. when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious sensation of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. i did not want any external influence in my life. you know yourself, harry, how independent i am by nature. i have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till i met dorian gray. then---- but i don't know how to explain it to you. something seemed to tell me that i was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. i had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. i grew afraid, and turned to quit the room. it was not conscience that made me do so; it was a sort of cowardice. i take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "conscience and cowardice are really the same things, basil. conscience is the trade-name of the firm. that is all." "i don't believe that, harry, and i don't believe you do either. however, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for i used to be very proud--i certainly struggled to the door. there, of course, i stumbled against lady brandon. 'you are not going to run away so soon, mr. hallward?' she screamed out. you know her curiously shrill voice?" "yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said lord henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long, nervous fingers. "i could not get rid of her. she brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladles with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. she spoke of me as her dearest friend. i had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionise me. i believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. suddenly i found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. we were quite close, almost touching. our eyes met again. it was reckless of me, but i asked lady brandon to introduce me to him. perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. it was simply inevitable. we would have spoken to each other without any introduction. i am sure of that. dorian told me so afterwards. he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "and how did lady brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his companion. "i know she goes in for giving a rapid _précis_ of all her guests. i remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. i simply fled. i like to find out people for myself. but lady brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. she either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know." "poor lady brandon! you are hard on her, harry!" said hallward, listlessly. "my dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. how could i admire her? but tell me, what did she say about mr. dorian gray?" "oh, something like, 'charming boy--poor dear mother and i absolutely inseparable. quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear mr. gray?' neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once." "laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy. hallward shook his head. "you don't understand what friendship is, harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. you like everyone; that is to say, you are indifferent to everyone." "how horribly unjust of you!" cried lord henry, tilting his hat back, and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. "yes; horribly unjust of you. i make a great difference between people. i choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. a man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. i have not got one who is a fool. they are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. is that very vain of me? i think it is rather vain." "i should think it was, harry. but according to your category i must be merely an acquaintance." "my dear old basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." "and much less than a friend. a sort of brother, i suppose?" "oh, brothers! i don't care for brothers. my elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "harry!" exclaimed hallward, frowning. "my dear fellow, i am not quite serious. but i can't help detesting my relations. i suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. i quite sympathise with the rage of the english democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. the masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if anyone of us makes an ass of himself he is poaching on their preserves. when poor southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. and yet i don't suppose that ten per cent. of the proletariat live correctly." "i don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, harry, i feel sure you don't either." lord henry stroked his pointed brown beard, and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "how english you are, basil! that is the second time you have made that observation. if one puts forward an idea to a true englishman--always a rash thing to do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. the only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. however, i don't propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. i like persons better than principles, and i like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. tell me more about mr. dorian gray. how often do you see him?" "every day. i couldn't be happy if i didn't see him every day. he is absolutely necessary to me." "how extraordinary! i thought you would never care for anything but your art." "he is all my art to me now," said the painter, gravely. "i sometimes think, harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world's history. the first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. what the invention of oil-painting was to the venetians, the face of antinoüs was to late greek sculpture, and the face of dorian gray will some day be to me. it is not merely that i paint from him, draw from him, sketch from him. of course i have done all that. but he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. i won't tell you that i am dissatisfied with what i have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. there is nothing that art cannot express, and i know that the work i have done, since i met dorian gray, is good work, is the best work of my life. but in some curious way--i wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. i see things differently, i think of them differently. i can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me, before. 'a dream of form in days of thought:'--who is it who says that? i forget; but it is what dorian gray has been to me. the merely visible presence of this lad--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! i wonder can you realise all that that means? unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is greek. the harmony of soul and body--how much that is! we in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. harry! if you only knew what dorian gray is to me! you remember that landscape of mine, for which agnew offered me such a huge price, but which i would not part with? it is one of the best things i have ever done. and why is it so? because, while i was painting it, dorian gray sat beside me. some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life i saw in the plain woodland the wonder i had always looked for, and always missed." "basil, this is extraordinary! i must see dorian gray." hallward got up from the seat, and walked up and down the garden. after some time he came back. "harry," he said, "dorian gray is to me simply a motive in art. you might see nothing in him. i see everything in him. he is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. he is a suggestion, as i have said, of a new manner. i find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours. that is all." "then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked lord henry. "because, without intending it, i have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, i have never cared to speak to him. he knows nothing about it. he shall never know anything about it. but the world might guess it; and i will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. my heart shall never be put under their microscope. there is too much of myself in the thing, harry--too much of myself!" "poets are not so scrupulous as you are. they know how useful passion is for publication. nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." "i hate them for it," cried hallward. "an artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. we live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. we have lost the abstract sense of beauty. some day i will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of dorian gray." "i think you are wrong, basil, but i won't argue with you. it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. tell me, is dorian gray very fond of you?" the painter considered for a few moments. "he likes me," he answered, after a pause; "i know he likes me. of course i flatter him dreadfully. i find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that i know i shall be sorry for having said. as a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. then i feel, harry, that i have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "days in summer, basil, are apt to linger," murmured lord henry. "perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. it is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. that accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. in the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. the thoroughly well-informed man--that is the modern ideal. and the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. it is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. i think you will tire first, all the same. some day you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something. you will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. the next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. it will be a great pity, for it will alter you. what you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic." "harry, don't talk like that. as long as i live, the personality of dorian gray will dominate me. you can't feel what i feel. you change too often." "ah, my dear basil, that is exactly why i can feel it. those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." and lord henry struck a light on a dainty silver case, and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. there was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. how pleasant it was in the garden! and how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. one's own soul, and the passions of one's friends--those were the fascinating things in life. he pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with basil hallward. had he gone to his aunt's he would have been sure to have met lord goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor, and the necessity for model lodging-houses. each class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. the rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. it was charming to have escaped all that! as he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. he turned to hallward, and said, "my dear fellow, i have just remembered." "remembered what, harry?" "where i heard the name of dorian gray." "where was it?" asked hallward, with a slight frown. "don't look so angry, basil. it was at my aunt, lady agatha's. she told me she had discovered a wonderful young man, who was going to help her in the east end, and that his name was dorian gray. i am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. she said that he was very earnest, and had a beautiful nature. i at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. i wish i had known it was your friend." "i am very glad you didn't, harry." "why?" "i don't want you to meet him." "you don't want me to meet him?" "no." "mr. dorian gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "you must introduce me now," cried lord henry, laughing. the painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "ask mr. gray to wait, parker: i shall be in in a few moments." the man bowed, and went up the walk. then he looked at lord henry. "dorian gray is my dearest friend," he said. "he has a simple and a beautiful nature. your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. don't spoil him. don't try to influence him. your influence would be bad. the world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses; my life as an artist depends on him. mind, harry, i trust you." he spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "what nonsense you talk!" said lord henry, smiling, and, taking hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. chapter ii as they entered they saw dorian gray. he was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of schumann's "forest scenes." "you must lend me these, basil," he cried. "i want to learn them. they are perfectly charming." "that entirely depends on how you sit to-day, dorian." "oh, i am tired of sitting, and i don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool, in a wilful, petulant manner. when he caught sight of lord henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "i beg your pardon, basil, but i didn't know you had anyone with you." "this is lord henry wotton, dorian, an old oxford friend of mine. i have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "you have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, mr. gray," said lord henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "my aunt has often spoken to me about you. you are one of her favourites, and, i am afraid, one of her victims also." "i am in lady agatha's black books at present," answered dorian, with a funny look of penitence. "i promised to go to a club in whitechapel with her last tuesday, and i really forgot all about it. we were to have played a duet together--three duets, i believe. i don't know what she will say to me. i am far too frightened to call." "oh, i will make your peace with my aunt. she is quite devoted to you. and i don't think it really matters about your not being there. the audience probably thought it was a duet. when aunt agatha sits down to the piano she makes quite enough noise for two people." "that is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered dorian, laughing. lord henry looked at him. yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely-curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. there was something in his face that made one trust him at once. all the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. one felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. no wonder basil hallward worshipped him. "you are too charming to go in for philanthropy, mr. gray--far too charming." and lord henry flung himself down on the divan, and opened his cigarette-case. the painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. he was looking worried, and when he heard lord henry's last remark he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "harry, i want to finish this picture to-day. would you think it awfully rude of me if i asked you to go away?" lord henry smiled, and looked at dorian gray. "am i to go, mr. gray?" he asked. "oh, please don't, lord henry. i see that basil is in one of his sulky moods; and i can't bear him when he sulks. besides, i want you to tell me why i should not go in for philanthropy." "i don't know that i shall tell you that, mr. gray. it is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. but i certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. you don't really mind, basil, do you? you have often told me that you liked your sitters to have someone to chat to." hallward bit his lip. "if dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself." lord henry took up his hat and gloves. "you are very pressing, basil, but i am afraid i must go. i have promised to meet a man at the orleans. good-bye, mr. gray. come and see me some afternoon in curzon street. i am nearly always at home at five o'clock. write to me when you are coming. i should be sorry to miss you." "basil," cried dorian gray, "if lord henry wotton goes i shall go too. you never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. ask him to stay. i insist upon it." "stay, harry, to oblige dorian, and to oblige me," said hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "it is quite true, i never talk when i am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. i beg you to stay." "but what about my man at the orleans?" the painter laughed. "i don't think there will be any difficulty about that. sit down again, harry. 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 someone else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. the aim of life is self-development. to realise 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. but the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. the mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. we are punished for our refusals. every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. the body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. it has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. it is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. you, mr. gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame----" "stop!" faltered dorian gray, "stop! you bewilder me. i don't know what to say. there is some answer to you, but i cannot find it. don't speak. let me think. or, rather, let me try not to think." for nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips, and eyes strangely bright. he was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. the few words that basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. music had stirred him like that. music had troubled him many times. but music was not articulate. it was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. words! mere words! how terrible they were! how clear, and vivid, and cruel! one could not escape from them. and yet what a subtle magic there was in them! they seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. mere words! was there anything so real as words? yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. he understood them now. life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. it seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. why had he not known it? with his subtle smile, lord henry watched him. he knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. he felt intensely interested. he was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether dorian gray was passing through a similar experience. he had merely shot an arrow into the air. had it hit the mark? how fascinating the lad was! hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate, comes only from strength. he was unconscious of the silence. "basil, i am tired of standing," cried dorian gray, suddenly. "i must go out and sit in the garden. the air is stifling here." "my dear fellow, i am so sorry. when i am painting, i can't think of anything else. but you never sat better. you were perfectly still. and i have caught the effect i wanted--the half-parted lips, and the bright look in the eyes. i don't know what harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. i suppose he has been paying you compliments. you mustn't believe a word that he says." "he has certainly not been paying me compliments. perhaps that is the reason that i don't believe anything he has told me." "you know you believe it all," said lord henry, looking at him with his dreamy, languorous eyes. "i will go out to the garden with you. it is horribly hot in the studio. basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "certainly, harry. just touch the bell, and when parker comes i will tell him what you want. i have got to work up this background, so i will join you later on. don't keep dorian too long. 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, flower-like 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 someone 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. you really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. it would be unbecoming." "what can it matter?" cried dorian gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "it should matter everything to you, mr. gray." "why?" "because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "i don't feel that, lord henry." "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! realise 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. 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." they rose up, and sauntered down the walk together. two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing. "you are glad you have met me, mr. gray," said lord henry, looking at him. "yes, i am glad now. i wonder shall i always be glad?" "always! that is a dreadful word. it makes me shudder when i hear it. women are so fond of using it. they spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. it is a meaningless word, too. the only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." as they entered the studio, dorian gray put his hand upon lord henry's arm. "in that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose. lord henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. the sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. in the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. the heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. after about a quarter of an hour hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at dorian gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes, and frowning. "it is quite finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. lord henry came over and examined the picture. it was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. "my dear fellow, i congratulate you most warmly," he said. "it is the finest portrait of modern times. mr. gray, come over and look at yourself." the lad started, as if awakened from some dream. "is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. "quite finished," said the painter. "and you have sat splendidly to-day. i am awfully obliged to you." "that is entirely due to me," broke in lord henry. "isn't it, mr. gray?" dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture, and turned towards it. when he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. a look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognised himself for the first time. he stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. the sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. he had never felt it before. basil hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. he had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. they had not influenced his nature. then had come lord henry wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. that had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. the scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold steal from his hair. the life that was to make his soul would mar his body. he would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. as he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. his eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. he felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "don't you like it?" cried hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, not understanding what it meant. "of course he likes it," said lord henry. "who wouldn't like it? it is one of the greatest things in modern art. i will give you anything you like to ask for it. i must have it." "it is not my property, harry." "whose property is it?" "dorian's, of course," answered the painter. "he is a very lucky fellow." "how sad it is!" murmured dorian gray, with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "how sad it is! i shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. but this picture will remain always young. it will never be older than this particular day of june.... if it were only the other way! if it were i who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! for that--for that--i would give everything! yes, there is nothing in the whole world i would not give! i would give my soul for that!" "you would hardly care for such an arrangement, basil," cried lord henry, laughing. "it would be rather hard lines on your work." "i should object very strongly, harry," said hallward. dorian gray turned and looked at him. "i believe you would, basil. you like your art better than your friends. i am no more to you than a green bronze figure. hardly as much, i daresay." the painter stared in amazement. it was so unlike dorian to speak like that. what had happened? he seemed quite angry. his face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "yes," he continued, "i am less to you than your ivory hermes or your silver faun. you will like them always. how long will you like me? till i have my first wrinkle, i suppose. i know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. your picture has taught me that. lord henry wotton is perfectly right. youth is the only thing worth having. when i find that i am growing old, i shall kill myself." hallward turned pale, and caught his hand. "dorian! dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. i have never had such a friend as you, and i shall never have such another. you are not jealous of material things, are you?--you who are finer than any of them!" "i am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. i am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. why should it keep what i must lose? every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. oh, if it were only the other way! if the picture could change, and i could be always what i am now! why did you paint it? it will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" the hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "this is your doing, harry," said the painter, bitterly. lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "it is the real dorian gray--that is all." "it is not." "if it is not, what have i to do with it?" "you should have gone away when i asked you," he muttered. "i stayed when you asked me," was lord henry's answer. "harry, i can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work i have ever done, and i will destroy it. what is it but canvas and colour? i will not let it come across our three lives and mar them." dorian gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. what was he doing there? his fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. he had found it at last. he was going to rip up the canvas. with a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "don't, basil, don't!" he cried. "it would be murder!" "i am glad you appreciate my work at last, dorian," said the painter, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "i never thought you would." "appreciate it? i am in love with it, basil. it is part of myself. i feel that." "well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. then you can do what you like with yourself." and he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "you will have tea, of course, dorian? and so will you, harry? or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "i adore simple pleasures," said lord henry. "they are the last refuge of the complex. but i don't like scenes, except on the stage. what absurd fellows you are, both of you! i wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. it was the most premature definition ever given. man is many things, but he is not rational. i am glad he is not, after all: though i wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. you had much better let me have it, basil. this silly boy doesn't really want it, and i really do." "if you let anyone have it but me, basil, i shall never forgive you!" cried dorian gray; "and i don't allow people to call me a silly boy." "you know the picture is yours, dorian. i gave it to you before it existed." "and you know you have been a little silly, mr. gray, and that you don't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "i should have objected very strongly this morning, lord henry." "ah! this morning! you have lived since then." there came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small japanese table. there was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted georgian urn. two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. dorian gray went over and poured out the tea. the two men sauntered languidly to the table, and examined what was under the covers. "let us go to the theatre to-night," said lord henry. "there is sure to be something on, somewhere. i have promised to dine at white's, but it is only with an old friend, so i can send him a wire to say that i am ill, or that i am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. i think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "it is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered hallward. "and, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "yes," answered lord henry, dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. it is so sombre, so depressing. sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "you really must not say things like that before dorian, harry." "before which dorian? the one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "before either." "i should like to come to the theatre with you, lord henry," said the lad. "then you shall come; and you will come too, basil, won't you?" "i can't really. i would sooner not. i have a lot of work to do." "well, then, you and i will go alone, mr. gray." "i should like that awfully." the painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "i shall stay with the real dorian," he said, sadly. "is it the real dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "am i really like that?" "yes; you are just like that." "how wonderful, basil!" "at least you are like it in appearance. but it will never alter," sighed hallward. "that is something." "what a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed lord henry. "why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. it has nothing to do with our own will. young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "don't go to the theatre to-night, dorian," said hallward. "stop and dine with me." "i can't, basil." "why?" "because i have promised lord henry wotton to go with him." "he won't like you the better for keeping your promises. he always breaks his own. i beg you not to go." dorian gray laughed and shook his head. "i entreat you." the lad hesitated, and looked over at lord henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. "i must go, basil," he answered. "very well," said hallward; and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. "it is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. good-bye, harry. good-bye, dorian. come and see me soon. come to-morrow." "certainly." "you won't forget?" "no, of course not," cried dorian. "and... harry!" "yes, basil?" "remember what i asked you, when we were in the garden this morning." "i have forgotten it." "i trust you." "i wish i could trust myself," said lord henry, laughing. "come, mr. gray, my hansom is outside, and i can drop you at your own place. good-bye, basil. it has been a most interesting afternoon." as the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. chapter iii at half-past twelve next day lord henry wotton strolled from curzon street over to the albany to call on his uncle, lord fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by society as he fed the people who amused him. his father had been our ambassador at madrid when isabella was young, and prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance at not being offered the embassy at paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good english of his despatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. the son, who had been his father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. he had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers, as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. 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 buttonhole 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. or rather, i know who he is. he is the last lord kelso's grandson. his mother was a devereux; lady margaret devereux. i want you to tell me about his mother. what was she like? whom did she marry? you have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. i am very much interested in mr. gray at present. i have only just met him." "kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman.--"kelso's grandson!... of course.... i knew his mother intimately. i believe i was at her christening. she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, margaret devereux; and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow; a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. certainly. i remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. the poor chap was killed in a duel at spa, a few months after the marriage. there was an ugly story about it. they said kelso got some rascally adventurer, some belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public; paid him, sir, to do it, paid him; and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. the thing was hushed up, but, egad, kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. he brought his daughter back with him, i was told, and she never spoke to him again. oh, yes; it was a bad business. the girl died too; died within a year. so she left a son, did she? i had forgotten that. what sort of boy is he? if he is like his mother he must be a good-looking chap." "he is very good-looking," assented lord henry. "i hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "he should have a pot of money waiting for him if kelso did the right thing by him. his mother had money too. all the selby property came to her, through her grandfather. her grandfather hated kelso, thought him a mean dog. he was, too. came to madrid once when i was there. egad, i was ashamed of him. the queen used to ask me about the english noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. they made quite a story of it. i didn't dare to show my face at court for a month. i hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." "i don't know," answered lord henry. "i fancy that the boy will be well off. he is not of age yet. he has selby, i know. he told me so. and... his mother was very beautiful?" "margaret devereux was one of the loveliest creatures i ever saw, harry. what on earth induced her to behave as she did, i never could understand. she could have married anybody she chose. carlington was mad after her. she was romantic, though. all the women of that family were. the men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. carlington went on his knees to her. told me so himself. she laughed at him, and there wasn't a girl in london at the time who wasn't after him. and by the way, harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about dartmoor wanting to marry an american? 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. a beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. a few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. the mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. yes; it was an interesting background. it posed the lad, made him more perfect as it were. behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... and how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as, with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure, he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. he answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. no other activity was like it. to project one's soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume; there was a real joy in that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... he was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in basil's studio; or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old greek marbles kept for us. there was nothing that one could not do with him. he could be made a titan or a toy. what a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade!... and basil? from a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! the new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, dryad-like and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! he remembered something like it in history. was it not plato, that artist in thought, who had first analysed it? was it not buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? but in our own century it was strange.... yes; he would try to be to dorian gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. he would seek to dominate him--had already, indeed, half done so. he would make that wonderful spirit his own. there was something fascinating in this son of love and death. suddenly he stopped, and glanced up at the houses. he found that he had passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. when he entered the somewhat sombre hall the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. he gave one of the footmen his hat and stick, and passed into the dining-room. "late as usual, harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. he invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. opposite was the duchess of harley; a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by everyone who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. next to her sat, on her right, sir thomas burdon, a radical member of parliament, who followed his leader in public life, and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the tories, and thinking with the liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. the post on her left was occupied by mr. erskine of treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to lady agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. his own neighbour was mrs. vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. fortunately for him she had on the other side lord faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the house of commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "we are talking about poor dartmoor, lord henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?" "i believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, duchess." "how dreadful!" exclaimed lady agatha. "really, someone should interfere." "i am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an american dry-goods store," said sir thomas burdon, looking supercilious. "my uncle has already suggested pork-packing, sir thomas." "dry-goods! what are american dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder, and accentuating the verb. "american novels," answered lord henry, helping himself to some quail. the duchess looked puzzled. "don't mind him, my dear," whispered lady agatha. "he never means anything that he says." "when america was discovered," said the radical member, and he began to give some wearisome facts. like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. the duchess sighed, and exercised her privilege of interruption. "i wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "really, our girls have no chance nowadays. it is most unfair." "perhaps, after all, america never has been discovered," said mr. erskine. "i myself would say that it had merely been detected." "oh! but i have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess, vaguely. "i must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. and they dress well, too. they get all their dresses in paris. i wish i could afford to do the same." "they say that when good americans die they go to paris," chuckled sir thomas, who had a large wardrobe of humour's cast-off clothes. "really! and where do bad americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "they go to america," murmured lord henry. sir thomas frowned. "i am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to lady agatha. "i have travelled all over it, in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. i assure you that it is an education to visit it." "but must we really see chicago in order to be educated?" asked mr. erskine, plaintively. "i don't feel up to the journey." sir thomas waved his hand. "mr. erskine of treadley has the world on his shelves. we practical men like to see things, not to read about them. the americans are an extremely interesting people. they are absolutely reasonable. i think that is their distinguishing characteristic. yes, mr. erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. i assure you there is no nonsense about the americans." "how dreadful!" cried lord henry. "i can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. there is something unfair about its use. it is hitting below the intellect." "i do not understand you," said sir thomas, growing rather red. "i do, lord henry," murmured mr. erskine, with a smile. "paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "was that a paradox?" asked mr. erskine. "i did not think so. perhaps it was. well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. to test reality we must see it on the tight-rope. when the verities become acrobats we can judge them." "dear me!" said lady agatha, "how you men argue! i am sure i never can make out what you are talking about. oh! harry, i am quite vexed with you. why do you try to persuade our nice mr. dorian gray to give up the east end? i assure you he would be quite invaluable. they would love his playing." "i want him to play to me," cried lord henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. "but they are so unhappy in whitechapel," continued lady agatha. "i can sympathise with everything, except suffering," said lord henry, shrugging his shoulders. "i cannot sympathise with that. it is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. there is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. one should sympathise 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. erskine listened. "yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes." a laugh ran round the table. he played with the idea, and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy, and winged it with paradox. the praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow silenus for being sober. facts fled before her like frightened forest things. her white feet trod the huge press at which wise omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. it was an extraordinary improvisation. he felt that the eyes of dorian gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and to lend colour to his imagination. he was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. he charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe laughing. dorian gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. at last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was waiting. she wrung her hands in mock despair. "how annoying!" she cried. "i must go. i have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at willis's rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. if i am late, he is sure to be furious, and i couldn't have a scene in this bonnet. it is far too fragile. a harsh word would ruin it. no, i must go, dear agatha. good-bye, lord henry, you are quite delightful, and dreadfully demoralising. i am sure i don't know what to say about your views. you must come and dine with us some night. tuesday? are you disengaged tuesday?" "for you i would throw over anybody, duchess," said lord henry, with a bow. "ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you come;" and she swept out of the room, followed by lady agatha and the other ladies. when lord henry had sat down again, mr. erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. "you talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?" "i am too fond of reading books to care to write them, mr. erskine. i should like to write a novel certainly; a novel that would be as lovely as a persian carpet, and as unreal. but there is no literary public in england for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopædias. of all people in the world the english have the least sense of the beauty of literature." "i fear you are right," answered mr. erskine. "i myself used to have literary ambitions, but i gave them up long ago. and now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may i ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?" "i quite forget what i said," smiled lord henry. "was it all very bad?" "very bad indeed. in fact i consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good duchess we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. but i should like to talk to you about life. the generation into which i was born was tedious. some day, when you are tired of london, come down to treadley, and expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable burgundy i am fortunate enough to possess." "i shall be charmed. a visit to treadley would be a great privilege. it has a perfect host, and a perfect library." "you will complete it," answered the old gentleman, with a courteous bow. "and now i must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. i am due at the athenæum. it is the hour when we sleep there." "all of you, mr. erskine?" "forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. we are practising for an english academy of letters." lord henry laughed, and rose. "i am going to the park," he cried. as he was passing out of the door dorian gray touched him on the arm. "let me come with you," he murmured. "but i thought you had promised basil hallward to go and see him," answered lord henry. "i would sooner come with you; yes, i feel i must come with you. do let me. and you will promise to talk to me all the time? no one talks so wonderfully as you do." "ah! i have talked quite enough for to-day," said lord henry, smiling. "all i want now is to look at life. you may come and look at it with me, if you care to." chapter iv one afternoon, a month later, dorian gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of lord henry's house in mayfair. it was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high-panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk long-fringed persian rugs. on a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by clodion, and beside it lay a copy of "_les cent nouvelles_," bound for margaret of valois by clovis eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that queen had selected for her device. some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panels of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in london. lord henry had not yet come in. he was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. so the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of "_manon lescaut_" that he had found in one of the bookcases. the formal monotonous ticking of the louis quatorze clock annoyed him. once or twice he thought of going away. at last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "how late you are, harry!" he murmured. "i am afraid it is not harry, mr. gray," answered a shrill voice. he glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. "i beg your pardon. i thought----" "you thought it was my husband. it is only his wife. you must let me introduce myself. i know you quite well by your photographs. i think my husband has got seventeen of them." "not seventeen, lady henry?" "well, eighteen, then. and i saw you with him the other night at the opera." she laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. she was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. she was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. she tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. her name was victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "that was at 'lohengrin,' lady henry, i think?" "yes; it was at dear 'lohengrin.' i like wagner's music better than anybody's. it is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. that is a great advantage: don't you think so, mr. gray?" the same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. dorian smiled, and shook his head: "i am afraid i don't think so, lady henry. i never talk during music, at least, during good music. if one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation." "ah! that is one of harry's views, isn't it, mr. gray? i always hear harry's views from his friends. it is the only way i get to know of them. but you must not think i don't like good music. i adore it, but i am afraid of it. it makes me too romantic. i have simply worshipped pianists--two at a time, sometimes, harry tells me. i don't know what it is about them. perhaps it is that they are foreigners. they all are, ain't they? even those that are born in england become foreigners after a time, don't they? it is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? you have never been to any of my parties, have you, mr. gray? you must come. i can't afford orchids, but i spare no expense in foreigners. they make one's rooms look so picturesque. but here is harry!--harry, i came in to look for you, to ask you something--i forget what it was--and i found mr. gray here. we have had such a pleasant chat about music. we have quite the same ideas. no; i think our ideas are quite different. but he has been most pleasant. i am so glad i've seen him." "i am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said lord henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "so sorry i am late, dorian. i went to look after a piece of old brocade in wardour street, and had to bargain for hours for it. nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing." "i am afraid i must be going," exclaimed lady henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "i have promised to drive with the duchess. good-bye, mr. gray. good-bye, harry. you are dining out, i suppose? so am i. perhaps i shall see you at lady thornbury's." "i daresay, my dear," said lord henry, shutting the door behind her, as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. then he lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa. "never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, dorian," he said, after a few puffs. "why, harry?" "because they are so sentimental." "but i like sentimental people." "never marry at all, dorian. men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious; both are disappointed." "i don't think i am likely to marry, henry. i am too much in love. that is one of your aphorisms. i am putting it into practice, as i do everything that you say." "who are you in love with?" asked lord henry, after a pause. "with an actress," said dorian gray, blushing. lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "that is a rather commonplace _début_." "you would not say so if you saw her, harry." "who is she?" "her name is sibyl vane." "never heard of her." "no one has. people will some day, however. she is a genius." "my dear boy, no woman is a genius. women are a decorative sex. they never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "harry, how can you?" "my dear dorian, it is quite true. i am analysing women at the present, so i ought to know. the subject is not so abstruse as i thought it was. i find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. the plain women are very useful. if you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. the other women are very charming. they commit one mistake, however. they paint in order to try and look young. our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. that is all over now. as long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. as for conversation, there are only five women in london worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent society. however, tell me about your genius. how long have you known her?" "ah! harry, your views terrify me." "never mind that. how long have you known her?" "about three weeks." "and where did you come across her?" "i will tell you, harry; but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. after all, it never would have happened if i had not met you. you filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. for days after i met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. as i lounged in the park, or strolled down piccadilly, i used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. some of them fascinated me. others filled me with terror. there was an exquisite poison in the air. i had a passion for sensations.... well, one evening about seven o'clock, i determined to go out in search of some adventure. i felt that this grey, monstrous london of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. i fancied a thousand things. the mere danger gave me a sense of delight. i remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. i don't know what i expected, but i went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black, grassless squares. about half-past eight i passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. a hideous jew, in the most amazing waistcoat i ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. he had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. 'have a box, my lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. there was something about him, harry, that amused me. he was such a monster. you will laugh at me, i know, but i really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. to the present day i can't make out why i did so; and yet if i hadn't--my dear harry, if i hadn't, i should have missed the greatest romance of my life. i see you are laughing. it is horrid of you!" "i am not laughing, dorian; at least i am not laughing at you. but you should not say the greatest romance of your life. you should say the first romance of your life. you will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. a _grande passion_ is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. that is the one use of the idle classes of a country. don't be afraid. there are exquisite things in store for you. this is merely the beginning." "do you think my nature so shallow?" cried dorian gray, angrily. "no; i think your nature so deep." "how do you mean?" "my dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. what they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, i call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect--simply a confession of failures. faithfulness! i must analyse it some day. the passion for property is in it. there are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. but i don't want to interrupt you. go on with your story." "well, i found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. i looked out from behind the curtain, and surveyed the house. it was a tawdry affair, all cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding cake. the gallery and pit were fairy full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what i suppose they called the dress-circle. women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on." "it must have been just like the palmy days of the british drama." "just like, i should fancy, and very depressing. i began to wonder what on earth i should do, when i caught sight of the play-bill. what do you think the play was, harry?" "i should think 'the idiot boy, or dumb but innocent.' our fathers used to like that sort of piece, i believe. the longer i live, dorian, the more keenly i feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. in art, as in politics, _les grandpères ont toujours tort_." "this play was good enough for us, harry. it was 'romeo and juliet.' i must admit that i was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. still, i felt interested, in a sort of way. at any rate, i determined to wait for the first act. there was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young hebrew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the play began. romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. mercutio was almost as bad. he was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. they were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. but juliet! harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. she was the loveliest thing i had ever seen in my life. you said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. i tell you, harry, i could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. and her voice--i never heard such a voice. it was very low at first, with deep mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. in the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. there were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. you know how a voice can stir one. your voice and the voice of sibyl vane are two things that i shall never forget. when i close my eyes, i hear them, and each of them says something different. i don't know which to follow. why should i not love her? harry, i do love her. she is everything to me in life. night after night i go to see her play. one evening she is rosalind, and the next evening she is imogen. i have seen her die in the gloom of an italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. i have watched her wandering through the forest of arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. she has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter herbs to taste of. she has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat. i have seen her in every age and in every costume. ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. they are limited to their century. no glamour ever transfigures them. one knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. one can always find them. there is no mystery in any of them. they ride in the park in the morning, and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. they have their stereotyped smile, and their fashionable manner. they are quite obvious. but an actress! how different an actress is! harry! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?" "because i have loved so many of them, dorian." "oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." "don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. there is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes," said lord henry. "i wish now i had not told you about sibyl vane." "you could not have helped telling me, dorian. all through your life you will tell me everything you do." "yes, harry, i believe that is true. i cannot help telling you things. you have a curious influence over me. if i ever did a crime, i would come and confess it to you. you would understand me." "people like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, dorian. but i am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. and now tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy: thanks:--what are your actual relations with sibyl vane?" dorian gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "harry! sibyl vane is sacred!" "it is only the sacred things that are worth touching, dorian," said lord henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "but why should you be annoyed? i suppose she will belong to you some day. when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. that is what the world calls a romance. you know her, at any rate, i suppose?" "of course i know her. on the first night i was at the theatre, the horrid old jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. i was furious with him, and told him that juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in verona. i think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that i had taken too much champagne, or something." "i am not surprised." "then he asked me if i wrote for any of the newspapers. i told him i never even read them. he seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought." "i should not wonder if he was quite right there. but, on the other hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all expensive." "well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed dorian. "by this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and i had to go. he wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. i declined. the next night, of course, i arrived at the place again. when he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that i was a munificent patron of art. he was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for shakespeare. he told me once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to 'the bard,' as he insisted on calling him. he seemed to think it a distinction." "it was a distinction, my dear dorian--a great distinction. most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. to have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. but when did you first speak to miss sibyl vane?" "the third night. she had been playing rosalind. i could not help going round. i had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least i fancied that she had. the old jew was persistent. he seemed determined to take me behind, so i consented. it was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" "no; i don't think so." "my dear harry, why?" "i will tell you some other time. now i want to know about the girl." "sibyl? oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. there is something of a child about her. her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when i told her what i thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. i think we were both rather nervous. the old jew stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. he would insist on calling me 'my lord,' so i had to assure sibyl that i was not anything of the kind. she said quite simply to me, 'you look more like a prince. i must call you prince charming.'" "upon my word, dorian, miss sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "you don't understand her, harry. she regarded me merely as a person in a play. she knows nothing of life. she lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played lady capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days." "i know that look. it depresses me," murmured lord henry, examining his rings. "the jew wanted to tell me her history, but i said it did not interest me." "you were quite right. there is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "sibyl is the only thing i care about. what is it to me where she came from? from her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. every night of my life i go to see her act, and every night she is more marvellous." "that is the reason, i suppose, that you never dine with me now. i thought you must have some curious romance on hand. you have; but it is not quite what i expected." "my dear harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and i have been to the opera with you several times," said dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder. "you always come dreadfully late." "well, i can't help going to see sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is only for a single act. i get hungry for her presence; and when i think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, i am filled with awe." "you can dine with me to-night, dorian, can't you?" he shook his head. "to-night she is imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow night she will be juliet." "when is she sibyl vane?" "never." "i congratulate you." "how horrid you are! she is all the great heroines of the world in one. she is more than an individual. you laugh, but i tell you she has genius. i love her, and i must make her love me. you, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm sibyl vane to love me! i want to make romeo jealous. i want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. i want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. my god, harry, how i worship her!" he was walking up and down the room as he spoke. hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. he was terribly excited. lord henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. how different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in basil hallward's studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way. "and what do you propose to do?" said lord henry, at last. "i want you and basil to come with me some night and see her act. i have not the slightest fear of the result. you are certain to acknowledge her genius. then we must get her out of the jew's hands. she is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. i shall have to pay him something, of course. when all that is settled, i shall take a west end theatre and bring her out properly. she will make the world as mad as she has made me." "that would be impossible, my dear boy?" "yes, she will. she has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age." "well, what night shall we go?" "let me see. to-day is tuesday. let us fix to-morrow. she plays juliet to-morrow." "all right. the bristol at eight o'clock; and i will get basil." "not eight, harry, please. half-past six. we must be there before the curtain rises. you must see her in the first act, where she meets romeo." "half-past six! what an hour! it will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an english novel. it must be seven. 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 realise." "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. there were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. there were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. and, yet, what a great reward one received! how wonderful the whole world became to one! to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord--there was a delight in that! what matter what the cost was? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation. he was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that dorian gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. to a large extent the lad was his own creation. he had made him premature. that was something. ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. but now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art; was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. yes, the lad was premature. he was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. the pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. it was delightful to watch him. with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! there was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the physical impulse began? how shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! and yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? or was the body really in the soul, as giordano bruno thought? the separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also. he began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. as it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others. experience was of no ethical value. it was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. but there was no motive power in experience. it was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. all that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. it was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly dorian gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. his sudden mad love for sibyl vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. there was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. what there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. it was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannised most strongly over us. our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. while lord henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. he got up and looked out into the street. the sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. the panes glowed like plates of heated metal. the sky above was like a faded rose. he thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life, and wondered how it was all going to end. when he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. he opened it, and found it was from dorian gray. it was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to sibyl vane. chapter v "mother, mother, i am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained. "i am so happy!" she repeated, "and you must be happy too!" mrs. vane winced, and put her thin bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter's head. "happy!" she echoed, "i am only happy, sibyl, when i see you act. you must not think of anything but your acting. mr. isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." the girl looked up and pouted. "money, mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? love is more than money." "mr. isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts, and to get a proper outfit for james. you must not forget that, sibyl. fifty pounds is a very large sum. mr. isaacs has been most considerate." "he is not a gentleman, mother, and i hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet, and going over to the window. "i don't know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman, querulously. sibyl vane tossed her head and laughed. "we don't want him any more, mother. prince charming rules life for us now." then she paused. a rose shook in her blood, and shadowed her cheeks. quick breath parted the petals of her lips. they trembled. some southern wind of passion swept over her, and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "i love him," she said, simply. "foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. the waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. the girl laughed again. the joy of a caged bird was in her voice. her eyes caught the melody, and echoed it in radiance; then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. when they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. she did not listen. she was free in her prison of passion. her prince, prince charming, was with her. she had called on memory to remake him. she had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. his kiss burned again upon her mouth. her eyelids were warm with his breath. then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. this young man might be rich. if so, marriage should be thought of. against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. the arrows of craft shot by her. she saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. suddenly she felt the need to speak. the wordy silence troubled her. "mother, mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? i know why i love him. i love him because he is like what love himself should be. but what does he see in me? i am not worthy of him. and yet--why, i cannot tell--though i feel so much beneath him, i don't feel humble. i feel proud, terribly proud. mother, did you love my father as i love prince charming?" the elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. sibyl rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "forgive me, mother. i know it pains you to talk about our father. but it only pains you because you loved him so much. don't look so sad. i am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. ah! let me be happy for ever!" "my child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. besides, what do you know of this young man? you don't even know his name. the whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when james is going away to australia, and i have so much to think of, i must say that you should have shown more consideration. however, as i said before, if he is rich...." "ah! mother, mother, let me be happy!" mrs. vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. at this moment the door opened, and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. he was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large, and somewhat clumsy in movement. he was not so finely bred as his sister. one would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. mrs. vane fixed her eyes on him, and intensified the smile. she mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. she felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "you might keep some of your kisses for me, sibyl, i think," said the lad, with a good-natured grumble. "ah! but you don't like being kissed, jim," she cried. "you are a dreadful old bear." and she ran across the room and hugged him. james vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "i want you to come out with me for a walk, sibyl. i don't suppose i shall ever see this horrid london again. i am sure i don't want to." "my son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured mrs. vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. she felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. it would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "why not, mother? i mean it." "you pain me, my son. i trust you will return from australia in a position of affluence. i believe there is no society of any kind in the colonies, nothing that i would call society; so when you have made your fortune you must come back and assert yourself in london." "society!" muttered the lad. "i don't want to know anything about that. i should like to make some money to take you and sibyl off the stage. i hate it." "oh, jim!" said sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! but are you really going for a walk with me? that will be nice! i was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to tom hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or ned langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. it is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. where shall we go? let us go to the park." "i am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "only swell people go to the park." "nonsense, jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. he hesitated for a moment. "very well," he said at last, "but don't be too long dressing." she danced out of the door. one could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. her little feet pattered overhead. he walked up and down the room two or three times. then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "quite ready, james," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. for some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough, stern son of hers. her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. she used to wonder if he suspected anything. the silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. she began to complain. women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "i hope you will be contented, james, with your sea-faring life," she said. "you must remember that it is your own choice. you might have entered a solicitor's office. solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "i hate offices, and i hate clerks," he replied. "but you are quite right. i have chosen my own life. all i say is, watch over sibyl. don't let her come to any harm. mother, you must watch over her." "james, you really talk very strangely. of course i watch over sibyl." "i hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre, and goes behind to talk to her. is that right? what about that?" "you are speaking about things you don't understand, james. in the profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying attention. i myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. that was when acting was really understood. as for sibyl, i do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not. but there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. he is always most polite to me. besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely." "you don't know his name, though," said the lad, harshly. "no," answered his mother, with a placid expression in her face. "he has not yet revealed his real name. i think it is quite romantic of him. he is probably a member of the aristocracy." james vane bit his lip. "watch over sibyl, mother," he cried, "watch over her." "my son, you distress me very much. sibyl is always under my special care. of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him. i trust he is one of the aristocracy. he has all the appearance of it, i must say. it might be a most brilliant marriage for sibyl. they would make a charming couple. his good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them." the lad muttered something to himself, and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers. he had just turned round to say something, when the door opened, and sibyl ran in. "how serious you both are!" she cried. "what is the matter?" "nothing," he answered. "i suppose one must be serious sometimes. good-bye, mother; i will have my dinner at five o'clock. everything is packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble." "good-bye, my son," she answered, with a bow of strained stateliness. she was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. "kiss me, mother," said the girl. her flower-like lips touched the withered cheek, and warmed its frost. "my child! my child!" cried mrs. vane, looking up to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery. "come, sibyl," said her brother, impatiently. he hated his mother's affectations. they went out into the flickering wind-blown sunlight, and strolled down the dreary euston road. the passers-by glanced in wonder at the sullen, heavy youth, who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. he was like a common gardener walking with a rose. jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of some stranger. he had that dislike of being stared at which comes on geniuses late in life, and never leaves the commonplace. sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. her love was trembling in laughter on her lips. she was thinking of prince charming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him but prattled on about the ship in which jim was going to sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. for he was not to remain a sailor, or a super-cargo, or whatever he was going to be. oh, no! a sailor's existence was dreadful. fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts down, and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! he was to leave the vessel at melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. the bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. or, no. he was not to go to the gold-fields at all. they were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad language. he was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. of course she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense house in london. yes, there were delightful things in store for him. but he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. she was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. he must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. god was very good, and would watch over him. she would pray for him, too, and in a few years he would come back quite rich and happy. the lad listened sulkily to her, and made no answer. he was heart-sick at leaving home. yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger of sibyl's position. this young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good. he was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. he was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature, and in that saw infinite peril for sibyl and sibyl's happiness. children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them. his mother! he had something on his mind to ask of her, something that he had brooded on for many months of silence. a chance phrase that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. he remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop across his face. his brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his under-lip. "you are not listening to a word i am saying, jim," cried sibyl, "and i am making the most delightful plans for your future. do say something." "what do you want me to say?" "oh! that you will be a good boy, and not forget us," she answered, smiling at him. he shrugged his shoulders. "you are more likely to forget me, than i am to forget you, sibyl." she flushed. "what do you mean, jim?" she asked. "you have a new friend, i hear. who is he? why have you not told me about him? he means you no good." "stop, jim!" she exclaimed. "you must not say anything against him. i love him." "why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "who is he? i have a right to know." "he is called prince charming. don't you like the name? oh! you silly boy! you should never forget it. if you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world. some day you will meet him: when you come back from australia. you will like him so much. everybody likes him, and i... love him. i wish you could come to the theatre to-night. he is going to be there, and i am to play juliet. oh! how i shall play it! fancy, jim, to be in love and play juliet! to have him sitting there! to play for his delight! i am afraid i may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. to be in love is to surpass one's self. poor dreadful mr. isaacs will be shouting 'genius' to his loafers at the bar. he has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will announce me as a revelation. i feel it. and it is all his, his only, prince charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. but i am poor beside him. poor? what does that matter? when poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. our proverbs want re-writing. they were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, i think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies." "he is a gentleman," said the lad, sullenly. "a prince!" she cried, musically. "what more do you want?" "he wants to enslave you." "i shudder at the thought of being free." "i want you to beware of him." "to see him is to worship him, to know him is to trust him." "sibyl, you are mad about him." she laughed, and took his arm. "you dear old jim, you talk as if you were a hundred. some day you will be in love yourself. then you will know what it is. don't look so sulky. surely you should be glad to think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than i have ever been before. life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and difficult. but it will be different now. you are going to a new world, and i have found one. here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the smart people go by." they took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. the tulip-beds across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. a white dust, tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed, hung in the panting air. the brightly-coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies. she made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. he spoke slowly and with effort. they passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters. sibyl felt oppressed. she could not communicate her joy. a faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win. after some time she became silent. suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies dorian gray drove past. she started to her feet. "there he is!" she cried. "who?" said jim vane. "prince charming," she answered, looking after the victoria. he jumped up, and seized her roughly by the arm. "show him to me. which is he? point him out. i must see him!" he exclaimed; but at that moment the duke of berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. "he is gone," murmured sibyl, sadly. "i wish you had seen him." "i wish i had, for as sure as there is a god in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong i shall kill him." she looked at him in horror. he repeated his words. they cut the air like a dagger. the people round began to gape. a lady standing close to her tittered. "come away, jim; come away," she whispered. he followed her doggedly, as she passed through the crowd. he felt glad at what he had said. when they reached the achilles statue she turned round. there was pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. she shook her head at him. "you are foolish, jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. how can you say such horrible things? you don't know what you are talking about. you are simply jealous and unkind. ah! i wish you would fall in love. love makes people good, and what you said was wicked." "i am sixteen," he answered, "and i know what i am about. mother is no help to you. she doesn't understand how to look after you. i wish now that i was not going to australia at all. i have a great mind to chuck the whole thing up. i would, if my articles hadn't been signed." "oh, don't be so serious, jim. you are like one of the heroes of those silly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in. i am not going to quarrel with you. i have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect happiness. we won't quarrel. i know you would never harm anyone i love, would you?" "not as long as you love him, i suppose," was the sullen answer. "i shall love him for ever!" she cried. "and he?" "for ever, too!" "he had better." she shrank from him. then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. he was merely a boy. at the marble arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to their shabby home in the euston road. it was after five o'clock, and sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. jim insisted that she should do so. he said that he would sooner part with her when their mother was not present. she would be sure to make a scene, and he detested scenes of every kind. in sibyl's own room they parted. there was jealousy in the lad's heart, and a fierce, murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between them. yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened, and kissed her with real affection. there were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs. his mother was waiting for him below. she grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered. he made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. the flies buzzed round the table, and crawled over the stained cloth. through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him. after some time, he thrust away his plate, and put his head in his hands. he felt that he had a right to know. it should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. leaden with fear, his mother watched him. words dropped mechanically from her lips. a tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. when the clock struck six, he got up, and went to the door. then he turned back, and looked at her. their eyes met. in hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. it enraged him. "mother, i have something to ask you," he said. her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. she made no answer. "tell me the truth. i have a right to know. were you married to my father?" she heaved a deep sigh. it was a sigh of relief. the terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. indeed in some measure it was a disappointment to her. the vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. the situation had not been gradually led up to. it was crude. it reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "no," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "my father was a scoundrel then?" cried the lad, clenching his fists. she shook her head. "i knew he was not free. we loved each other very much. if he had lived, he would have made provision for us. don't speak against him, my son. he was your father, and a gentleman. indeed he was highly connected." an oath broke from his lips. "i don't care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don't let sibyl.... it is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love with her, or says he is? highly connected, too, i suppose." for a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. her head drooped. she wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "i had none." the lad was touched. he went towards her, and stooping down he kissed her. "i am sorry if i have pained you by asking about my father," he said, "but i could not help it. i must go now. good-bye. don't forget that you will only have one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, i will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. i swear it." the exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. she was familiar with the atmosphere. she breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. she would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. trunks had to be carried down, and mufflers looked for. the lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. there was the bargaining with the cabman. the moment was lost in vulgar details. it was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. she was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. she consoled herself by telling sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. she remembered the phrase. it had pleased her. of the threat she said nothing. it was vividly and dramatically expressed. she felt that they would all laugh at it some day. chapter vi "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 white-washing." "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 organised, and to be highly organised 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 someone 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 anyone. 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 anyone 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 civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever knows what a pleasure is." "i know what pleasure is," cried dorian gray. "it is to adore someone." "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. chapter vii for some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. he escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands, and talking at the top of his voice. dorian gray loathed him more than ever. he felt as if he had come to look for miranda and had been met by caliban. lord henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. at least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand, and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. the heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. the youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. they talked to each other across the theatre, and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. some women were laughing in the pit. their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. the sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "what a place to find one's divinity in!" said lord henry. "yes!" answered dorian gray. "it was here i found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. when she acts you will forget everything. these common, rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. they sit silently and watch her. they weep and laugh as she wills them to do. she makes them as responsive as a violin. she spiritualises them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self." "the same flesh and blood as one's self! oh, i hope not!" exclaimed lord henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass. "don't pay any attention to him, dorian," said the painter. "i understand what you mean, and i believe in this girl. anyone you love must be marvellous, and any girl that has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. to spiritualise one's age--that is something worth doing. if this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. this marriage is quite right. i did not think so at first, but i admit it now. the gods made sibyl vane for you. without her you would have been incomplete." "thanks, basil," answered dorian gray, pressing his hand. "i knew that you would understand me. harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. but here is the orchestra. it is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom i am going to give all my life, to whom i have given everything that is good in me." a quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, sibyl vane stepped on to the stage. yes, she was certainly lovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, lord henry thought, that he had ever seen. there was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. a faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded, enthusiastic house. she stepped back a few paces, and her lips seemed to tremble. basil hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. motionless, and as one in a dream, sat dorian gray, gazing at her. lord henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "charming! charming!" the scene was the hall of capulet's house, and romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with mercutio and his other friends. the band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily-dressed actors, sibyl vane moved like a creature from a finer world. her body swayed, while she danced, as a plant sways in the water. the curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. yet she was curiously listless. she showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on romeo. the few words she had to speak-- good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss-- with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. the voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. it was wrong in colour. it took away all the life from the verse. it made the passion unreal. dorian gray grew pale as he watched her. he was puzzled and anxious. neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. she seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. they were horribly disappointed. yet they felt that the true test of any juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. they waited for that. if she failed there, there was nothing in her. she looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. that could not be denied. but the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. her gestures became absurdly artificial. she over-emphasised everything that she had to say. the beautiful passage-- thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak to-night-- was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. when she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines-- although i joy in thee, i have no joy of this contract to-night: it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, "it lightens." sweet, good-night! this bud of love by summer's ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet-- she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. it was not nervousness. indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. it was simply bad art. she was a complete failure. even the common, uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. they got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. the jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. the only person unmoved was the girl herself. when the second act was over there came a storm of hisses, and lord henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "she is quite beautiful, dorian," he said, "but she can't act. let us go." "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 apologise 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 anyone 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. the curtain went down on a titter, and some groans. as soon as it was over, dorian gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. the girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. there was a radiance about her. her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. when he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "how badly i acted to-night, dorian!" she cried. "horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement--"horribly! it was dreadful. are you ill? you have no idea what it was. you have no idea what i suffered." the girl smiled. "dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth--"dorian, you should have understood. but you understand now, don't you?" "understand what?" he asked, angrily. "why i was so bad to-night. why i shall always be bad. why i shall never act well again." he shrugged his shoulders. "you are ill, i suppose. when you are ill you shouldn't act. you make yourself ridiculous. my friends were bored. i was bored." she seemed not to listen to him. she was transfigured with joy. an ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "dorian, dorian," she cried, "before i knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. it was only in the theatre that i lived. i thought that it was all true. i was rosalind one night, and portia the other. the joy of beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of cordelia were mine also. i believed in everything. the common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. the painted scenes were my world. i knew nothing but shadows, and i thought them real. you came--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. you taught me what reality really is. to-night, for the first time in my life, i saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which i had always played. to-night, for the first time, i became conscious that the romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words i had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what i wanted to say. you had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. you had made me understand what love really is. my love! my love! prince charming! prince of life! i have grown sick of shadows. you are more to me than all art can ever be. what have i to do with the puppets of a play? when i came on to-night, i could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. 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 realised 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. she put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes. he thrust her back. "don't touch me!" he cried. a low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet, and lay there like a trampled flower. "dorian, dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "i am so sorry i didn't act well. i was thinking of you all the time. but i will try--indeed, i will try. it came so suddenly across me, my love for you. i think i should never have known it if you had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. kiss me again, my love. don't go away from me. i couldn't bear it. oh! don't go away from me. my brother.... no; never mind. he didn't mean it. he was in jest.... but you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? i will work so hard, and try to improve. don't be cruel to me because i love you better than anything in the world. after all, it is only once that i have not pleased you. but you are quite right, dorian. i should have shown myself more of an artist. it was foolish of me; and yet i couldn't help it. oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." a fit of passionate sobbing choked her. she crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and dorian gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. sibyl vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. her tears and sobs annoyed him. "i am going," he said at last, in his calm, clear voice. "i don't wish to be unkind, but i can't see you again. you have disappointed me." she wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. he turned on his heel, and left the room. in a few moments he was out of the theatre. where he went to he hardly knew. he remembered wandering through dimly-lit streets, past gaunt black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. drunkards had reeled by cursing, and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. he had seen grotesque children huddled upon doorsteps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. as the dawn was just breaking he found himself close to covent garden. the darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. the air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. he followed into the market, and watched the men unloading their waggons. a white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. he thanked him, and wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. they had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. a long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge jade-green piles of vegetables. under the portico, with its grey sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. the heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. iris-necked, and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. after a little while, he hailed a hansom, and drove home. for a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square with its blank, close-shuttered windows, and its staring blinds. the sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. from some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. it curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. in the huge gilt venetian lantern, spoil of some doge's barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. he turned them out, and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself, and hung with some curious renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at selby royal. as he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait basil hallward had painted of him. he started back as if in surprise. then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. after he had taken the buttonhole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. finally he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. in the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. the expression looked different. one would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. it was certainly strange. he turned round, and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. the bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. but the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. the quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. he winced, and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory cupids, one of lord henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. no line like that warped his red lips. what did it mean? he rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. there were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. it was not a mere fancy of his own. the thing was horribly apparent. he threw himself into a chair, and began to think. suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in basil hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. yes, he remembered it perfectly. he had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. surely his wish had not been fulfilled? such things were impossible. it seemed monstrous even to think of them. and, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth. cruelty! had he been cruel? it was the girl's fault, not his. he had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. then she had disappointed him. she had been shallow and unworthy. and, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. he remembered with what callousness he had watched her. why had he been made like that? why had such a soul been given to him? but he had suffered also. during the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, æon upon æon of torture. his life was well worth hers. she had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. they lived on their emotions. they only thought of their emotions. when they took lovers, it was merely to have someone with whom they could have scenes. lord henry had told him that, and lord henry knew what women were. why should he trouble about sibyl vane? she was nothing to him now. but the picture? what was he to say of that? it held the secret of his life, and told his story. it had taught him to love his own beauty. would it teach him to loathe his own soul? would he ever look at it again? no; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. the horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. the picture had not changed. it was folly to think so. yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. its blue eyes met his own. a sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. it had altered already, and would alter more. its gold would wither into grey. its red and white roses would die. for every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. but he would not sin. the picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. he would resist temptation. he would not see lord henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in basil hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. he would go back to sibyl vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. yes, it was his duty to do so. she must have suffered more than he had. poor child! he had been selfish and cruel to her. the fascination that she had exercised over him would return. they would be happy together. his life with her would be beautiful and pure. he got up from his chair, and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "how horrible!" he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. when he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. the fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. he thought only of sibyl. a faint echo of his love came back to him. he repeated her name over and over again. the birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. chapter viii it was long past noon when he awoke. his valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. finally his bell sounded, and victor came softly in with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old sèvres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. "monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling. "what o'clock is it, victor?" asked dorian gray, drowsily. "one hour and a quarter, monsieur." how late it was! he sat up, and, having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. one of them was from lord henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. he hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. the others he opened listlessly. they contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like, that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. there was a rather heavy bill, for a chased silver louis-quinze toilet-set, that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realise that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously worded communiations from jermyn street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. after about ten minutes he got up, and, throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. the cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. he seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. a dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. as soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light french breakfast, that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. it was an exquisite day. the warm air seemed laden with spices. a bee flew in, and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. he felt perfectly happy. suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started. "too cold for monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. "i shut the window?" dorian shook his head. "i am not cold," he murmured. was it all true? had the portrait really changed? or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? surely a painted canvas could not alter? the thing was absurd. it would serve as a tale to tell basil some day. it would make him smile. and, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! first in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. he almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. he knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. he was afraid of certainty. when the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. as the door was closing behind him he called him back. the man stood waiting for his orders. dorian looked at him for a moment. "i am not at home to anyone, victor," he said, with a sigh. the man bowed and retired. then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously-cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. the screen was an old one, of gilt spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid louis-quatorze pattern. he scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. should he move it aside, after all? why not let it stay there? what was the use of knowing? if the thing was true, it was terrible. if it was not true, why trouble about it? but what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind, and saw the horrible change? what should he do if basil hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? basil would be sure to do that. no; the thing had to be examined, and at once. anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. he got up, and locked both doors. at least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. then he drew the screen aside, and saw himself face to face. it was perfectly true. the portrait had altered. as he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. that such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. and yet it was a fact. was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms, that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas, and the soul that was within him? could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? or was there some other, more terrible reason? he shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. one thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. it had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to sibyl vane. it was not too late to make reparation for that. she could still be his wife. his unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of god to us all. there were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. but here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but dorian gray did not stir. he was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life, and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. he did not know what to do, or what to think. finally, he went over to the table, and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness, and accusing himself of madness. he covered page after page with wild words of sorrow, and wilder words of pain. there is a luxury in self-reproach. when we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. it is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. when dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard lord henry's voice outside. "my dear boy, i must see you. let me in at once. i can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." he made no answer at first, but remained quite still. the knocking still continued, and grew louder. yes, it was better to let lord henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. he jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "i am so sorry for it all, dorian," said lord henry, as he entered. "but you must not think too much about it." "do you mean about sibyl vane?" asked the lad. "yes, of course," answered lord henry, sinking into a chair, and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "it is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "yes." "i felt sure you had. did you make a scene with her?" "i was brutal, harry--perfectly brutal. but it is all right now. i am not sorry for anything that has happened. it has taught me to know myself better." "ah, dorian, i am so glad you take it in that way! i was afraid i would find you plunged in remorse, and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "i have got through all that," said dorian, shaking his head, and smiling. "i am perfectly happy now. i know what conscience is, to begin with. it is not what you told me it was. it is the divinest thing in us. don't sneer at it, harry, any more--at least not before me. i want to be good. i can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "a very charming artistic basis for ethics, dorian! i congratulate you on it. but how are you going to begin?" "by marrying sibyl vane." "marrying sibyl vane!" cried lord henry, standing up, and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "but, my dear dorian----" "yes, harry, i know what you are going to say. something dreadful about marriage. don't say it. don't ever say things of that kind to me again. two days ago i asked sibyl to marry me. i am not going to break my word to her. she is to be my wife!" "your wife! dorian!... didn't you get my letter? i wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down, by my own man." "your letter? oh, yes, i remember. i have not read it yet, harry. i was afraid there might be something in it that i wouldn't like. you cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "you know nothing then?" "what do you mean?" lord henry walked across the room, and, sitting down by dorian gray, took both his hands in his own, and held them tightly. "dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that sibyl vane is dead." a cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from lord henry's grasp. "dead! sibyl dead! it is not true! it is a horrible lie! how dare you say it?" "it is quite true, dorian," said lord henry, gravely. "it is in all the morning papers. i wrote down to you to ask you not to see anyone till i came. there will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. things like that make a man fashionable in paris. but in london people are so prejudiced. here, one should never make one's _début_ with a scandal. one should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age. i suppose they don't know your name at the theatre? if they don't, it is all right. did anyone see you going round to her room? that is an important point." dorian did not answer for a few moments. he was dazed with horror. finally he stammered in a stifled voice, "harry, did you say an inquest? what did you mean by that? did sibyl----? oh, harry, i can't bear it! but be quick. tell me everything at once." "i have no doubt it was not an accident, dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. it seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. they waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. they ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. she had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. i don't know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. i should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "harry, harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. i see by _the standard_ that she was seventeen. i should have thought she was almost younger than that. she looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. you must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. it is a patti night, and everybody will be there. you can come to my sister's box. she has got some smart women with her." "so i have murdered sibyl vane," said dorian gray, half to himself--"murdered her as surely as if i had cut her little throat with a knife. yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. the birds sing just as happily in my garden. and to-night i am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, i suppose, afterwards. how extraordinarily dramatic life is! if i had read all this in a book, harry, i think i would have wept over it. somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. here is the first passionate love-letter i have ever written in my 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. their origin is pure vanity. their result is absolutely _nil_. they give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. that is all that can be said for them. they are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." "harry," cried dorian gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that i cannot feel this tragedy as much as i want to? i don't think i am heartless. do you?" "you have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, dorian," answered lord henry, with his sweet, melancholy smile. the lad frowned. "i don't like that explanation, harry," he rejoined, "but i am glad you don't think i am heartless. i am nothing of the kind. i know i am not. and yet i must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. it seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. it has all the terrible beauty of a greek tragedy, a tragedy in which i took a great part, but by which i have not been wounded." "it is an interesting question," said lord henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism--"an extremely interesting question. i fancy that the true explanation is this. it often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. they affect us just as vulgarity affects us. they give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. if these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. or rather we are both. we watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. in the present case, what is it that has really happened? someone has killed herself for love of you. i wish that i had ever had such an experience. it would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. the people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after i had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. they have become stout and tedious, and when i meet them they go in at once for reminiscences. that awful memory of woman! what a fearful thing it is! and what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! one should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. details are always vulgar." "i must sow poppies in my garden," sighed dorian. "there is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "life has always poppies in her hands. of course, now and then things linger. i once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. ultimately, however, it did die. i forget what killed it. i think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. that is always a dreadful moment. it fills one with the terror of eternity. well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at lady hampshire's, i found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. i had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel. she dragged it out again, and assured me that i had spoiled her life. i am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so i did not feel any anxiety. but what a lack of taste she showed! the one charm of the past is that it is the past. but women never know when the curtain has fallen. they always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over they propose to continue it. if they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. they are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. you are more fortunate than i am. i assure you, dorian, that not one of the women i have known would have done for me what sibyl vane did for you. ordinary women always console themselves. some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours. never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. it always means that they have a history. others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. they flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. religion consoles some. its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me; and i can quite understand it. besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. conscience makes egotists of us all. yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. indeed, i have not mentioned the most important one." "what is that, harry?" said the lad, listlessly. "oh, the obvious consolation. taking someone else's admirer when one loses one's own. in good society that always whitewashes a woman. but really, dorian, how different sibyl vane must have been from all the women one meets! there is something to me quite beautiful about her death. i am glad i am living in a century when such wonders happen. they make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "i was terribly cruel to her. you forget that." "i am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. they have wonderfully primitive instincts. we have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. they love being dominated. i am sure you were splendid. i have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but i can fancy how delightful you looked. and, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that i see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to everything." "what was that, harry?" "you said to me that sibyl vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was desdemona one night, and ophelia the other; that if she died as juliet, she came to life as imogen." "she will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands. "no, she will never come to life. she has played her last part. but you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from webster, or ford, or cyril tourneur. the girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. to you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. the moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. mourn for ophelia, if you like. put ashes on your head because cordelia was strangled. cry out against heaven because the daughter of brabantio died. but don't waste your tears over sibyl vane. she was less real than they are." there was a silence. the evening darkened in the room. noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. the colours faded wearily out of things. after some time dorian gray looked up. "you have explained me to myself, harry," he murmured, with something of a sigh of relief. "i felt all that you have said, but somehow i was afraid of it, and i could not express it to myself. how well you know me! but we will not talk again of what has happened. it has been a marvellous experience. that is all. i wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "life has everything in store for you, dorian. there is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "but suppose, harry, i became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? what then?" "ah, then," said lord henry, rising to go--"then, my dear dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. as it is, they are brought to you. no, you must keep your good looks. we live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. we cannot spare you. and now you had better dress, and drive down to the club. we are rather late, as it is." "i think i shall join you at the opera, harry. i feel too tired to eat anything. what is the number of your sister's box?" "twenty-seven, i believe. it is on the grand tier. you will see her name on the door. but i am sorry you won't come and dine." "i don't feel up to it," said dorian, listlessly. "but i am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. you are certainly my best friend. no one has ever understood me as you have." "we are only at the beginning of our friendship, dorian," answered lord henry, shaking him by the hand. "good-bye. i shall see you before nine-thirty, i hope. remember, patti is singing." as he closed the door behind him, dorian gray touched the bell, and in a few minutes victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. he waited impatiently for him to go. the man seemed to take an interminable time over everything. as soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen, and drew it back. no; there was no further change in the picture. it had received the news of sibyl vane's death before he had known of it himself. it was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. the vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. or was it indifferent to results? did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. poor sibyl! what a romance it had all been! she had often mimicked death on the stage. then death himself had touched her, and taken her with him. how had she played that dreadful last scene? had she cursed him, as she died? no; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. she had atoned for everything, by the sacrifice she had made of her life. he would not think any more of what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. when he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of love. a wonderful tragic figure? tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. he brushed them away hastily, and looked again at the picture. he felt that the time had really come for making his choice. or had his choice already been made? yes, life had decided that for him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things. the portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. a feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. once, in boyish mockery of narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. morning after morning he had sat before the portrait, wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? the pity of it! the pity of it! for a moment he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. it had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. and, yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? besides, was it really under his control? had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? if thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love of strange affinity? but the reason was of no importance. he would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. if the picture was to alter, it was to alter. that was all. why inquire too closely into it? for there would be a real pleasure in watching it. he would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. this portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. as it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. and when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. when the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. like the gods of the greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. what did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas? he would be safe. that was everything. he drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. an hour later he was at the opera, and lord henry was leaning over his chair. chapter ix as he was sitting at breakfast next morning, basil hallward was shown into the room. "i am so glad i have found you, dorian," he said, gravely. "i called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. of course i knew that was impossible. but i wish you had left word where you had really gone to. i passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. i think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. i read of it quite by chance in a late edition of _the globe_, that i picked up at the club. i came here at once, and was miserable at not finding you. i can't tell you how heartbroken i am about the whole thing. i know what you must suffer. but where were you? did you go down and see the girl's mother? for a moment i thought of following you there. they gave the address in the paper. somewhere in the euston road, isn't it? but i was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that i could not lighten. poor woman! what a state she must be in! and her only child, too! what did she say about it all?" "my dear basil, how do i know?" murmured dorian gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of venetian glass, and looking dreadfully bored. "i was at the opera. you should have come on there. i met lady gwendolen, harry's sister, for the first time. we were in her box. she is perfectly charming; and patti sang divinely. don't talk about horrid subjects. if one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. it is simply expression, as harry says, that gives reality to things. i may mention that she was not the woman's only child. there is a son, a charming fellow, i believe. but he is not on the stage. he is a sailor, or something. and now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting." "you went to the opera?" said hallward, speaking very slowly, and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "you went to the opera while sibyl vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? you can talk to me of other women being charming, and of patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!" "stop, basil! i won't hear it!" cried dorian, leaping to his feet. "you must not tell me about things. what is done is done. what is past is past." "you call yesterday the past?" "what has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. a man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. i don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. i want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them." "dorian, this is horrible! something has changed you completely. you look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come down to my studio to sit for his picture. but you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. now, i don't know what has come over you. you talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. it is all harry's influence. i see that." the lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "i owe a great deal to harry, basil," he said, at last--"more than i owe to you. you only taught me to be vain." "well, i am punished for that, dorian--or shall be some day." "i don't know what you mean, basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "i don't know what you want. what do you want?" "i want the dorian gray i used to paint," said the artist, sadly. "basil," said the lad, going over to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. yesterday when i heard that sibyl vane had killed herself----" "killed herself! good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. "my dear basil! surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? of course she killed herself." the elder man buried his face in his hands. "how fearful," he muttered, and a shudder ran through him. "no," said dorian gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. it is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. as a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. they are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. you know what i mean--middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. how different sibyl was! she lived her finest tragedy. she was always a heroine. the last night she played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. when she knew its unreality, she died, as juliet might have died. she passed again into the sphere of art. there is something of the martyr about her. her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. but, as i was saying, you must not think i have not suffered. if you had come in yesterday at a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six--you would have found me in tears. even harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what i was going through. i suffered immensely. then it passed away. i cannot repeat an emotion. no one can, except sentimentalists. and you are awfully unjust, basil. you come down here to console me. that is charming of you. you find me consoled, and you are furious. how like a sympathetic person! you remind me of a story harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered--i forget exactly what it was. finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. he had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. and besides, my dear old basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from the proper artistic point of view. was it not gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? i remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. well, i am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. i love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp, there is much to be got from all these. but the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. to become the spectator of one's own life, as harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. i know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. you have not realised how i have developed. i was a schoolboy when you knew me. i am a man now. i have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. i am different, but you must not like me less. i am changed, but you must always be my friend. of course i am very fond of harry. but i know that you are better than he is. you are not stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. and how happy we used to be together! don't leave me, basil, and don't quarrel with me. i am what i am. there is nothing more to be said." the painter felt strangely moved. the lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning-point in his art. he could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. after all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. there was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "well, dorian," he said, at length, with a sad smile, "i won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. i only trust your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. the inquest is to take place this afternoon. have they summoned you?" dorian shook his head and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." there was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "they don't know my name," he answered. "but surely she did?" "only my christian name, and that i am quite sure she never mentioned to anyone. she told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who i was, and that she invariably told them my name was prince charming. it was pretty of her. you must do me a drawing of sibyl, basil. i should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "i will try and do something, dorian, if it would please you. but you must come and sit to me yourself again. i can't get on without you." "i can never sit to you again, basil. it is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. the painter stared at him. "my dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "do you mean to say you don't like what i did of you? where is it? why have you pulled the screen in front of it? let me look at it. it is the best thing i have ever done. do take the screen away, dorian. it is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. i felt the room looked different as i came in." "my servant has nothing to do with it, basil. you don't imagine i let him arrange my room for me? he settles my flowers for me sometimes--that is all. no; i did it myself. the light was too strong on the portrait." "too strong! surely not, my dear fellow? it is an admirable place for it. let me see it." and hallward walked towards the corner of the room. a cry of terror broke from dorian gray's lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. i don't wish you to." "not look at my own work! you are not serious. why shouldn't i look at it?" exclaimed hallward, laughing. "if you try to look at it, basil, on my word of honour i will never speak to you again as long as i live. i am quite serious. i don't offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. but, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." hallward was thunderstruck. he looked at dorian gray in absolute amazement. he had never seen him like this before. the lad was actually pallid with rage. his hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. he was trembling all over. "dorian!" "don't speak!" "but what is the matter? of course i won't look at it if you don't want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going over towards the window. "but, really, it seems rather absurd that i shouldn't see my own work, especially as i am going to exhibit it in paris in the autumn. i shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so i must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "to exhibit it? you want to exhibit it?" exclaimed dorian gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. was the world going to be shown his secret? were people to gape at the mystery of his life? that was impossible. something--he did not know what--had to be done at once. "yes; i don't suppose you will object to that. george petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the rue de sèze, which will open the first week in october. the portrait will only be away a month. i should think you could easily spare it for that time. in fact, you are sure to be out of town. and if you keep it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it." dorian gray passed his hand over his forehead. there were beads of perspiration there. he felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "you told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "why have you changed your mind? you people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. the only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. you can't have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. you told harry exactly the same thing." he stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. he remembered that lord henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "if you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. he told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." yes, perhaps basil, too, had his secret. he would ask him and try. "basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. let me know yours and i shall tell you mine. what was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" the painter shuddered in spite of himself. "dorian, if i told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. i could not bear your doing either of those two things. if you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at. if you wish the best work i have ever done to be hidden from the world, i am satisfied. your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "no, basil, you must tell me," insisted dorian gray. "i think i have a right to know." his feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. he was determined to find out basil hallward's mystery. "let us sit down, dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "let us sit down. and just answer me one question. have you noticed in the picture something curious?--something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands, and gazing at him with wild, startled eyes. "i see you did. don't speak. wait till you hear what i have to say. dorian, from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i was dominated, soul, brain, and power by you. you became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. i worshipped you. i grew jealous of everyone to whom you spoke. i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you. when you were away from me you were still present in my art.... of course i never let you know anything about this. it would have been impossible. you would not have understood it. i hardly understood it myself. i only knew that i had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... weeks and weeks went on, and i grew more and more absorbed in you. then came a new development. i had drawn you as paris in dainty armour, and as adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of adrian's barge, gazing across the green turbid nile. you had leant over the still pool of some greek woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. and it had all been what art should be, unconscious, ideal, and remote. one day, a fatal day i sometimes think, i determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, i cannot tell. but i know that as i worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. i grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. i felt, dorian, that i had told too much, that i had put too much of myself into it. then it was that i resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. you were a little annoyed; but then you did not realise all that it meant to me. harry, to whom i talked about it, laughed at me. but i did not mind that. when the picture was finished, and i sat alone with it, i felt that i was right.... well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as i had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that i had been foolish in imagining that i had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking, and that i could paint. even now i cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. art is always more abstract than we fancy. form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. it often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. and so when i got this offer from paris i determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. it never occurred to me that you would refuse. i see now that you were right. the picture cannot be shown. you must not be angry with me, dorian, for what i have told you. as i said to harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." dorian gray drew a long breath. the colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. the peril was over. he was safe for the time. yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. lord henry had the charm of being very dangerous. but that was all. he was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. would there ever be someone who would fill him with a strange idolatry? was that one of the things that life had in store? "it is extraordinary to me, dorian," said hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. did you really see it?" "i saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?" dorian shook his head. "you must not ask me that, basil. i could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "you will some day, surely?" "never." "well, perhaps you are right. and now good-bye, dorian. you have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. whatever i have done that is good, i owe to you. ah! you don't know what it cost me to tell you all that i have told you." "my dear basil," said dorian, "what have you told me? simply that you felt that you admired me too much. that is not even a compliment." "it was not intended as a compliment. it was a confession. now that i have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. perhaps one should never put one's worship into words." "it was a very disappointing confession." "why, what did you expect, dorian? you didn't see anything else in the picture, did you? there was nothing else to see?" "no; there was nothing else to see. why do you ask? but you mustn't talk about worship. it is foolish. you and i are friends, basil, and we must always remain so." "you have got harry," said the painter, sadly. "oh, harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "harry spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in doing what is improbable. just the sort of life i would like to lead. but still i don't think i would go to harry if i were in trouble. i would sooner go to you, basil." "you will sit to me again?" "impossible!" "you spoil my life as an artist by refusing, dorian. no man came across two ideal things. few come across one." "i can't explain it to you, basil, but i must never sit to you again. there is something fatal about a portrait. it has a life of its own. i will come and have tea with you. that will be just as pleasant." "pleasanter for you, i am afraid," murmured hallward, regretfully. "and now good-bye. i am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once again. but that can't be helped. i quite understand what you feel about it." as he left the room, dorian gray smiled to himself. poor basil! how little he knew of the true reason! and how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! how much that strange confession explained to him! the painter's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. there seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. he sighed, and touched the bell. the portrait must be hidden away at all costs. he could not run such a risk of discovery again. it had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. chapter x when his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. the man was quite impassive, and waited for his orders. dorian lit a cigarette, and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. he could see the reflection of victor's face perfectly. it was like a placid mask of servility. there was nothing to be afraid of, there. yet he thought it best to be on his guard. speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. it seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. or was that merely his own fancy? after a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, mrs. leaf bustled into the library. he asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "the old schoolroom, mr. dorian?" she exclaimed. "why, it is full of dust. i must get it arranged, and put straight before you go into it. it is not fit for you to see, sir. it is not, indeed." "i don't want it put straight, leaf. i only want the key." "well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years, not since his lordship died." he winced at the mention of his grandfather. he had hateful memories of him. "that does not matter," he answered. "i simply want to see the place--that is all. give me the key." "and here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "here is the key. i'll have it off the bunch in a moment. but you don't think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "no, no," he cried, petulantly. "thank you, leaf. that will do." she lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. he sighed, and told her to manage things as she thought best. she left the room, wreathed in smiles. as the door closed, dorian put the key in his pocket, and looked round the room. his eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near bologna. yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. it had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. what the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. they would mar its beauty, and eat away its grace. they would defile it, and make it shameful. and yet the thing would still live on. it would be always alive. he shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. basil would have helped him to resist lord henry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. the love that he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. it was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and that dies when the senses tire. it was such love as michael angelo had known, and montaigne, and winckelmann, and shakespeare himself. yes, basil could have saved him. but it was too late now. the past could always be annihilated. regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. but the future was inevitable. there were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. he took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. was the face on the canvas viler than before? it seemed to him that it was unchanged; and yet his loathing of it was intensified. gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. it was simply the expression that had altered. that was horrible in its cruelty. compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow basil's reproaches about sibyl vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! his own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgment. a look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. as he did so, a knock came to the door. he passed out as his servant entered. "the persons are here, monsieur." he felt that the man must be got rid of at once. he must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. there was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note to lord henry, asking him to send him round something to read, and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. "wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here." in two or three minutes there was another knock, and mr. hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of south audley street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. mr. hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. as a rule, he never left his shop. he waited for people to come to him. but he always made an exception in favour of dorian gray. there was something about dorian that charmed everybody. it was a pleasure even to see him. "what can i do for you, mr. gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "i thought i would do myself the honour of coming round in person. i have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. picked it up at a sale. old florentine. came from fonthill, i believe. admirably suited for a religious subject, mr. gray." "i am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, mr. hubbard. i shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though i don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day i only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. it is rather heavy, so i thought i would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." "no trouble at all, mr. gray. i am delighted to be of any service to you. which is the work of art, sir?" "this," replied dorian, moving the screen back. "can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? i don't want it to get scratched going upstairs." "there will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "and, now, where shall we carry it to, mr. gray?" "i will show you the way, mr. hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. or perhaps you had better go in front. i am afraid it is right at the top of the house. we will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider." he held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. the elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of mr. hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. "something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when they reached the top landing. and he wiped his shiny forehead. "i am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured dorian, as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. he had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. it was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last lord kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. it appeared to dorian to have but little changed. there was the huge italian _cassone_, with its fantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. there the satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. on the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged flemish tapestry, where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. how well he remembered it all! every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. he recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. how little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! but there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. he had the key, and no one else could enter it. beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. what did it matter? no one could see it. he himself would not see it. why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? he kept his youth--that was enough. and, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? there was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world basil hallward's masterpiece. no; that was impossible. hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old. it might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. the cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. yellow crow's-feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. the hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. there would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. the picture had to be concealed. there was no help for it. "bring it in, mr. hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "i am sorry i kept you so long. i was thinking of something else." "always glad to have a rest, mr. gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "where shall we put it, sir?" "oh, anywhere. here: this will do. i don't want to have it hung up. just lean it against the wall. thanks." "might one look at the work of art, sir?" dorian started. "it would not interest you, mr. hubbard," he said, keeping his eye on the man. he felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "i shan't trouble you any more now. i am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." "not at all, not at all, mr. gray. ever ready to do anything for you, sir." and mr. hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough, uncomely face. he had never seen anyone so marvellous. when the sound of their footsteps had died away, dorian locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. he felt safe now. no one would ever look upon the horrible thing. no eye but his would ever see his shame. on reaching the library he found that it was just after five o'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. on a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly encrusted with nacre, a present from lady radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid, who had spent the preceding winter in cairo, was lying a note from lord henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. a copy of the third edition of _the st. james's gazette_ had been placed on the tea-tray. it was evident that victor had returned. he wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house, and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. he would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. the screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. it was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. he had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace. he sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened lord henry's note. it was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. he opened _the st. james's_ languidly, and looked through it. a red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. it drew attention to the following paragraph:-- "inquest on an actress.--an inquest was held this morning at the bell tavern, hoxton road, by mr. danby, the district coroner, on the body of sibyl vane, a young actress recently engaged at the royal theatre, holborn. a verdict of death by misadventure was returned. considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of dr. birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased." he frowned, and, tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. how ugly it all was! and how horribly real ugliness made things! he felt a little annoyed with lord henry for having sent him the report. and it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. victor might have read it. the man knew more than enough english for that. perhaps he had read it, and had begun to suspect something. and, yet, what did it matter? what had dorian gray to do with sibyl vane's death? there was nothing to fear. dorian gray had not killed her. his eye fell on the yellow book that lord henry had sent him. what was it, he wondered. he went towards the little pearl-coloured octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some strange egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair, and began to turn over the leaves. after a few minutes he became absorbed. it was the strangest book that he had ever read. it seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. it was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young parisian, who spent his life trying to realise in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. the style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterises the work of some of the finest artists of the french school of _symbolistes_. there were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and as subtle in colour. the life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. one hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediæval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. it was a poisonous book. the heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. the mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. he read on by its wan light till he could read no more. then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and, going into the next room, placed the book on the little florentine table that always stood at his bedside, and began to dress for dinner. it was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found lord henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "i am so sorry, harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. that book you sent me so fascinated me that i forgot how the time was going." "yes: i thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair. "i didn't say i liked it, harry. i said it fascinated me. there is a great difference." "ah, you have discovered that?" murmured lord henry. and they passed into the dining-room. chapter xi for years, dorian gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. he procured from paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. the hero, the wonderful young parisian, in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. and, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. in one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. he never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. it was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat over-emphasised, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and in the world, he had most dearly valued. for the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated basil hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. even those who had heard the most evil things against him, and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through london and became the chatter of the clubs, could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. he had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. men who talked grossly became silent when dorian gray entered the room. there was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. his mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. they wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual. often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and ageing face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. the very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. he grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. he would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead, or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. he would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. he mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. there were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately-scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks, which, under an assumed name, and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul, with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. but moments such as these were rare. that curiosity about life which lord henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. the more he knew, the more he desired to know. he had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. once or twice every month during the winter, and on each wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. his little dinners, in the settling of which lord henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in dorian gray the true realisation of a type of which they had often dreamed in eton or oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. to them he seemed to be of the company of those whom dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." like gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed." and, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. his mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the mayfair balls and pall mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. for, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the london of his own day what to imperial neronian rome the author of the "satyricon" once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane. he sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the spiritualising of the senses its highest realisation. the worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organised forms of existence. but it appeared to dorian gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. as he looked back upon man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. so much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! there had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear, and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape, nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. yes: there was to be, as lord henry had prophesied, a new hedonism that was to recreate life, and to save it from that harsh, uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. it was to have its service of the intellect, certainly; yet, it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. there are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. in black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room, and crouch there. outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills, and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers, and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. the wan mirrors get back their mimic life. the flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. nothing seems to us changed. out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness, and the memories of pleasure their pain. it was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to dorian gray to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. it was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the roman catholic communion; and certainly the roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. the daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolise. he loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement, and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered vestment, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "_panis cælestis_," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the passion of christ, breaking the host into the chalice, and smiting his breast for his sins. the fuming censers, that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers, had their subtle fascination for him. as he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals, and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives. but he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the _darwinismus_ movement in germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. he felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. he knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal. and so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums from the east. he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, or aromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. at another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts, in which mad gypsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave yellow-shawled tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums, and, crouching upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned indians blew through long pipes of reed or brass, and charmed, or feigned to charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. the harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when schubert's grace, and chopin's beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. he collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with western civilisations, and loved to touch and try them. he had the mysterious _juruparis_ of the rio negro indians, that women are not allowed to look at, and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as alfonso de ovalle heard in chili, and the sonorous green jaspers that are found near cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. he had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh _ture_ of the amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating tongues of wood, and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells of the aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that bernal diaz saw when he went with cortes into the mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. the fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with lord henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "tannhäuser," and seeing in the prelude to that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. on one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as anne de joyeuse, admiral of france, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. this taste enthralled him for years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. he would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamp-light, the cymophane with its wire-like line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. he loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. he procured from amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. he discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. in alphonso's "clericalis disciplina" a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of alexander, the conqueror of emathia was said to have found in the vale of jordan snakes "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." there was a gem in the brain of the dragon, philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep, and slain. according to the great alchemist, pierre de boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of india made him eloquent. the cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. the garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her colour. the selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. leonardus camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly-killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. the bezoar, that was found in the heart of the arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. in the nests of arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. the king of ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, at the ceremony of his coronation. the gates of the palace of john the priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." over the gable were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day, and the carbuncles by night. in lodge's strange romance "a margarite of america" it was stated that in the chamber of the queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." marco polo had seen the inhabitants of zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. a sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to king perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over its loss. when the huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away--procopius tells the story--nor was it ever found again, though the emperor anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. the king of malabar had shown to a certain venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. when the duke de valentinois, son of alexander vi., visited louis xii. of france, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to brantôme, and his cap had double rows of rubles that threw out a great light. charles of england had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds. richard ii. had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. hall described henry viii., on his way to the tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." the favourites of james i. wore earrings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. edward ii. gave to piers gaveston a suit of red-gold armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parsemé_ with pearls. henry ii. wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. the ducal hat of charles the rash, the last duke of burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls, and studded with sapphires. how exquisite life had once been! how gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. then he turned his attention to embroideries, and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern nations of europe. as he investigated the subject--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. he, at any rate, had escaped that. summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. no winter marred his face or stained his flower-like bloom. how different it was with material things! where had they passed to? where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls for the pleasure of athena? where, the huge velarium that nero had stretched across the colosseum at rome, that titan sail of purple on which was represented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by white gilt-reined steeds? he longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for the priest of the sun, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the bishop of pontus, and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature;" and the coat that charles of orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "_madame, je suis tout joyeux_," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. he read of the room that was prepared at the palace at rheims for the use of queen joan of burgundy, and was decorated with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold." catherine de médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. louis xiv. had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland, was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the koran. its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. it had been taken from the turkish camp before vienna, and the standard of mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. and so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates, and stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the east as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from java; elaborate yellow chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks, and wrought with _fleurs de lys_, birds, and images; veils of _lacis_ worked in hungary point; sicilian brocades, and stiff spanish velvets; georgian work with its gilt coins, and japanese _foukousas_ with their green-toned golds and their marvellously-plumaged birds. he had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the church. in the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the bride of christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. he possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. the orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the virgin, and the coronation of the virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. this was italian work of the fifteenth century. another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. the morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. the orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was st. sebastian. he had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the passion and crucifixion of christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and _fleurs de lys_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. in the mystic offices to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his imagination. for these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. for weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near blue gate fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. on his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure, at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. after a few years he could not endure to be long out of england, and gave up the villa that he had shared at trouville with lord henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at algiers where they had more than once spent the winter. he hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his absence someone might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. he was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. it was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? he would laugh at anyone who tried to taunt him. he had not painted it. what was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? even if he told them, would they believe it? yet he was afraid. sometimes when he was down at his great house in nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with, and that the picture was still there. what if it should be stolen? the mere thought made him cold with horror. surely the world would know his secret then. perhaps the world already suspected it. for, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. he was very nearly blackballed at a west end club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was said that on one occasion when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the churchill, the duke of berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. it was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. his extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were determined to discover his secret. of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about him. it was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if dorian gray entered the room. yet these whispered scandals only increased, in the eyes of many, his strange and dangerous charm. his great wealth was a certain element of security. society, civilised society at least, is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. it feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much less value than the possession of a good _chef_. and, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrées_, as lord henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject; and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. for the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. form is absolutely essential to it. it should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. is insincerity such a terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. such, at any rate, was dorian gray's opinion. he used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. to him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. he loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. here was philip herbert, described by francis osborne, in his "memoires on the reigns of queen elizabeth and king james," as one who was "caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company." was it young herbert's life that he sometimes led? had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in basil hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wrist-bands, stood sir anthony sherard, with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. what had this man's legacy been? had the lover of giovanna of naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realise? here, from the fading canvas, smiled lady elizabeth devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. a flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. on a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. there were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. he knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. had he something of her temperament in him? these oval heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. what of george willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? how evil he looked! the face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so over-laden with rings. he had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of lord ferrars. what of the second lord beckenham, the companion of the prince regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with mrs. fitzherbert? how proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! what passions had he bequeathed? the world had looked upon him as infamous. he had led the orgies at carlton house. the star of the garter glittered upon his breast. beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. her blood, also, stirred within him. how curious it all seemed! and his mother with her lady hamilton face, and her moist wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got from her. he had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty of others. she laughed at him in her loose bacchante dress. there were vine leaves in her hair. the purple spilled from the cup she was holding. the carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. they seemed to follow him wherever he went. yet one had ancestors in literature, as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. there were times when it appeared to dorian gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. he felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous, and evil so full of subtlety. it seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own. the hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had himself known this curious fancy. in the seventh chapter he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as tiberius, in a garden at capri, reading the shameful books of elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him, and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _tædium vitæ_, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the circus, and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the street of pomegranates to a house of gold, and heard men cry on nero cæsar as he passed by; and, as elagabalus, had painted his face with colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the moon from carthage, and given her in mystic marriage to the sun. over and over again dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious tapestries or cunningly-wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: filippo, duke of milan, who slew his wife, and painted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the dead thing he fondled; pietro barbi, the venetian, known as paul the second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; gian maria visconti, who used hounds to chase living men, and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the borgia on his white horse, with fratricide riding beside him, and his mantle stained with the blood of perotto; pietro riario, the young cardinal archbishop of florence, child and minion of sixtus iv., whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received leonora of aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve at the feast as ganymede or hylas; ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; giambattista cibo, who in mockery took the name of innocent, and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a jewish doctor; sigismondo malatesta, the lover of isotta, and the lord of rimini, whose effigy was burned at rome as the enemy of god and man, who strangled polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to ginevra d'este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a pagan church for christian worship; charles vi., who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by saracen cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthus-like curls, grifonetto baglioni, who slew astorre with his bride, and simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. there was a horrible fascination in them all. he saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. the renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. dorian gray had been poisoned by a book. there were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realise his conception of the beautiful. chapter xii it was on the ninth of november, the eve of his own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. he was walking home about eleven o'clock from lord henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. at the corner of grosvenor square and south audley street a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast, and with the collar of his grey ulster turned up. he had a bag in his hand. dorian recognised him. it was basil hallward. a strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. he made no sign of recognition, and went on quickly in the direction of his own house. but hallward had seen him. dorian heard him first stopping on the pavement, and then hurrying after him. in a few moments his hand was on his arm. "dorian! what an extraordinary piece of luck! i have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock. finally i took pity on your tired servant, and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. i am off to paris by the midnight train, and i particularly wanted to see you before i left. i thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. but i wasn't quite sure. didn't you recognise me?" "in this fog, my dear basil? why, i can't even recognise grosvenor square. i believe my house is somewhere about here, but i don't feel at all certain about it. i am sorry you are going away, as i have not seen you for ages. but i suppose you will be back soon?" "no: i am going to be out of england for six months. i intend to take a studio in paris, and shut myself up till i have finished a great picture i have in my head. however, it wasn't about myself i wanted to talk. here we are at your door. let me come in for a moment. i have something to say to you." "i shall be charmed. but won't you miss your train?" said dorian gray, languidly, as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. the lamp-light struggled out through the fog, and hallward looked at his watch. "i have heaps of time," he answered. "the train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. in fact, i was on my way to the club to look for you, when i met you. you see, i shan't have any delay about luggage, as i have sent on my heavy things. all i have with me is in this bag, and i can easily get to victoria in twenty minutes." dorian looked at him and smiled. "what a way for a fashionable painter to travel! a gladstone bag, and an ulster! come in, or the fog will get into the house. and mind you don't talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be." hallward shook his head as he entered, and followed dorian into the library. there was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. the lamps were lit, and an open dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table. "you see your servant made me quite at home, dorian. he gave me everything i wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. he is a most hospitable creature. i like him much better than the frenchman you used to have. what has become of the frenchman, by the bye?" dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i believe he married lady radley's maid, and has established her in paris as an english dressmaker. _anglomanie_ is very fashionable over there now, i hear. it seems silly of the french, doesn't it? but--do you know?--he was not at all a bad servant. i never liked him, but i had nothing to complain about. one often imagines things that are quite absurd. he was really very devoted to me, and seemed quite sorry when he went away. have another brandy-and-soda? or would you like hock-and-seltzer? i always take hock-and-seltzer myself. there is sure to be some in the next room." "thanks, i won't have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off, and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "and now, my dear fellow, i want to speak to you seriously. don't frown like that. you make it so much more difficult for me." "what is it all about?" cried dorian, in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "i hope it is not about myself. i am tired of myself to-night. i should like to be somebody else." "it is about yourself," answered hallward, in his grave, deep voice, "and i must say it to you. i shall only keep you half an hour." dorian sighed, and lit a cigarette. "half an hour!" he murmured. "it is not much to ask of you, dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that i am speaking. i think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in london." "i don't wish to know anything about them. i love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. they have not got the charm of novelty." "they must interest you, dorian. every gentleman is interested in his good name. you don't want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. of course you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. but position and wealth are not everything. mind you, i don't believe these rumours at all. at least, i can't believe them when i see you. sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. it cannot be concealed. people talk sometimes of secret vices. there are no such things. if a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. somebody--i won't mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. i had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though i have heard a good deal since. he offered an extravagant price. i refused him. there was something in the shape of his fingers that i hated. i know now that i was quite right in what i fancied about him. his life is dreadful. but you, dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--i can't believe anything against you. and yet i see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when i am away from you, and i hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, i don't know what to say. why is it, dorian, that a man like the duke of berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? why is it that so many gentlemen in london will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? you used to be a friend of lord staveley. i met him at dinner last week. your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the dudley. staveley curled his lip, and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. i reminded him that i was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. he told me. he told me right out before everybody. it was horrible! why is your friendship so fatal to young men? there was that wretched boy in the guards who committed suicide. you were his great friend. there was sir henry ashton, who had to leave england, with a tarnished name. you and he were inseparable. what about adrian singleton, and his dreadful end? what about lord kent's only son, and his career? i met his father yesterday in st. james's street. he seemed broken with shame and sorrow. what about the young duke of perth? what sort of life has he got now? what gentleman would associate with him?" "stop, basil. you are talking about things of which you know nothing," said dorian gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "you ask me why berwick leaves a room when i enter it. it is because i know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. with such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? you ask me about henry ashton and young perth. did i teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? if kent's silly son takes his wife from the streets what is that to me? if adrian singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am i his keeper? i know how people chatter in england. the middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society, and on intimate terms with the people they slander. in this country it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. and what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? my dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "dorian," cried hallward, "that is not the question. england is bad enough, i know, and english society is all wrong. that is the reason why i want you to be fine. you have not been fine. one has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. you have filled them with a madness for pleasure. they have gone down into the depths. you led them there. yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. and there is worse behind. i know you and harry are inseparable. surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister's name a by-word." "take care, basil. you go too far." "i must speak, and you must listen. you shall listen. when you met lady gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. is there a single decent woman in london now who would drive with her in the park? why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. then there are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in london. are they true? can they be true? when i first heard them, i laughed. i hear them now, and they make me shudder. what about your country house, and the life that is led there? dorian, you don't know what is said about you. i won't tell you that i don't want to preach to you. i remember harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. i do want to preach to you. i want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. i want you to have a clean name and a fair record. i want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. don't shrug your shoulders like that. don't be so indifferent. you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil. they say that you corrupt everyone with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house, for shame of some kind to follow after. i don't know whether it is so or not. how should i know? but it is said of you. i am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. lord gloucester was one of my greatest friends at oxford. he showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at mentone. your name was implicated in the most terrible confession i ever read. i told him that it was absurd--that i knew you thoroughly, and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. know you? i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul." "to see my soul!" muttered dorian gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "yes," answered hallward, gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice--"to see your soul. but only god can do that." a bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "you shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "come: it is your own handiwork. why shouldn't you look at it? you can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. nobody would believe you. if they did believe you, they would like me all the better for it. i know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. come, i tell you. you have chattered enough about corruption. now you shall look on it face to face." there was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. he stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. he felt a terrible joy at the thought that someone else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "yes," he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "i shall show you my soul. you shall see the thing that you fancy only god can see." hallward started back. "this is blasphemy, dorian!" he cried. "you must not say things like that. they are horrible, and they don't mean anything." "you think so?" he laughed again. "i know so. as for what i said to you to-night, i said it for your good. you know i have been always a staunch friend to you." "don't touch me. finish what you have to say." a twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. he paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. after all, what right had he to pry into the life of dorian gray? if he had done a tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fireplace, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frost-like ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. "i am waiting, basil," said the young man, in a hard, clear voice. he turned round. "what i have to say is this," he cried. "you must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. if you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, i shall believe you. deny them, dorian, deny them! can't you see what i am going through? my god! don't tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful." dorian gray smiled. there was a curl of contempt in his lips. "come upstairs, basil," he said, quietly. "i keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. i shall show it to you if you come with me." "i shall come with you, dorian, if you wish it. i see i have missed my train. that makes no matter. i can go to-morrow. but don't ask me to read anything to-night. all i want is a plain answer to my question." "that shall be given to you upstairs. i could not give it here. you will not have to read long." chapter xiii he passed out of the room, and began the ascent, basil hallward following close behind. they walked softly, as men do instinctively at night. the lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. a rising wind made some of the windows rattle. when they reached the top landing, dorian set the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "you insist on knowing, basil?" he asked, in a low voice. "yes." "i am delighted," he answered, smiling. then he added, somewhat harshly, "you are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. you have had more to do with my life than you think:" and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. a cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. he shuddered. "shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. hallward glanced round him, with a puzzled expression. the room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. a faded flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old italian _cassone_, and an almost empty bookcase--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. as dorian gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantel-shelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. a mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. there was a damp odour of mildew. "so you think that it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." the voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "you are mad, dorian, or playing a part," muttered hallward, frowning. "you won't? then i must do it myself," said the young man; and he tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground. an exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. there was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. good heavens! it was dorian gray's own face that he was looking at! the horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. there was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. the sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. yes, it was dorian himself. but who had done it? he seemed to recognise his own brush-work, and the frame was his own design. the idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. he seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. in the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. it was some foul parody, some infamous, ignoble satire. he had never done that. still, it was his own picture. he knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. his own picture! what did it mean? why had it altered? he turned, and looked at dorian gray with the eyes of a sick man. his mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. he passed his hand across his forehead. it was dank with clammy sweat. the young man was leaning against the mantel-shelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. there was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. there was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. he had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "what does this mean?" cried hallward, at last. his own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "years ago, when i was a boy," said dorian gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. one day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished the portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. in a mad moment, that, even now, i don't know whether i regret or not, i made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "i remember it! oh, how well i remember it! no! the thing is impossible. the room is damp. mildew has got into the canvas. the paints i used had some wretched mineral poison in them. i tell you the thing is impossible." "ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window, and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "you told me you had destroyed it." "i was wrong. it has destroyed me." "i don't believe it is my picture." "can't you see your ideal in it?" said dorian, bitterly. "my ideal, as you call it...." "as you called it." "there was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. you were to me such an ideal as i shall never meet again. this is the face of a satyr." "it is the face of my soul." "christ! what a thing i must have worshipped! it has the eyes of a devil." "each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil," cried dorian, with a wild gesture of despair. hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "my god! if it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" he held the light up again to the canvas, and examined it. the surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had left it. it was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. the rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. his hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor, and lay there sputtering. he placed his foot on it and put it out. then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "good god, dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" there was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "pray, dorian, pray," he murmured. "what is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'lead us not into temptation. forgive us our sins. wash away our iniquities.' let us say that together. the prayer of your pride has been answered. the prayer of your repentance will be answered also. i worshipped you too much. i am punished for it. you worshipped yourself too much. we are both punished." dorian gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "it is too late, basil," he faltered. "it is never too late, dorian. let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. isn't there a verse somewhere, 'though your sins be as scarlet; yet i will make them as white as snow'?" "those words mean nothing to me now." "hush! don't say that. you have done enough evil in your life. my god! don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" dorian gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for basil hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. the mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. he glanced wildly around. something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. his eye fell on it. he knew what it was. it was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. he moved slowly towards it, passing hallward as he did so. as soon as he got behind him, he seized it, and turned round. hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. he rushed at him, and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table, and stabbing again and again. there was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of someone choking with blood. three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. he stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. something began to trickle on the floor. he waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. he could hear nothing but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. he opened the door and went out on the landing. the house was absolutely quiet. no one was about. for a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade, and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. the thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. how quickly it had all been done! he felt strangely calm, and, walking over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. the wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. he looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. the crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished. a woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. now and then she stopped, and peered back. once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. the policeman strolled over and said something to her. she stumbled away, laughing. a bitter blast swept across the square. the gas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. he shivered, and went back, closing the window behind him. having reached the door, he turned the key, and opened it. he did not even glance at the murdered man. he felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realise the situation. the friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life. that was enough. then he remembered the lamp. it was a rather curious one of moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. he hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. he could not help seeing the dead thing. how still it was! how horribly white the long hands looked! it was like a dreadful wax image. having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. the woodwork creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. he stopped several times, and waited. no: everything was still. it was merely the sound of his own footsteps. when he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. they must be hidden away somewhere. he unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them into it. he could easily burn them afterwards. then he pulled out his watch. it was twenty minutes to two. he sat down, and began to think. every year--every month, almost--men were strangled in england for what he had done. there had been a madness of murder in the air. some red star had come too close to the earth.... and yet what evidence was there against him? basil hallward had left the house at eleven. no one had seen him come in again. most of the servants were at selby royal. his valet had gone to bed.... paris! yes. it was to paris that basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended. with his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused. months! everything could be destroyed long before then. a sudden thought struck him. he put on his fur coat and hat, and went out into the hall. there he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman on the pavement outside, and seeing the flash of the bull's-eye reflected in the window. he waited, and held his breath. after a few moments he drew back the latch, and slipped out, shutting the door very gently behind him. then he began ringing the bell. in about five minutes his valet appeared half dressed, and looking very drowsy. "i am sorry to have had to wake you up, francis," he said, stepping in; "but i had forgotten my latch-key. what time is it?" "ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking. "ten minutes past two? how horribly late! you must wake me at nine to-morrow. i have some work to do." "all right, sir." "did anyone call this evening?" "mr. hallward, sir. he stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train." "oh! i am sorry i didn't see him. did he leave any message?" "no, sir, except that he would write to you from paris, if he did not find you at the club." "that will do, francis. don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow." "no, sir." the man shambled down the passage in his slippers. dorian gray threw his hat and coat upon the table, and passed into the library. for a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room biting his lip, and thinking. then he took down the blue book from one of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "alan campbell, , hertford street, mayfair." yes; that was the man he wanted. chapter xiv at nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. he looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. the man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been lost in some delightful dream. yet he had not dreamed at all. his night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. but youth smiles without any reason. it is one of its chiefest charms. he turned round, and, leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his chocolate. the mellow november sun came streaming into the room. the sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. it was almost like a morning in may. gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent blood-stained feet into his brain, and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. he winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for basil hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair, came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. the dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. how horrible that was! such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. he felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. there were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them; strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. but this was not one of them. it was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. when the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. he spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at selby, and going through his correspondence. at some of the letters he smiled. three of them bored him. one he read several times over, and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "that awful thing, a woman's memory!" as lord henry had once said. after he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the table sat down and wrote two letters. one he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "take this round to , hertford street, francis, and if mr. campbell is out of town, get his address." as soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers, and bits of architecture, and then human faces. suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to basil hallward. he frowned, and, getting up, went over to the bookcase and took out a volume at hazard. he was determined that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. when he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. it was gautier's "Émaux et camées," charpentier's japanese-paper edition, with the jacquemart etching. the binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. it had been given to him by adrian singleton. as he turned over the pages his eye fell on the poem about the hand of lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "_du supplice encore mal lavée_," with its downy red hairs and its "_doigts de faune_." he glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon venice:-- "sur une gamme chromatique, le sein de perles ruisselant, la vénus de l'adriatique sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. "les dômes, sur l'azur des ondes suivant la phrase au pur contour, s'enflent comme des gorges rondes que soulève un soupir d'amour. "l'esquif aborde et me dépose, jetant son amarre au pilier, devant une façade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier." how exquisite they were! as one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. the mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the lido. the sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honey-combed campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself:-- "devant une façade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier." the whole of venice was in those two lines. he remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad, delightful follies. there was romance in every place. but venice, like oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over tintoret. poor basil! what a horrible way for a man to die! he sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. he read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little café at smyrna where the hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the obelisk in the place de la concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile, and longs to be back by the hot lotus-covered nile, where there are sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles, with small beryl eyes, that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "_monstre charmant_" that couches in the porphyry-room of the louvre. but after a time the book fell from his hand. he grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. what if alan campbell should be out of england? days would elapse before he could come back. perhaps he might refuse to come. what could he do then? every moment was of vital importance. they had been great friends once, five years before--almost inseparable, indeed. then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. when they met in society now, it was only dorian gray who smiled; alan campbell never did. he was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from dorian. his dominant intellectual passion was for science. at cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the natural science tripos of his year. indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own, in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for parliament, and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. he was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. in fact, it was music that had first brought him and dorian gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed exercised often without being conscious of it. they had met at lady berkshire's the night that rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera, and wherever good music was going on. for eighteen months their intimacy lasted. campbell was always either at selby royal or in grosvenor square. to him, as to many others, dorian gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. but suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met, and that campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which dorian gray was present. he had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. and this was certainly true. every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews, in connection with certain curious experiments. this was the man dorian gray was waiting for. every second he kept glancing at the clock. as the minutes went by he became horribly agitated. at last he got up, and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. he took long stealthy strides. his hands were curiously cold. the suspense became unbearable. time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. he knew what was waiting for him there; saw it indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight, and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. it was useless. the brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand, and grinned through moving masks. then, suddenly, time stopped for him. yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. he stared at it. its very horror made him stone. at last the door opened, and his servant entered. he turned glazed eyes upon him. "mr. campbell, sir," said the man. a sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks. "ask him to come in at once, francis." he felt that he was himself again. his mood of cowardice had passed away. the man bowed, and retired. in a few moments alan campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "alan! this is kind of you. i thank you for coming." "i had intended never to enter your house again, gray. but you said it was a matter of life and death." his voice was hard and cold. he spoke with slow deliberation. there was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on dorian. he kept his hands in the pockets of his astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "yes: it is a matter of life and death, alan, and to more than one person. sit down." campbell took a chair by the table, and dorian sat opposite to him. the two men's eyes met. in dorian's there was infinite pity. he knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. after a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. he has been dead ten hours now. don't stir, and don't look at me like that. who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. what you have to do is this----" "stop, gray. i don't want to know anything further. whether what you have told me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. i entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. keep your horrible secrets to yourself. they don't interest me any more." "alan, they will have to interest you. this one will have to interest you. i am awfully sorry for you, alan. but i can't help myself. you are the one man who is able to save me. i am forced to bring you into the matter. i have no option. alan, you are scientific. you know about chemistry, and things of that kind. you have made experiments. what you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. nobody saw this person come into the house. indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in paris. he will not be missed for months. when he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. you, alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that i may scatter in the air." "you are mad, dorian." "ah! i was waiting for you to call me dorian." "you are mad, i tell you--mad to imagine that i would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. i will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. do you think i am going to peril my reputation for you? what is it to me what devil's work you are up to?" "it was suicide, alan." "i am glad of that. but who drove him to it? you, i should fancy." "do you still refuse to do this for me?" "of course i refuse. i will have absolutely nothing to do with it. i don't care what shame comes on you. you deserve it all. i should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. how dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? i should have thought you knew more about people's characters. your friend lord henry wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. you have come to the wrong man. go to some of your friends. don't come to me." "alan, it was murder. i killed him. you don't know what he had made me suffer. whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor harry has had. he may not have intended it, the result was the same." "murder! good god, dorian, is that what you have come to? i shall not inform upon you. it is not my business. besides, without my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid. but i will have nothing to do with it." "you must have something to do with it. wait, wait a moment; listen to me. only listen, alan. all i ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. you go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. if in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. you would not turn a hair. you would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. on the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. what i want you to do is merely what you have often done before. indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. and, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. if it is discovered, i am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me." "i have no desire to help you. you forget that. i am simply indifferent to the whole thing. it has nothing to do with me." "alan, i entreat you. think of the position i am in. just before you came i almost fainted with terror. you may know terror yourself some day. no! don't think of that. look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. you don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. don't inquire now. i have told you too much as it is. but i beg of you to do this. we were friends once, alan." "don't speak about those days, dorian: they are dead." "the dead linger sometimes. the man upstairs will not go away. he is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. alan! alan! if you don't come to my assistance i am ruined. why, they will hang me, alan! don't you understand? they will hang me for what i have done." "there is no good in prolonging this scene. i absolutely refuse to do anything in the matter. it is insane of you to ask me." "you refuse?" "yes." "i entreat you, alan." "it is useless." the same look of pity came into dorian gray's eyes. then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. he read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. having done this, he got up, and went over to the window. campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. as he read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he fell back in his chair. a horrible sense of sickness came over him. he felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. after two or three minutes of terrible silence, dorian turned round, and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "i am so sorry for you, alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. i have a letter written already. here it is. you see the address. if you don't help me, i must send it. if you don't help me, i will send it. you know what the result will be. but you are going to help me. it is impossible for you to refuse now. i tried to spare you. you will do me the justice to admit that. you were stern, harsh, offensive. you treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. i bore it all. now it is for me to dictate terms." campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. "yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, alan. you know what they are. the thing is quite simple. come, don't work yourself into this fever. the thing has to be done. face it, and do it." a groan broke from campbell's lips, and he shivered all over. the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. he felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. the hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. it was intolerable. it seemed to crush him. "come, alan, you must decide at once." "i cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things. "you must. you have no choice. don't delay." he hesitated a moment. "is there a fire in the room upstairs?" "yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." "i shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." "no, alan, you must not leave the house. write out on a sheet of note-paper what you want, and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you." campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. dorian took the note up and read it carefully. then he rang the bell, and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible, and to bring the things with him. as the hall door shut, campbell started nervously, and, having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. he was shivering with a kind of ague. for nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. a fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. as the chime struck one, campbell turned round, and, looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "you are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. "hush, alan: you have saved my life," said dorian. "your life? good heavens! what a life that is! you have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. in doing what i am going to do, what you force me to do, it is not of your life that i am thinking." "ah, alan," murmured dorian, with a sigh, "i wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that i have for you." he turned away as he spoke, and stood looking out at the garden. campbell made no answer. after about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously-shaped iron clamps. "shall i leave the things here, sir?" he asked campbell. "yes," said dorian. "and i am afraid, francis, that i have another errand for you. what is the name of the man at richmond who supplies selby with orchids?" "harden, sir." "yes--harden. you must go down to richmond at once, see harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as i ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. in fact, i don't want any white ones. it is a lovely day, francis, and richmond is a very pretty place, otherwise i wouldn't bother you about it." "no trouble, sir. at what time shall i be back?" dorian looked at campbell. "how long will your experiment take, alan?" he said, in a calm, indifferent voice. the presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. campbell frowned, and bit his lip. "it will take about five hours," he answered. "it will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, francis. or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. you can have the evening to yourself. i am not dining at home, so i shall not want you." "thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. "now, alan, there is not a moment to be lost. how heavy this chest is! i'll take it for you. you bring the other things." he spoke rapidly, and in an authoritative manner. campbell felt dominated by him. they left the room together. when they reached the top landing, dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. he shuddered. "i don't think i can go in, alan," he murmured. "it is nothing to me. i don't require you," said campbell, coldly. dorian half opened the door. as he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. on the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. he remembered that, the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? how horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. he heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted head walked quickly in, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. then, stooping down, and taking up the gold and purple hanging, he flung it right over the picture. there he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. he heard campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. he began to wonder if he and basil hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "leave me now," said a stern voice behind him. he turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair, and that campbell was gazing into a glistening yellow face. as he was going downstairs he heard the key being turned in the lock. it was long after seven when campbell came back into the library. he was pale, but absolutely calm. "i have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "and now, good-bye. let us never see each other again." "you have saved me from ruin, alan. i cannot forget that," said dorian, simply. as soon as campbell had left, he went upstairs. there was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. but the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. chapter xv that evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large buttonhole 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 special 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 over-dressed 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 mantel-shelf, 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 zèle_." "_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 siècle_," 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 makes 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 over-dressed, 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 daresay 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 nerves 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 realised 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 under-lip. 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 the 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. chapter xvi a cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the dripping mist. the public-houses were just closing, and dim men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. from some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. in others, drunkards brawled and screamed. lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, dorian gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words that lord henry had said to him on the first day they had met, "to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul." yes, that was the secret. he had often tried it, and would try it again now. there were opium-dens, where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new. the moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. from time to time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. the gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. once the man lost his way, and had to drive back half a mile. a steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles. the side-windows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist. "to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul!" how the words rang in his ears! his soul, certainly, was sick to death. was it true that the senses could cure it? innocent blood had been spilt. what could atone for that? ah! for that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. indeed, what right had basil to have spoken to him as he had done? who had made him a judge over others? he had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to be endured. on and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each step. he thrust up the trap, and called to the man to drive faster. the hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. his throat burned, and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. he struck at the horse madly with his stick. the driver laughed, and whipped up. he laughed in answer, and the man was silent. the way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider. the monotony became unbearable, and, as the mist thickened, he felt afraid. then they passed by lonely brickfields. the fog was lighter here, and he could see the strange bottle-shaped kilns with their orange fan-like tongues of fire. a dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. the horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside, and broke into a gallop. after some time they left the clay road, and rattled again over rough-paven streets. most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamp-lit blind. he watched them curiously. they moved like monstrous marionettes, and made gestures like live things. he hated them. a dull rage was in his heart. as they turned a corner a woman yelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. the driver beat at them with his whip. it is said that passion makes one think in a circle. certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of dorian gray shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would still have dominated his temper. from cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. ugliness was the one reality. the coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. they were what he needed for forgetfulness. in three days he would be free. suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. over the low roofs and jagged chimney stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards. "somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the trap. dorian started, and peered round. "this will do," he answered, and, having got out hastily, and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. the light shook and splintered in the puddles. a red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. the slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh. he hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. in about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house, that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. in one of the top-windows stood a lamp. he stopped, and gave a peculiar knock. after a little time he heard steps in the passage, and the chain being unhooked. the door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. at the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. he dragged it aside, and entered a long, low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering discs of light. the floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilt liquor. some malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove playing with bone counters, and showing their white teeth as they chattered. in one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily-painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "he thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as dorian passed by. the man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. at the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. as dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. he heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. when he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp, lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him, and nodded in a hesitating manner. "you here, adrian?" muttered dorian. "where else should i be?" he answered, listlessly. "none of the chaps will speak to me now." "i thought you had left england." "darlington is not going to do anything. my brother paid the bill at last. george doesn't speak to me either.... i don't care," he added, with a sigh. "as long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. i think i have had too many friends." dorian winced, and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. the twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. he knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. they were better off than he was. he was prisoned in thought. memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. from time to time he seemed to see the eyes of basil hallward looking at him. yet he felt he could not stay. the presence of adrian singleton troubled him. he wanted to be where no one would know who he was. he wanted to escape from himself. "i am going on to the other place," he said, after a pause. "on the wharf?" "yes." "that mad-cat is sure to be there. they won't have her in this place now." dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i am sick of women who love one. women who hate one are much more interesting. besides, the stuff is better." "much the same." "i like it better. come and have something to drink. i must have something." "i don't want anything," murmured the young man. "never mind." adrian singleton rose up wearily, and followed dorian to the bar. a half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. the women sidled up, and began to chatter. dorian turned his back on them, and said something in a low voice to adrian singleton. a crooked smile, like a malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "we are very proud to-night," she sneered. "for god's sake don't talk to me," cried dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "what do you want? money? here it is. don't ever talk to me again." two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then flickered out, and left them dull and glazed. she tossed her head, and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. her companion watched her enviously. "it's no use," sighed adrian singleton. "i don't care to go back. what does it matter? i am quite happy here." "you will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said dorian, after a pause. "perhaps." "good-night, then." "good-night," answered the young man, passing up the steps, and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. as he drew the curtain aside a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "there goes the devil's bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that." she snapped her fingers. "prince charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?" she yelled after him. the drowsy sailor leapt to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. the sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. he rushed out as if in pursuit. dorian gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. his meeting with adrian singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as basil hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. he bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. yet, after all, what did it matter to him? one's days were too brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders. each man lived his own life, and paid his own price for living it. the only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. one had to pay over and over again, indeed. in her dealings with man destiny never closed her accounts. there are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature, that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. they move to their terrible end as automatons move, choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm. for all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. when that high spirit, that morning-star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, dorian gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. he struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. in a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short thick-set man facing him. "what do you want?" he gasped. "keep quiet," said the man. "if you stir, i shoot you." "you are mad. what have i done to you?" "you wrecked the life of sibyl vane," was the answer, "and sibyl vane was my sister. she killed herself. i know it. her death is at your door. i swore i would kill you in return. for years i have sought you. i had no clue, no trace. the two people who could have described you were dead. i knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. i heard it to-night by chance. make your peace with god, for to-night you are going to die." dorian gray grew sick with fear. "i never knew her," he stammered. "i never heard of her. you are mad." "you had better confess your sin, for as sure as i am james vane, you are going to die." there was a horrible moment. dorian did not know what to say or do. "down on your knees!" growled the man. "i give you one minute to make your peace--no more. i go on board to-night for india, and i must do my job first. one minute. that's all." dorian's arms fell to his side. paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "stop," he cried. "how long ago is it since your sister died? quick, tell me!" "eighteen years," said the man. "why do you ask me? what do years matter?" "eighteen years," laughed dorian gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "eighteen years! set me under the lamp and look at my face!" james vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. then he seized dorian gray and dragged him from the archway. dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. he seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. it was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. he loosened his hold and reeled back. "my god! my god!" he cried, "and i would have murdered you!" dorian gray drew a long breath. "you have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "forgive me, sir," muttered james vane. "i was deceived. a chance word i heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "you had better go home, and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said dorian, turning on his heel, and going slowly down the street. james vane stood on the pavement in horror. he was trembling from head to foot. after a little while a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall, moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. he felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. it was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting her haggard face quite close to his. "i knew you were following him when you rushed out from daly's. you fool! you should have killed him. he has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad." "he is not the man i am looking for," he answered, "and i want no man's money. i want a man's life. the man whose life i want must be nearly forty now. this one is little more than a boy. thank god, i have not got his blood upon my hands." the woman gave a bitter laugh. "little more than a boy!" she sneered. "why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since prince charming made me what i am." "you lie!" cried james vane. she raised her hand up to heaven. "before god i am telling the truth," she cried. "before god?" "strike me dumb if it ain't so. he is the worst one that comes here. they say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. it's nigh on eighteen years since i met him. he hasn't changed much since then. i have though," she added, with a sickly leer. "you swear this?" "i swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "but don't give me away to him," she whined; "i am afraid of him. let me have some money for my night's lodging." he broke from her with an oath, and rushed to the corner of the street, but dorian gray had disappeared. when he looked back, the woman had vanished also. chapter xvii a week later dorian gray was sitting in the conservatory at selby royal talking to the pretty duchess of monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. it was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that dorian had whispered to her. lord henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair looking at them. on a peach-coloured divan sat lady narborough pretending to listen to the duke's description of the last brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. the house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "what are you two talking about?" said lord henry, strolling over to the table, and putting his cup down. "i hope dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, gladys. it is a delightful idea." "but i don't want to be rechristened, harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "i am quite satisfied with my own name, and i am sure mr. gray should be satisfied with his." "my dear gladys, i would not alter either name for the world. they are both perfect. i was thinking chiefly of flowers. yesterday i cut an orchid, for my buttonhole. it was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. in a thoughtless moment i asked one of the gardeners what it was called. he told me it was a fine specimen of _robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. it is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. names are everything. i never quarrel with actions. my one quarrel is with words. that is the reason i hate vulgar realism in literature. the man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. it is the only thing he is fit for." "then what should we call you, harry?" she asked. "his name is prince paradox," said dorian. "i recognise him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "i won't hear of it," laughed lord henry, sinking into a chair. "from a label there is no escape! i refuse the title." "royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "you wish me to defend my throne, then?" "yes." "i give the truths of to-morrow." "i prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "you disarm me, gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "of your shield, harry: not of your spear." "i never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "that is your error, harry, believe me. you value beauty far too much." "how can you say that? i admit that i think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. but on the other hand no one is more ready than i am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "what becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, gladys. you, as a good tory, must not underrate them. beer, the bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our england what she is." "you don't like your country, then?" she asked. "i live in it." "that you may censure it the better." "would you have me take the verdict of europe on it?" he inquired. "what do they say of us?" "that tartuffe has emigrated to england and opened a shop." "is that yours, harry?" "i give it to you." "i could not use it. it is too true." "you need not be afraid. our countrymen never recognise a description." "they are practical." "they are more cunning than practical. when they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "still, we have done great things." "great things have been thrust on us, gladys." "we have carried their burden." "only as far as the stock exchange." she shook her head. "i believe in the race," she cried. "it represents the survival of the pushing." "it has development." "decay fascinates me more." "what of art?" she asked. "it is a malady." "love?" "an illusion." "religion?" "the fashionable substitute for belief." "you are a sceptic." "never! scepticism is the beginning of faith." "what are you?" "to define is to limit." "give me a clue." "threads snap. you would lose your way in the labyrinth." "you bewilder me. let us talk of someone else." "our host is a delightful topic. years ago he was christened prince charming." "ah! don't remind me of that," cried dorian gray. "our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "i believe he thinks that monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "well, i hope he won't stick pins into you, duchess," laughed dorian. "oh! my maid does that already, mr. gray, when she is annoyed with me." "and what does she get annoyed with you about, duchess?" "for the most trivial things, mr. gray, i assure you. usually because i come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that i must be dressed by half-past eight." "how unreasonable of her! you should give her warning." "i daren't, mr. gray. why, she invents hats for me. you remember the one i wore at lady hilstone's garden-party? you don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. well, she made it out of nothing. all good hats are made out of nothing." "like all good reputations, gladys," interrupted lord henry. "every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. to be popular one must be a mediocrity." "not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. i assure you we can't bear mediocrities. we women, as someone says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "it seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured dorian. "ah! then, you never really love, mr. gray," answered the duchess, with mock sadness. "my dear gladys!" cried lord henry. "how can you say that? romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. it merely intensifies it. we can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "even when one has been wounded by it, harry?" asked the duchess, after a pause. "especially when one has been wounded by it," answered lord henry. the duchess turned and looked at dorian gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "what do you say to that, mr. gray?" she inquired. dorian hesitated for a moment. then he threw his head back and laughed. "i always agree with harry, duchess." "even when he is wrong?" "harry is never wrong, duchess." "and does his philosophy make you happy?" "i have never searched for happiness. who wants happiness? i have searched for pleasure." "and found it, mr. gray?" "often. too often." the duchess sighed. "i am searching for peace," she said, "and if i don't go and dress, i shall have none this evening." "let me get you some orchids, duchess," cried dorian, starting to his feet, and walking down the conservatory. "you are flirting disgracefully with him," said lord henry to his cousin. "you had better take care. he is very fascinating." "if he were not, there would be no battle." "greek meets greek, then?" "i am on the side of the trojans. they fought for a woman." "they were defeated." "there are worse things than capture," she answered. "you gallop with a loose rein." "pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "i shall write it in my diary to-night." "what?" "that a burnt child loves the fire." "i am not even singed. my wings are untouched." "you use them for everything, except flight." "courage has passed from men to women. it is a new experience for us." "you have a rival." "who?" he laughed. "lady narborough," he whispered. "she perfectly adores him." "you fill me with apprehension. the appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "romanticists! you have all the methods of science." "men have educated us." "but not explained you." "describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "sphynxes without secrets." she looked at him, smiling. "how long mr. gray is!" she said. "let us go and help him. i have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, gladys." "that would be a premature surrender." "romantic art begins with its climax." "i must keep an opportunity for retreat." "in the parthian manner?" "they found safety in the desert. i could not do that." "women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. everybody started up. the duchess stood motionless in horror. and with fear in his eyes lord henry rushed through the flapping palms to find dorian gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a death-like swoon. he was carried at once into the blue drawing-room, and laid upon one of the sofas. after a short time he came to himself, and looked round with a dazed expression. "what has happened?" he asked. "oh! i remember. am i safe here, harry?" he began to tremble. "my dear dorian," answered lord henry, "you merely fainted. that was all. you must have overtired yourself. you had better not come down to dinner. i will take your place." "no, i will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "i would rather come down. i must not be alone." he went to his room and dressed. there was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of james vane watching him. chapter xviii the next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. the consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. if the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. the dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. when he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. but perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night, and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. it was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. it was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. in the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. that was all. besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. had any footmarks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. yes: it had been merely fancy. sibyl vane's brother had not come back to kill him. he had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. from him, at any rate, he was safe. why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. the mask of youth had saved him. and yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! what sort of life would his be, if day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! as the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! how ghastly the mere memory of the scene! he saw it all again. each hideous detail came back to him with added horror. out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. when lord henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break. it was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. there was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. but it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. his own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. with subtle and finely-wrought temperaments it is always so. their strong passions must either bruise or bend. they either slay the man, or themselves die. shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. the loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt. after breakfast he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden, and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. the crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. the sky was an inverted cup of blue metal. a thin film of ice bordered the flat reed-grown lake. at the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of sir geoffrey clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. he jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth. "have you had good sport, geoffrey?" he asked. "not very good, dorian. i think most of the birds have gone to the open. i dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground." dorian strolled along by his side. the keen aromatic air, the brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that followed, fascinated him, and filled him with a sense of delightful freedom. he was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high indifference of joy. suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass, some twenty yards in front of them, with black-tipped ears erect, and long hinder limbs throwing it forward, started a hare. it bolted for a thicket of alders. sir geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed dorian gray, and he cried out at once, "don't shoot it, geoffrey. let it live." "what nonsense, dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded into the thicket he fired. there were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse. "good heavens! i have hit a beater!" exclaimed sir geoffrey. "what an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! stop shooting there!" he called out at the top of his voice. "a man is hurt." the head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. "where, sir? where is he?" he shouted. at the same time the firing ceased along the line. "here," answered sir geoffrey, angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. "why on earth don't you keep your men back? spoiled my shooting for the day." dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the lithe, swinging branches aside. in a few moments they emerged, dragging a body after them into the sunlight. he turned away in horror. it seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. he heard sir geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. the wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. there was the trampling of myriad feet, and the low buzz of voices. a great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead. after a few moments, that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. he started, and looked round. "dorian," said lord henry, "i had better tell them that the shooting is stopped for to-day. it would not look well to go on." "i wish it were stopped for ever, harry," he answered, bitterly. "the whole thing is hideous and cruel. is the man...?" he could not finish the sentence. "i am afraid so," rejoined lord henry. "he got the whole charge of shot in his chest. he must have died almost instantaneously. come; let us go home." they walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. then dorian looked at lord henry, and said, with a heavy sigh, "it is a bad omen, harry, a very bad omen." "what is?" asked lord henry. "oh! this accident, i suppose. my dear fellow, it can't be helped. it was the man's own fault. why did he get in front of the guns? besides, it's nothing to us. it is rather awkward for geoffrey, of course. it does not do to pepper beaters. it makes people think that one is a wild shot. and geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. but there is no use talking about the matter." dorian shook his head. "it is a bad omen, harry. i feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. to myself, perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. the elder man laughed. "the only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_, dorian. that is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. but we are not likely to suffer from it, unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. i must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. as for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. destiny does not send us heralds. she is too wise or too cruel for that. besides, what on earth could happen to you, dorian? you have everything in the world that a man can want. there is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you." "there is no one with whom i would not change places, harry. don't laugh like that. i am telling you the truth. the wretched peasant who has just died is better off than i am. i have no terror of death. it is the coming of death that terrifies me. its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. good heavens! don't you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" lord henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing. "yes," he said, smiling, "i see the gardener waiting for you. i suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table to-night. how absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! you must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. the man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at lord henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "her grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. dorian put the letter into his pocket. "tell her grace that i am coming in," he said, coldly. the man turned round, and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "how fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed lord henry. "it is one of the qualities in them that i admire most. a woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "how fond you are of saying dangerous things, harry! in the present instance you are quite astray. i like the duchess very much, but i don't love her." "and the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "you are talking scandal, harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "the basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said lord henry, lighting a cigarette. "you would sacrifice anybody, harry, for the sake of an epigram." "the world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "i wish i could love," cried dorian gray, with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "but i seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten the desire. i am too much concentrated on myself. my own personality has become a burden to me. i want to escape, to go away, to forget. it was silly of me to come down here at all. i think i shall send a wire to harvey to have the yacht got ready. on a yacht one is safe." "safe from what, dorian? you are in some trouble. why not tell me what it is? you know i would help you." "i can't tell you, harry," he answered, sadly. "and i dare say it is only a fancy of mine. this unfortunate accident has upset me. i have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "what nonsense!" "i hope it is, but i can't help feeling it. ah! here is the duchess, looking like artemis in a tailor-made gown. you see we have come back, duchess." "i have heard all about it, mr. gray," she answered. "poor geoffrey is terribly upset. and it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. how curious!" "yes, it was very curious. i don't know what made me say it. some whim, i suppose. it looked the loveliest of little live things. but i am sorry they told you about the man. it is a hideous subject." "it is an annoying subject," broke in lord henry. "it has no psychological value at all. now if geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! i should like to know someone who had committed a real murder." "how horrid of you, harry!" cried the duchess. "isn't it, mr. gray? harry, mr. gray is ill again. he is going to faint." dorian drew himself up with an effort, and smiled. "it is nothing, duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. that is all. i am afraid i walked too far this morning. i didn't hear what harry said. was it very bad? you must tell me some other time. i think i must go and lie down. you will excuse me, won't you?" they had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. as the glass door closed behind dorian, lord henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "are you very much in love with him?" he asked. she did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "i wish i knew," she said at last. he shook his head. "knowledge would be fatal. it is the uncertainty that charms one. a mist makes things wonderful." "one may lose one's way." "all ways end at the same point, my dear gladys." "what is that?" "disillusion." "it was my _début_ in life," she sighed. "it came to you crowned." "i am tired of strawberry leaves." "they become you." "only in public." "you would miss them," said lord henry. "i will not part with a petal." "monmouth has ears." "old age is dull of hearing." "has he never been jealous?" "i wish he had been." he glanced about as if in search of something. "what are you looking for?" she inquired. "the button from your foil," he answered. "you have dropped it." she laughed. "i have still the mask." "it makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. she laughed again. her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. upstairs, in his own room, dorian gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. the dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to prefigure death for himself also. he had nearly swooned at what lord henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. at five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. he was determined not to sleep another night at selby royal. it was an ill-omened place. death walked there in the sunlight. the grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. then he wrote a note to lord henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor, and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. as he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him. he frowned, and bit his lip. "send him in," he muttered, after some moments' hesitation. as soon as the man entered dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer, and spread it out before him. "i suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. "yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. "was the poor fellow married? had he any people dependent on him?" asked dorian, looking bored. "if so, i should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." "we don't know who he is, sir. that is what i took the liberty of coming to you about." "don't know who he is?" said dorian, listlessly. "what do you mean? wasn't he one of your men?" "no, sir. never saw him before. seems like a sailor, sir." the pen dropped from dorian gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. "a sailor?" he cried out. "did you say a sailor?" "yes, sir. he looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing." "was there anything found on him?" said dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "anything that would tell his name?" "some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. there was no name of any kind. a decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. a sort of sailor, we think." dorian started to his feet. a terrible hope fluttered past him. he clutched at it madly. "where is the body?" he exclaimed. "quick! i must see it at once." "it is in an empty stable in the home farm, sir. the folk don't like to have that sort of thing in their houses. they say a corpse brings bad luck." "the home farm! go there at once and meet me. tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. no. never mind. i'll go to the stables myself. it will save time." in less than a quarter of an hour dorian gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. the trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. he lashed her across the neck with his crop. she cleft the dusky air like an arrow. the stones flew from her hoofs. at last he reached the home farm. two men were loitering in the yard. he leapt from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. in the farthest stable a light was glimmering. something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door, and put his hand upon the latch. there he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. then he thrust the door open, and entered. on a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. a spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. a coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. dorian gray shuddered. he felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "take that thing off the face. i wish to see it," he said, clutching at the doorpost for support. when the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. a cry of joy broke from his lips. the man who had been shot in the thicket was james vane. he stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. as he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. chapter xix "there is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried lord henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "you're quite perfect. pray, don't change." dorian gray shook his head. "no, harry, i have done too many dreadful things in my life. i am not going to do any more. i began my good actions yesterday." "where were you yesterday?" "in the country, harry. i was staying at a little inn by myself." "my dear boy," said lord henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. there are no temptations there. that is the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilised. civilisation is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. there are only two ways by which man can reach it. one is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. country people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "culture and corruption," echoed dorian. "i have known something of both. it seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found together. for i have a new ideal, harry. i am going to alter. i think i have altered." "you have not yet told me what your good action was. or did you say you had done more than one?" asked his companion, as he spilt into his plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries, and through a perforated shell-shaped spoon snowed white sugar upon them. "i can tell you, harry. it is not a story i could tell to anyone else. i spared somebody. it sounds vain, but you understand what i mean. she was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like sibyl vane. i think it was that which first attracted me to her. you remember sibyl, don't you? how long ago that seems! well, hetty was not one of our own class, of course. she was simply a girl in a village. but i really loved her. i am quite sure that i loved her. all during this wonderful may that we have been having, i used to run down and see her two or three times a week. yesterday she met me in a little orchard. the apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. we were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. suddenly i determined to leave her as flower-like as i had found her." "i should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, dorian," interrupted lord henry. "but i can finish your idyll for you. you gave her good advice, and broke her heart. that was the beginning of your reformation." "harry, you are horrible! you mustn't say these dreadful things. hetty's heart is not broken. of course she cried, and all that. but there is no disgrace upon her. she can live, like perdita, in her garden of mint and marigold." "and weep over a faithless florizel," said lord henry, laughing, as he leant back in his chair. "my dear dorian, you have the most curiously boyish moods. do you think this girl will ever be really contented now with anyone of her own rank? i suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. well, the fact of having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. from a moral point of view, i cannot say that i think much of your great renunciation. even as a beginning, it is poor. besides, how do you know that hetty isn't floating at the present moment in some star-lit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like ophelia?" "i can't bear this, harry! you mock at everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. i am sorry i told you now. i don't care what you say to me. i know i was right in acting as i did. poor hetty! as i rode past the farm this morning, i saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. don't let us talk about it any more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action i have done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice i have ever known, is really a sort of sin. i want to be better. i am going to be better. tell me something about yourself. what is going on in town? i have not been to the club for days." "the people are still discussing poor basil's disappearance." "i should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly. "my dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and the british public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months. they have been very fortunate lately, however. they have had my own divorce-case, and alan campbell's suicide. now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. scotland yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left for paris by the midnight train on the ninth of november was poor basil, and the french police declare that basil never arrived in paris at all. i suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in san francisco. it is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen at san francisco. it must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world." "what do you think has happened to basil?" asked dorian, holding up his burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly. "i have not the slightest idea. if basil chooses to hide himself, it is no business of mine. if he is dead, i don't want to think about him. death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. i hate it." "why?" said the younger man, wearily. "because," said lord henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything nowadays except that. death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. let us have our coffee in the music-room, dorian. you must play chopin to me. the man with whom my wife ran away played chopin exquisitely. poor victoria! i was very fond of her. the house is rather lonely without her. of course married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. but then one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. perhaps one regrets them the most. they are such an essential part of one's personality." dorian said nothing, but rose from the table and, passing into the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white and black ivory of the keys. after the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, and, looking over at lord henry, said, "harry, did it ever occur to you that basil was murdered?" lord henry yawned. "basil was very popular, and always wore a waterbury watch. why should he have been murdered? he was not clever enough to have enemies. of course he had a wonderful genius for painting. but a man can paint like velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. basil was really rather dull. he only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you, and that you were the dominant motive of his art." "i was very fond of basil," said dorian, with a note of sadness in his voice. "but don't people say that he was murdered?" "oh, some of the papers do. it does not seem to me to be at all probable. i know there are dreadful places in paris, but basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them. he had no curiosity. it was his chief defect." "what would you say, harry, if i told you that i had murdered basil?" said the younger man. he watched him intently after he had spoken. "i would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that doesn't suit you. all crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. it is not in you, dorian, to commit a murder. i am sorry if i hurt your vanity by saying so, but i assure you it is true. crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders. i don't blame them in the smallest degree. i should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations." "a method of procuring sensations? do you think, then, that a man who has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again? don't tell me that." "oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried lord henry, laughing. "that is one of the most important secrets of life. i should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. one should never do any thing that one cannot talk about after dinner. but let us pass from poor basil. i wish i could believe that he had come to such a really romantic end as you suggest; but i can't. i dare say he fell into the seine off an omnibus, and that the conductor hushed up the scandal. yes: i should fancy that was his end. i see him lying now on his back under those dull-green waters with the heavy barges floating over him, and long weeds catching in his hair. do you know, i don't think he would have done much more good work. during the last ten years his painting had gone off very much." dorian heaved a sigh, and lord henry strolled across the room and began to stroke the head of a curious java parrot, a large grey-plumaged bird, with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch. as his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black glass-like eyes, and began to sway backwards and forwards. "yes," he continued, turning round, and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. it seemed to me to have lost something. it had lost an ideal. when you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. what was it separated you? i suppose he bored you. if so, he never forgave you. it's a habit bores have. by the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of you? i don't think i have ever seen it since he finished it. oh! i remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. you never got it back? what a pity! it was really a masterpiece. i remember i wanted to buy it. i wish i had now. it belonged to basil's best period. since then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative british artist. did you advertise for it? you should." "i forget," said dorian. "i suppose i did. but i never really liked it. i am sorry i sat for it. the memory of the thing is hateful to me. why do you talk of it? it used to remind me of those curious lines in some play--'hamlet,' i think--how do they run?-- "'like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart.' yes: that is what it was like." lord henry laughed. "if a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair. dorian gray shook his head, and struck some soft chords on the piano. "'like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a heart.'" the elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "by the way, dorian," he said, after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose'--how does the quotation run?--'his own soul'?" the music jarred and dorian gray started, and stared at his friend. "why do you ask me that, harry?" "my dear fellow," said lord henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, "i asked you because i thought you might be able to give me an answer. that is all. i was going through the park last sunday, and close by the marble arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar street-preacher. as i passed by, i heard the man yelling out that question to his audience. it struck me as being rather dramatic. london is very rich in curious effects of that kind. a wet sunday, an uncouth christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill, hysterical lips--it was really very good in its way, quite a suggestion. i thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul, but that man had not. i am afraid, however, he would not have understood me." "don't, harry. the soul is a terrible reality. it can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. it can be poisoned, or made perfect. there is a soul in each one of us. i know it." "do you feel quite sure of that, dorian?" "quite sure." "ah! then it must be an illusion. the things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. that is the fatality of faith, and the lesson of romance. how grave you are! don't be so serious. what have you or i to do with the superstitions of our age? no: we have given up our belief in the soul. play me something. play me a nocturne, dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. you must have some secret. i am only ten years older than you are, and i am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. you are really wonderful, dorian. you have never looked more charming than you do to-night. you remind me of the day i saw you first. you were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. you have changed, of course, but not in appearance. i wish you would tell me your secret. to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. youth! there is nothing like it. it's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. the only people to whose opinions i listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. they seem in front of me. life has revealed to them her latest wonder. as for the aged, i always contradict the aged. i do it on principle. if you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in , when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. how lovely that thing you are playing is! i wonder did chopin write it at majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the panes? it is marvellously romantic. what a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! don't stop. i want music to-night. it seems to me that you are the young apollo, and that i am marsyas listening to you. i have sorrows, dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. the tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. i am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. ah, dorian, how happy you are! what an exquisite life you have had! you have drunk deeply of everything. you have crushed the grapes against your palate. nothing has been hidden from you. and it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. it has not marred you. you are still the same." "i am not the same, harry." "yes: you are the same. i wonder what the rest of your life will be. don't spoil it by renunciations. at present you are a perfect type. don't make yourself incomplete. you are quite flawless now. you need not shake your head: you know you are. besides, dorian, don't deceive yourself. life is not governed by will or intention. life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. you may fancy yourself safe, and think yourself strong. but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play--i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. there are moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and i have to live the strangest month of my life over again. i wish i could change places with you, dorian. the world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. it always will worship you. you are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. i am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! life has been your art. you have set yourself to music. your days are your sonnets." dorian rose up from the piano, and passed his hand through his hair. "yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but i am not going to have the same life, harry. and you must not say these extravagant things to me. you don't know everything about me. i think that if you did, even you would turn from me. you laugh. don't laugh." "why have you stopped playing, dorian? go back and give me the nocturne over again. look at that great honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. she is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. you won't? let us go to the club, then. it has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. there is some one at white's who wants immensely to know you--young lord poole, bournemouth's eldest son. he has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. he is quite delightful, and rather reminds me of you." "i hope not," said dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. "but i am tired to-night, harry. i shan't go to the club. it is nearly eleven, and i want to go to bed early." "do stay. you have never played so well as to-night. there was something in your touch that was wonderful. it had more expression than i had ever heard from it before." "it is because i am going to be good," he answered, smiling, "i am a little changed already." "you cannot change to me, dorian," said lord henry. "you and i will always be friends." "yet you poisoned me with a book once. i should not forgive that. harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. it does harm." "my dear boy, you are really beginning to moralise. you will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. you are much too delightful to do that. besides, it is no use. you and i are what we are, and will be what we will be. as for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. art has no influence upon action. it annihilates the desire to act. it is superbly sterile. the books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. that is all. but we won't discuss literature. come round to-morrow. i am going to ride at eleven. we might go together, and i will take you to lunch afterwards with lady branksome. she is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. mind you come. or shall we lunch with our little duchess? she says she never sees you now. perhaps you are tired of gladys? i thought you would be. her clever tongue gets on one's nerves. well, in any case, be here at eleven." "must i really come, harry?" "certainly. the park is quite lovely now. i don't think there have been such lilacs since the year i met you." "very well. i shall be here at eleven," said dorian. "good-night, harry." as he reached the door he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. then he sighed and went out. chapter xx it was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. as he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. he heard one of them whisper to the other, "that is dorian gray." he remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. he was tired of hearing his own name now. half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. he had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. he had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him, and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. what a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. and how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! she knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. when he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. he sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that lord henry had said to him. was it really true that one could never change? he felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as lord henry had once called it. he knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption, and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that, of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. but was it all irretrievable? was there no hope for him? ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! all his failure had been due to that. better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure, swift penalty along with it. there was purification in punishment. not "forgive us our sins," but "smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of a man to a most just god. the curiously carved mirror that lord henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed cupids laughed round it as of old. he took it up, as he had done on that night of horror, when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history." the phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself. then he loathed his own beauty, and, flinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. it was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. but for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. his beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. what was youth at best? a green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods and sickly thoughts. why had he worn its livery? youth had spoiled him. it was better not to think of the past. nothing could alter that. it was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. james vane was hidden in a nameless grave in selby churchyard. alan campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. the excitement, such as it was, over basil hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. it was already waning. he was perfectly safe there. nor, indeed, was it the death of basil hallward that weighed most upon his mind. it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. he could not forgive him that. it was the portrait that had done everything. basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. the murder had been simply the madness of a moment. as for alan campbell, his suicide had been his own act. he had chosen to do it. it was nothing to him. a new life! that was what he wanted. that was what he was waiting for. surely he had begun it already. he had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. he would never again tempt innocence. he would be good. as he thought of hetty merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. he would go and look. he took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. as he unbarred the door a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. he felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. he went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. a cry of pain and indignation broke from him. he could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. the thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilt. then he trembled. had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? or the desire for a new sensation, as lord henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? or, perhaps, all these? and why was the red stain larger than it had been? it seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. there was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. confess? did it mean that he was to confess? to give himself up, and be put to death? he laughed. he felt that the idea was monstrous. besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? there was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. everything belonging to him had been destroyed. he himself had burned what had been below-stairs. the world would simply say that he was mad. they would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. there was a god who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. his sin? he shrugged his shoulders. the death of basil hallward seemed very little to him. he was thinking of hetty merton. for it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. vanity? curiosity? hypocrisy? had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? there had been something more. at least he thought so. but who could tell?... no. there had been nothing more. through vanity he had spared her. in hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. for curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. he recognised that now. but this murder--was it to dog him all his life? was he always to be burdened by his past? was he really to confess? never. there was only one bit of evidence left against him. the picture itself--that was evidence. he would destroy it. why had he kept it so long? once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. of late he had felt no such pleasure. it had kept him awake at night. when he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. it had brought melancholy across his passions. its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. it had been like conscience to him. yes, it had been conscience. he would destroy it. he looked round, and saw the knife that had stabbed basil hallward. he had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. it was bright, and glistened. as it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead he would be free. it would kill this monstrous soul-life, and, without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. he seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. there was a cry heard, and a crash. the cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke, and crept out of their rooms. two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped, and looked up at the great house. they walked on till they met a policeman, and brought him back. the man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark. after a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched. "whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "mr. dorian gray's, sir," answered the policeman. they looked at each other, as they walked away and sneered. one of them was sir henry ashton's uncle. inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. old mrs. leaf was crying and wringing her hands. francis was as pale as death. after about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. they knocked, but there was no reply. they called out. everything was still. finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof, and dropped down on to the balcony. the windows yielded easily; their bolts were old. when they entered they found, hanging upon the wall, a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. he was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. it was not till they had examined the rings that they recognised who it was. the end * * * bibliographical note pirated editions owing to the number of unauthorised editions of "the picture of dorian gray" issued at various times both in america and on the continent of europe, it has become necessary to indicate which are the only authorised editions of oscar wilde's masterpiece. many of the pirated editions are incomplete in that they omit the preface and seven additional chapters which were first published in the london edition of . in other cases certain passages have been mutilated, and faulty spellings and misprints are numerous. authorised editions (i) first published in _lippincott's monthly magazine_, july, . london: ward, lock & co. _copyrighted in london_. published _simultaneously_ in america. philadelphia: j.-b. lippincott co. _copyrighted in the united states of america_. (ii) a preface to "dorian gray." _fortnightly review_, march , . london: chapman & hall. (_all rights reserved._) (iii) with the preface and seven additional chapters. london, new york, and melbourne: ward, lock & co. (n. d.). (of this edition copies were issued on l.p., _dated_ .) (iv) the same. london, new york, and melbourne: ward, lock & bowden. (n. d.). (published or .) see stuart mason's "art and morality" (page ). the following editions were issued by charles carrington, _publisher and literary agent_, late of faubourg montmartre, paris, and _rue de la tribune_, brussels (belgium), to whom the copyright belongs. (v) small vo, vii pages, printed on english antique wove paper, silk-cloth boards. copies, . (vi) the same, vii pages, silk-cloth boards. copies, . of this edition copies were issued on hand-made paper. (vii) to, vi pages, broad margins, claret-coloured paper wrappers, title on label on the outside. copies. price _s_. _d_. (february). (viii) cr. vo, uniform with methuen's (london) complete edition of wilde's _works_. xi pages, printed on hand-made paper, white cloth, gilt extra. copies. price _s._ _d._ (april ). of this edition further copies were printed on imperial japanese vellum, full vellum binding, gilt extra. price _s_. (ix) illustrated edition. containing seven fullpaged illustrations by paul thirlat, engraved on wood by eugène dété (both of paris), and artistically printed by brendon & son, ltd. (of plymouth), to, vi pages, half parchment bound, with corners, and _fleur-de-lys_ on side. - . price _s._ (x) small edition, uniform with messrs. methuen's issue of "oscar wilde's works" at same price. mo, xii and pages. copies. bound in green cloth. . price _s._ it follows from all this that, with the exception of the version in _lippincott's magazine_ only those editions are authorised to be sold in great britain and her colonies which bear the imprimatur of ward, lock & co., london, or charles carrington, paris and brussels; and that all other editions, whether american, continental (_save carrington's paris editions above specified_) or otherwise, may not be sold within british jurisdiction without infringing the _berne_ law of literary copyright and incurring the disagreements that may therefrom result. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., limited. * * * to possess a good edition of shakespeare is surely the desire of every one. simpkin's thin paper edition of shakespeare is a charming edition, suitable for the pocket or bookshelf. size - / × × / inch thick. printed in large type on a thin but thoroughly opaque paper, with photogravure frontispiece and title-page to each volume on japanese vellum. the volumes are comedies, histories, tragedies. cloth, /- each net. lambskin, / each net polished persian levant in case, /- net / vellum, gilt top, in case, /- net _to be had from all booksellers or the publishers_ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. * * * how interesting a study or hobby becomes when you have the assistance of an experienced guide. gordon's our country's series are reliable and safe guides for the professional or amateur student of nature study. _each volume contains full-page plates containing a coloured illustration of every species. cloth / each net_ flowers. shells. birds. fishes. butterflies & moths. animals (mammals, reptiles, and amphibians). eggs of british birds. (being a supplement to "our country's birds".) / net with full-page coloured plates. manual of british grasses. crown vo. /-net with an accurate coloured figure of every species, and outline drawings of the spikelets and florets of every genus. _ask your bookseller to show you gordon's our country's series_. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. * * * have you a friend who loves "my lady nicotine?" he would appreciate the smoker books they form a comprehensive collection of books for lovers of the "weed." in their unique and original binding they make an attractive novelty for a present. cigarettes in fact and fancy. collected and edited by john bain. tobacco in song and story. edited by john bain. a smoker's reveries, or tobacco in verse and rhyme. compiled by joseph knight. pipe and pouch, or the smoker's own book of poetry. compiled by joseph knight. bath robes and bachelors. compiled by arthur gray. each book is bound in velvet persian, tobacco shade, and enclosed in a case closely imitating a cigar box, with appropriate labels. price s. net. postage d. _to be had from all booksellers or the publishers_ london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. * * * the caxton series illustrated reprints of famous classics. printed in large, clear type on antique wove paper, with photogravure frontispiece, and from ten to fourteen illustrations by the best artists in black and white. small foolscap vo, - / by - / , cloth limp, designed end-papers, /- net. undine, and aslauga's knight. by la motte fouquÉ. with illustrations by harold nelson. the pilgrim's progress from this world to that which is to come. by john bunyan. with illustrations by edmund j. sullivan. two volumes. in memoriam. by alfred, lord tennyson. with illustrations by a. garth jones. the serious poems of thomas hood. with illustrations by h. granville fell. a book of romantic ballads. compiled from various sources ranging from the thirteenth century to the present day. with illustrations by reginald savage. the sketch book. by washington irving. with illustrations by edmund j. sullivan. two volumes. rosalynde. by thomas lodge. with illustrations by edmund j. sullivan. herrick's hesperides and noble numbers. with illustrations by reginald savage. two volumes. london: simpkin, marshall, hamilton, kent & co., ltd. the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde the preface the artist is the creator of beautiful things. to reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. the critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. the highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. this is a fault. those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. for these there is hope. they are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written, or badly written. that is all. the nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of caliban seeing his own face in a glass. the nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. the moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. no artist desires to prove anything. even things that are true can be proved. no artist has ethical sympathies. an ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. no artist is ever morbid. the artist can express everything. thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. from the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. from the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. all art is at once surface and symbol. those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. those who read the symbol do so at their peril. it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. when critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. we can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. the only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. all art is quite useless. oscar wilde chapter the studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. from the corner of the divan of persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, lord henry wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. the sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. the dim roar of london was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. in the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, basil hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures. as the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. but he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. "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. look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. how perfectly hideous they are! except, of course, in the church. but then in the church they don't think. a bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. i feel quite sure of that. he is some brainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we want something to chill our intelligence. don't flatter yourself, basil: you are not in the least like him." "you don't understand me, harry," answered the artist. "of course i am not like him. i know that perfectly well. indeed, i should be sorry to look like him. 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. i sometimes wish she would; but she merely laughs at me." "i hate the way you talk about your married life, harry," said basil hallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "i believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. you are an extraordinary fellow. you never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. your cynicism is simply a pose." "being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose i know," cried lord henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. the sunlight slipped over the polished leaves. in the grass, white daisies were tremulous. after a pause, lord henry pulled out his watch. "i am afraid i must be going, basil," he murmured, "and before i go, i insist on your answering a question i put to you some time ago." "what is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. "you know quite well." "i do not, harry." "well, i will tell you what it is. i want you to explain to me why you won't exhibit dorian gray's picture. i want the real reason." "i told you the real reason." "no, you did not. you said it was because there was too much of yourself in it. now, that is childish." "harry," said basil hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. the sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. it is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. the reason i will not exhibit this picture is that i am afraid that i have shown in it the secret of my own soul." lord henry laughed. "and what is that?" he asked. "i will tell you," said hallward; but an expression of perplexity came over his face. "i am all expectation, basil," continued his companion, glancing at him. "oh, there is really very little to tell, harry," answered the painter; "and i am afraid you will hardly understand it. perhaps you will hardly believe it." lord henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it. "i am quite sure i shall understand it," he replied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, i can believe anything, provided that it is quite incredible." the wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavy lilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in the languid air. a grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings. lord henry felt as if he could hear basil hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "the story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "two months ago i went to a crush at lady brandon's. you know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. with an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. well, after i had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, i suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. i turned half-way round and saw dorian gray for the first time. when our eyes met, i felt that i was growing pale. a curious sensation of terror came over me. i knew that i had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if i allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. i did not want any external influence in my life. you know yourself, harry, how independent i am by nature. i have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till i met dorian gray. then--but i don't know how to explain it to you. something seemed to tell me that i was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. i had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. i grew afraid and turned to quit the room. it was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. i take no credit to myself for trying to escape." "conscience and cowardice are really the same things, basil. conscience is the trade-name of the firm. that is all." "i don't believe that, harry, and i don't believe you do either. however, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for i used to be very proud--i certainly struggled to the door. there, of course, i stumbled against lady brandon. 'you are not going to run away so soon, mr. hallward?' she screamed out. you know her curiously shrill voice?" "yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty," said lord henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. "i could not get rid of her. she brought me up to royalties, and people with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiaras and parrot noses. she spoke of me as her dearest friend. i had only met her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. i believe some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, at least had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. suddenly i found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. we were quite close, almost touching. our eyes met again. it was reckless of me, but i asked lady brandon to introduce me to him. perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. it was simply inevitable. we would have spoken to each other without any introduction. i am sure of that. dorian told me so afterwards. he, too, felt that we were destined to know each other." "and how did lady brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked his companion. "i know she goes in for giving a rapid _precis_ of all her guests. i remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into my ear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible to everybody in the room, the most astounding details. i simply fled. i like to find out people for myself. but lady brandon treats her guests exactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. she either explains them entirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wants to know." "poor lady brandon! you are hard on her, harry!" said hallward listlessly. "my dear fellow, she tried to found a _salon_, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. how could i admire her? but tell me, what did she say about mr. dorian gray?" "oh, something like, 'charming boy--poor dear mother and i absolutely inseparable. quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't do anything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear mr. gray?' neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends at once." "laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one," said the young lord, plucking another daisy. hallward shook his head. "you don't understand what friendship is, harry," he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. you like every one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one." "how horribly unjust of you!" cried lord henry, tilting his hat back and looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins of glossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of the summer sky. "yes; horribly unjust of you. i make a great difference between people. i choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. a man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. i have not got one who is a fool. they are all men of some intellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. is that very vain of me? i think it is rather vain." "i should think it was, harry. but according to your category i must be merely an acquaintance." "my dear old basil, you are much more than an acquaintance." "and much less than a friend. a sort of brother, i suppose?" "oh, brothers! i don't care for brothers. my elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else." "harry!" exclaimed hallward, frowning. "my dear fellow, i am not quite serious. but i can't help detesting my relations. i suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand other people having the same faults as ourselves. i quite sympathize with the rage of the english democracy against what they call the vices of the upper orders. the masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be their own special property, and that if any one of us makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. when poor southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent. and yet i don't suppose that ten per cent of the proletariat live correctly." "i don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what is more, harry, i feel sure you don't either." lord henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of his patent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "how english you are basil! that is the second time you have made that observation. if one puts forward an idea to a true englishman--always a rash thing to do--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. the only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believes it oneself. now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it. indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purely intellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be coloured by either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. however, i don't propose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. i like persons better than principles, and i like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world. tell me more about mr. dorian gray. how often do you see him?" "every day. i couldn't be happy if i didn't see him every day. he is absolutely necessary to me." "how extraordinary! i thought you would never care for anything but your art." "he is all my art to me now," said the painter gravely. "i sometimes think, harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world's history. the first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. what the invention of oil-painting was to the venetians, the face of antinous was to late greek sculpture, and the face of dorian gray will some day be to me. it is not merely that i paint from him, draw from him, sketch from him. of course, i have done all that. but he is much more to me than a model or a sitter. i won't tell you that i am dissatisfied with what i have done of him, or that his beauty is such that art cannot express it. there is nothing that art cannot express, and i know that the work i have done, since i met dorian gray, is good work, is the best work of my life. but in some curious way--i wonder will you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. i see things differently, i think of them differently. i can now recreate life in a way that was hidden from me before. 'a dream of form in days of thought'--who is it who says that? i forget; but it is what dorian gray has been to me. the merely visible presence of this lad--for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty--his merely visible presence--ah! i wonder can you realize all that that means? unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is greek. the harmony of soul and body--how much that is! we in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. harry! if you only knew what dorian gray is to me! you remember that landscape of mine, for which agnew offered me such a huge price but which i would not part with? it is one of the best things i have ever done. and why is it so? because, while i was painting it, dorian gray sat beside me. some subtle influence passed from him to me, and for the first time in my life i saw in the plain woodland the wonder i had always looked for and always missed." "basil, this is extraordinary! i must see dorian gray." hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. after some time he came back. "harry," he said, "dorian gray is to me simply a motive in art. you might see nothing in him. i see everything in him. he is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. he is a suggestion, as i have said, of a new manner. i find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours. that is all." "then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked lord henry. "because, without intending it, i have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, i have never cared to speak to him. he knows nothing about it. he shall never know anything about it. but the world might guess it, and i will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. my heart shall never be put under their microscope. there is too much of myself in the thing, harry--too much of myself!" "poets are not so scrupulous as you are. they know how useful passion is for publication. nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions." "i hate them for it," cried hallward. "an artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. we live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. we have lost the abstract sense of beauty. some day i will show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shall never see my portrait of dorian gray." "i think you are wrong, basil, but i won't argue with you. it is only the intellectually lost who ever argue. tell me, is dorian gray very fond of you?" the painter considered for a few moments. "he likes me," he answered after a pause; "i know he likes me. of course i flatter him dreadfully. i find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that i know i shall be sorry for having said. as a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. then i feel, harry, that i have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day." "days in summer, basil, are apt to linger," murmured lord henry. "perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. it is a sad thing to think of, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. that accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. in the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. the thoroughly well-informed man--that is the modern ideal. and the mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. it is like a _bric-a-brac_ shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. i think you will tire first, all the same. some day you will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a little out of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something. you will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously think that he has behaved very badly to you. the next time he calls, you will be perfectly cold and indifferent. it will be a great pity, for it will alter you. what you have told me is quite a romance, a romance of art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic." "harry, don't talk like that. as long as i live, the personality of dorian gray will dominate me. you can't feel what i feel. you change too often." "ah, my dear basil, that is exactly why i can feel it. those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love's tragedies." and lord henry struck a light on a dainty silver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious and satisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. there was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass like swallows. how pleasant it was in the garden! and how delightful other people's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, it seemed to him. one's own soul, and the passions of one's friends--those were the fascinating things in life. he pictured to himself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missed by staying so long with basil hallward. had he gone to his aunt's, he would have been sure to have met lord goodbody there, and the whole conversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and the necessity for model lodging-houses. each class would have preached the importance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessity in their own lives. the rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. it was charming to have escaped all that! as he thought of his aunt, an idea seemed to strike him. he turned to hallward and said, "my dear fellow, i have just remembered." "remembered what, harry?" "where i heard the name of dorian gray." "where was it?" asked hallward, with a slight frown. "don't look so angry, basil. it was at my aunt, lady agatha's. she told me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to help her in the east end, and that his name was dorian gray. i am bound to state that she never told me he was good-looking. women have no appreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. she said that he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. i at once pictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horribly freckled, and tramping about on huge feet. i wish i had known it was your friend." "i am very glad you didn't, harry." "why?" "i don't want you to meet him." "you don't want me to meet him?" "no." "mr. dorian gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into the garden. "you must introduce me now," cried lord henry, laughing. the painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "ask mr. gray to wait, parker: i shall be in in a few moments." the man bowed and went up the walk. then he looked at lord henry. "dorian gray is my dearest friend," he said. "he has a simple and a beautiful nature. your aunt was quite right in what she said of him. don't spoil him. don't try to influence him. your influence would be bad. the world is wide, and has many marvellous people in it. don't take away from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as an artist depends on him. mind, harry, i trust you." he spoke very slowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. "what nonsense you talk!" said lord henry, smiling, and taking hallward by the arm, he almost led him into the house. chapter as they entered they saw dorian gray. he was seated at the piano, with his back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of schumann's "forest scenes." "you must lend me these, basil," he cried. "i want to learn them. they are perfectly charming." "that entirely depends on how you sit to-day, dorian." "oh, i am tired of sitting, and i don't want a life-sized portrait of myself," answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulant manner. when he caught sight of lord henry, a faint blush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "i beg your pardon, basil, but i didn't know you had any one with you." "this is lord henry wotton, dorian, an old oxford friend of mine. i have just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now you have spoiled everything." "you have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, mr. gray," said lord henry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "my aunt has often spoken to me about you. you are one of her favourites, and, i am afraid, one of her victims also." "i am in lady agatha's black books at present," answered dorian with a funny look of penitence. "i promised to go to a club in whitechapel with her last tuesday, and i really forgot all about it. we were to have played a duet together--three duets, i believe. i don't know what she will say to me. i am far too frightened to call." "oh, i will make your peace with my aunt. she is quite devoted to you. and i don't think it really matters about your not being there. the audience probably thought it was a duet. when aunt agatha sits down to the piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people." "that is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me," answered dorian, laughing. lord henry looked at him. yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair. there was something in his face that made one trust him at once. all the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth's passionate purity. one felt that he had kept himself unspotted from the world. no wonder basil hallward worshipped him. "you are too charming to go in for philanthropy, mr. gray--far too charming." and lord henry flung himself down on the divan and opened his cigarette-case. the painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushes ready. he was looking worried, and when he heard lord henry's last remark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "harry, i want to finish this picture to-day. would you think it awfully rude of me if i asked you to go away?" lord henry smiled and looked at dorian gray. "am i to go, mr. gray?" he asked. "oh, please don't, lord henry. i see that basil is in one of his sulky moods, and i can't bear him when he sulks. besides, i want you to tell me why i should not go in for philanthropy." "i don't know that i shall tell you that, mr. gray. it is so tedious a subject that one would have to talk seriously about it. but i certainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. you don't really mind, basil, do you? you have often told me that you liked your sitters to have some one to chat to." hallward bit his lip. "if dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself." lord henry took up his hat and gloves. "you are very pressing, basil, but i am afraid i must go. i have promised to meet a man at the orleans. good-bye, mr. gray. come and see me some afternoon in curzon street. i am nearly always at home at five o'clock. write to me when you are coming. i should be sorry to miss you." "basil," cried dorian gray, "if lord henry wotton goes, i shall go, too. you never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. ask him to stay. i insist upon it." "stay, harry, to oblige dorian, and to oblige me," said hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "it is quite true, i never talk when i am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. i beg you to stay." "but what about my man at the orleans?" the painter laughed. "i don't think there will be any difficulty about that. sit down again, harry. 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 mediaevalism, and return to the hellenic ideal--to something finer, richer than the hellenic ideal, it may be. but the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. the mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. we are punished for our refusals. every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. the body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. it has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. it is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. you, mr. gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--" "stop!" faltered dorian gray, "stop! you bewilder me. i don't know what to say. there is some answer to you, but i cannot find it. don't speak. let me think. or, rather, let me try not to think." for nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. he was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. the few words that basil's friend had said to him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in them--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. music had stirred him like that. music had troubled him many times. but music was not articulate. it was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. words! mere words! how terrible they were! how clear, and vivid, and cruel! one could not escape from them. and yet what a subtle magic there was in them! they seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. mere words! was there anything so real as words? yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. he understood them now. life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. it seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. why had he not known it? with his subtle smile, lord henry watched him. he knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing. he felt intensely interested. he was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether dorian gray was passing through a similar experience. he had merely shot an arrow into the air. had it hit the mark? how fascinating the lad was! hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comes only from strength. he was unconscious of the silence. "basil, i am tired of standing," cried dorian gray suddenly. "i must go out and sit in the garden. the air is stifling here." "my dear fellow, i am so sorry. when i am painting, i can't think of anything else. but you never sat better. you were perfectly still. and i have caught the effect i wanted--the half-parted lips and the bright look in the eyes. i don't know what harry has been saying to you, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. i suppose he has been paying you compliments. you mustn't believe a word that he says." "he has certainly not been paying me compliments. perhaps that is the reason that i don't believe anything he has told me." "you know you believe it all," said lord henry, looking at him with his dreamy languorous eyes. "i will go out to the garden with you. it is horribly hot in the studio. basil, let us have something iced to drink, something with strawberries in it." "certainly, harry. just touch the bell, and when parker comes i will tell him what you want. i have got to work up this background, so i will join you later on. don't keep dorian too long. 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. you really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. it would be unbecoming." "what can it matter?" cried dorian gray, laughing, as he sat down on the seat at the end of the garden. "it should matter everything to you, mr. gray." "why?" "because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thing worth having." "i don't feel that, lord henry." "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. 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." they rose up and sauntered down the walk together. two green-and-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing. "you are glad you have met me, mr. gray," said lord henry, looking at him. "yes, i am glad now. i wonder shall i always be glad?" "always! that is a dreadful word. it makes me shudder when i hear it. women are so fond of using it. they spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. it is a meaningless word, too. the only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer." as they entered the studio, dorian gray put his hand upon lord henry's arm. "in that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform and resumed his pose. lord henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. the sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, hallward stepped back to look at his work from a distance. in the slanting beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. the heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. after about a quarter of an hour hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at dorian gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "it is quite finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. lord henry came over and examined the picture. it was certainly a wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. "my dear fellow, i congratulate you most warmly," he said. "it is the finest portrait of modern times. mr. gray, come over and look at yourself." the lad started, as if awakened from some dream. "is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. "quite finished," said the painter. "and you have sat splendidly to-day. i am awfully obliged to you." "that is entirely due to me," broke in lord henry. "isn't it, mr. gray?" dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture and turned towards it. when he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks flushed for a moment with pleasure. a look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. he stood there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that hallward was speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. the sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. he had never felt it before. basil hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely the charming exaggeration of friendship. he had listened to them, laughed at them, forgotten them. they had not influenced his nature. then had come lord henry wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. that had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him. yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. the scarlet would pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. the life that was to make his soul would mar his body. he would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth. as he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. his eyes deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. he felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. "don't you like it?" cried hallward at last, stung a little by the lad's silence, not understanding what it meant. "of course he likes it," said lord henry. "who wouldn't like it? it is one of the greatest things in modern art. i will give you anything you like to ask for it. i must have it." "it is not my property, harry." "whose property is it?" "dorian's, of course," answered the painter. "he is a very lucky fellow." "how sad it is!" murmured dorian gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait. "how sad it is! i shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. but this picture will remain always young. it will never be older than this particular day of june.... if it were only the other way! if it were i who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! for that--for that--i would give everything! yes, there is nothing in the whole world i would not give! i would give my soul for that!" "you would hardly care for such an arrangement, basil," cried lord henry, laughing. "it would be rather hard lines on your work." "i should object very strongly, harry," said hallward. dorian gray turned and looked at him. "i believe you would, basil. you like your art better than your friends. i am no more to you than a green bronze figure. hardly as much, i dare say." the painter stared in amazement. it was so unlike dorian to speak like that. what had happened? he seemed quite angry. his face was flushed and his cheeks burning. "yes," he continued, "i am less to you than your ivory hermes or your silver faun. you will like them always. how long will you like me? till i have my first wrinkle, i suppose. i know, now, that when one loses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. your picture has taught me that. lord henry wotton is perfectly right. youth is the only thing worth having. when i find that i am growing old, i shall kill myself." hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "dorian! dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. i have never had such a friend as you, and i shall never have such another. you are not jealous of material things, are you?--you who are finer than any of them!" "i am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. i am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. why should it keep what i must lose? every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. oh, if it were only the other way! if the picture could change, and i could be always what i am now! why did you paint it? it will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" the hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. "this is your doing, harry," said the painter bitterly. lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "it is the real dorian gray--that is all." "it is not." "if it is not, what have i to do with it?" "you should have gone away when i asked you," he muttered. "i stayed when you asked me," was lord henry's answer. "harry, i can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work i have ever done, and i will destroy it. what is it but canvas and colour? i will not let it come across our three lives and mar them." dorian gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallid face and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. what was he doing there? his fingers were straying about among the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. yes, it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. he had found it at last. he was going to rip up the canvas. with a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over to hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end of the studio. "don't, basil, don't!" he cried. "it would be murder!" "i am glad you appreciate my work at last, dorian," said the painter coldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "i never thought you would." "appreciate it? i am in love with it, basil. it is part of myself. i feel that." "well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, and sent home. then you can do what you like with yourself." and he walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "you will have tea, of course, dorian? and so will you, harry? or do you object to such simple pleasures?" "i adore simple pleasures," said lord henry. "they are the last refuge of the complex. but i don't like scenes, except on the stage. what absurd fellows you are, both of you! i wonder who it was defined man as a rational animal. it was the most premature definition ever given. man is many things, but he is not rational. i am glad he is not, after all--though i wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. you had much better let me have it, basil. this silly boy doesn't really want it, and i really do." "if you let any one have it but me, basil, i shall never forgive you!" cried dorian gray; "and i don't allow people to call me a silly boy." "you know the picture is yours, dorian. i gave it to you before it existed." "and you know you have been a little silly, mr. gray, and that you don't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young." "i should have objected very strongly this morning, lord henry." "ah! this morning! you have lived since then." there came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a laden tea-tray and set it down upon a small japanese table. there was a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted georgian urn. two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. dorian gray went over and poured out the tea. the two men sauntered languidly to the table and examined what was under the covers. "let us go to the theatre to-night," said lord henry. "there is sure to be something on, somewhere. i have promised to dine at white's, but it is only with an old friend, so i can send him a wire to say that i am ill, or that i am prevented from coming in consequence of a subsequent engagement. i think that would be a rather nice excuse: it would have all the surprise of candour." "it is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes," muttered hallward. "and, when one has them on, they are so horrid." "yes," answered lord henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenth century is detestable. it is so sombre, so depressing. sin is the only real colour-element left in modern life." "you really must not say things like that before dorian, harry." "before which dorian? the one who is pouring out tea for us, or the one in the picture?" "before either." "i should like to come to the theatre with you, lord henry," said the lad. "then you shall come; and you will come, too, basil, won't you?" "i can't, really. i would sooner not. i have a lot of work to do." "well, then, you and i will go alone, mr. gray." "i should like that awfully." the painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "i shall stay with the real dorian," he said, sadly. "is it the real dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strolling across to him. "am i really like that?" "yes; you are just like that." "how wonderful, basil!" "at least you are like it in appearance. but it will never alter," sighed hallward. "that is something." "what a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed lord henry. "why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. it has nothing to do with our own will. young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say." "don't go to the theatre to-night, dorian," said hallward. "stop and dine with me." "i can't, basil." "why?" "because i have promised lord henry wotton to go with him." "he won't like you the better for keeping your promises. he always breaks his own. i beg you not to go." dorian gray laughed and shook his head. "i entreat you." the lad hesitated, and looked over at lord henry, who was watching them from the tea-table with an amused smile. "i must go, basil," he answered. "very well," said hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup on the tray. "it is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. good-bye, harry. good-bye, dorian. come and see me soon. come to-morrow." "certainly." "you won't forget?" "no, of course not," cried dorian. "and ... harry!" "yes, basil?" "remember what i asked you, when we were in the garden this morning." "i have forgotten it." "i trust you." "i wish i could trust myself," said lord henry, laughing. "come, mr. gray, my hansom is outside, and i can drop you at your own place. good-bye, basil. it has been a most interesting afternoon." as the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face. chapter at half-past twelve next day lord henry wotton strolled from curzon street over to the albany to call on his uncle, lord fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by society as he fed the people who amused him. his father had been our ambassador at madrid when isabella was young and prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the embassy at paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good english of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. the son, who had been his father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. he had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. 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. or rather, i know who he is. he is the last lord kelso's grandson. his mother was a devereux, lady margaret devereux. i want you to tell me about his mother. what was she like? whom did she marry? you have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. i am very much interested in mr. gray at present. i have only just met him." "kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "kelso's grandson! ... of course.... i knew his mother intimately. i believe i was at her christening. she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, margaret devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. certainly. i remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. the poor chap was killed in a duel at spa a few months after the marriage. there was an ugly story about it. they said kelso got some rascally adventurer, some belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. the thing was hushed up, but, egad, kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. he brought his daughter back with him, i was told, and she never spoke to him again. oh, yes; it was a bad business. the girl died, too, died within a year. so she left a son, did she? i had forgotten that. what sort of boy is he? if he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "he is very good-looking," assented lord henry. "i hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man. "he should have a pot of money waiting for him if kelso did the right thing by him. his mother had money, too. all the selby property came to her, through her grandfather. her grandfather hated kelso, thought him a mean dog. he was, too. came to madrid once when i was there. egad, i was ashamed of him. the queen used to ask me about the english noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. they made quite a story of it. i didn't dare show my face at court for a month. i hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." "i don't know," answered lord henry. "i fancy that the boy will be well off. he is not of age yet. he has selby, i know. he told me so. and ... his mother was very beautiful?" "margaret devereux was one of the loveliest creatures i ever saw, harry. what on earth induced her to behave as she did, i never could understand. she could have married anybody she chose. carlington was mad after her. she was romantic, though. all the women of that family were. the men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. carlington went on his knees to her. told me so himself. she laughed at him, and there wasn't a girl in london at the time who wasn't after him. and by the way, harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about dartmoor wanting to marry an american? 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 _protege_." "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. a beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. a few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. the mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. yes; it was an interesting background. it posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... and how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. he answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... there was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. no other activity was like it. to project one's soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims.... he was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in basil's studio, or could be fashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. grace was his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old greek marbles kept for us. there was nothing that one could not do with him. he could be made a titan or a toy. what a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade! ... and basil? from a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! the new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! he remembered something like it in history. was it not plato, that artist in thought, who had first analyzed it? was it not buonarotti who had carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? but in our own century it was strange.... yes; he would try to be to dorian gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait. he would seek to dominate him--had already, indeed, half done so. he would make that wonderful spirit his own. there was something fascinating in this son of love and death. suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. he found that he had passed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. when he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. he gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room. "late as usual, harry," cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. he invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. opposite was the duchess of harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. next to her sat, on her right, sir thomas burdon, a radical member of parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the tories and thinking with the liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule. the post on her left was occupied by mr. erskine of treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to lady agatha, said everything that he had to say before he was thirty. his own neighbour was mrs. vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. fortunately for him she had on the other side lord faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statement in the house of commons, with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none of them ever quite escape. "we are talking about poor dartmoor, lord henry," cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?" "i believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, duchess." "how dreadful!" exclaimed lady agatha. "really, some one should interfere." "i am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an american dry-goods store," said sir thomas burdon, looking supercilious. "my uncle has already suggested pork-packing, sir thomas." "dry-goods! what are american dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raising her large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. "american novels," answered lord henry, helping himself to some quail. the duchess looked puzzled. "don't mind him, my dear," whispered lady agatha. "he never means anything that he says." "when america was discovered," said the radical member--and he began to give some wearisome facts. like all people who try to exhaust a subject, he exhausted his listeners. the duchess sighed and exercised her privilege of interruption. "i wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" she exclaimed. "really, our girls have no chance nowadays. it is most unfair." "perhaps, after all, america never has been discovered," said mr. erskine; "i myself would say that it had merely been detected." "oh! but i have seen specimens of the inhabitants," answered the duchess vaguely. "i must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. and they dress well, too. they get all their dresses in paris. i wish i could afford to do the same." "they say that when good americans die they go to paris," chuckled sir thomas, who had a large wardrobe of humour's cast-off clothes. "really! and where do bad americans go to when they die?" inquired the duchess. "they go to america," murmured lord henry. sir thomas frowned. "i am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country," he said to lady agatha. "i have travelled all over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. i assure you that it is an education to visit it." "but must we really see chicago in order to be educated?" asked mr. erskine plaintively. "i don't feel up to the journey." sir thomas waved his hand. "mr. erskine of treadley has the world on his shelves. we practical men like to see things, not to read about them. the americans are an extremely interesting people. they are absolutely reasonable. i think that is their distinguishing characteristic. yes, mr. erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. i assure you there is no nonsense about the americans." "how dreadful!" cried lord henry. "i can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. there is something unfair about its use. it is hitting below the intellect." "i do not understand you," said sir thomas, growing rather red. "i do, lord henry," murmured mr. erskine, with a smile. "paradoxes are all very well in their way...." rejoined the baronet. "was that a paradox?" asked mr. erskine. "i did not think so. perhaps it was. well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. to test reality we must see it on the tight rope. when the verities become acrobats, we can judge them." "dear me!" said lady agatha, "how you men argue! i am sure i never can make out what you are talking about. oh! harry, i am quite vexed with you. why do you try to persuade our nice mr. dorian gray to give up the east end? i assure you he would be quite invaluable. they would love his playing." "i want him to play to me," cried lord henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance. "but they are so unhappy in whitechapel," continued lady agatha. "i can sympathize with everything except suffering," said lord henry, shrugging his shoulders. "i cannot sympathize with that. it is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. there is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. 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. erskine listened. "yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes." a laugh ran round the table. he played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy and winged it with paradox. the praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow silenus for being sober. facts fled before her like frightened forest things. her white feet trod the huge press at which wise omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. it was an extraordinary improvisation. he felt that the eyes of dorian gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and to lend colour to his imagination. he was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. he charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing. dorian gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. at last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was waiting. she wrung her hands in mock despair. "how annoying!" she cried. "i must go. i have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at willis's rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. if i am late he is sure to be furious, and i couldn't have a scene in this bonnet. it is far too fragile. a harsh word would ruin it. no, i must go, dear agatha. good-bye, lord henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. i am sure i don't know what to say about your views. you must come and dine with us some night. tuesday? are you disengaged tuesday?" "for you i would throw over anybody, duchess," said lord henry with a bow. "ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you," she cried; "so mind you come"; and she swept out of the room, followed by lady agatha and the other ladies. when lord henry had sat down again, mr. erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. "you talk books away," he said; "why don't you write one?" "i am too fond of reading books to care to write them, mr. erskine. i should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a persian carpet and as unreal. but there is no literary public in england for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. of all people in the world the english have the least sense of the beauty of literature." "i fear you are right," answered mr. erskine. "i myself used to have literary ambitions, but i gave them up long ago. and now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may i ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?" "i quite forget what i said," smiled lord henry. "was it all very bad?" "very bad indeed. in fact i consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. but i should like to talk to you about life. the generation into which i was born was tedious. some day, when you are tired of london, come down to treadley and expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable burgundy i am fortunate enough to possess." "i shall be charmed. a visit to treadley would be a great privilege. it has a perfect host, and a perfect library." "you will complete it," answered the old gentleman with a courteous bow. "and now i must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. i am due at the athenaeum. it is the hour when we sleep there." "all of you, mr. erskine?" "forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. we are practising for an english academy of letters." lord henry laughed and rose. "i am going to the park," he cried. as he was passing out of the door, dorian gray touched him on the arm. "let me come with you," he murmured. "but i thought you had promised basil hallward to go and see him," answered lord henry. "i would sooner come with you; yes, i feel i must come with you. do let me. and you will promise to talk to me all the time? no one talks so wonderfully as you do." "ah! i have talked quite enough for to-day," said lord henry, smiling. "all i want now is to look at life. you may come and look at it with me, if you care to." chapter one afternoon, a month later, dorian gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of lord henry's house in mayfair. it was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceiling of raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed persian rugs. on a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by clodion, and beside it lay a copy of les cent nouvelles, bound for margaret of valois by clovis eve and powdered with the gilt daisies that queen had selected for her device. some large blue china jars and parrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of a summer day in london. lord henry had not yet come in. he was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. so the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately illustrated edition of manon lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases. the formal monotonous ticking of the louis quatorze clock annoyed him. once or twice he thought of going away. at last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "how late you are, harry!" he murmured. "i am afraid it is not harry, mr. gray," answered a shrill voice. he glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "i beg your pardon. i thought--" "you thought it was my husband. it is only his wife. you must let me introduce myself. i know you quite well by your photographs. i think my husband has got seventeen of them." "not seventeen, lady henry?" "well, eighteen, then. and i saw you with him the other night at the opera." she laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. she was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. she was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. she tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. her name was victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. "that was at lohengrin, lady henry, i think?" "yes; it was at dear lohengrin. i like wagner's music better than anybody's. it is so loud that one can talk the whole time without other people hearing what one says. that is a great advantage, don't you think so, mr. gray?" the same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. dorian smiled and shook his head: "i am afraid i don't think so, lady henry. i never talk during music--at least, during good music. if one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation." "ah! that is one of harry's views, isn't it, mr. gray? i always hear harry's views from his friends. it is the only way i get to know of them. but you must not think i don't like good music. i adore it, but i am afraid of it. it makes me too romantic. i have simply worshipped pianists--two at a time, sometimes, harry tells me. i don't know what it is about them. perhaps it is that they are foreigners. they all are, ain't they? even those that are born in england become foreigners after a time, don't they? it is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? you have never been to any of my parties, have you, mr. gray? you must come. i can't afford orchids, but i spare no expense in foreigners. they make one's rooms look so picturesque. but here is harry! harry, i came in to look for you, to ask you something--i forget what it was--and i found mr. gray here. we have had such a pleasant chat about music. we have quite the same ideas. no; i think our ideas are quite different. but he has been most pleasant. i am so glad i've seen him." "i am charmed, my love, quite charmed," said lord henry, elevating his dark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile. "so sorry i am late, dorian. i went to look after a piece of old brocade in wardour street and had to bargain for hours for it. nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing." "i am afraid i must be going," exclaimed lady henry, breaking an awkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "i have promised to drive with the duchess. good-bye, mr. gray. good-bye, harry. you are dining out, i suppose? so am i. perhaps i shall see you at lady thornbury's." "i dare say, my dear," said lord henry, shutting the door behind her as, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in the rain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour of frangipanni. then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on the sofa. "never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, dorian," he said after a few puffs. "why, harry?" "because they are so sentimental." "but i like sentimental people." "never marry at all, dorian. men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed." "i don't think i am likely to marry, harry. i am too much in love. that is one of your aphorisms. i am putting it into practice, as i do everything that you say." "who are you in love with?" asked lord henry after a pause. "with an actress," said dorian gray, blushing. lord henry shrugged his shoulders. "that is a rather commonplace _debut_." "you would not say so if you saw her, harry." "who is she?" "her name is sibyl vane." "never heard of her." "no one has. people will some day, however. she is a genius." "my dear boy, no woman is a genius. women are a decorative sex. they never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals." "harry, how can you?" "my dear dorian, it is quite true. i am analysing women at present, so i ought to know. the subject is not so abstruse as i thought it was. i find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plain and the coloured. the plain women are very useful. if you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. the other women are very charming. they commit one mistake, however. they paint in order to try and look young. our grandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. _rouge_ and _esprit_ used to go together. that is all over now. as long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. as for conversation, there are only five women in london worth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decent society. however, tell me about your genius. how long have you known her?" "ah! harry, your views terrify me." "never mind that. how long have you known her?" "about three weeks." "and where did you come across her?" "i will tell you, harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. after all, it never would have happened if i had not met you. you filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. for days after i met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. as i lounged in the park, or strolled down piccadilly, i used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. some of them fascinated me. others filled me with terror. there was an exquisite poison in the air. i had a passion for sensations.... well, one evening about seven o'clock, i determined to go out in search of some adventure. i felt that this grey monstrous london of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. i fancied a thousand things. the mere danger gave me a sense of delight. i remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. i don't know what i expected, but i went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. about half-past eight i passed by an absurd little theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. a hideous jew, in the most amazing waistcoat i ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. he had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. 'have a box, my lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an air of gorgeous servility. there was something about him, harry, that amused me. he was such a monster. you will laugh at me, i know, but i really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. to the present day i can't make out why i did so; and yet if i hadn't--my dear harry, if i hadn't--i should have missed the greatest romance of my life. i see you are laughing. it is horrid of you!" "i am not laughing, dorian; at least i am not laughing at you. but you should not say the greatest romance of your life. you should say the first romance of your life. you will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. a _grande passion_ is the privilege of people who have nothing to do. that is the one use of the idle classes of a country. don't be afraid. there are exquisite things in store for you. this is merely the beginning." "do you think my nature so shallow?" cried dorian gray angrily. "no; i think your nature so deep." "how do you mean?" "my dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people. what they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, i call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect--simply a confession of failure. faithfulness! i must analyse it some day. the passion for property is in it. there are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up. but i don't want to interrupt you. go on with your story." "well, i found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. i looked out from behind the curtain and surveyed the house. it was a tawdry affair, all cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. the gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what i suppose they called the dress-circle. women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on." "it must have been just like the palmy days of the british drama." "just like, i should fancy, and very depressing. i began to wonder what on earth i should do when i caught sight of the play-bill. what do you think the play was, harry?" "i should think 'the idiot boy', or 'dumb but innocent'. our fathers used to like that sort of piece, i believe. the longer i live, dorian, the more keenly i feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. in art, as in politics, _les grandperes ont toujours tort_." "this play was good enough for us, harry. it was romeo and juliet. i must admit that i was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. still, i felt interested, in a sort of way. at any rate, i determined to wait for the first act. there was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young hebrew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up and the play began. romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. mercutio was almost as bad. he was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most friendly terms with the pit. they were both as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. but juliet! harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little, flowerlike face, a small greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. she was the loveliest thing i had ever seen in my life. you said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. i tell you, harry, i could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. and her voice--i never heard such a voice. it was very low at first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one's ear. then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautboy. in the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. there were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. you know how a voice can stir one. your voice and the voice of sibyl vane are two things that i shall never forget. when i close my eyes, i hear them, and each of them says something different. i don't know which to follow. why should i not love her? harry, i do love her. she is everything to me in life. night after night i go to see her play. one evening she is rosalind, and the next evening she is imogen. i have seen her die in the gloom of an italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. i have watched her wandering through the forest of arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. she has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. she has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlike throat. i have seen her in every age and in every costume. ordinary women never appeal to one's imagination. they are limited to their century. no glamour ever transfigures them. one knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. one can always find them. there is no mystery in any of them. they ride in the park in the morning and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. they have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. they are quite obvious. but an actress! how different an actress is! harry! why didn't you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?" "because i have loved so many of them, dorian." "oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces." "don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. there is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes," said lord henry. "i wish now i had not told you about sibyl vane." "you could not have helped telling me, dorian. all through your life you will tell me everything you do." "yes, harry, i believe that is true. i cannot help telling you things. you have a curious influence over me. if i ever did a crime, i would come and confess it to you. you would understand me." "people like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, dorian. but i am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. and now tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what are your actual relations with sibyl vane?" dorian gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "harry! sibyl vane is sacred!" "it is only the sacred things that are worth touching, dorian," said lord henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "but why should you be annoyed? i suppose she will belong to you some day. when one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. that is what the world calls a romance. you know her, at any rate, i suppose?" "of course i know her. on the first night i was at the theatre, the horrid old jew came round to the box after the performance was over and offered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. i was furious with him, and told him that juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in verona. i think, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under the impression that i had taken too much champagne, or something." "i am not surprised." "then he asked me if i wrote for any of the newspapers. i told him i never even read them. he seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were every one of them to be bought." "i should not wonder if he was quite right there. but, on the other hand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at all expensive." "well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means," laughed dorian. "by this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and i had to go. he wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. i declined. the next night, of course, i arrived at the place again. when he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me that i was a munificent patron of art. he was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for shakespeare. he told me once, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirely due to 'the bard,' as he insisted on calling him. he seemed to think it a distinction." "it was a distinction, my dear dorian--a great distinction. most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. to have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. but when did you first speak to miss sibyl vane?" "the third night. she had been playing rosalind. i could not help going round. i had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me--at least i fancied that she had. the old jew was persistent. he seemed determined to take me behind, so i consented. it was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn't it?" "no; i don't think so." "my dear harry, why?" "i will tell you some other time. now i want to know about the girl." "sibyl? oh, she was so shy and so gentle. there is something of a child about her. her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when i told her what i thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. i think we were both rather nervous. the old jew stood grinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. he would insist on calling me 'my lord,' so i had to assure sibyl that i was not anything of the kind. she said quite simply to me, 'you look more like a prince. i must call you prince charming.'" "upon my word, dorian, miss sibyl knows how to pay compliments." "you don't understand her, harry. she regarded me merely as a person in a play. she knows nothing of life. she lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played lady capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seen better days." "i know that look. it depresses me," murmured lord henry, examining his rings. "the jew wanted to tell me her history, but i said it did not interest me." "you were quite right. there is always something infinitely mean about other people's tragedies." "sibyl is the only thing i care about. what is it to me where she came from? from her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. every night of my life i go to see her act, and every night she is more marvellous." "that is the reason, i suppose, that you never dine with me now. i thought you must have some curious romance on hand. you have; but it is not quite what i expected." "my dear harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and i have been to the opera with you several times," said dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder. "you always come dreadfully late." "well, i can't help going to see sibyl play," he cried, "even if it is only for a single act. i get hungry for her presence; and when i think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, i am filled with awe." "you can dine with me to-night, dorian, can't you?" he shook his head. "to-night she is imogen," he answered, "and to-morrow night she will be juliet." "when is she sibyl vane?" "never." "i congratulate you." "how horrid you are! she is all the great heroines of the world in one. she is more than an individual. you laugh, but i tell you she has genius. i love her, and i must make her love me. you, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm sibyl vane to love me! i want to make romeo jealous. i want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. i want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. my god, harry, how i worship her!" he was walking up and down the room as he spoke. hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. he was terribly excited. lord henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. how different he was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in basil hallward's studio! his nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, and desire had come to meet it on the way. "and what do you propose to do?" said lord henry at last. "i want you and basil to come with me some night and see her act. i have not the slightest fear of the result. you are certain to acknowledge her genius. then we must get her out of the jew's hands. she is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eight months--from the present time. i shall have to pay him something, of course. when all that is settled, i shall take a west end theatre and bring her out properly. she will make the world as mad as she has made me." "that would be impossible, my dear boy." "yes, she will. she has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age." "well, what night shall we go?" "let me see. to-day is tuesday. let us fix to-morrow. she plays juliet to-morrow." "all right. the bristol at eight o'clock; and i will get basil." "not eight, harry, please. half-past six. we must be there before the curtain rises. you must see her in the first act, where she meets romeo." "half-past six! what an hour! it will be like having a meat-tea, or reading an english novel. it must be seven. 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. there were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. there were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. and, yet, what a great reward one received! how wonderful the whole world became to one! to note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured life of the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were at discord--there was a delight in that! what matter what the cost was? one could never pay too high a price for any sensation. he was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that dorian gray's soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. to a large extent the lad was his own creation. he had made him premature. that was something. ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. but now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. yes, the lad was premature. he was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. the pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. it was delightful to watch him. with his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. it was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. he was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! there was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. the senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? how shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! and yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? or was the body really in the soul, as giordano bruno thought? the separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also. he began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. as it was, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. experience was of no ethical value. it was merely the name men gave to their mistakes. moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. but there was no motive power in experience. it was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. all that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy. it was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly dorian gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. his sudden mad love for sibyl vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. there was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. what there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. it was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. it often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. while lord henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. he got up and looked out into the street. the sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. the panes glowed like plates of heated metal. the sky above was like a faded rose. he thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end. when he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. he opened it and found it was from dorian gray. it was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to sibyl vane. chapter "mother, mother, i am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained. "i am so happy!" she repeated, "and you must be happy, too!" mrs. vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter's head. "happy!" she echoed, "i am only happy, sibyl, when i see you act. you must not think of anything but your acting. mr. isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." the girl looked up and pouted. "money, mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? love is more than money." "mr. isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for james. you must not forget that, sibyl. fifty pounds is a very large sum. mr. isaacs has been most considerate." "he is not a gentleman, mother, and i hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "i don't know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. sibyl vane tossed her head and laughed. "we don't want him any more, mother. prince charming rules life for us now." then she paused. a rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. quick breath parted the petals of her lips. they trembled. some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "i love him," she said simply. "foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. the waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. the girl laughed again. the joy of a caged bird was in her voice. her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. when they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. she did not listen. she was free in her prison of passion. her prince, prince charming, was with her. she had called on memory to remake him. she had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. his kiss burned again upon her mouth. her eyelids were warm with his breath. then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. this young man might be rich. if so, marriage should be thought of. against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. the arrows of craft shot by her. she saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. suddenly she felt the need to speak. the wordy silence troubled her. "mother, mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? i know why i love him. i love him because he is like what love himself should be. but what does he see in me? i am not worthy of him. and yet--why, i cannot tell--though i feel so much beneath him, i don't feel humble. i feel proud, terribly proud. mother, did you love my father as i love prince charming?" the elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "forgive me, mother. i know it pains you to talk about our father. but it only pains you because you loved him so much. don't look so sad. i am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. ah! let me be happy for ever!" "my child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. besides, what do you know of this young man? you don't even know his name. the whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when james is going away to australia, and i have so much to think of, i must say that you should have shown more consideration. however, as i said before, if he is rich ..." "ah! mother, mother, let me be happy!" mrs. vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. at this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. he was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. he was not so finely bred as his sister. one would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. mrs. vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. she mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. she felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "you might keep some of your kisses for me, sibyl, i think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "ah! but you don't like being kissed, jim," she cried. "you are a dreadful old bear." and she ran across the room and hugged him. james vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "i want you to come out with me for a walk, sibyl. i don't suppose i shall ever see this horrid london again. i am sure i don't want to." "my son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured mrs. vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. she felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. it would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "why not, mother? i mean it." "you pain me, my son. i trust you will return from australia in a position of affluence. i believe there is no society of any kind in the colonies--nothing that i would call society--so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in london." "society!" muttered the lad. "i don't want to know anything about that. i should like to make some money to take you and sibyl off the stage. i hate it." "oh, jim!" said sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! but are you really going for a walk with me? that will be nice! i was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to tom hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or ned langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. it is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. where shall we go? let us go to the park." "i am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "only swell people go to the park." "nonsense, jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. he hesitated for a moment. "very well," he said at last, "but don't be too long dressing." she danced out of the door. one could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. her little feet pattered overhead. he walked up and down the room two or three times. then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "quite ready, james," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. for some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. she used to wonder if he suspected anything. the silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. she began to complain. women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "i hope you will be contented, james, with your sea-faring life," she said. "you must remember that it is your own choice. you might have entered a solicitor's office. solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "i hate offices, and i hate clerks," he replied. "but you are quite right. i have chosen my own life. all i say is, watch over sibyl. don't let her come to any harm. mother, you must watch over her." "james, you really talk very strangely. of course i watch over sibyl." "i hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to talk to her. is that right? what about that?" "you are speaking about things you don't understand, james. in the profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying attention. i myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. that was when acting was really understood. as for sibyl, i do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not. but there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. he is always most polite to me. besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely." "you don't know his name, though," said the lad harshly. "no," answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. "he has not yet revealed his real name. i think it is quite romantic of him. he is probably a member of the aristocracy." james vane bit his lip. "watch over sibyl, mother," he cried, "watch over her." "my son, you distress me very much. sibyl is always under my special care. of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him. i trust he is one of the aristocracy. he has all the appearance of it, i must say. it might be a most brilliant marriage for sibyl. they would make a charming couple. his good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them." the lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers. he had just turned round to say something when the door opened and sibyl ran in. "how serious you both are!" she cried. "what is the matter?" "nothing," he answered. "i suppose one must be serious sometimes. good-bye, mother; i will have my dinner at five o'clock. everything is packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble." "good-bye, my son," she answered with a bow of strained stateliness. she was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. "kiss me, mother," said the girl. her flowerlike lips touched the withered cheek and warmed its frost. "my child! my child!" cried mrs. vane, looking up to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery. "come, sibyl," said her brother impatiently. he hated his mother's affectations. they went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolled down the dreary euston road. the passersby glanced in wonder at the sullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. he was like a common gardener walking with a rose. jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance of some stranger. he had that dislike of being stared at, which comes on geniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. her love was trembling in laughter on her lips. she was thinking of prince charming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which jim was going to sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. for he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. oh, no! a sailor's existence was dreadful. fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the masts down and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! he was to leave the vessel at melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. before a week was over he was to come across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. the bushrangers were to attack them three times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. or, no. he was not to go to the gold-fields at all. they were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad language. he was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immense house in london. yes, there were delightful things in store for him. but he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. she was only a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. he must be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say his prayers each night before he went to sleep. god was very good, and would watch over him. she would pray for him, too, and in a few years he would come back quite rich and happy. the lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. he was heart-sick at leaving home. yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the danger of sibyl's position. this young dandy who was making love to her could mean her no good. he was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. he was conscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature, and in that saw infinite peril for sibyl and sibyl's happiness. children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them. his mother! he had something on his mind to ask of her, something that he had brooded on for many months of silence. a chance phrase that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. he remembered it as if it had been the lash of a hunting-crop across his face. his brows knit together into a wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip. "you are not listening to a word i am saying, jim," cried sibyl, "and i am making the most delightful plans for your future. do say something." "what do you want me to say?" "oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us," she answered, smiling at him. he shrugged his shoulders. "you are more likely to forget me than i am to forget you, sibyl." she flushed. "what do you mean, jim?" she asked. "you have a new friend, i hear. who is he? why have you not told me about him? he means you no good." "stop, jim!" she exclaimed. "you must not say anything against him. i love him." "why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "who is he? i have a right to know." "he is called prince charming. don't you like the name. oh! you silly boy! you should never forget it. if you only saw him, you would think him the most wonderful person in the world. some day you will meet him--when you come back from australia. you will like him so much. everybody likes him, and i ... love him. i wish you could come to the theatre to-night. he is going to be there, and i am to play juliet. oh! how i shall play it! fancy, jim, to be in love and play juliet! to have him sitting there! to play for his delight! i am afraid i may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. to be in love is to surpass one's self. poor dreadful mr. isaacs will be shouting 'genius' to his loafers at the bar. he has preached me as a dogma; to-night he will announce me as a revelation. i feel it. and it is all his, his only, prince charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. but i am poor beside him. poor? what does that matter? when poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. our proverbs want rewriting. they were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-time for me, i think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies." "he is a gentleman," said the lad sullenly. "a prince!" she cried musically. "what more do you want?" "he wants to enslave you." "i shudder at the thought of being free." "i want you to beware of him." "to see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him." "sibyl, you are mad about him." she laughed and took his arm. "you dear old jim, you talk as if you were a hundred. some day you will be in love yourself. then you will know what it is. don't look so sulky. surely you should be glad to think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than i have ever been before. life has been hard for us both, terribly hard and difficult. but it will be different now. you are going to a new world, and i have found one. here are two chairs; let us sit down and see the smart people go by." they took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. the tulip-beds across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. a white dust--tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air. the brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous butterflies. she made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. he spoke slowly and with effort. they passed words to each other as players at a game pass counters. sibyl felt oppressed. she could not communicate her joy. a faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all the echo she could win. after some time she became silent. suddenly she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an open carriage with two ladies dorian gray drove past. she started to her feet. "there he is!" she cried. "who?" said jim vane. "prince charming," she answered, looking after the victoria. he jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. "show him to me. which is he? point him out. i must see him!" he exclaimed; but at that moment the duke of berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. "he is gone," murmured sibyl sadly. "i wish you had seen him." "i wish i had, for as sure as there is a god in heaven, if he ever does you any wrong, i shall kill him." she looked at him in horror. he repeated his words. they cut the air like a dagger. the people round began to gape. a lady standing close to her tittered. "come away, jim; come away," she whispered. he followed her doggedly as she passed through the crowd. he felt glad at what he had said. when they reached the achilles statue, she turned round. there was pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. she shook her head at him. "you are foolish, jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. how can you say such horrible things? you don't know what you are talking about. you are simply jealous and unkind. ah! i wish you would fall in love. love makes people good, and what you said was wicked." "i am sixteen," he answered, "and i know what i am about. mother is no help to you. she doesn't understand how to look after you. i wish now that i was not going to australia at all. i have a great mind to chuck the whole thing up. i would, if my articles hadn't been signed." "oh, don't be so serious, jim. you are like one of the heroes of those silly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in. i am not going to quarrel with you. i have seen him, and oh! to see him is perfect happiness. we won't quarrel. i know you would never harm any one i love, would you?" "not as long as you love him, i suppose," was the sullen answer. "i shall love him for ever!" she cried. "and he?" "for ever, too!" "he had better." she shrank from him. then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. he was merely a boy. at the marble arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close to their shabby home in the euston road. it was after five o'clock, and sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. jim insisted that she should do so. he said that he would sooner part with her when their mother was not present. she would be sure to make a scene, and he detested scenes of every kind. in sybil's own room they parted. there was jealousy in the lad's heart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between them. yet, when her arms were flung round his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissed her with real affection. there were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs. his mother was waiting for him below. she grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered. he made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. the flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth. through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him. after some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands. he felt that he had a right to know. it should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. leaden with fear, his mother watched him. words dropped mechanically from her lips. a tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. when the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. then he turned back and looked at her. their eyes met. in hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. it enraged him. "mother, i have something to ask you," he said. her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. she made no answer. "tell me the truth. i have a right to know. were you married to my father?" she heaved a deep sigh. it was a sigh of relief. the terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. the vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. the situation had not been gradually led up to. it was crude. it reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "no," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "my father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. she shook her head. "i knew he was not free. we loved each other very much. if he had lived, he would have made provision for us. don't speak against him, my son. he was your father, and a gentleman. indeed, he was highly connected." an oath broke from his lips. "i don't care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don't let sibyl.... it is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in love with her, or says he is? highly connected, too, i suppose." for a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. her head drooped. she wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "i had none." the lad was touched. he went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "i am sorry if i have pained you by asking about my father," he said, "but i could not help it. i must go now. good-bye. don't forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, i will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. i swear it." the exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. she was familiar with the atmosphere. she breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. she would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. the lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. there was the bargaining with the cabman. the moment was lost in vulgar details. it was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. she was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. she consoled herself by telling sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. she remembered the phrase. it had pleased her. of the threat she said nothing. it was vividly and dramatically expressed. she felt that they would all laugh at it some day. chapter "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, mediaeval art is charming, but mediaeval 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. chapter for some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fat jew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily tremulous smile. he escorted them to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice. dorian gray loathed him more than ever. he felt as if he had come to look for miranda and had been met by caliban. lord henry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. at least he declared he did, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. hallward amused himself with watching the faces in the pit. the heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlight flamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. the youths in the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung them over the side. they talked to each other across the theatre and shared their oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. some women were laughing in the pit. their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. the sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. "what a place to find one's divinity in!" said lord henry. "yes!" answered dorian gray. "it was here i found her, and she is divine beyond all living things. when she acts, you will forget everything. these common rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. they sit silently and watch her. they weep and laugh as she wills them to do. she makes them as responsive as a violin. she spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self." "the same flesh and blood as one's self! oh, i hope not!" exclaimed lord henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through his opera-glass. "don't pay any attention to him, dorian," said the painter. "i understand what you mean, and i believe in this girl. any one you love must be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe must be fine and noble. to spiritualize one's age--that is something worth doing. if this girl can give a soul to those who have lived without one, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives have been sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness and lend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. this marriage is quite right. i did not think so at first, but i admit it now. the gods made sibyl vane for you. without her you would have been incomplete." "thanks, basil," answered dorian gray, pressing his hand. "i knew that you would understand me. harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. but here is the orchestra. it is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom i am going to give all my life, to whom i have given everything that is good in me." a quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, sibyl vane stepped on to the stage. yes, she was certainly lovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, lord henry thought, that he had ever seen. there was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. a faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. she stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble. basil hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. motionless, and as one in a dream, sat dorian gray, gazing at her. lord henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "charming! charming!" the scene was the hall of capulet's house, and romeo in his pilgrim's dress had entered with mercutio and his other friends. the band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, sibyl vane moved like a creature from a finer world. her body swayed, while she danced, as a plant sways in the water. the curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. yet she was curiously listless. she showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on romeo. the few words she had to speak-- good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss-- with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. the voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. it was wrong in colour. it took away all the life from the verse. it made the passion unreal. dorian gray grew pale as he watched her. he was puzzled and anxious. neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. she seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. they were horribly disappointed. yet they felt that the true test of any juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. they waited for that. if she failed there, there was nothing in her. she looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. that could not be denied. but the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. her gestures became absurdly artificial. she overemphasized everything that she had to say. the beautiful passage-- thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek for that which thou hast heard me speak to-night-- was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. when she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines-- although i joy in thee, i have no joy of this contract to-night: it is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say, "it lightens." sweet, good-night! this bud of love by summer's ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet-- she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. it was not nervousness. indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. it was simply bad art. she was a complete failure. even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. they got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. the jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. the only person unmoved was the girl herself. when the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and lord henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "she is quite beautiful, dorian," he said, "but she can't act. let us go." "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. the curtain went down on a titter and some groans. as soon as it was over, dorian gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. the girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. there was a radiance about her. her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. when he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "how badly i acted to-night, dorian!" she cried. "horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "horribly! it was dreadful. are you ill? you have no idea what it was. you have no idea what i suffered." the girl smiled. "dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. "dorian, you should have understood. but you understand now, don't you?" "understand what?" he asked, angrily. "why i was so bad to-night. why i shall always be bad. why i shall never act well again." he shrugged his shoulders. "you are ill, i suppose. when you are ill you shouldn't act. you make yourself ridiculous. my friends were bored. i was bored." she seemed not to listen to him. she was transfigured with joy. an ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "dorian, dorian," she cried, "before i knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. it was only in the theatre that i lived. i thought that it was all true. i was rosalind one night and portia the other. the joy of beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of cordelia were mine also. i believed in everything. the common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. the painted scenes were my world. i knew nothing but shadows, and i thought them real. you came--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. you taught me what reality really is. to-night, for the first time in my life, i saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which i had always played. to-night, for the first time, i became conscious that the romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words i had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what i wanted to say. you had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. you had made me understand what love really is. my love! my love! prince charming! prince of life! i have grown sick of shadows. you are more to me than all art can ever be. what have i to do with the puppets of a play? when i came on to-night, i could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. 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. she put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. he thrust her back. "don't touch me!" he cried. a low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "dorian, dorian, don't leave me!" she whispered. "i am so sorry i didn't act well. i was thinking of you all the time. but i will try--indeed, i will try. it came so suddenly across me, my love for you. i think i should never have known it if you had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. kiss me again, my love. don't go away from me. i couldn't bear it. oh! don't go away from me. my brother ... no; never mind. he didn't mean it. he was in jest.... but you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? i will work so hard and try to improve. don't be cruel to me, because i love you better than anything in the world. after all, it is only once that i have not pleased you. but you are quite right, dorian. i should have shown myself more of an artist. it was foolish of me, and yet i couldn't help it. oh, don't leave me, don't leave me." a fit of passionate sobbing choked her. she crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and dorian gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. there is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. sibyl vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. her tears and sobs annoyed him. "i am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "i don't wish to be unkind, but i can't see you again. you have disappointed me." she wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. he turned on his heel and left the room. in a few moments he was out of the theatre. where he went to he hardly knew. he remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. he had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. as the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to covent garden. the darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. the air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. he followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. a white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. he thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. they had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. a long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. the heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. after a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. for a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. the sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. from some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. it curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. in the huge gilt venetian lantern, spoil of some doge's barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. he turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at selby royal. as he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait basil hallward had painted of him. he started back as if in surprise. then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. after he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. in the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. the expression looked different. one would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. it was certainly strange. he turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. the bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. but the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. the quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. he winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory cupids, one of lord henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. no line like that warped his red lips. what did it mean? he rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. there were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. it was not a mere fancy of his own. the thing was horribly apparent. he threw himself into a chair and began to think. suddenly there flashed across his mind what he had said in basil hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. yes, he remembered it perfectly. he had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. surely his wish had not been fulfilled? such things were impossible. it seemed monstrous even to think of them. and, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the mouth. cruelty! had he been cruel? it was the girl's fault, not his. he had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because he had thought her great. then she had disappointed him. she had been shallow and unworthy. and, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. he remembered with what callousness he had watched her. why had he been made like that? why had such a soul been given to him? but he had suffered also. during the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon of torture. his life was well worth hers. she had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an age. besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. they lived on their emotions. they only thought of their emotions. when they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. lord henry had told him that, and lord henry knew what women were. why should he trouble about sibyl vane? she was nothing to him now. but the picture? what was he to say of that? it held the secret of his life, and told his story. it had taught him to love his own beauty. would it teach him to loathe his own soul? would he ever look at it again? no; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. the horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. the picture had not changed. it was folly to think so. yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. its blue eyes met his own. a sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, came over him. it had altered already, and would alter more. its gold would wither into grey. its red and white roses would die. for every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. but he would not sin. the picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. he would resist temptation. he would not see lord henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in basil hallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. he would go back to sibyl vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. yes, it was his duty to do so. she must have suffered more than he had. poor child! he had been selfish and cruel to her. the fascination that she had exercised over him would return. they would be happy together. his life with her would be beautiful and pure. he got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "how horrible!" he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. when he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. the fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. he thought only of sibyl. a faint echo of his love came back to him. he repeated her name over and over again. the birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. chapter it was long past noon when he awoke. his valet had crept several times on tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made his young master sleep so late. finally his bell sounded, and victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, on a small tray of old sevres china, and drew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of the three tall windows. "monsieur has well slept this morning," he said, smiling. "what o'clock is it, victor?" asked dorian gray drowsily. "one hour and a quarter, monsieur." how late it was! he sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned over his letters. one of them was from lord henry, and had been brought by hand that morning. he hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. the others he opened listlessly. they contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmes of charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning during the season. there was a rather heavy bill for a chased silver louis-quinze toilet-set that he had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremely old-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several very courteously worded communications from jermyn street money-lenders offering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at the most reasonable rates of interest. after about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaborate dressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. the cool water refreshed him after his long sleep. he seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. a dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. as soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to a light french breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small round table close to the open window. it was an exquisite day. the warm air seemed laden with spices. a bee flew in and buzzed round the blue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood before him. he felt perfectly happy. suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of the portrait, and he started. "too cold for monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on the table. "i shut the window?" dorian shook his head. "i am not cold," he murmured. was it all true? had the portrait really changed? or had it been simply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil where there had been a look of joy? surely a painted canvas could not alter? the thing was absurd. it would serve as a tale to tell basil some day. it would make him smile. and, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! first in the dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of cruelty round the warped lips. he almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. he knew that when he was alone he would have to examine the portrait. he was afraid of certainty. when the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. as the door was closing behind him, he called him back. the man stood waiting for his orders. dorian looked at him for a moment. "i am not at home to any one, victor," he said with a sigh. the man bowed and retired. then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. the screen was an old one, of gilt spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid louis-quatorze pattern. he scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. should he move it aside, after all? why not let it stay there? what was the use of knowing? if the thing was true, it was terrible. if it was not true, why trouble about it? but what if, by some fate or deadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horrible change? what should he do if basil hallward came and asked to look at his own picture? basil would be sure to do that. no; the thing had to be examined, and at once. anything would be better than this dreadful state of doubt. he got up and locked both doors. at least he would be alone when he looked upon the mask of his shame. then he drew the screen aside and saw himself face to face. it was perfectly true. the portrait had altered. as he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, he found himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almost scientific interest. that such a change should have taken place was incredible to him. and yet it was a fact. was there some subtle affinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into form and colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? could it be that what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, they made true? or was there some other, more terrible reason? he shuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. one thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. it had made him conscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to sibyl vane. it was not too late to make reparation for that. she could still be his wife. his unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, would be transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, would be to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and the fear of god to us all. there were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. but here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its double chime, but dorian gray did not stir. he was trying to gather up the scarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he was wandering. he did not know what to do, or what to think. finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. he covered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. there is a luxury in self-reproach. when we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. it is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. when dorian had finished the letter, he felt that he had been forgiven. suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard lord henry's voice outside. "my dear boy, i must see you. let me in at once. i can't bear your shutting yourself up like this." he made no answer at first, but remained quite still. the knocking still continued and grew louder. yes, it was better to let lord henry in, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrel with him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. he jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. "i am so sorry for it all, dorian," said lord henry as he entered. "but you must not think too much about it." "do you mean about sibyl vane?" asked the lad. "yes, of course," answered lord henry, sinking into a chair and slowly pulling off his yellow gloves. "it is dreadful, from one point of view, but it was not your fault. tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play was over?" "yes." "i felt sure you had. did you make a scene with her?" "i was brutal, harry--perfectly brutal. but it is all right now. i am not sorry for anything that has happened. it has taught me to know myself better." "ah, dorian, i am so glad you take it in that way! i was afraid i would find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair of yours." "i have got through all that," said dorian, shaking his head and smiling. "i am perfectly happy now. i know what conscience is, to begin with. it is not what you told me it was. it is the divinest thing in us. don't sneer at it, harry, any more--at least not before me. i want to be good. i can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous." "a very charming artistic basis for ethics, dorian! i congratulate you on it. but how are you going to begin?" "by marrying sibyl vane." "marrying sibyl vane!" cried lord henry, standing up and looking at him in perplexed amazement. "but, my dear dorian--" "yes, harry, i know what you are going to say. something dreadful about marriage. don't say it. don't ever say things of that kind to me again. two days ago i asked sibyl to marry me. i am not going to break my word to her. she is to be my wife." "your wife! dorian! ... didn't you get my letter? i wrote to you this morning, and sent the note down by my own man." "your letter? oh, yes, i remember. i have not read it yet, harry. i was afraid there might be something in it that i wouldn't like. you cut life to pieces with your epigrams." "you know nothing then?" "what do you mean?" lord henry walked across the room, and sitting down by dorian gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "dorian," he said, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that sibyl vane is dead." a cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from lord henry's grasp. "dead! sibyl dead! it is not true! it is a horrible lie! how dare you say it?" "it is quite true, dorian," said lord henry, gravely. "it is in all the morning papers. i wrote down to you to ask you not to see any one till i came. there will have to be an inquest, of course, and you must not be mixed up in it. things like that make a man fashionable in paris. but in london people are so prejudiced. here, one should never make one's _debut_ with a scandal. one should reserve that to give an interest to one's old age. i suppose they don't know your name at the theatre? if they don't, it is all right. did any one see you going round to her room? that is an important point." dorian did not answer for a few moments. he was dazed with horror. finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "harry, did you say an inquest? what did you mean by that? did sibyl--? oh, harry, i can't bear it! but be quick. tell me everything at once." "i have no doubt it was not an accident, dorian, though it must be put in that way to the public. it seems that as she was leaving the theatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten something upstairs. they waited some time for her, but she did not come down again. they ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of her dressing-room. she had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. i don't know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. i should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously." "harry, harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. "yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up in it. i see by _the standard_ that she was seventeen. i should have thought she was almost younger than that. she looked such a child, and seemed to know so little about acting. dorian, you mustn't let this thing get on your nerves. you must come and dine with me, and afterwards we will look in at the opera. it is a patti night, and everybody will be there. you can come to my sister's box. she has got some smart women with her." "so i have murdered sibyl vane," said dorian gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if i had cut her little throat with a knife. yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. the birds sing just as happily in my garden. and to-night i am to dine with you, and then go on to the opera, and sup somewhere, i suppose, afterwards. how extraordinarily dramatic life is! if i had read all this in a book, harry, i think i would have wept over it. somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. here is the first passionate love-letter i have ever written in my 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. their origin is pure vanity. their result is absolutely _nil_. they give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. that is all that can be said for them. they are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." "harry," cried dorian gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that i cannot feel this tragedy as much as i want to? i don't think i am heartless. do you?" "you have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to be entitled to give yourself that name, dorian," answered lord henry with his sweet melancholy smile. the lad frowned. "i don't like that explanation, harry," he rejoined, "but i am glad you don't think i am heartless. i am nothing of the kind. i know i am not. and yet i must admit that this thing that has happened does not affect me as it should. it seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. it has all the terrible beauty of a greek tragedy, a tragedy in which i took a great part, but by which i have not been wounded." "it is an interesting question," said lord henry, who found an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, "an extremely interesting question. i fancy that the true explanation is this: it often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style. they affect us just as vulgarity affects us. they give us an impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements of beauty crosses our lives. if these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. or rather we are both. we watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us. in the present case, what is it that has really happened? some one has killed herself for love of you. i wish that i had ever had such an experience. it would have made me in love with love for the rest of my life. the people who have adored me--there have not been very many, but there have been some--have always insisted on living on, long after i had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. they have become stout and tedious, and when i meet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. that awful memory of woman! what a fearful thing it is! and what an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals! one should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. details are always vulgar." "i must sow poppies in my garden," sighed dorian. "there is no necessity," rejoined his companion. "life has always poppies in her hands. of course, now and then things linger. i once wore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artistic mourning for a romance that would not die. ultimately, however, it did die. i forget what killed it. i think it was her proposing to sacrifice the whole world for me. that is always a dreadful moment. it fills one with the terror of eternity. well--would you believe it?--a week ago, at lady hampshire's, i found myself seated at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the whole thing again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. i had buried my romance in a bed of asphodel. she dragged it out again and assured me that i had spoiled her life. i am bound to state that she ate an enormous dinner, so i did not feel any anxiety. but what a lack of taste she showed! the one charm of the past is that it is the past. but women never know when the curtain has fallen. they always want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. if they were allowed their own way, every comedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate in a farce. they are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art. you are more fortunate than i am. i assure you, dorian, that not one of the women i have known would have done for me what sibyl vane did for you. ordinary women always console themselves. some of them do it by going in for sentimental colours. never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. it always means that they have a history. others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the good qualities of their husbands. they flaunt their conjugal felicity in one's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. religion consoles some. its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, a woman once told me, and i can quite understand it. besides, nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. conscience makes egotists of us all. yes; there is really no end to the consolations that women find in modern life. indeed, i have not mentioned the most important one." "what is that, harry?" said the lad listlessly. "oh, the obvious consolation. taking some one else's admirer when one loses one's own. in good society that always whitewashes a woman. but really, dorian, how different sibyl vane must have been from all the women one meets! there is something to me quite beautiful about her death. i am glad i am living in a century when such wonders happen. they make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love." "i was terribly cruel to her. you forget that." "i am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, more than anything else. they have wonderfully primitive instincts. we have emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for their masters, all the same. they love being dominated. i am sure you were splendid. i have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but i can fancy how delightful you looked. and, after all, you said something to me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that i see now was absolutely true, and it holds the key to everything." "what was that, harry?" "you said to me that sibyl vane represented to you all the heroines of romance--that she was desdemona one night, and ophelia the other; that if she died as juliet, she came to life as imogen." "she will never come to life again now," muttered the lad, burying his face in his hands. "no, she will never come to life. she has played her last part. but you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from webster, or ford, or cyril tourneur. the girl never really lived, and so she has never really died. to you at least she was always a dream, a phantom that flitted through shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which shakespeare's music sounded richer and more full of joy. the moment she touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. mourn for ophelia, if you like. put ashes on your head because cordelia was strangled. cry out against heaven because the daughter of brabantio died. but don't waste your tears over sibyl vane. she was less real than they are." there was a silence. the evening darkened in the room. noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. the colours faded wearily out of things. after some time dorian gray looked up. "you have explained me to myself, harry," he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. "i felt all that you have said, but somehow i was afraid of it, and i could not express it to myself. how well you know me! but we will not talk again of what has happened. it has been a marvellous experience. that is all. i wonder if life has still in store for me anything as marvellous." "life has everything in store for you, dorian. there is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do." "but suppose, harry, i became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? what then?" "ah, then," said lord henry, rising to go, "then, my dear dorian, you would have to fight for your victories. as it is, they are brought to you. no, you must keep your good looks. we live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. we cannot spare you. and now you had better dress and drive down to the club. we are rather late, as it is." "i think i shall join you at the opera, harry. i feel too tired to eat anything. what is the number of your sister's box?" "twenty-seven, i believe. it is on the grand tier. you will see her name on the door. but i am sorry you won't come and dine." "i don't feel up to it," said dorian listlessly. "but i am awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. you are certainly my best friend. no one has ever understood me as you have." "we are only at the beginning of our friendship, dorian," answered lord henry, shaking him by the hand. "good-bye. i shall see you before nine-thirty, i hope. remember, patti is singing." as he closed the door behind him, dorian gray touched the bell, and in a few minutes victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. he waited impatiently for him to go. the man seemed to take an interminable time over everything. as soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. no; there was no further change in the picture. it had received the news of sibyl vane's death before he had known of it himself. it was conscious of the events of life as they occurred. the vicious cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. or was it indifferent to results? did it merely take cognizance of what passed within the soul? he wondered, and hoped that some day he would see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as he hoped it. poor sibyl! what a romance it had all been! she had often mimicked death on the stage. then death himself had touched her and taken her with him. how had she played that dreadful last scene? had she cursed him, as she died? no; she had died for love of him, and love would always be a sacrament to him now. she had atoned for everything by the sacrifice she had made of her life. he would not think any more of what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the theatre. when he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of love. a wonderful tragic figure? tears came to his eyes as he remembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shy tremulous grace. he brushed them away hastily and looked again at the picture. he felt that the time had really come for making his choice. or had his choice already been made? yes, life had decided that for him--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins--he was to have all these things. the portrait was to bear the burden of his shame: that was all. a feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. once, in boyish mockery of narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. morning after morning he had sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, as it seemed to him at times. was it to alter now with every mood to which he yielded? was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair? the pity of it! the pity of it! for a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed between him and the picture might cease. it had changed in answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain unchanged. and yet, who, that knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught? besides, was it really under his control? had it indeed been prayer that had produced the substitution? might there not be some curious scientific reason for it all? if thought could exercise its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upon dead and inorganic things? nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity? but the reason was of no importance. he would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. if the picture was to alter, it was to alter. that was all. why inquire too closely into it? for there would be a real pleasure in watching it. he would be able to follow his mind into its secret places. this portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. as it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. and when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. when the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. like the gods of the greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. what did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas? he would be safe. that was everything. he drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet was already waiting for him. an hour later he was at the opera, and lord henry was leaning over his chair. chapter as he was sitting at breakfast next morning, basil hallward was shown into the room. "i am so glad i have found you, dorian," he said gravely. "i called last night, and they told me you were at the opera. of course, i knew that was impossible. but i wish you had left word where you had really gone to. i passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy might be followed by another. i think you might have telegraphed for me when you heard of it first. i read of it quite by chance in a late edition of _the globe_ that i picked up at the club. i came here at once and was miserable at not finding you. i can't tell you how heart-broken i am about the whole thing. i know what you must suffer. but where were you? did you go down and see the girl's mother? for a moment i thought of following you there. they gave the address in the paper. somewhere in the euston road, isn't it? but i was afraid of intruding upon a sorrow that i could not lighten. poor woman! what a state she must be in! and her only child, too! what did she say about it all?" "my dear basil, how do i know?" murmured dorian gray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of venetian glass and looking dreadfully bored. "i was at the opera. you should have come on there. i met lady gwendolen, harry's sister, for the first time. we were in her box. she is perfectly charming; and patti sang divinely. don't talk about horrid subjects. if one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. it is simply expression, as harry says, that gives reality to things. i may mention that she was not the woman's only child. there is a son, a charming fellow, i believe. but he is not on the stage. he is a sailor, or something. and now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting." "you went to the opera?" said hallward, speaking very slowly and with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "you went to the opera while sibyl vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? you can talk to me of other women being charming, and of patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!" "stop, basil! i won't hear it!" cried dorian, leaping to his feet. "you must not tell me about things. what is done is done. what is past is past." "you call yesterday the past?" "what has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? it is only shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. a man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. i don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. i want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them." "dorian, this is horrible! something has changed you completely. you look exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to come down to my studio to sit for his picture. but you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. you were the most unspoiled creature in the whole world. now, i don't know what has come over you. you talk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. it is all harry's influence. i see that." the lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a few moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "i owe a great deal to harry, basil," he said at last, "more than i owe to you. you only taught me to be vain." "well, i am punished for that, dorian--or shall be some day." "i don't know what you mean, basil," he exclaimed, turning round. "i don't know what you want. what do you want?" "i want the dorian gray i used to paint," said the artist sadly. "basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you have come too late. yesterday, when i heard that sibyl vane had killed herself--" "killed herself! good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" cried hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. "my dear basil! surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? of course she killed herself." the elder man buried his face in his hands. "how fearful," he muttered, and a shudder ran through him. "no," said dorian gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. it is one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. as a rule, people who act lead the most commonplace lives. they are good husbands, or faithful wives, or something tedious. you know what i mean--middle-class virtue and all that kind of thing. how different sibyl was! she lived her finest tragedy. she was always a heroine. the last night she played--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had known the reality of love. when she knew its unreality, she died, as juliet might have died. she passed again into the sphere of art. there is something of the martyr about her. her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. but, as i was saying, you must not think i have not suffered. if you had come in yesterday at a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six--you would have found me in tears. even harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what i was going through. i suffered immensely. then it passed away. i cannot repeat an emotion. no one can, except sentimentalists. and you are awfully unjust, basil. you come down here to console me. that is charming of you. you find me consoled, and you are furious. how like a sympathetic person! you remind me of a story harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered--i forget exactly what it was. finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. he had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of _ennui_, and became a confirmed misanthrope. and besides, my dear old basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic point of view. was it not gautier who used to write about _la consolation des arts_? i remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on that delightful phrase. well, i am not like that young man you told me of when we were down at marlow together, the young man who used to say that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. i love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. but the artistic temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. to become the spectator of one's own life, as harry says, is to escape the suffering of life. i know you are surprised at my talking to you like this. you have not realized how i have developed. i was a schoolboy when you knew me. i am a man now. i have new passions, new thoughts, new ideas. i am different, but you must not like me less. i am changed, but you must always be my friend. of course, i am very fond of harry. but i know that you are better than he is. you are not stronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. and how happy we used to be together! don't leave me, basil, and don't quarrel with me. i am what i am. there is nothing more to be said." the painter felt strangely moved. the lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. he could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. after all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. there was so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. "well, dorian," he said at length, with a sad smile, "i won't speak to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. i only trust your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. the inquest is to take place this afternoon. have they summoned you?" dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face at the mention of the word "inquest." there was something so crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "they don't know my name," he answered. "but surely she did?" "only my christian name, and that i am quite sure she never mentioned to any one. she told me once that they were all rather curious to learn who i was, and that she invariably told them my name was prince charming. it was pretty of her. you must do me a drawing of sibyl, basil. i should like to have something more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words." "i will try and do something, dorian, if it would please you. but you must come and sit to me yourself again. i can't get on without you." "i can never sit to you again, basil. it is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. the painter stared at him. "my dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "do you mean to say you don't like what i did of you? where is it? why have you pulled the screen in front of it? let me look at it. it is the best thing i have ever done. do take the screen away, dorian. it is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. i felt the room looked different as i came in." "my servant has nothing to do with it, basil. you don't imagine i let him arrange my room for me? he settles my flowers for me sometimes--that is all. no; i did it myself. the light was too strong on the portrait." "too strong! surely not, my dear fellow? it is an admirable place for it. let me see it." and hallward walked towards the corner of the room. a cry of terror broke from dorian gray's lips, and he rushed between the painter and the screen. "basil," he said, looking very pale, "you must not look at it. i don't wish you to." "not look at my own work! you are not serious. why shouldn't i look at it?" exclaimed hallward, laughing. "if you try to look at it, basil, on my word of honour i will never speak to you again as long as i live. i am quite serious. i don't offer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. but, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us." hallward was thunderstruck. he looked at dorian gray in absolute amazement. he had never seen him like this before. the lad was actually pallid with rage. his hands were clenched, and the pupils of his eyes were like disks of blue fire. he was trembling all over. "dorian!" "don't speak!" "but what is the matter? of course i won't look at it if you don't want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards the window. "but, really, it seems rather absurd that i shouldn't see my own work, especially as i am going to exhibit it in paris in the autumn. i shall probably have to give it another coat of varnish before that, so i must see it some day, and why not to-day?" "to exhibit it! you want to exhibit it?" exclaimed dorian gray, a strange sense of terror creeping over him. was the world going to be shown his secret? were people to gape at the mystery of his life? that was impossible. something--he did not know what--had to be done at once. "yes; i don't suppose you will object to that. georges petit is going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the rue de seze, which will open the first week in october. the portrait will only be away a month. i should think you could easily spare it for that time. in fact, you are sure to be out of town. and if you keep it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it." dorian gray passed his hand over his forehead. there were beads of perspiration there. he felt that he was on the brink of a horrible danger. "you told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it," he cried. "why have you changed your mind? you people who go in for being consistent have just as many moods as others have. the only difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. you can't have forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. you told harry exactly the same thing." he stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came into his eyes. he remembered that lord henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "if you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. he told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me." yes, perhaps basil, too, had his secret. he would ask him and try. "basil," he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. let me know yours, and i shall tell you mine. what was your reason for refusing to exhibit my picture?" the painter shuddered in spite of himself. "dorian, if i told you, you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. i could not bear your doing either of those two things. if you wish me never to look at your picture again, i am content. i have always you to look at. if you wish the best work i have ever done to be hidden from the world, i am satisfied. your friendship is dearer to me than any fame or reputation." "no, basil, you must tell me," insisted dorian gray. "i think i have a right to know." his feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity had taken its place. he was determined to find out basil hallward's mystery. "let us sit down, dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "let us sit down. and just answer me one question. have you noticed in the picture something curious?--something that probably at first did not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?" "basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with trembling hands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes. "i see you did. don't speak. wait till you hear what i have to say. dorian, from the moment i met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. i was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. you became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. i worshipped you. i grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. i wanted to have you all to myself. i was only happy when i was with you. when you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... of course, i never let you know anything about this. it would have been impossible. you would not have understood it. i hardly understood it myself. i only knew that i had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... weeks and weeks went on, and i grew more and more absorbed in you. then came a new development. i had drawn you as paris in dainty armour, and as adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of adrian's barge, gazing across the green turbid nile. you had leaned over the still pool of some greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own face. and it had all been what art should be--unconscious, ideal, and remote. one day, a fatal day i sometimes think, i determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, i cannot tell. but i know that as i worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. i grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. i felt, dorian, that i had told too much, that i had put too much of myself into it. then it was that i resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. you were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. harry, to whom i talked about it, laughed at me. but i did not mind that. when the picture was finished, and i sat alone with it, i felt that i was right.... well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as i had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that i had been foolish in imagining that i had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that i could paint. even now i cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. art is always more abstract than we fancy. form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. it often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. and so when i got this offer from paris, i determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. it never occurred to me that you would refuse. i see now that you were right. the picture cannot be shown. you must not be angry with me, dorian, for what i have told you. as i said to harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." dorian gray drew a long breath. the colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. the peril was over. he was safe for the time. yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. lord henry had the charm of being very dangerous. but that was all. he was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? was that one of the things that life had in store? "it is extraordinary to me, dorian," said hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. did you really see it?" "i saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?" dorian shook his head. "you must not ask me that, basil. i could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "you will some day, surely?" "never." "well, perhaps you are right. and now good-bye, dorian. you have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. whatever i have done that is good, i owe to you. ah! you don't know what it cost me to tell you all that i have told you." "my dear basil," said dorian, "what have you told me? simply that you felt that you admired me too much. that is not even a compliment." "it was not intended as a compliment. it was a confession. now that i have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. perhaps one should never put one's worship into words." "it was a very disappointing confession." "why, what did you expect, dorian? you didn't see anything else in the picture, did you? there was nothing else to see?" "no; there was nothing else to see. why do you ask? but you mustn't talk about worship. it is foolish. you and i are friends, basil, and we must always remain so." "you have got harry," said the painter sadly. "oh, harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. just the sort of life i would like to lead. but still i don't think i would go to harry if i were in trouble. i would sooner go to you, basil." "you will sit to me again?" "impossible!" "you spoil my life as an artist by refusing, dorian. no man comes across two ideal things. few come across one." "i can't explain it to you, basil, but i must never sit to you again. there is something fatal about a portrait. it has a life of its own. i will come and have tea with you. that will be just as pleasant." "pleasanter for you, i am afraid," murmured hallward regretfully. "and now good-bye. i am sorry you won't let me look at the picture once again. but that can't be helped. i quite understand what you feel about it." as he left the room, dorian gray smiled to himself. poor basil! how little he knew of the true reason! and how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! how much that strange confession explained to him! the painter's absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. there seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. he sighed and touched the bell. the portrait must be hidden away at all costs. he could not run such a risk of discovery again. it had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. chapter when his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. the man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. he could see the reflection of victor's face perfectly. it was like a placid mask of servility. there was nothing to be afraid of, there. yet he thought it best to be on his guard. speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. it seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. or was that merely his own fancy? after a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, mrs. leaf bustled into the library. he asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "the old schoolroom, mr. dorian?" she exclaimed. "why, it is full of dust. i must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. it is not fit for you to see, sir. it is not, indeed." "i don't want it put straight, leaf. i only want the key." "well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. why, it hasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died." he winced at the mention of his grandfather. he had hateful memories of him. "that does not matter," he answered. "i simply want to see the place--that is all. give me the key." "and here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "here is the key. i'll have it off the bunch in a moment. but you don't think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "no, no," he cried petulantly. "thank you, leaf. that will do." she lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. he sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. she left the room, wreathed in smiles. as the door closed, dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. his eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near bologna. yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. it had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of death itself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. what the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted image on the canvas. they would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. they would defile it and make it shameful. and yet the thing would still live on. it would be always alive. he shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. basil would have helped him to resist lord henry's influence, and the still more poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. the love that he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. it was not that mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the senses tire. it was such love as michelangelo had known, and montaigne, and winckelmann, and shakespeare himself. yes, basil could have saved him. but it was too late now. the past could always be annihilated. regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. but the future was inevitable. there were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. he took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. was the face on the canvas viler than before? it seemed to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. it was simply the expression that had altered. that was horrible in its cruelty. compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow basil's reproaches about sibyl vane had been!--how shallow, and of what little account! his own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. a look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. as he did so, a knock came to the door. he passed out as his servant entered. "the persons are here, monsieur." he felt that the man must be got rid of at once. he must not be allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. there was something sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to lord henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. "wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the men in here." in two or three minutes there was another knock, and mr. hubbard himself, the celebrated frame-maker of south audley street, came in with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. mr. hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the artists who dealt with him. as a rule, he never left his shop. he waited for people to come to him. but he always made an exception in favour of dorian gray. there was something about dorian that charmed everybody. it was a pleasure even to see him. "what can i do for you, mr. gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled hands. "i thought i would do myself the honour of coming round in person. i have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. picked it up at a sale. old florentine. came from fonthill, i believe. admirably suited for a religious subject, mr. gray." "i am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, mr. hubbard. i shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though i don't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day i only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. it is rather heavy, so i thought i would ask you to lend me a couple of your men." "no trouble at all, mr. gray. i am delighted to be of any service to you. which is the work of art, sir?" "this," replied dorian, moving the screen back. "can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? i don't want it to get scratched going upstairs." "there will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "and, now, where shall we carry it to, mr. gray?" "i will show you the way, mr. hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. or perhaps you had better go in front. i am afraid it is right at the top of the house. we will go up by the front staircase, as it is wider." he held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall and began the ascent. the elaborate character of the frame had made the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequious protests of mr. hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, dorian put his hand to it so as to help them. "something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man when they reached the top landing. and he wiped his shiny forehead. "i am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured dorian as he unlocked the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curious secret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. he had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. it was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last lord kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance. it appeared to dorian to have but little changed. there was the huge italian _cassone_, with its fantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. there the satinwood book-case filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. on the wall behind it was hanging the same ragged flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. how well he remembered it all! every moment of his lonely childhood came back to him as he looked round. he recalled the stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portrait was to be hidden away. how little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him! but there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes as this. he had the key, and no one else could enter it. beneath its purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. what did it matter? no one could see it. he himself would not see it. why should he watch the hideous corruption of his soul? he kept his youth--that was enough. and, besides, might not his nature grow finer, after all? there was no reason that the future should be so full of shame. some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world basil hallward's masterpiece. no; that was impossible. hour by hour, and week by week, the thing upon the canvas was growing old. it might escape the hideousness of sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. the cheeks would become hollow or flaccid. yellow crow's feet would creep round the fading eyes and make them horrible. the hair would lose its brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. there would be the wrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. the picture had to be concealed. there was no help for it. "bring it in, mr. hubbard, please," he said, wearily, turning round. "i am sorry i kept you so long. i was thinking of something else." "always glad to have a rest, mr. gray," answered the frame-maker, who was still gasping for breath. "where shall we put it, sir?" "oh, anywhere. here: this will do. i don't want to have it hung up. just lean it against the wall. thanks." "might one look at the work of art, sir?" dorian started. "it would not interest you, mr. hubbard," he said, keeping his eye on the man. he felt ready to leap upon him and fling him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that concealed the secret of his life. "i shan't trouble you any more now. i am much obliged for your kindness in coming round." "not at all, not at all, mr. gray. ever ready to do anything for you, sir." and mr. hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at dorian with a look of shy wonder in his rough uncomely face. he had never seen any one so marvellous. when the sound of their footsteps had died away, dorian locked the door and put the key in his pocket. he felt safe now. no one would ever look upon the horrible thing. no eye but his would ever see his shame. on reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clock and that the tea had been already brought up. on a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from lady radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the preceding winter in cairo, was lying a note from lord henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled. a copy of the third edition of _the st. james's gazette_ had been placed on the tea-tray. it was evident that victor had returned. he wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they were leaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. he would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. the screen had not been set back, and a blank space was visible on the wall. perhaps some night he might find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. it was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. he had heard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of crumpled lace. he sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened lord henry's note. it was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. he opened _the st. james's_ languidly, and looked through it. a red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. it drew attention to the following paragraph: inquest on an actress.--an inquest was held this morning at the bell tavern, hoxton road, by mr. danby, the district coroner, on the body of sibyl vane, a young actress recently engaged at the royal theatre, holborn. a verdict of death by misadventure was returned. considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of dr. birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. he frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. how ugly it all was! and how horribly real ugliness made things! he felt a little annoyed with lord henry for having sent him the report. and it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. victor might have read it. the man knew more than enough english for that. perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. and, yet, what did it matter? what had dorian gray to do with sibyl vane's death? there was nothing to fear. dorian gray had not killed her. his eye fell on the yellow book that lord henry had sent him. what was it, he wondered. he went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. after a few minutes he became absorbed. it was the strangest book that he had ever read. it seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. it was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. the style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the french school of _symbolistes_. there were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. the life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. one hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. it was a poisonous book. the heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. the mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. he read on by its wan light till he could read no more. then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. it was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he found lord henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "i am so sorry, harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. that book you sent me so fascinated me that i forgot how the time was going." "yes, i thought you would like it," replied his host, rising from his chair. "i didn't say i liked it, harry. i said it fascinated me. there is a great difference." "ah, you have discovered that?" murmured lord henry. and they passed into the dining-room. chapter for years, dorian gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. he procured from paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. the hero, the wonderful young parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. and, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. in one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. he never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. it was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued. for the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated basil hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. even those who had heard the most evil things against him--and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through london and became the chatter of the clubs--could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. he had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. men who talked grossly became silent when dorian gray entered the room. there was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. his mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. they wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual. often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that basil hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. the very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. he grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. he would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. he would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. he mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. there were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. but moments such as these were rare. that curiosity about life which lord henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. the more he knew, the more he desired to know. he had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. once or twice every month during the winter, and on each wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. his little dinners, in the settling of which lord henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in dorian gray the true realization of a type of which they had often dreamed in eton or oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. to them he seemed to be of the company of those whom dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." like gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed." and, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. his mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the mayfair balls and pall mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. for, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the london of his own day what to imperial neronian rome the author of the satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane. he sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. the worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. but it appeared to dorian gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. as he looked back upon man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. so much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! there had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape; nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. yes: there was to be, as lord henry had prophesied, a new hedonism that was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. it was to have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. but it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. there are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. in black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. the wan mirrors get back their mimic life. the flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. nothing seems to us changed. out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. we have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain. it was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to dorian gray to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that, indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. it was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the roman catholic communion, and certainly the roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. the daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. he loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "_panis caelestis_," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the passion of christ, breaking the host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins. the fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle fascination for him. as he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives. but he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the _darwinismus_ movement in germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. he felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. he knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal. and so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums from the east. he saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers; of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. at another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned indians blew through long pipes of reed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. the harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when schubert's grace, and chopin's beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. he collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. he had the mysterious _juruparis_ of the rio negro indians, that women are not allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as alfonso de ovalle heard in chile, and the sonorous green jaspers that are found near cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. he had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh _ture_ of the amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells of the aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that bernal diaz saw when he went with cortes into the mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. the fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with lord henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "tannhauser" and seeing in the prelude to that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. on one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as anne de joyeuse, admiral of france, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. this taste enthralled him for years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. he would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. he loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. he procured from amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. he discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. in alphonso's clericalis disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of alexander, the conqueror of emathia was said to have found in the vale of jordan snakes "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." there was a gem in the brain of the dragon, philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep and slain. according to the great alchemist, pierre de boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of india made him eloquent. the cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. the garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her colour. the selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. leonardus camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. the bezoar, that was found in the heart of the arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. in the nests of arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. the king of ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. the gates of the palace of john the priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." over the gable were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. in lodge's strange romance 'a margarite of america', it was stated that in the chamber of the queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." marco polo had seen the inhabitants of zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. a sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to king perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over its loss. when the huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away--procopius tells the story--nor was it ever found again, though the emperor anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. the king of malabar had shown to a certain venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. when the duke de valentinois, son of alexander vi, visited louis xii of france, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. charles of england had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds. richard ii had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. hall described henry viii, on his way to the tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." the favourites of james i wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. edward ii gave to piers gaveston a suit of red-gold armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parseme_ with pearls. henry ii wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. the ducal hat of charles the rash, the last duke of burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires. how exquisite life had once been! how gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern nations of europe. as he investigated the subject--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. he, at any rate, had escaped that. summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. no winter marred his face or stained his flowerlike bloom. how different it was with material things! where had they passed to? where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls for the pleasure of athena? where the huge velarium that nero had stretched across the colosseum at rome, that titan sail of purple on which was represented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? he longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for the priest of the sun, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the bishop of pontus and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature"; and the coat that charles of orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "_madame, je suis tout joyeux_," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. he read of the room that was prepared at the palace at rheims for the use of queen joan of burgundy and was decorated with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold." catherine de medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. louis xiv had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland, was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the koran. its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. it had been taken from the turkish camp before vienna, and the standard of mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. and so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the east as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from java; elaborate yellow chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of _lacis_ worked in hungary point; sicilian brocades and stiff spanish velvets; georgian work, with its gilt coins, and japanese _foukousas_, with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds. he had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the church. in the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the bride of christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. he possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. the orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the virgin, and the coronation of the virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. this was italian work of the fifteenth century. another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. the morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. the orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was st. sebastian. he had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the passion and crucifixion of christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. in the mystic offices to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his imagination. for these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. for weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near blue gate fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. on his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. after a few years he could not endure to be long out of england, and gave up the villa that he had shared at trouville with lord henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at algiers where they had more than once spent the winter. he hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. he was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. it was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? he would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. he had not painted it. what was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? even if he told them, would they believe it? yet he was afraid. sometimes when he was down at his great house in nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was still there. what if it should be stolen? the mere thought made him cold with horror. surely the world would know his secret then. perhaps the world already suspected it. for, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. he was very nearly blackballed at a west end club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the churchill, the duke of berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. it was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. his extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were determined to discover his secret. of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about him. it was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if dorian gray entered the room. yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his strange and dangerous charm. his great wealth was a certain element of security. society--civilized society, at least--is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. it feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much less value than the possession of a good _chef_. and, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrees_, as lord henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. for the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. form is absolutely essential to it. it should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. is insincerity such a terrible thing? i think not. it is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. such, at any rate, was dorian gray's opinion. he used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. to him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. he loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. here was philip herbert, described by francis osborne, in his memoires on the reigns of queen elizabeth and king james, as one who was "caressed by the court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company." was it young herbert's life that he sometimes led? had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in basil hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood sir anthony sherard, with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. what had this man's legacy been? had the lover of giovanna of naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? here, from the fading canvas, smiled lady elizabeth devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. a flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. on a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. there were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. he knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. had he something of her temperament in him? these oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. what of george willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? how evil he looked! the face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. he had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of lord ferrars. what of the second lord beckenham, the companion of the prince regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with mrs. fitzherbert? how proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! what passions had he bequeathed? the world had looked upon him as infamous. he had led the orgies at carlton house. the star of the garter glittered upon his breast. beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. her blood, also, stirred within him. how curious it all seemed! and his mother with her lady hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got from her. he had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty of others. she laughed at him in her loose bacchante dress. there were vine leaves in her hair. the purple spilled from the cup she was holding. the carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. they seemed to follow him wherever he went. yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. there were times when it appeared to dorian gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. he felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of subtlety. it seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own. the hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had himself known this curious fancy. in the seventh chapter he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as tiberius, in a garden at capri, reading the shameful books of elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _taedium vitae_, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the street of pomegranates to a house of gold and heard men cry on nero caesar as he passed by; and, as elagabalus, had painted his face with colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the moon from carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the sun. over and over again dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: filippo, duke of milan, who slew his wife and painted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the dead thing he fondled; pietro barbi, the venetian, known as paul the second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; gian maria visconti, who used hounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the borgia on his white horse, with fratricide riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of perotto; pietro riario, the young cardinal archbishop of florence, child and minion of sixtus iv, whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received leonora of aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve at the feast as ganymede or hylas; ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; giambattista cibo, who in mockery took the name of innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a jewish doctor; sigismondo malatesta, the lover of isotta and the lord of rimini, whose effigy was burned at rome as the enemy of god and man, who strangled polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to ginevra d'este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a pagan church for christian worship; charles vi, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by saracen cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, grifonetto baglioni, who slew astorre with his bride, and simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. there was a horrible fascination in them all. he saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. the renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. dorian gray had been poisoned by a book. there were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful. chapter it was on the ninth of november, the eve of his own thirty-eighth birthday, as he often remembered afterwards. he was walking home about eleven o'clock from lord henry's, where he had been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was cold and foggy. at the corner of grosvenor square and south audley street, a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar of his grey ulster turned up. he had a bag in his hand. dorian recognized him. it was basil hallward. a strange sense of fear, for which he could not account, came over him. he made no sign of recognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house. but hallward had seen him. dorian heard him first stopping on the pavement and then hurrying after him. in a few moments, his hand was on his arm. "dorian! what an extraordinary piece of luck! i have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock. finally i took pity on your tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. i am off to paris by the midnight train, and i particularly wanted to see you before i left. i thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, as you passed me. but i wasn't quite sure. didn't you recognize me?" "in this fog, my dear basil? why, i can't even recognize grosvenor square. i believe my house is somewhere about here, but i don't feel at all certain about it. i am sorry you are going away, as i have not seen you for ages. but i suppose you will be back soon?" "no: i am going to be out of england for six months. i intend to take a studio in paris and shut myself up till i have finished a great picture i have in my head. however, it wasn't about myself i wanted to talk. here we are at your door. let me come in for a moment. i have something to say to you." "i shall be charmed. but won't you miss your train?" said dorian gray languidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with his latch-key. the lamplight struggled out through the fog, and hallward looked at his watch. "i have heaps of time," he answered. "the train doesn't go till twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. in fact, i was on my way to the club to look for you, when i met you. you see, i shan't have any delay about luggage, as i have sent on my heavy things. all i have with me is in this bag, and i can easily get to victoria in twenty minutes." dorian looked at him and smiled. "what a way for a fashionable painter to travel! a gladstone bag and an ulster! come in, or the fog will get into the house. and mind you don't talk about anything serious. nothing is serious nowadays. at least nothing should be." hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed dorian into the library. there was a bright wood fire blazing in the large open hearth. the lamps were lit, and an open dutch silver spirit-case stood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, on a little marqueterie table. "you see your servant made me quite at home, dorian. he gave me everything i wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. he is a most hospitable creature. i like him much better than the frenchman you used to have. what has become of the frenchman, by the bye?" dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i believe he married lady radley's maid, and has established her in paris as an english dressmaker. anglomania is very fashionable over there now, i hear. it seems silly of the french, doesn't it? but--do you know?--he was not at all a bad servant. i never liked him, but i had nothing to complain about. one often imagines things that are quite absurd. he was really very devoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. have another brandy-and-soda? or would you like hock-and-seltzer? i always take hock-and-seltzer myself. there is sure to be some in the next room." "thanks, i won't have anything more," said the painter, taking his cap and coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in the corner. "and now, my dear fellow, i want to speak to you seriously. don't frown like that. you make it so much more difficult for me." "what is it all about?" cried dorian in his petulant way, flinging himself down on the sofa. "i hope it is not about myself. i am tired of myself to-night. i should like to be somebody else." "it is about yourself," answered hallward in his grave deep voice, "and i must say it to you. i shall only keep you half an hour." dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "half an hour!" he murmured. "it is not much to ask of you, dorian, and it is entirely for your own sake that i am speaking. i think it right that you should know that the most dreadful things are being said against you in london." "i don't wish to know anything about them. i love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don't interest me. they have not got the charm of novelty." "they must interest you, dorian. every gentleman is interested in his good name. you don't want people to talk of you as something vile and degraded. of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and all that kind of thing. but position and wealth are not everything. mind you, i don't believe these rumours at all. at least, i can't believe them when i see you. sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. it cannot be concealed. people talk sometimes of secret vices. there are no such things. if a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even. somebody--i won't mention his name, but you know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. i had never seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at the time, though i have heard a good deal since. he offered an extravagant price. i refused him. there was something in the shape of his fingers that i hated. i know now that i was quite right in what i fancied about him. his life is dreadful. but you, dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--i can't believe anything against you. and yet i see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when i am away from you, and i hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, i don't know what to say. why is it, dorian, that a man like the duke of berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? why is it that so many gentlemen in london will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? you used to be a friend of lord staveley. i met him at dinner last week. your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the dudley. staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with. i reminded him that i was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. he told me. he told me right out before everybody. it was horrible! why is your friendship so fatal to young men? there was that wretched boy in the guards who committed suicide. you were his great friend. there was sir henry ashton, who had to leave england with a tarnished name. you and he were inseparable. what about adrian singleton and his dreadful end? what about lord kent's only son and his career? i met his father yesterday in st. james's street. he seemed broken with shame and sorrow. what about the young duke of perth? what sort of life has he got now? what gentleman would associate with him?" "stop, basil. you are talking about things of which you know nothing," said dorian gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contempt in his voice. "you ask me why berwick leaves a room when i enter it. it is because i know everything about his life, not because he knows anything about mine. with such blood as he has in his veins, how could his record be clean? you ask me about henry ashton and young perth. did i teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? if kent's silly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? if adrian singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am i his keeper? i know how people chatter in england. the middle classes air their moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms with the people they slander. in this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. and what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? my dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite." "dorian," cried hallward, "that is not the question. england is bad enough i know, and english society is all wrong. that is the reason why i want you to be fine. you have not been fine. one has a right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. yours seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. you have filled them with a madness for pleasure. they have gone down into the depths. you led them there. yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, as you are smiling now. and there is worse behind. i know you and harry are inseparable. surely for that reason, if for none other, you should not have made his sister's name a by-word." "take care, basil. you go too far." "i must speak, and you must listen. you shall listen. when you met lady gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. is there a single decent woman in london now who would drive with her in the park? why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. then there are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping at dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulest dens in london. are they true? can they be true? when i first heard them, i laughed. i hear them now, and they make me shudder. what about your country-house and the life that is led there? dorian, you don't know what is said about you. i won't tell you that i don't want to preach to you. i remember harry saying once that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began by saying that, and then proceeded to break his word. i do want to preach to you. i want you to lead such a life as will make the world respect you. i want you to have a clean name and a fair record. i want you to get rid of the dreadful people you associate with. don't shrug your shoulders like that. don't be so indifferent. you have a wonderful influence. let it be for good, not for evil. they say that you corrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to follow after. i don't know whether it is so or not. how should i know? but it is said of you. i am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. lord gloucester was one of my greatest friends at oxford. he showed me a letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at mentone. your name was implicated in the most terrible confession i ever read. i told him that it was absurd--that i knew you thoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. know you? i wonder do i know you? before i could answer that, i should have to see your soul." "to see my soul!" muttered dorian gray, starting up from the sofa and turning almost white from fear. "yes," answered hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his voice, "to see your soul. but only god can do that." a bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "you shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from the table. "come: it is your own handiwork. why shouldn't you look at it? you can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. nobody would believe you. if they did believe you, they would like me all the better for it. i know the age better than you do, though you will prate about it so tediously. come, i tell you. you have chattered enough about corruption. now you shall look on it face to face." there was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. he stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. he felt a terrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with the hideous memory of what he had done. "yes," he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly into his stern eyes, "i shall show you my soul. you shall see the thing that you fancy only god can see." hallward started back. "this is blasphemy, dorian!" he cried. "you must not say things like that. they are horrible, and they don't mean anything." "you think so?" he laughed again. "i know so. as for what i said to you to-night, i said it for your good. you know i have been always a stanch friend to you." "don't touch me. finish what you have to say." a twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. he paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. after all, what right had he to pry into the life of dorian gray? if he had done a tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered! then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their throbbing cores of flame. "i am waiting, basil," said the young man in a hard clear voice. he turned round. "what i have to say is this," he cried. "you must give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you. if you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, i shall believe you. deny them, dorian, deny them! can't you see what i am going through? my god! don't tell me that you are bad, and corrupt, and shameful." dorian gray smiled. there was a curl of contempt in his lips. "come upstairs, basil," he said quietly. "i keep a diary of my life from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. i shall show it to you if you come with me." "i shall come with you, dorian, if you wish it. i see i have missed my train. that makes no matter. i can go to-morrow. but don't ask me to read anything to-night. all i want is a plain answer to my question." "that shall be given to you upstairs. i could not give it here. you will not have to read long." chapter he passed out of the room and began the ascent, basil hallward following close behind. they walked softly, as men do instinctively at night. the lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. a rising wind made some of the windows rattle. when they reached the top landing, dorian set the lamp down on the floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. "you insist on knowing, basil?" he asked in a low voice. "yes." "i am delighted," he answered, smiling. then he added, somewhat harshly, "you are the one man in the world who is entitled to know everything about me. you have had more to do with my life than you think"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. a cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange. he shuddered. "shut the door behind you," he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. the room looked as if it had not been lived in for years. a faded flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old italian _cassone_, and an almost empty book-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. as dorian gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was covered with dust and that the carpet was in holes. a mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. there was a damp odour of mildew. "so you think that it is only god who sees the soul, basil? draw that curtain back, and you will see mine." the voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "you are mad, dorian, or playing a part," muttered hallward, frowning. "you won't? then i must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground. an exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. there was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. good heavens! it was dorian gray's own face that he was looking at! the horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. there was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. the sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. yes, it was dorian himself. but who had done it? he seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. the idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. he seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. in the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. it was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. he had never done that. still, it was his own picture. he knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. his own picture! what did it mean? why had it altered? he turned and looked at dorian gray with the eyes of a sick man. his mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. he passed his hand across his forehead. it was dank with clammy sweat. the young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. there was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. there was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. he had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "what does this mean?" cried hallward, at last. his own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "years ago, when i was a boy," said dorian gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. one day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. in a mad moment that, even now, i don't know whether i regret or not, i made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "i remember it! oh, how well i remember it! no! the thing is impossible. the room is damp. mildew has got into the canvas. the paints i used had some wretched mineral poison in them. i tell you the thing is impossible." "ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "you told me you had destroyed it." "i was wrong. it has destroyed me." "i don't believe it is my picture." "can't you see your ideal in it?" said dorian bitterly. "my ideal, as you call it..." "as you called it." "there was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. you were to me such an ideal as i shall never meet again. this is the face of a satyr." "it is the face of my soul." "christ! what a thing i must have worshipped! it has the eyes of a devil." "each of us has heaven and hell in him, basil," cried dorian with a wild gesture of despair. hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "my god! if it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" he held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. the surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. it was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. the rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. his hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. he placed his foot on it and put it out. then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "good god, dorian, what a lesson! what an awful lesson!" there was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "pray, dorian, pray," he murmured. "what is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood? 'lead us not into temptation. forgive us our sins. wash away our iniquities.' let us say that together. the prayer of your pride has been answered. the prayer of your repentance will be answered also. i worshipped you too much. i am punished for it. you worshipped yourself too much. we are both punished." dorian gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "it is too late, basil," he faltered. "it is never too late, dorian. let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. isn't there a verse somewhere, 'though your sins be as scarlet, yet i will make them as white as snow'?" "those words mean nothing to me now." "hush! don't say that. you have done enough evil in your life. my god! don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?" dorian gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for basil hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. the mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. he glanced wildly around. something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. his eye fell on it. he knew what it was. it was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. he moved slowly towards it, passing hallward as he did so. as soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. he rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and stabbing again and again. there was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. he stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. something began to trickle on the floor. he waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. he could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. he opened the door and went out on the landing. the house was absolutely quiet. no one was about. for a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. the thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. how quickly it had all been done! he felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. the wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. he looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. the crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. a woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. now and then she stopped and peered back. once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. the policeman strolled over and said something to her. she stumbled away, laughing. a bitter blast swept across the square. the gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. he shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. he did not even glance at the murdered man. he felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. the friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. that was enough. then he remembered the lamp. it was a rather curious one of moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. he hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the table. he could not help seeing the dead thing. how still it was! how horribly white the long hands looked! it was like a dreadful wax image. having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. the woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. he stopped several times and waited. no: everything was still. it was merely the sound of his own footsteps. when he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. they must be hidden away somewhere. he unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises, and put them into it. he could easily burn them afterwards. then he pulled out his watch. it was twenty minutes to two. he sat down and began to think. every year--every month, almost--men were strangled in england for what he had done. there had been a madness of murder in the air. some red star had come too close to the earth.... and yet, what evidence was there against him? basil hallward had left the house at eleven. no one had seen him come in again. most of the servants were at selby royal. his valet had gone to bed.... paris! yes. it was to paris that basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended. with his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be roused. months! everything could be destroyed long before then. a sudden thought struck him. he put on his fur coat and hat and went out into the hall. there he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread of the policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of the bull's-eye reflected in the window. he waited and held his breath. after a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shutting the door very gently behind him. then he began ringing the bell. in about five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking very drowsy. "i am sorry to have had to wake you up, francis," he said, stepping in; "but i had forgotten my latch-key. what time is it?" "ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock and blinking. "ten minutes past two? how horribly late! you must wake me at nine to-morrow. i have some work to do." "all right, sir." "did any one call this evening?" "mr. hallward, sir. he stayed here till eleven, and then he went away to catch his train." "oh! i am sorry i didn't see him. did he leave any message?" "no, sir, except that he would write to you from paris, if he did not find you at the club." "that will do, francis. don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow." "no, sir." the man shambled down the passage in his slippers. dorian gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into the library. for a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, biting his lip and thinking. then he took down the blue book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "alan campbell, , hertford street, mayfair." yes; that was the man he wanted. chapter at nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. he looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. the man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been lost in some delightful dream. yet he had not dreamed at all. his night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. but youth smiles without any reason. it is one of its chiefest charms. he turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his chocolate. the mellow november sun came streaming into the room. the sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. it was almost like a morning in may. gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. he winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for basil hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. the dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. how horrible that was! such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. he felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. there were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. but this was not one of them. it was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. when the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. he spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at selby, and going through his correspondence. at some of the letters, he smiled. three of them bored him. one he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "that awful thing, a woman's memory!" as lord henry had once said. after he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. one he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "take this round to , hertford street, francis, and if mr. campbell is out of town, get his address." as soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and then human faces. suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to basil hallward. he frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. he was determined that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. when he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. it was gautier's emaux et camees, charpentier's japanese-paper edition, with the jacquemart etching. the binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. it had been given to him by adrian singleton. as he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "_du supplice encore mal lavee_," with its downy red hairs and its "_doigts de faune_." he glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon venice: sur une gamme chromatique, le sein de perles ruisselant, la venus de l'adriatique sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. les domes, sur l'azur des ondes suivant la phrase au pur contour, s'enflent comme des gorges rondes que souleve un soupir d'amour. l'esquif aborde et me depose, jetant son amarre au pilier, devant une facade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier. how exquisite they were! as one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. the mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the lido. the sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honeycombed campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself: "devant une facade rose, sur le marbre d'un escalier." the whole of venice was in those two lines. he remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies. there was romance in every place. but venice, like oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over tintoret. poor basil! what a horrible way for a man to die! he sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. he read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little _cafe_ at smyrna where the hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the obelisk in the place de la concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered nile, where there are sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "_monstre charmant_" that couches in the porphyry-room of the louvre. but after a time the book fell from his hand. he grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. what if alan campbell should be out of england? days would elapse before he could come back. perhaps he might refuse to come. what could he do then? every moment was of vital importance. they had been great friends once, five years before--almost inseparable, indeed. then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. when they met in society now, it was only dorian gray who smiled: alan campbell never did. he was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from dorian. his dominant intellectual passion was for science. at cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the natural science tripos of his year. indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. he was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. in fact, it was music that had first brought him and dorian gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it. they had met at lady berkshire's the night that rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. for eighteen months their intimacy lasted. campbell was always either at selby royal or in grosvenor square. to him, as to many others, dorian gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. but suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met and that campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which dorian gray was present. he had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. and this was certainly true. every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments. this was the man dorian gray was waiting for. every second he kept glancing at the clock. as the minutes went by he became horribly agitated. at last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. he took long stealthy strides. his hands were curiously cold. the suspense became unbearable. time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. he knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. it was useless. the brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks. then, suddenly, time stopped for him. yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. he stared at it. its very horror made him stone. at last the door opened and his servant entered. he turned glazed eyes upon him. "mr. campbell, sir," said the man. a sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks. "ask him to come in at once, francis." he felt that he was himself again. his mood of cowardice had passed away. the man bowed and retired. in a few moments, alan campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "alan! this is kind of you. i thank you for coming." "i had intended never to enter your house again, gray. but you said it was a matter of life and death." his voice was hard and cold. he spoke with slow deliberation. there was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on dorian. he kept his hands in the pockets of his astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "yes: it is a matter of life and death, alan, and to more than one person. sit down." campbell took a chair by the table, and dorian sat opposite to him. the two men's eyes met. in dorian's there was infinite pity. he knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. after a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. he has been dead ten hours now. don't stir, and don't look at me like that. who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. what you have to do is this--" "stop, gray. i don't want to know anything further. whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. i entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. keep your horrible secrets to yourself. they don't interest me any more." "alan, they will have to interest you. this one will have to interest you. i am awfully sorry for you, alan. but i can't help myself. you are the one man who is able to save me. i am forced to bring you into the matter. i have no option. alan, you are scientific. you know about chemistry and things of that kind. you have made experiments. what you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. nobody saw this person come into the house. indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in paris. he will not be missed for months. when he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. you, alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that i may scatter in the air." "you are mad, dorian." "ah! i was waiting for you to call me dorian." "you are mad, i tell you--mad to imagine that i would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. i will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. do you think i am going to peril my reputation for you? what is it to me what devil's work you are up to?" "it was suicide, alan." "i am glad of that. but who drove him to it? you, i should fancy." "do you still refuse to do this for me?" "of course i refuse. i will have absolutely nothing to do with it. i don't care what shame comes on you. you deserve it all. i should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. how dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? i should have thought you knew more about people's characters. your friend lord henry wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. you have come to the wrong man. go to some of your friends. don't come to me." "alan, it was murder. i killed him. you don't know what he had made me suffer. whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor harry has had. he may not have intended it, the result was the same." "murder! good god, dorian, is that what you have come to? i shall not inform upon you. it is not my business. besides, without my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid. but i will have nothing to do with it." "you must have something to do with it. wait, wait a moment; listen to me. only listen, alan. all i ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. you go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. if in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. you would not turn a hair. you would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. on the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. what i want you to do is merely what you have often done before. indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. and, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. if it is discovered, i am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me." "i have no desire to help you. you forget that. i am simply indifferent to the whole thing. it has nothing to do with me." "alan, i entreat you. think of the position i am in. just before you came i almost fainted with terror. you may know terror yourself some day. no! don't think of that. look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. you don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. don't inquire now. i have told you too much as it is. but i beg of you to do this. we were friends once, alan." "don't speak about those days, dorian--they are dead." "the dead linger sometimes. the man upstairs will not go away. he is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. alan! alan! if you don't come to my assistance, i am ruined. why, they will hang me, alan! don't you understand? they will hang me for what i have done." "there is no good in prolonging this scene. i absolutely refuse to do anything in the matter. it is insane of you to ask me." "you refuse?" "yes." "i entreat you, alan." "it is useless." the same look of pity came into dorian gray's eyes. then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. he read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. having done this, he got up and went over to the window. campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. as he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back in his chair. a horrible sense of sickness came over him. he felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. after two or three minutes of terrible silence, dorian turned round and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "i am so sorry for you, alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. i have a letter written already. here it is. you see the address. if you don't help me, i must send it. if you don't help me, i will send it. you know what the result will be. but you are going to help me. it is impossible for you to refuse now. i tried to spare you. you will do me the justice to admit that. you were stern, harsh, offensive. you treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. i bore it all. now it is for me to dictate terms." campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. "yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, alan. you know what they are. the thing is quite simple. come, don't work yourself into this fever. the thing has to be done. face it, and do it." a groan broke from campbell's lips and he shivered all over. the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. he felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. the hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. it was intolerable. it seemed to crush him. "come, alan, you must decide at once." "i cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things. "you must. you have no choice. don't delay." he hesitated a moment. "is there a fire in the room upstairs?" "yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." "i shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." "no, alan, you must not leave the house. write out on a sheet of notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you." campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. dorian took the note up and read it carefully. then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible and to bring the things with him. as the hall door shut, campbell started nervously, and having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. he was shivering with a kind of ague. for nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. a fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. as the chime struck one, campbell turned round, and looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "you are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. "hush, alan. you have saved my life," said dorian. "your life? good heavens! what a life that is! you have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. in doing what i am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of your life that i am thinking." "ah, alan," murmured dorian with a sigh, "i wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that i have for you." he turned away as he spoke and stood looking out at the garden. campbell made no answer. after about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. "shall i leave the things here, sir?" he asked campbell. "yes," said dorian. "and i am afraid, francis, that i have another errand for you. what is the name of the man at richmond who supplies selby with orchids?" "harden, sir." "yes--harden. you must go down to richmond at once, see harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as i ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. in fact, i don't want any white ones. it is a lovely day, francis, and richmond is a very pretty place--otherwise i wouldn't bother you about it." "no trouble, sir. at what time shall i be back?" dorian looked at campbell. "how long will your experiment take, alan?" he said in a calm indifferent voice. the presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. campbell frowned and bit his lip. "it will take about five hours," he answered. "it will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, francis. or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. you can have the evening to yourself. i am not dining at home, so i shall not want you." "thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. "now, alan, there is not a moment to be lost. how heavy this chest is! i'll take it for you. you bring the other things." he spoke rapidly and in an authoritative manner. campbell felt dominated by him. they left the room together. when they reached the top landing, dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. he shuddered. "i don't think i can go in, alan," he murmured. "it is nothing to me. i don't require you," said campbell coldly. dorian half opened the door. as he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. on the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. he remembered that the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. what was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? how horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. he heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. then, stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the picture. there he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. he heard campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. he began to wonder if he and basil hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "leave me now," said a stern voice behind him. he turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and that campbell was gazing into a glistening yellow face. as he was going downstairs, he heard the key being turned in the lock. it was long after seven when campbell came back into the library. he was pale, but absolutely calm. "i have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "and now, good-bye. let us never see each other again." "you have saved me from ruin, alan. i cannot forget that," said dorian simply. as soon as campbell had left, he went upstairs. there was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. but the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone. chapter 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 _decolletee_ she was then." "she is still _decolletee_," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _edition 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 zele_." "_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 siecle_," 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. chapter a cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly in the dripping mist. the public-houses were just closing, and dim men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. from some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. in others, drunkards brawled and screamed. lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, dorian gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words that lord henry had said to him on the first day they had met, "to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul." yes, that was the secret. he had often tried it, and would try it again now. there were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new. the moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. from time to time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. the gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. a steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles. the sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist. "to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul!" how the words rang in his ears! his soul, certainly, was sick to death. was it true that the senses could cure it? innocent blood had been spilled. what could atone for that? ah! for that there was no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. indeed, what right had basil to have spoken to him as he had done? who had made him a judge over others? he had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to be endured. on and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each step. he thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. the hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. his throat burned and his delicate hands twitched nervously together. he struck at the horse madly with his stick. the driver laughed and whipped up. he laughed in answer, and the man was silent. the way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some sprawling spider. the monotony became unbearable, and as the mist thickened, he felt afraid. then they passed by lonely brickfields. the fog was lighter here, and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, fanlike tongues of fire. a dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. the horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop. after some time they left the clay road and rattled again over rough-paven streets. most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. he watched them curiously. they moved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things. he hated them. a dull rage was in his heart. as they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. the driver beat at them with his whip. it is said that passion makes one think in a circle. certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of dorian gray shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found in them the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions that without such justification would still have dominated his temper. from cell to cell of his brain crept the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of all man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. ugliness was the one reality. the coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. they were what he needed for forgetfulness. in three days he would be free. suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the black masts of ships. wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to the yards. "somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the trap. dorian started and peered round. "this will do," he answered, and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. the light shook and splintered in the puddles. a red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. the slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh. he hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if he was being followed. in about seven or eight minutes he reached a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. in one of the top-windows stood a lamp. he stopped and gave a peculiar knock. after a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain being unhooked. the door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed. at the end of the hall hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street. he dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. greasy reflectors of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. the floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. some malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered. in one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust. "he thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them, as dorian passed by. the man looked at her in terror and began to whimper. at the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a darkened chamber. as dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him. he heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure. when he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. "you here, adrian?" muttered dorian. "where else should i be?" he answered, listlessly. "none of the chaps will speak to me now." "i thought you had left england." "darlington is not going to do anything. my brother paid the bill at last. george doesn't speak to me either.... i don't care," he added with a sigh. "as long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. i think i have had too many friends." dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. the twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. he knew in what strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy. they were better off than he was. he was prisoned in thought. memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. from time to time he seemed to see the eyes of basil hallward looking at him. yet he felt he could not stay. the presence of adrian singleton troubled him. he wanted to be where no one would know who he was. he wanted to escape from himself. "i am going on to the other place," he said after a pause. "on the wharf?" "yes." "that mad-cat is sure to be there. they won't have her in this place now." dorian shrugged his shoulders. "i am sick of women who love one. women who hate one are much more interesting. besides, the stuff is better." "much the same." "i like it better. come and have something to drink. i must have something." "i don't want anything," murmured the young man. "never mind." adrian singleton rose up wearily and followed dorian to the bar. a half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front of them. the women sidled up and began to chatter. dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to adrian singleton. a crooked smile, like a malay crease, writhed across the face of one of the women. "we are very proud to-night," she sneered. "for god's sake don't talk to me," cried dorian, stamping his foot on the ground. "what do you want? money? here it is. don't ever talk to me again." two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. she tossed her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. her companion watched her enviously. "it's no use," sighed adrian singleton. "i don't care to go back. what does it matter? i am quite happy here." "you will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said dorian, after a pause. "perhaps." "good night, then." "good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping his parched mouth with a handkerchief. dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. as he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. "there goes the devil's bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. "curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that." she snapped her fingers. "prince charming is what you like to be called, ain't it?" she yelled after him. the drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round. the sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. he rushed out as if in pursuit. dorian gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. his meeting with adrian singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, as basil hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. he bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. yet, after all, what did it matter to him? one's days were too brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders. each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it. the only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault. one had to pay over and over again, indeed. in her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. there are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. they move to their terrible end as automatons move. choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. for all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. when that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry for rebellion, dorian gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat. he struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched the tightening fingers away. in a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. "what do you want?" he gasped. "keep quiet," said the man. "if you stir, i shoot you." "you are mad. what have i done to you?" "you wrecked the life of sibyl vane," was the answer, "and sibyl vane was my sister. she killed herself. i know it. her death is at your door. i swore i would kill you in return. for years i have sought you. i had no clue, no trace. the two people who could have described you were dead. i knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you. i heard it to-night by chance. make your peace with god, for to-night you are going to die." dorian gray grew sick with fear. "i never knew her," he stammered. "i never heard of her. you are mad." "you had better confess your sin, for as sure as i am james vane, you are going to die." there was a horrible moment. dorian did not know what to say or do. "down on your knees!" growled the man. "i give you one minute to make your peace--no more. i go on board to-night for india, and i must do my job first. one minute. that's all." dorian's arms fell to his side. paralysed with terror, he did not know what to do. suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "stop," he cried. "how long ago is it since your sister died? quick, tell me!" "eighteen years," said the man. "why do you ask me? what do years matter?" "eighteen years," laughed dorian gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice. "eighteen years! set me under the lamp and look at my face!" james vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. then he seized dorian gray and dragged him from the archway. dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. he seemed little more than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago. it was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed her life. he loosened his hold and reeled back. "my god! my god!" he cried, "and i would have murdered you!" dorian gray drew a long breath. "you have been on the brink of committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly. "let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your own hands." "forgive me, sir," muttered james vane. "i was deceived. a chance word i heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track." "you had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get into trouble," said dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down the street. james vane stood on the pavement in horror. he was trembling from head to foot. after a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. he felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. it was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "i knew you were following him when you rushed out from daly's. you fool! you should have killed him. he has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad." "he is not the man i am looking for," he answered, "and i want no man's money. i want a man's life. the man whose life i want must be nearly forty now. this one is little more than a boy. thank god, i have not got his blood upon my hands." the woman gave a bitter laugh. "little more than a boy!" she sneered. "why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since prince charming made me what i am." "you lie!" cried james vane. she raised her hand up to heaven. "before god i am telling the truth," she cried. "before god?" "strike me dumb if it ain't so. he is the worst one that comes here. they say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. it's nigh on eighteen years since i met him. he hasn't changed much since then. i have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "you swear this?" "i swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "but don't give me away to him," she whined; "i am afraid of him. let me have some money for my night's lodging." he broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but dorian gray had disappeared. when he looked back, the woman had vanished also. chapter a week later dorian gray was sitting in the conservatory at selby royal, talking to the pretty duchess of monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. it was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that dorian had whispered to her. lord henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. on a peach-coloured divan sat lady narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description of the last brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. the house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "what are you two talking about?" said lord henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "i hope dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, gladys. it is a delightful idea." "but i don't want to be rechristened, harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "i am quite satisfied with my own name, and i am sure mr. gray should be satisfied with his." "my dear gladys, i would not alter either name for the world. they are both perfect. i was thinking chiefly of flowers. yesterday i cut an orchid, for my button-hole. it was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. in a thoughtless moment i asked one of the gardeners what it was called. he told me it was a fine specimen of _robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. it is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. names are everything. i never quarrel with actions. my one quarrel is with words. that is the reason i hate vulgar realism in literature. the man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. it is the only thing he is fit for." "then what should we call you, harry?" she asked. "his name is prince paradox," said dorian. "i recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "i won't hear of it," laughed lord henry, sinking into a chair. "from a label there is no escape! i refuse the title." "royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "you wish me to defend my throne, then?" "yes." "i give the truths of to-morrow." "i prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "you disarm me, gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. "of your shield, harry, not of your spear." "i never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "that is your error, harry, believe me. you value beauty far too much." "how can you say that? i admit that i think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. but on the other hand, no one is more ready than i am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "what becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, gladys. you, as a good tory, must not underrate them. beer, the bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our england what she is." "you don't like your country, then?" she asked. "i live in it." "that you may censure it the better." "would you have me take the verdict of europe on it?" he inquired. "what do they say of us?" "that tartuffe has emigrated to england and opened a shop." "is that yours, harry?" "i give it to you." "i could not use it. it is too true." "you need not be afraid. our countrymen never recognize a description." "they are practical." "they are more cunning than practical. when they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "still, we have done great things." "great things have been thrust on us, gladys." "we have carried their burden." "only as far as the stock exchange." she shook her head. "i believe in the race," she cried. "it represents the survival of the pushing." "it has development." "decay fascinates me more." "what of art?" she asked. "it is a malady." "love?" "an illusion." "religion?" "the fashionable substitute for belief." "you are a sceptic." "never! scepticism is the beginning of faith." "what are you?" "to define is to limit." "give me a clue." "threads snap. you would lose your way in the labyrinth." "you bewilder me. let us talk of some one else." "our host is a delightful topic. years ago he was christened prince charming." "ah! don't remind me of that," cried dorian gray. "our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "i believe he thinks that monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "well, i hope he won't stick pins into you, duchess," laughed dorian. "oh! my maid does that already, mr. gray, when she is annoyed with me." "and what does she get annoyed with you about, duchess?" "for the most trivial things, mr. gray, i assure you. usually because i come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that i must be dressed by half-past eight." "how unreasonable of her! you should give her warning." "i daren't, mr. gray. why, she invents hats for me. you remember the one i wore at lady hilstone's garden-party? you don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. well, she made it out of nothing. all good hats are made out of nothing." "like all good reputations, gladys," interrupted lord henry. "every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. to be popular one must be a mediocrity." "not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. i assure you we can't bear mediocrities. we women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "it seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured dorian. "ah! then, you never really love, mr. gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "my dear gladys!" cried lord henry. "how can you say that? romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. it merely intensifies it. we can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "even when one has been wounded by it, harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "especially when one has been wounded by it," answered lord henry. the duchess turned and looked at dorian gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "what do you say to that, mr. gray?" she inquired. dorian hesitated for a moment. then he threw his head back and laughed. "i always agree with harry, duchess." "even when he is wrong?" "harry is never wrong, duchess." "and does his philosophy make you happy?" "i have never searched for happiness. who wants happiness? i have searched for pleasure." "and found it, mr. gray?" "often. too often." the duchess sighed. "i am searching for peace," she said, "and if i don't go and dress, i shall have none this evening." "let me get you some orchids, duchess," cried dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "you are flirting disgracefully with him," said lord henry to his cousin. "you had better take care. he is very fascinating." "if he were not, there would be no battle." "greek meets greek, then?" "i am on the side of the trojans. they fought for a woman." "they were defeated." "there are worse things than capture," she answered. "you gallop with a loose rein." "pace gives life," was the _riposte_. "i shall write it in my diary to-night." "what?" "that a burnt child loves the fire." "i am not even singed. my wings are untouched." "you use them for everything, except flight." "courage has passed from men to women. it is a new experience for us." "you have a rival." "who?" he laughed. "lady narborough," he whispered. "she perfectly adores him." "you fill me with apprehension. the appeal to antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "romanticists! you have all the methods of science." "men have educated us." "but not explained you." "describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "sphinxes without secrets." she looked at him, smiling. "how long mr. gray is!" she said. "let us go and help him. i have not yet told him the colour of my frock." "ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, gladys." "that would be a premature surrender." "romantic art begins with its climax." "i must keep an opportunity for retreat." "in the parthian manner?" "they found safety in the desert. i could not do that." "women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. everybody started up. the duchess stood motionless in horror. and with fear in his eyes, lord henry rushed through the flapping palms to find dorian gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. he was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one of the sofas. after a short time, he came to himself and looked round with a dazed expression. "what has happened?" he asked. "oh! i remember. am i safe here, harry?" he began to tremble. "my dear dorian," answered lord henry, "you merely fainted. that was all. you must have overtired yourself. you had better not come down to dinner. i will take your place." "no, i will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "i would rather come down. i must not be alone." he went to his room and dressed. there was a wild recklessness of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the face of james vane watching him. chapter the next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet indifferent to life itself. the consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. if the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook. the dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets. when he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its hand upon his heart. but perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. it was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. it was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. in the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. that was all. besides, had any stranger been prowling round the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers. had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners would have reported it. yes, it had been merely fancy. sibyl vane's brother had not come back to kill him. he had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea. from him, at any rate, he was safe. why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who he was. the mask of youth had saved him. and yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them visible form, and make them move before one! what sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep! as the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! how ghastly the mere memory of the scene! he saw it all again. each hideous detail came back to him with added horror. out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. when lord henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will break. it was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. there was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. but it was not merely the physical conditions of environment that had caused the change. his own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. with subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. their strong passions must either bruise or bend. they either slay the man, or themselves die. shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. the loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with something of pity and not a little of contempt. after breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the garden and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. the crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. the sky was an inverted cup of blue metal. a thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. at the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of sir geoffrey clouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of his gun. he jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered bracken and rough undergrowth. "have you had good sport, geoffrey?" he asked. "not very good, dorian. i think most of the birds have gone to the open. i dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new ground." dorian strolled along by his side. the keen aromatic air, the brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the guns that followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightful freedom. he was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by the high indifference of joy. suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in front of them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing it forward, started a hare. it bolted for a thicket of alders. sir geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in the animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed dorian gray, and he cried out at once, "don't shoot it, geoffrey. let it live." "what nonsense, dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare bounded into the thicket, he fired. there were two cries heard, the cry of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which is worse. "good heavens! i have hit a beater!" exclaimed sir geoffrey. "what an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! stop shooting there!" he called out at the top of his voice. "a man is hurt." the head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. "where, sir? where is he?" he shouted. at the same time, the firing ceased along the line. "here," answered sir geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. "why on earth don't you keep your men back? spoiled my shooting for the day." dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing the lithe swinging branches aside. in a few moments they emerged, dragging a body after them into the sunlight. he turned away in horror. it seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. he heard sir geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. the wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. there was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz of voices. a great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through the boughs overhead. after a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, like endless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. he started and looked round. "dorian," said lord henry, "i had better tell them that the shooting is stopped for to-day. it would not look well to go on." "i wish it were stopped for ever, harry," he answered bitterly. "the whole thing is hideous and cruel. is the man ...?" he could not finish the sentence. "i am afraid so," rejoined lord henry. "he got the whole charge of shot in his chest. he must have died almost instantaneously. come; let us go home." they walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fifty yards without speaking. then dorian looked at lord henry and said, with a heavy sigh, "it is a bad omen, harry, a very bad omen." "what is?" asked lord henry. "oh! this accident, i suppose. my dear fellow, it can't be helped. it was the man's own fault. why did he get in front of the guns? besides, it is nothing to us. it is rather awkward for geoffrey, of course. it does not do to pepper beaters. it makes people think that one is a wild shot. and geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. but there is no use talking about the matter." dorian shook his head. "it is a bad omen, harry. i feel as if something horrible were going to happen to some of us. to myself, perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture of pain. the elder man laughed. "the only horrible thing in the world is _ennui_, dorian. that is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. but we are not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. i must tell them that the subject is to be tabooed. as for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. destiny does not send us heralds. she is too wise or too cruel for that. besides, what on earth could happen to you, dorian? you have everything in the world that a man can want. there is no one who would not be delighted to change places with you." "there is no one with whom i would not change places, harry. don't laugh like that. i am telling you the truth. the wretched peasant who has just died is better off than i am. i have no terror of death. it is the coming of death that terrifies me. its monstrous wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. good heavens! don't you see a man moving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?" lord henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved hand was pointing. "yes," he said, smiling, "i see the gardener waiting for you. i suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have on the table to-night. how absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! you must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town." dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. the man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at lord henry in a hesitating manner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "her grace told me to wait for an answer," he murmured. dorian put the letter into his pocket. "tell her grace that i am coming in," he said, coldly. the man turned round and went rapidly in the direction of the house. "how fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed lord henry. "it is one of the qualities in them that i admire most. a woman will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on." "how fond you are of saying dangerous things, harry! in the present instance, you are quite astray. i like the duchess very much, but i don't love her." "and the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so you are excellently matched." "you are talking scandal, harry, and there is never any basis for scandal." "the basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said lord henry, lighting a cigarette. "you would sacrifice anybody, harry, for the sake of an epigram." "the world goes to the altar of its own accord," was the answer. "i wish i could love," cried dorian gray with a deep note of pathos in his voice. "but i seem to have lost the passion and forgotten the desire. i am too much concentrated on myself. my own personality has become a burden to me. i want to escape, to go away, to forget. it was silly of me to come down here at all. i think i shall send a wire to harvey to have the yacht got ready. on a yacht one is safe." "safe from what, dorian? you are in some trouble. why not tell me what it is? you know i would help you." "i can't tell you, harry," he answered sadly. "and i dare say it is only a fancy of mine. this unfortunate accident has upset me. i have a horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me." "what nonsense!" "i hope it is, but i can't help feeling it. ah! here is the duchess, looking like artemis in a tailor-made gown. you see we have come back, duchess." "i have heard all about it, mr. gray," she answered. "poor geoffrey is terribly upset. and it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. how curious!" "yes, it was very curious. i don't know what made me say it. some whim, i suppose. it looked the loveliest of little live things. but i am sorry they told you about the man. it is a hideous subject." "it is an annoying subject," broke in lord henry. "it has no psychological value at all. now if geoffrey had done the thing on purpose, how interesting he would be! i should like to know some one who had committed a real murder." "how horrid of you, harry!" cried the duchess. "isn't it, mr. gray? harry, mr. gray is ill again. he is going to faint." dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "it is nothing, duchess," he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. that is all. i am afraid i walked too far this morning. i didn't hear what harry said. was it very bad? you must tell me some other time. i think i must go and lie down. you will excuse me, won't you?" they had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. as the glass door closed behind dorian, lord henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "are you very much in love with him?" he asked. she did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "i wish i knew," she said at last. he shook his head. "knowledge would be fatal. it is the uncertainty that charms one. a mist makes things wonderful." "one may lose one's way." "all ways end at the same point, my dear gladys." "what is that?" "disillusion." "it was my _debut_ in life," she sighed. "it came to you crowned." "i am tired of strawberry leaves." "they become you." "only in public." "you would miss them," said lord henry. "i will not part with a petal." "monmouth has ears." "old age is dull of hearing." "has he never been jealous?" "i wish he had been." he glanced about as if in search of something. "what are you looking for?" she inquired. "the button from your foil," he answered. "you have dropped it." she laughed. "i have still the mask." "it makes your eyes lovelier," was his reply. she laughed again. her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarlet fruit. upstairs, in his own room, dorian gray was lying on a sofa, with terror in every tingling fibre of his body. life had suddenly become too hideous a burden for him to bear. the dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also. he had nearly swooned at what lord henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. at five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. he was determined not to sleep another night at selby royal. it was an ill-omened place. death walked there in the sunlight. the grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. then he wrote a note to lord henry, telling him that he was going up to town to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in his absence. as he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to see him. he frowned and bit his lip. "send him in," he muttered, after some moments' hesitation. as soon as the man entered, dorian pulled his chequebook out of a drawer and spread it out before him. "i suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this morning, thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. "yes, sir," answered the gamekeeper. "was the poor fellow married? had he any people dependent on him?" asked dorian, looking bored. "if so, i should not like them to be left in want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary." "we don't know who he is, sir. that is what i took the liberty of coming to you about." "don't know who he is?" said dorian, listlessly. "what do you mean? wasn't he one of your men?" "no, sir. never saw him before. seems like a sailor, sir." the pen dropped from dorian gray's hand, and he felt as if his heart had suddenly stopped beating. "a sailor?" he cried out. "did you say a sailor?" "yes, sir. he looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed on both arms, and that kind of thing." "was there anything found on him?" said dorian, leaning forward and looking at the man with startled eyes. "anything that would tell his name?" "some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. there was no name of any kind. a decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. a sort of sailor we think." dorian started to his feet. a terrible hope fluttered past him. he clutched at it madly. "where is the body?" he exclaimed. "quick! i must see it at once." "it is in an empty stable in the home farm, sir. the folk don't like to have that sort of thing in their houses. they say a corpse brings bad luck." "the home farm! go there at once and meet me. tell one of the grooms to bring my horse round. no. never mind. i'll go to the stables myself. it will save time." in less than a quarter of an hour, dorian gray was galloping down the long avenue as hard as he could go. the trees seemed to sweep past him in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across his path. once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. he lashed her across the neck with his crop. she cleft the dusky air like an arrow. the stones flew from her hoofs. at last he reached the home farm. two men were loitering in the yard. he leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. in the farthest stable a light was glimmering. something seemed to tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his hand upon the latch. there he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery that would either make or mar his life. then he thrust the door open and entered. on a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. a spotted handkerchief had been placed over the face. a coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputtered beside it. dorian gray shuddered. he felt that his could not be the hand to take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants to come to him. "take that thing off the face. i wish to see it," he said, clutching at the door-post for support. when the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. a cry of joy broke from his lips. the man who had been shot in the thicket was james vane. he stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. as he rode home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. chapter "there is no use your telling me that you are going to be good," cried lord henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filled with rose-water. "you are quite perfect. pray, don't change." dorian gray shook his head. "no, harry, i have done too many dreadful things in my life. i am not going to do any more. i began my good actions yesterday." "where were you yesterday?" "in the country, harry. i was staying at a little inn by myself." "my dear boy," said lord henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in the country. there are no temptations there. that is the reason why people who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. there are only two ways by which man can reach it. one is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. country people have no opportunity of being either, so they stagnate." "culture and corruption," echoed dorian. "i have known something of both. it seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found together. for i have a new ideal, harry. i am going to alter. i think i have altered." "you have not yet told me what your good action was. or did you say you had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into his plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through a perforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them. "i can tell you, harry. it is not a story i could tell to any one else. i spared somebody. it sounds vain, but you understand what i mean. she was quite beautiful and wonderfully like sibyl vane. i think it was that which first attracted me to her. you remember sibyl, don't you? how long ago that seems! well, hetty was not one of our own class, of course. she was simply a girl in a village. but i really loved her. i am quite sure that i loved her. all during this wonderful may that we have been having, i used to run down and see her two or three times a week. yesterday she met me in a little orchard. the apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing. we were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. suddenly i determined to leave her as flowerlike as i had found her." "i should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, dorian," interrupted lord henry. "but i can finish your idyll for you. you gave her good advice and broke her heart. that was the beginning of your reformation." "harry, you are horrible! you mustn't say these dreadful things. hetty's heart is not broken. of course, she cried and all that. but there is no disgrace upon her. she can live, like perdita, in her garden of mint and marigold." "and weep over a faithless florizel," said lord henry, laughing, as he leaned back in his chair. "my dear dorian, you have the most curiously boyish moods. do you think this girl will ever be really content now with any one of her own rank? i suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. well, the fact of having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. from a moral point of view, i cannot say that i think much of your great renunciation. even as a beginning, it is poor. besides, how do you know that hetty isn't floating at the present moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like ophelia?" "i can't bear this, harry! you mock at everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. i am sorry i told you now. i don't care what you say to me. i know i was right in acting as i did. poor hetty! as i rode past the farm this morning, i saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine. don't let us talk about it any more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action i have done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice i have ever known, is really a sort of sin. i want to be better. i am going to be better. tell me something about yourself. what is going on in town? i have not been to the club for days." "the people are still discussing poor basil's disappearance." "i should have thought they had got tired of that by this time," said dorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly. "my dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, and the british public are really not equal to the mental strain of having more than one topic every three months. they have been very fortunate lately, however. they have had my own divorce-case and alan campbell's suicide. now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. scotland yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who left for paris by the midnight train on the ninth of november was poor basil, and the french police declare that basil never arrived in paris at all. i suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he has been seen in san francisco. it is an odd thing, but every one who disappears is said to be seen at san francisco. it must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world." "what do you think has happened to basil?" asked dorian, holding up his burgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he could discuss the matter so calmly. "i have not the slightest idea. if basil chooses to hide himself, it is no business of mine. if he is dead, i don't want to think about him. death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. i hate it." "why?" said the younger man wearily. "because," said lord henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything nowadays except that. death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. let us have our coffee in the music-room, dorian. you must play chopin to me. the man with whom my wife ran away played chopin exquisitely. poor victoria! i was very fond of her. the house is rather lonely without her. of course, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. but then one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. perhaps one regrets them the most. they are such an essential part of one's personality." dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the white and black ivory of the keys. after the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, and looking over at lord henry, said, "harry, did it ever occur to you that basil was murdered?" lord henry yawned. "basil was very popular, and always wore a waterbury watch. why should he have been murdered? he was not clever enough to have enemies. of course, he had a wonderful genius for painting. but a man can paint like velasquez and yet be as dull as possible. basil was really rather dull. he only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adoration for you and that you were the dominant motive of his art." "i was very fond of basil," said dorian with a note of sadness in his voice. "but don't people say that he was murdered?" "oh, some of the papers do. it does not seem to me to be at all probable. i know there are dreadful places in paris, but basil was not the sort of man to have gone to them. he had no curiosity. it was his chief defect." "what would you say, harry, if i told you that i had murdered basil?" said the younger man. he watched him intently after he had spoken. "i would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character that doesn't suit you. all crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. it is not in you, dorian, to commit a murder. i am sorry if i hurt your vanity by saying so, but i assure you it is true. crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders. i don't blame them in the smallest degree. i should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations." "a method of procuring sensations? do you think, then, that a man who has once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again? don't tell me that." "oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried lord henry, laughing. "that is one of the most important secrets of life. i should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. one should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. but let us pass from poor basil. i wish i could believe that he had come to such a really romantic end as you suggest, but i can't. i dare say he fell into the seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the scandal. yes: i should fancy that was his end. i see him lying now on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair. do you know, i don't think he would have done much more good work. during the last ten years his painting had gone off very much." dorian heaved a sigh, and lord henry strolled across the room and began to stroke the head of a curious java parrot, a large, grey-plumaged bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch. as his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwards and forwards. "yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. it seemed to me to have lost something. it had lost an ideal. when you and he ceased to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. what was it separated you? i suppose he bored you. if so, he never forgave you. it's a habit bores have. by the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of you? i don't think i have ever seen it since he finished it. oh! i remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the way. you never got it back? what a pity! it was really a masterpiece. i remember i wanted to buy it. i wish i had now. it belonged to basil's best period. since then, his work was that curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative british artist. did you advertise for it? you should." "i forget," said dorian. "i suppose i did. but i never really liked it. i am sorry i sat for it. the memory of the thing is hateful to me. why do you talk of it? it used to remind me of those curious lines in some play--hamlet, i think--how do they run?-- "like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart." yes: that is what it was like." lord henry laughed. "if a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair. dorian gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano. "'like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a heart.'" the elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "by the way, dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his own soul'?" the music jarred, and dorian gray started and stared at his friend. "why do you ask me that, harry?" "my dear fellow," said lord henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, "i asked you because i thought you might be able to give me an answer. that is all. i was going through the park last sunday, and close by the marble arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar street-preacher. as i passed by, i heard the man yelling out that question to his audience. it struck me as being rather dramatic. london is very rich in curious effects of that kind. a wet sunday, an uncouth christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly white faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very good in its way, quite a suggestion. i thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul, but that man had not. i am afraid, however, he would not have understood me." "don't, harry. the soul is a terrible reality. it can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. it can be poisoned, or made perfect. there is a soul in each one of us. i know it." "do you feel quite sure of that, dorian?" "quite sure." "ah! then it must be an illusion. the things one feels absolutely certain about are never true. that is the fatality of faith, and the lesson of romance. how grave you are! don't be so serious. what have you or i to do with the superstitions of our age? no: we have given up our belief in the soul. play me something. play me a nocturne, dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. you must have some secret. i am only ten years older than you are, and i am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. you are really wonderful, dorian. you have never looked more charming than you do to-night. you remind me of the day i saw you first. you were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. you have changed, of course, but not in appearance. i wish you would tell me your secret. to get back my youth i would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable. youth! there is nothing like it. it's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. the only people to whose opinions i listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. they seem in front of me. life has revealed to them her latest wonder. as for the aged, i always contradict the aged. i do it on principle. if you ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in , when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. how lovely that thing you are playing is! i wonder, did chopin write it at majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against the panes? it is marvellously romantic. what a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! don't stop. i want music to-night. it seems to me that you are the young apollo and that i am marsyas listening to you. i have sorrows, dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. the tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. i am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. ah, dorian, how happy you are! what an exquisite life you have had! you have drunk deeply of everything. you have crushed the grapes against your palate. nothing has been hidden from you. and it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. it has not marred you. you are still the same." "i am not the same, harry." "yes, you are the same. i wonder what the rest of your life will be. don't spoil it by renunciations. at present you are a perfect type. don't make yourself incomplete. you are quite flawless now. you need not shake your head: you know you are. besides, dorian, don't deceive yourself. life is not governed by will or intention. life is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. you may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. but a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play--i tell you, dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend. browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. there are moments when the odour of _lilas blanc_ passes suddenly across me, and i have to live the strangest month of my life over again. i wish i could change places with you, dorian. the world has cried out against us both, but it has always worshipped you. it always will worship you. you are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it is afraid it has found. i am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anything outside of yourself! life has been your art. you have set yourself to music. your days are your sonnets." dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. "yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but i am not going to have the same life, harry. and you must not say these extravagant things to me. you don't know everything about me. i think that if you did, even you would turn from me. you laugh. don't laugh." "why have you stopped playing, dorian? go back and give me the nocturne over again. look at that great, honey-coloured moon that hangs in the dusky air. she is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play she will come closer to the earth. you won't? let us go to the club, then. it has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. there is some one at white's who wants immensely to know you--young lord poole, bournemouth's eldest son. he has already copied your neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. he is quite delightful and rather reminds me of you." "i hope not," said dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "but i am tired to-night, harry. i shan't go to the club. it is nearly eleven, and i want to go to bed early." "do stay. you have never played so well as to-night. there was something in your touch that was wonderful. it had more expression than i had ever heard from it before." "it is because i am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "i am a little changed already." "you cannot change to me, dorian," said lord henry. "you and i will always be friends." "yet you poisoned me with a book once. i should not forgive that. harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. it does harm." "my dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. you will soon be going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people against all the sins of which you have grown tired. you are much too delightful to do that. besides, it is no use. you and i are what we are, and will be what we will be. as for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. art has no influence upon action. it annihilates the desire to act. it is superbly sterile. the books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. that is all. but we won't discuss literature. come round to-morrow. i am going to ride at eleven. we might go together, and i will take you to lunch afterwards with lady branksome. she is a charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. mind you come. or shall we lunch with our little duchess? she says she never sees you now. perhaps you are tired of gladys? i thought you would be. her clever tongue gets on one's nerves. well, in any case, be here at eleven." "must i really come, harry?" "certainly. the park is quite lovely now. i don't think there have been such lilacs since the year i met you." "very well. i shall be here at eleven," said dorian. "good night, harry." as he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if he had something more to say. then he sighed and went out. chapter it was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. as he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. he heard one of them whisper to the other, "that is dorian gray." he remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. he was tired of hearing his own name now. half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. he had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. he had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. what a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. and how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! she knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. when he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. he sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that lord henry had said to him. was it really true that one could never change? he felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as lord henry had once called it. he knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. but was it all irretrievable? was there no hope for him? ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! all his failure had been due to that. better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. there was purification in punishment. not "forgive us our sins" but "smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of man to a most just god. the curiously carved mirror that lord henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed cupids laughed round it as of old. he took it up, as he had done on that night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history." the phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself. then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. it was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. but for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. his beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. what was youth at best? a green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. why had he worn its livery? youth had spoiled him. it was better not to think of the past. nothing could alter that. it was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. james vane was hidden in a nameless grave in selby churchyard. alan campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. the excitement, such as it was, over basil hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. it was already waning. he was perfectly safe there. nor, indeed, was it the death of basil hallward that weighed most upon his mind. it was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. he could not forgive him that. it was the portrait that had done everything. basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. the murder had been simply the madness of a moment. as for alan campbell, his suicide had been his own act. he had chosen to do it. it was nothing to him. a new life! that was what he wanted. that was what he was waiting for. surely he had begun it already. he had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. he would never again tempt innocence. he would be good. as he thought of hetty merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. he would go and look. he took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. as he unbarred the door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. he felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. he went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. a cry of pain and indignation broke from him. he could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. the thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. then he trembled. had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? or the desire for a new sensation, as lord henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? or, perhaps, all these? and why was the red stain larger than it had been? it seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. there was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. confess? did it mean that he was to confess? to give himself up and be put to death? he laughed. he felt that the idea was monstrous. besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? there was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. everything belonging to him had been destroyed. he himself had burned what had been below-stairs. the world would simply say that he was mad. they would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. there was a god who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. his sin? he shrugged his shoulders. the death of basil hallward seemed very little to him. he was thinking of hetty merton. for it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. vanity? curiosity? hypocrisy? had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? there had been something more. at least he thought so. but who could tell? ... no. there had been nothing more. through vanity he had spared her. in hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. for curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. he recognized that now. but this murder--was it to dog him all his life? was he always to be burdened by his past? was he really to confess? never. there was only one bit of evidence left against him. the picture itself--that was evidence. he would destroy it. why had he kept it so long? once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. of late he had felt no such pleasure. it had kept him awake at night. when he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. it had brought melancholy across his passions. its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. it had been like conscience to him. yes, it had been conscience. he would destroy it. he looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed basil hallward. he had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. it was bright, and glistened. as it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. it would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free. it would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. he seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. there was a cry heard, and a crash. the cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked up at the great house. they walked on till they met a policeman and brought him back. the man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark. after a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched. "whose house is that, constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "mr. dorian gray's, sir," answered the policeman. they looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. one of them was sir henry ashton's uncle. inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. old mrs. leaf was crying and wringing her hands. francis was as pale as death. after about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. they knocked, but there was no reply. they called out. everything was still. finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. the windows yielded easily--their bolts were old. when they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. he was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. it was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was. file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) department of the interior. united states geological survey of the territories. f. v. hayden, u. s. geologist. miscellaneous publications, no. . descriptive catalogue of photographs of north american indians. by w. h. jackson, photographer of the survey. washington: government printing office. . prefatory note. office of united states geological and geographical survey of the territories, _washington, d. c., november , ._ the collection of photographic portraits of north american indians described in the following "catalogue" is undoubtedly the largest and most valuable one extant. it has been made at great labor and expense, during a period of about twenty-five years, and now embraces over one thousand negatives, representing no less than twenty-five tribes. many of the individuals portrayed have meanwhile died; others, from various causes, are not now accessible; the opportunity of securing many of the subjects, such as scenes and incidents, has of course passed away. the collection being thus unique, and not to be reproduced at any expenditure of money, time, or labor, its value for ethnological purposes cannot easily be over-estimated. now that the tribal relations of these indians are fast being successively sundered by the process of removal to reservations, which so greatly modifies the habits and particularly the style of dress of the aborigines, the value of such a graphic record of the past increases year by year; and there will remain no more trustworthy evidence of what the indians have been than that afforded by these faithful sun-pictures, many of which represent the villages, dwellings, and modes of life of these most interesting people, and historical incidents of the respective tribes, as well as the faces, dresses, and accoutrements of many prominent individuals. those who have never attempted to secure photographs and measurements or other details of the physique of indians, in short, any reliable statistics of individuals or bands, can hardly realize the obstacles to be overcome. the american indian is extremely superstitious, and every attempt to take his picture is rendered difficult if not entirely frustrated by his deeply-rooted belief that the process places some portion of himself in the power of the white man, and his suspicion that such control may be used to his injury. no prescribed regulations for the taking of photographs, therefore, are likely to be fully carried out. as a rule, front and profile views have been secured whenever practicable. usually it is only when an indian is subjected to confinement that those measurements of his person which are suitable for anthropological purposes can be secured. in most cases the indian will not allow his person to be handled at all, nor submit to any inconvenience whatever. much tact and perseverance are required to overcome his superstitious notions, and in many cases, even of the most noted chiefs of several tribes, no portrait can be obtained by any inducement whatever. if, therefore, the collection fails to meet the full requirements of the anthropologist, it must be remembered that the obstacles in the way of realizing his ideal of a perfect collection are insurmountable. about two hundred of the portraits, or one-fifth of the whole collection, have been derived from various sources, and most of these are pictures of indians composing the several delegations that have visited washington from time to time during the past ten years. such individuals are usually among the most prominent and influential members of the respective tribes, of which they consequently furnish the best samples. the greater portion of the whole collection is derived from the munificent liberality of william blackmore, esq., of london, england, the eminent anthropologist who has for many years studied closely the history, habits, and manners of the north american indians. the blackmore portion of the collection consists of a number of smaller lots from various sources; and it is mr. blackmore's intention to enlarge it to include, if possible, all the tribes of the north american continent. the entire collection, at the present time consisting of upward of a thousand negatives, represents ten leading "families" of indians, besides seven independent tribes, the families being divisible into fifty-four "tribes," subdivision of which gives forty-three "bands." the collection continues to increase as opportunity offers. the present "catalogue" prepared by mr. w. h. jackson, the well-known and skilful photographer of the survey, is far more than a mere enumeration of the negatives. it gives in full, yet in concise and convenient form, the information which the survey has acquired respecting the subjects of the pictures, and is believed to represent an acceptable contribution to anthropological literature. f. v. hayden, _united states geologist_. preface. the following descriptive catalogue is intended to systematize the collection of photographic portraits of indians now in the possession of the united states geological survey of the territories, and to place on record all the information we have been able to obtain of the various individuals and scenes represented. it is of course far from complete; but it is a beginning, and every new fact that comes to light will be added to what has already been secured. this information has been gathered from many sources, principally from indian delegates visiting washington, and by correspondence with agents and others living in the indian country. particular attention has been paid to proving the authenticity of the portraits of the various individuals represented, and it is believed that few, if any, mistakes occur in that respect. the historical notices are mainly compilations from standard works on the subject. all of the following portraits and views are photographed direct from nature, and are in nearly every case from the original plates, the exceptions being good copies from original daguerreotypes or photographs that are not now accessible. the portraits made under the supervision of the survey are generally accompanied by measurements that are as nearly accurate as it has been possible to make them. the pictures vary in size from the ordinary small card to groups on plates by inches square. the majority, however, are on plates - / by - / inches square; these are usually trimmed to by - / inches, and mounted on cabinet cards. all the photographs are numbered upon their faces, and as these numbers do not occur in regular order in the text a numerical index is appended, by means of which the name of any picture, and the page on which the subject is treated, may be readily found. w. h. j. advertisement. miscellaneous publications no. , entitled "descriptive catalogue of the photographs of the united states geological survey of the territories for the years to , inclusive," published in , contains, on pages - , a "catalogue of photographs of indians, [etc.]" this, however, is a mere enumeration of the negatives then in the possession of the survey, and is now superseded by the present independent publication. catalogue of photographs of north american indians. list of families, tribes, and bands. i. algonkins. cheyennes. chippewas. _pembina._ _red lake._ _rabbit lake._ _mille lac._ _wisconsin._ delawares. menomonees. miamis. ottawas. pottawatomies. sacs and foxes. shawnees. pequods. _stockbridge._ _brotherton._ ii. athabascas. apaches. _coyotero._ _essa-queta._ _jicarilla._ _mohave._ _pinal._ _yuma._ _chiricahua._ navajos. iii. dakotas. crows. dakotas. _blackfeet._ _brulé._ _cut head._ _mdewakanton._ _ogalalla._ _oncpapa._ _sans arc._ _santee._ _sisseton._ _two kettle._ _wahpeton._ _yankton._ _upper yanktonais._ _lower yanktonais._ iowas. kaws or kansas. mandans. missourias. omahas. osages. otoes. poncas. winnebagoes. iv. pawnees. arickarees or rees. keechies. pawnees. _chowee._ _kit-ka-hoct._ _petahowerat._ _skeedee._ wacos. wichitas. v. shoshones. bannacks. comanches. kiowas. shoshones. utahs. _capote._ _muache._ _tabeguache._ _yampa._ _uinta._ vi. sahaptins. nez-percÉs. warm springs. wascos. vii. klamaths. klamaths. modocs. rogue river. viii. pimas. papagos. pimas. ix. iroquois. senecas. wyandots or hurons. x. muskogees. creeks. seminoles. chickasaws. choctaws. xi. independent tribes. arapahoes. caddos. cherokees. moquis. pueblos. tawacanies. tonkaways. history of families, tribes, and individuals. i. algonkins. early in the seventeenth century, the algonkins were the largest family of north american indians within the present limits of the united states, extending from newfoundland to the mississippi, and from the waters of the ohio to hudson's bay and lake winnipeg. northeast and northwest of them were the eskimos and the athabascas; the dakotas bounded them on the west, and the mobilian tribes, catawbas, natchez, &c., on the south. within this region also dwelt the iroquois and many detached tribes from other families. all the tribes of the algonkins were nomadic, shifting from place to place as the fishing and hunting upon which they depended required. there has been some difficulty in properly locating the tribe from which the family has taken its name, but it is generally believed they lived on the ottawa river, in canada, where they were nearly exterminated by their enemies, the iroquois. the only remnant of the tribe at this time is at the lake of the two mountains. of the large number of tribes forming this family, many are now extinct, others so reduced and merged into neighboring tribes as to be lost, while nearly all of the rest have been removed far from their original hunting-grounds. the lenni lenape, from the delaware, are now leading a civilized life far out on the great plains west of the missouri, and with them are the shawnees from the south and the once powerful pottawatamies, ottawas, and miamis from the ohio valley. of the many nations forming this great family, we have a very full representation in the following catalogue, about equally divided between the wild hunters and the civilized agriculturists. . cheyennes. "this nation has received a variety of names from travellers and the neighboring tribes, as shyennes, shiennes, cheyennes, chayennes, sharas, shawhays, sharshas, and by the different bands of dakotas, shaí-en-a or shai-é-la. with the blackfeet, they are the most western branch of the great algonkin family. when first known, they were living on the chayenne or cayenne river, a branch of the red river of the north, but were driven west of the mississippi by the sioux, and about the close of the last century still farther west across the missouri, where they were found by those enterprising travelers lewis and clark in . on their map attached to their report they locate them near the eastern face of the black hills, in the valley of the great sheyenne river, and state their number at , souls." their first treaty with the united states was made in , at the mouth of the teton river. they were then at peace with the dakotas, but warring against the pawnees and others. were then estimated, by drake, to number , . during the time of long's expedition to the rocky mountains, in and , a small portion of the cheyennes seem to have separated themselves from the rest of their nation on the missouri, and to have associated themselves with the arapahoes who wandered about the tributaries of the platte and arkansas, while those who remained affiliated with the ogalallas, these two divisions remaining separated until the present time. steps are now being taken, however, to bring them together on a new reservation in the indian territory. up to , they were generally friendly to the white settlers, when outbreaks occurred, and then for three or four years a costly and bloody war was carried on against them, a notable feature of which was the sand creek or chivington massacre, november , . "since that time there has been constant trouble. * * * in ' , general hancock burned the village of the dog soldiers, on pawnee fork, and another war began, in which general custer defeated them at washita, killing black kettle and others." the northern bands have been generally at peace with the whites, resisting many overtures to join their southern brethren. _list of illustrations._ , . hah-ket-home-mah. _little robe._ (front.) southern cheyenne. , . hah-ket-home-mah. _little robe._ (profile.) southern cheyenne. . hah-ket-home-mah. _little robe._ southern cheyenne. . min-nin-ne-wah. _whirlwind._ southern cheyenne. . whoak-poo-no-bats. _white shield._ southern cheyenne. . wo-po-ham. _white horse._ southern cheyenne. . bah-ta-che. _medicine man._ southern cheyenne. . pawnee. southern cheyenne. . ed. guerrier. _interpreter._ southern cheyenne. . lame white man. northern cheyenne. wild hog. northern cheyenne. . bald bear. northern cheyenne. cut foot. northern cheyenne. . dull knife. northern cheyenne. little wolf. northern cheyenne. . crazy head. northern cheyenne. spotted wolf. northern cheyenne. , . stone calf and wife. southern cheyenne. . whirlwind and pawnee. southern cheyenne. . little robe and white horse. southern cheyenne. . high toe. - . groups at agency. . chippewas. migrating from the east late in the sixteenth or early in the seventeenth century, the chippewas, or ojibwas, settled first about the falls of saint mary, from which point they pushed still farther westward, and eventually compelled the dakotas to relinquish their ancient hunting-grounds about the headwaters of the mississippi and of the red river of the north. were first known to the french, about , who called them _sauteux_, from the place of their residence about sault ste. marie, a name still applied to them by the canadian french. they were then living in scattered bands on the banks of lake superior and lake huron, and at war with the foxes, iroquois, and dakotas, becoming thereby much reduced in numbers. were firm allies of the french in all of their operations against the english, and took a prominent part in pontiac's uprising. during the revolutionary war they were hostile to the colonists, but made a treaty of peace with them at its close. they again sided with the english in the war of , but joined in a general pacification with a number of other tribes in . like other tribes, they gradually ceded their lands to the government, receiving in return annuities and goods, until in all but a few bands, retaining but moderate reservations, had removed west of the mississippi. "the chippewas, now numbering , , formerly ranged over michigan, wisconsin, and minnesota, and with common interests, and acknowledging more or less the leadership of one controlling mind, formed a homogeneous and powerful nation; a formidable foe to the sioux, with whom they waged incessant warfare, which was checked only by the removal of the minnesota sioux to dakota after the outbreak of ." the collecting of the chippewas upon thirteen reservations, scattered over the above-named states, under five different agencies, has so modified the _esprit du corps_ of the tribe that, though speaking the same language and holding the same traditions and customs, the bands located in different sections of the country have few interests and no property in common, and little influence or intercourse with each other. the agency has taken the place of the nation, and is in turn developing the individual man, who, owning house, stock, and farm, has learned to look solely to his own exertions for support. no tribe by unswerving loyalty deserves more of the government, or is making, under favorable conditions, more gratifying progress; , of the tribe live in houses, , are engaged in agriculture and other civilized occupations; and , wear citizen's dress. fifty-seven per cent. of their subsistence is obtained by their own labor, mainly in farming; for the rest, they depend on game and fish, especially the latter, of which they readily obtain large quantities. the chippewas are extensively intermarried with the ottawas, and are thrifty and worthy citizens of the united states, as are also those of saginaw, and of keewenaw bay in michigan. the bad river, red cliff, red lake, and mississippi bands are likewise making rapid progress in civilization. of those which have made but little or no progress are the leech lake, white earth, mille lac, and other scattered bands in remote and inaccessible regions of minnesota and wisconsin, the older chiefs resolutely opposing any attempt on the part of the younger men to begin a civilized life. _list of illustrations._ . es-en-ce. _little shell._ pembina. head chief of the pembinas, residing at turtle mountain, in dakota. his father and grandfather were chiefs of the same band before him. took an active part against the sioux in the minnesota massacres in . visited washington in , at the head of a delegation in behalf of their bands, to protest against being removed from their old homes about turtle mountain. . mis-to-ya-be. _little bull._ pembina. head brave of the pembinas, and resides at pembina. is a man of considerable influence, his word being law with his band. has good common sense and fine executive ability. was removed by the government to white earth reservation, but refuses to live there, and has gone back to his old home. has fought the sioux frequently, and has been quite successful in stealing horses from them. has two wives. does no farming. . ka-ees-pa. _something blown up by the wind._ pembina. a half-breed, but lives and dresses like an indian. his father was made a chief of the pembinas by the english and americans, and upon his death succeeded him. is a very successful hunter, and is looked upon as a representative man of the tribe. . ke-woe-sais-we-ro. _the man who knows how to hunt._ pembina. a half-breed and third brave of the band. always joined the chippewas in fighting the sioux--the pembinas fighting on horseback--and counts four scalps. is a trader. is thought very much of by his tribe, and has a reputation for moral worth and straightforward dealing. . large group of the proceeding four numbers. . shay-wi-zick. _sour spittle._ red lake. a brave of the red lake band of chippewas and younger brother of the head chief. his wife and children were killed by the sioux, and he fought them frequently in return, killing two. was a good speaker and farmed a good deal. died last winter, aged about . , . qui-wi-zhen-shish. _bad boy._ red lake. foremost brave of the red lake band. his father was chief, which office is now held by his older brother. was ranked as one of the bravest of the chippewas in their battles with the sioux, and took many scalps. was a fine speaker and a man of much influence. farmed very successfully and raised considerable corn, and was also a good hunter. had two wives. died in . . qui-wi-zens. _the boy._ red lake. a brave and a leading warrior in the battles of his tribe with the sioux. a good speaker, hunter, and farmer, although the farming is done almost entirely by his wife and children, as is the case with all these indians. is now dead. . auguste. pembina. a brave of the pembinas, formerly residing near the british line, but now removed, with his band, to the white earth reservation. has the reputation of being a miserable, worthless indian, unwilling to work, and adhering with great tenacity to the heathenish customs of his tribe. was baptized in his infancy by the roman catholics, but has renounced his christianity. has had his skull broken three times in quarrels with his own people, and has been twice wounded in fights with the sioux. . moozomo. _moose's dung._ red lake. a petty chief of the red lake band. died some years ago at a very old age. was a great hunter, and farmed considerably also. was much respected by the red lake bands, and especially so by the whites. . me-jaw-key-osh. _something in the air gradually falling to the earth._ red lake. a brave but recently made a chief of the red lake chippewas, and is ranked as the very bravest of all his tribe. had always been accustomed to fight the sioux, but after the massacre of -' re-organized and led a small party of from six to ten of his bravest men against them every summer for some time, killing with his own hand fifteen of their enemies and bringing home their scalps. was a crafty warrior and knew well how to slay his foe without losing his own life. he still lives, farming and hunting for a living, and is a man of great influence in his band. . essiniwub ogwissun. _the son of essiniwub._ red lake. a quiet, peaceable young man, never on the war-path, peace having been declared with the sioux before he came of age. . maiadjiaush. _something beginning to sail off._ red lake. a brave residing at red lake. his father was a chief and his younger brother the present head chief of the red lake band. ten years ago had the reputation of being a bad man, and has the same suspicion still hanging about him; is ill-natured, cross-grained, and always striking and quarrelling with his fellow-indians. . naboniqueaush. _a yellow-haired one sailing along._ red lake. . tibishko-biness. _like a bird._ red lake. a petty chief and brother of bad boy. has often fought the sioux as a leading brave. hunts for a living, while his family cultivates corn and potatoes. is a good speaker and much respected by the red lakes. , . po-go-nay-ge-shick. _hole in the day._ . ah-ah-shaw-we-ke-shick. _crossing sky._ rabbit lake. . nah-gun-a-gow-bow. _standing forward._ rabbit lake. . kish-ka-na-cut. _stump._ mille lac. . mis-ko-pe-nen-sha. _red bird._ lake winnipeg. . naw-yaw-nab. _the foremost sitter._ wisconsin. . now-we-ge-shick. _noon day._ . delawares. when first discovered by the whites, the delawares were living on the banks of the delaware, in detached bands under separate sachems, and called themselves renappi--a collective term for men--or, as it is now written, lenno lenape. in the dutch began trading with them, maintaining friendly relations most of the time, and buying so much of their land that they had to move inland for game and furs. penn and his followers, succeeding, kept up the trade and bought large tracts of land, but the indians claimed to have been defrauded and showed a reluctance to move. they then numbered about , . with the assistance of the indians of the six nations the authorities compelled the delawares to retire. at the beginning of the revolution there were none east of the alleghanies. by treaty in lands were reserved to them between the miami and cuyahoga, and on the muskingum. in the delawares ceded all their lands to the government and removed to white river, missouri, to the number of , , leaving a small number in ohio. another change followed eleven years after, when , settled by treaty on the kansas and missouri rivers, the rest going south to red river. during the late civil war they furnished soldiers out of an able-bodied male population of . in sold their land to the railroad which ran across it, and buying land of the cherokees, settled where the main body now resides, small bands being scattered about among the wichitas and kiowas. in , by a special treaty, they received and divided the funds held for their benefit, took lands in severalty, and ceased to be regarded as a tribe. they have given up their indian ways and live in comfortable houses. many of them are efficient farmers and good citizens. they are becoming so incorporated with other tribes that there has been no late enumeration made of them as a whole. during the late war they numbered , . _list of illustrations._ - . black beaver. is a full-blood delaware. has travelled very extensively through the mountains, serving at one time as a captain in the united states army. has a large farm under cultivation, and lives in a very comfortable manner, having good, substantial frontier buildings. he commenced life as a wild indian trapper, until, becoming familiar with almost all of the unexplored region of the west, and being a remarkably truthful and reliable man, he was much sought after as a guide, and accompanied several expeditions in that capacity. his life has been one of bold adventure, fraught with many interesting incidents, which, if properly written out, would form an interesting and entertaining volume.--_batty._ . great bear. . menomonees. were known to the french as early as , and were then living on the menomonee river, emptying into green bay, wisconsin. their name is that of the wild rice upon which they largely depend for their subsistence. this is one of the few tribes in the united states who have never been removed from their old home, and are still residing on the same spot where they were first known. served with the french against the foxes in , and against the english up to , participating in braddock's defeat, battles of fort william henry and the plains of abraham. were allies of the english during the revolution, and also in the second war with great britain. in commenced ceding their lands to the government for money payments, until they were finally located in in their present reservation in shawano county, wisconsin, consisting of , acres of very poor land. they are declining rapidly in numbers. in were estimated at , ; the present count makes them , . are now living in a civilized way, with a large proportion of their children attending school regularly. their main dependence is upon the lumber trade, cutting during the last winter over , , feet of logs, netting them $ per , . _list of illustrations._ . moses ladd. an intelligent and influential man in the tribe, a grandson of corrow and nephew of shu-na-ma-shu-na-ne, noted chiefs of the menomonees. in mr. ladd was sent as a delegate from his tribe to washington to settle various complications before the departments and congress. was born at green bay, wis., in . is of mixed blood. . miamies. in were found on green bay, wisconsin, and in near the head of fox river, and were then said to number , warriors, living in mat houses within a palisade. their early history is full of their many engagements with iroquois, sioux, and the french, in all of which they lost heavily. sided with the english in the revolutionary war, continuing hostile to the united states until . they then numbered , , but their wars had left them in a badly demoralized condition, leading to broils among themselves, in which nearly perished in eighteen years. in a portion, numbering , were removed from indiana to the south side of the kansas river. by the miamies remaining in indiana, then numbering , , sold the rest of their lands; and in of them removed to kansas, where in twenty-two years they were reduced to . in their lands were sold, when most of the tribe confederated with the peorias, a few remaining in kansas as citizens. are now very much scattered, with no agency of their own, and number, as near as can be ascertained, less than . the subjects of the following photographs are of mixed blood: _list of illustrations._ . lum-ki-kom. . thos. miller. . joe dick. - . roubideaux. . thos. richardwell. . roubideaux and richardwell. . ottawas. when first discovered by the early french explorers were residing on the northwest shore of the peninsula of michigan. after the defeat of the hurons in , they fled before the iroquois to beyond the mississippi, but were soon compelled to retrace their steps by the dakotas, and finally settled at mackinaw, where they joined the french in many of their operations and in their contest for canada. at its close, pontiac, head chief of the detroit ottawas, organized a great conspiracy for the destruction of the english, which was only partially successful. during the revolution were with the english. at its close a long series of treaties followed, until, in , those in michigan ceded their lands and removed south of the missouri river. in those in ohio sold their lands and removed to the indian territory and prospered, becoming citizens of the united states in . in made another move to a new reservation of , acres near the shawnees, where they are now living, reduced to . a large number of ottawas are now living on the shore of lake superior, so intermarried and confederated with the chippewas that there is no attempt at any distinction between them, the two combined numbering over , . in canada there are about , more, all self-supporting. _list of illustrations._ . sucker. . che-po-qua. _lightning._ english name, henry clay. full-blood ottawa. uneducated, but of considerable executive ability. is a councilman and an energetic, unselfish worker for the advancement of the tribe. was born in , and this photograph taken in . . partee. _john wilson._ chief of the tribe from to , dying before the expiration of his term of office, aged about years. was but little versed in english, but was well educated in his own language. was noted for amiability and hospitality, and made one of the very best of chiefs. . sha-pon-da. _passing through._ (james wind.) succeeded john wilson as chief for two years. is a half-blood. is well educated in native language, and an ordained minister in the baptist church. died in . . joseph king. successor of james wind as chief of the ottawas. is well educated in both native and english languages. age, years. . l. s. dagnet. born as a peoria, but was expelled from the tribe, and the ottawas adopted him as one of their own. . frank king. also an adopted member of the tribe, being originally a chippewa. has been a counsellor, and also judge of the council. . pottawatomies. early in were occupying the lower peninsula of michigan in scattered bands, whence they were finally driven westward by the iroquois, and settled about green bay. the french acquired much influence over them, whom they joined in their wars with the iroquois. joined pontiac in his uprising in . hostile to colonists during the revolution, but made a peace in , joining the english again, however, in . new treaties followed by which their lands were almost entirely conveyed away, until in a reserve was allotted them on the missouri, to which were removed. the whole tribe then numbered about , , some bands of which had made considerable progress in civilization, while a part, called the pottawatomies of the prairie, were roving and pagan. those in kansas made rapid progress in civilization. in , , out of , elected to become citizens and take their lands in severalty; the others held to their tribal organization, but disintegration set in and many became wanderers, some even going to mexico. it is difficult at the present time to estimate their whole number, owing to their scattered condition. there are only in the indian territory, under the care of the indian bureau, and in michigan . the others are citizens or roaming in mexico. of this once numerous and powerful nation we have but a single illustration, viz: _list of illustrations._ . mzhik-ki-an. _thunder coming down to the ground._ . sacs and foxes. the sacs, sauks, or saukies, as it has been variously written--a word meaning white clay--and the foxes, or outagamies, or more properly the musquakkink, (red clay), are now as one tribe. they were first discovered settled about green bay, wis., but their possessions extended westward, so that the larger part was beyond the mississippi. they partly subdued and admitted into their alliance the iowas, a dakota tribe. by they had ceded all their lands east of the mississippi, and settled on the des moines river, moving subsequently to the osage, and most of these finally to the indian territory. in the united bands numbered , , but are now reduced to a little more than , , of whom are still in iowa, in the indian territory, in nebraska, and about in kansas. the sacs and foxes of the mississippi in the indian territory have a reservation of , acres. unsuccessful attempts have been made lately to induce those in kansas to join them. those in iowa are living on a section of land purchased by themselves. the sacs and foxes of the missouri have , acres of land in nebraska, but it is proposed to remove them soon to the indian territory. _list of illustrations._ . keokuk. _watchful fox._ a chief of the kiscoquah band of sacs or sauks, and head chief of the combined sacs and foxes. "the entire absence of records by which the chronology of events might be ascertained, renders it impossible to trace, in the order of their date, the steps by which this remarkable man rose to the chief place of his nation, and acquired a commanding and permanent influence over his people. "keokuk is in all respects a magnificent savage. bold, enterprising, and impulsive, he is also politic, and possesses an intimate knowledge of human nature, and a tact which enables him to bring the resources of his mind into prompt operation. his talents as a military chief and civil ruler are evident from the discipline which exists among his people."--_mckinney._ , - , . keokuk, jr. son of the preceding, and succeeded him in the chieftainship. , . charles keokuk. grandson of keokuk, sr. . keokuk, jr., and charles keokuk. - . mo-less. - . sac-a-pe. . mo-less and sac-a-pe. . qua-qua-ouf-pe-ka, or _dead indian_. . the sea. . big bear. - . mo-ko-ho-ko. . mano-to-wa. . wah-com-mo. . ne-quaw-ho-ko. _grey eyes._ , , . wah-pah-nah-ka-na kah. _bear eating acorns up a tree_, or _geo. gomez_. a mexican by birth, and interpreter for the sacs and foxes since . was sold to the comanches when thirteen years of age, but ran away and joined the kickapoos. was captured again by the comanches while he was out with the kickapoos hunting, but was allowed to escape and rejoin his indian friends. drove government teams for a while between forts leavenworth and kearney. in joined the sacs and foxes, and participated in some of their battles on the plains. he has been married into the following tribes: caddoes, kickapoos, pawnees, seminoles, shawnees, pottawatomies, winnebagoes, iowas, and sacs and foxes of missouri; and speaks the languages of the creeks, caddo, comanche, pottawatomie, kick-a-poo, sac and fox, pawnee, iowa, and winnebago, besides english and spanish. . sac chief. . group of sac and fox chiefs. . group of fox chiefs. . commissioner bogy reading treaty. . commissioner and delegation of chiefs. - . groups of delegations. . shawnee. the shawnees or shawanoes are an erratic tribe of algonkin stock, supposed to have been one primarily with the kickapoos. were first discovered in wisconsin, but moved eastwardly, and, coming in contact with the iroquois south of lake erie, were driven to the banks of the cumberland. some passed thence into south carolina and florida, and, by the early part of the eighteenth century, had spread into pennsylvania and new york. at the close of the spanish and english war those in florida emigrated and joined the northern bands, and, again coming into contact with the iroquois, were driven westward into ohio. joined in pontiac's uprising in , and rallied under the english flag during the revolution. in the main body of the tribe were on the scioto, but some had already crossed the mississippi and others south. those in missouri ceded their lands to the government in , and those in ohio in , for new homes in the indian territory. in the main body in the indian territory disbanded their tribal organization and divided their lands in severalty. the _eastern shawnees_ are those who emigrated direct from ohio to the indian territory, where they now are. they number , and are successful agriculturists. the _absentee shawnees_ are those who, thirty-five years since, seceded from the main portion of the tribe in kansas and located in the northern part of the indian territory, where they have received no aid from government, but are now in a highly prosperous condition. they number at the present time. _list of illustrations._ . wa-wa-si-si-mo. . f. a. rogers. . charles tucker. . bertram. . pequod. of the five principal nations of new england in , the pequods or mohegans, the two being considered as one, were tribes of considerable influence and strength of numbers, claiming authority over all the indians of the connecticut valley. jonathan edwards states that the language of the stockbridge or muhhekanew (mohegan) was spoken throughout new england. nearly every tribe had a different dialect, but the language was radically the same. elliot's translation of the bible is in a particular dialect of this language. the stockbridges, so named from the place of their residence, was originally a part of the housatonic tribe of massachusetts, to whom the legislature of that state granted a section of land in . they were subsequently removed to new stockbridge and brotherton, in western new york, many other tribes of new england and also of new york joining them. they had good lands and fine farms, and were rapidly becoming worthy of citizenship, when, in , they were removed to a reservation near green bay, wisconsin, on which, their agent reported, no white man could obtain a comfortable livelihood by farming. they have been divided for some time into two bands, known as the "citizen" and "indian" factions, the former having lived off from the reservation for the past twelve years. in , of the "citizens" received their per capita share of the tribal property, and became private citizens of the united states. the tribe has members remaining. . na-un-naup-tauk. _jacob jacobs._ stockbridge. a delegate from the stockbridge indians to washington in , and again in . born in wisconsin in . belongs to the "citizen" band, and participated in the late division of the tribal property and separation from the tribe. . waun-naun-con. _j. c. w. adams._ stockbridge. born on the seneca reservation in new york in , and removed to wisconsin in . received a collegiate education at the lawrence university. in represented the stockbridges and munsees as a delegate in washington. . lyman p. fowler. brotherton. a member of the brotherton branch of the pequod nation. born in oneida county, new york, in , but emigrated with some of the stockbridges to wisconsin in . chosen as a delegate to washington on behalf of the stockbridges and munsees. ii. athabascas. a family of north american indians, comprising two large divisions, one living in the british possessions, between hudson's bay and the pacific, and the other along the southern boundary of the united states, in arizona, new mexico, and texas, with some smaller bands along the western coast, north of oregon. the name of the family is derived from lake athabasca, a cree word, meaning "cords of hay." they are supposed by many to be of tartar descent, and their language has been found to be somewhat analogous to that of thibet. their traditions point to an emigration from the west, over a series of islands, and amid much snow and ice. the southern branch includes the nomadic apaches, the industrious navajos, and a small remnant of lipans in texas, numbering, in all, over , . . apaches. one of the most numerous branches of athabascan stock are the _apaches_, a fierce, nomadic nation, roaming over the territories of new mexico and arizona, and sonora and chihuahua. always a scourge and a terror to settlers, they have held in check for many years the civilization of the country covered by their depredations. in gregg wrote of them: "they are the most extensive and powerful, and yet the most vagrant, of all the savage nations that inhabit the interior of northern mexico. they are supposed to number , souls, although they are subdivided into various petty bands and are scattered over an immense tract of country. they never construct houses, but live in the ordinary wigwam or tent of skins and blankets. they manufacture nothing, cultivate nothing. they seldom resort to the chase, as their country is destitute of game, but seem to depend entirely upon pillage for the support of their immense population, at least , of which are warriors." steadily resisting all attempts at conversion by the missionaries, they gathered about them many of the disaffected tribes and made frequent descents upon missions and towns, ravaging, destroying, and completely depopulating many of them. since the annexation of their territory to the united states they have caused much trouble, and an almost constant warfare has been kept up against them until quite recently. successful military campaigns broke up their predatory habits, and since then the efforts which have been made to gather them upon reservations, where they could be cared for until capable of self-sustenance, are proving entirely successful. at the present time more than half the whole nation are on the san carlos reservation in arizona, where they have nearly , square miles, or over , , acres, situated upon both sides of the rio gila, between the one hundred and ninth and one hundred and eleventh meridians, acres of which are now under cultivation by indian labor entirely, producing , bushels of potatoes, , bushels of corn, and large quantities of other vegetables. they draw their entire subsistence from the government, but only in return for labor performed, and under this law are doing much good in the way of making and repairing irrigating-ditches, clearing and fencing land, &c. are now occupying comfortable houses, built for them. "when it is considered that only , of these indians have been on the reservation two years, most of whom were participants in the outbreaks of last year ( ); that the , ponto, yuma, and mohave apaches from verde arrived in march last; and that the , coyoteros from white mountain agency arrived july last, after harvest, the above figures will be found a most striking exhibit of the results of the application of a firm control and common-sense treatment for one year." besides the san carlos reservation in arizona, there are two others in new mexico, upon which are gathered most of the rest of the apaches, with the exception of about in the indian territory. the mescalero reservation, midway between the rio grande and the pecos, contains some , acres, upon which are the mescaleros and some other smaller bands, to the number of about , . but little has been done in the way of civilizing them, and they depend almost entirely upon the government for their subsistence. the jicarilla reservation, intended for the sub-tribe of that name, is of about the same dimensions as that of the mescaleros, and lies between the san juan river and the northern boundary-line of new mexico. the jicarillas, who number about , , have not as yet been placed upon this reserve, but roam at will over the surrounding country, spending much of their time with the southern utes, with whom they have intermarried to a considerable extent. they draw a portion of their subsistence from the government and depend upon their own resources for the rest. the annual report of the commissioner of indian affairs for subdivides and enumerates the apaches as follows: apaches proper aribaipais coyoteros , chiricahuas essa-queta gila jicarilla mescalero , miembre mohave mogollon pinal tonto yuma miembre, mogollon, and coyoteros classed together ----- total , _list of illustrations._ . eskiminzin. pinal. height, feet inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches; age, years. head chief of san carlos reservation and of the pinal apaches. his family was among those slain at the camp grant massacre in . is now taking the lead in living a civilized life, having taken up a farm on the san carlos river. . eskiminzin and wife. pinal. . cassadora. _a hunter._ pinal. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. petty chief; was one of the most lawless and intractable of the tribe. took part in the assault on a wagon-train in the cañon dolores in . . cassadora and wife. pinal. . eskinilay. pinal. height, feet inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. a captain of the reservation police. . eskinilay and wife. pinal. . chiquito. pinal. height, feet / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. a petty chief. . chiquito and wife. pinal. . saygully. pinal. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches. . eskayelah. coyotero. height, feet inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. an hereditary head chief of the coyotero apaches. . skellegunney. coyotero. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. is looked upon as being a hard case, and has the reputation of being a great horse-stealer. . cullah. chiricahua. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . hautushnehay. pinal. height, feet inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. one of the reservation policemen appointed by the agent. . napashgingush. pinal. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . cushshashado. pinal. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. a clerk in the trader's store on the san carlos reservation; speaks english fluently. . pinal. coyotero. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches. a sub-chief. . passalah. pinal. height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. a reservation policeman. . marijildo grijalva. interpreter. a native of sonora, mexico. was captured when quite young by the coyotero apaches, and held by them in captivity until looked upon as one of the tribe. . eskel-ta-sala. (front.) coyotero. . eskel-ta-sala. (side.) coyotero. . santo. (front.) coyotero. . santo. (side.) coyotero. . ta-ho. _equestrian._ (front.) essa-queta. . ta-ho. _equestrian._ (side.) essa-queta. a sub-chief of his band. age, about years; height, feet, inches; circumference of head, inches; chest, inches. . gray eagle. (front.) essa-queta. . gray eagle. (side.) essa-queta. . capitan. (front.) essa-queta. . capitan. (side.) essa-queta. age, about years; height, feet inches; circumference of head, inches; chest, inches. . pacer. (front.) essa-queta. . pacer. (side.) essa-queta. was the acknowledged leader of the apaches in the indian territory, and at the same time friendly to the whites. he and his squaw are now both dead. . pacer's squaw. (front.) essa-queta. . pacer's squaw. (side.) essa-queta. . kle-zheh. jicarilla. . guachinito. _one who dresses in indian clothes._ jicarilla. , . guerito. _the man with yellow hair._ jicarilla. a young chief of the jicarilla apaches, and a son of old guero, their principal chief. this tribe is intermarried with the utes, and has always been on friendly terms with them. young guerito was sent to washington in , joining the ute delegation, for the purpose of effecting some treaty whereby these apaches might have set apart for them a piece of land of their own to cultivate, as now they roam on ute land and have no home they can call their own. he is a relative of ouray, the great chief of the utes, and through the latter's influence some such arrangement was effected. guerito is a quiet and peaceable young man, a representative of his tribe, who prefer farming, and shrink from all wars against either indians or white men. . son of guerito. jicarilla. , , , . young braves. jicarilla. . pah-yeh, or _hosea martin_. jicarilla. . son of vicenti. jicarilla. . pedro scradilicto. (front.) coyotero. . pedro scradilicto. (side.) coyotero. . es-cha-pa. _the one-eyed._ (front.) coyotero. . es-cha-pa. _the one-eyed._ (side.) coyotero. . josÉ pocati. (front.) yuma. . josÉ pocati. (side.) yuma. . charlie arriwawa. (front.) mohave. . charlie arriwawa. (side.) mohave. - . groups comprising all the above included within the nos. - . . navajos. a very numerous band of the apache nation inhabiting the mountains and plateaus of arizona and new mexico, between the san juan and little colorado rivers, ever since our first knowledge of them. the spaniards early recognized their relation to the apaches, although they differ totally from them in their industrious habits, being by far the most civilized of any tribe of athabascan descent. they have evidently been quick to take advantage of their contact with the semi-civilized pueblos and moquis, and from them have acquired many useful arts--chiefly in learning to spin and weave. their blankets, woven in looms, are of great excellence, and frequently bring from $ to $ . they cultivate the soil extensively, raising large quantities of corn, squashes, melons, &c. colonel baker, in , estimated their farms at , acres, evidently too large an estimate, as their agent's report for places the cultivated lands at only , acres. their principal wealth, however, is in horses, sheep, and goats, having acquired them at an early day and fostered their growth, so that they now count their horses by the thousand, and their sheep by hundreds of thousands. notwithstanding the excellence of their manufactures, their houses are rude affairs, called by the spaniards _jackals_, and by themselves _hogans_--small conical huts of poles, covered with branches, and in winter with earth. like the apaches, they have made incessant war on the mexicans, who have made many unsuccessful attempts to subjugate them. the expeditions against them on the part of the united states by doniphan in , wilkes in , newby in , and washington in , were practically failures. colonel sumner established fort defiance in , but was forced to retreat, and all other attempts to subdue them were defeated until the winter campaign in , when colonel carson compelled them to remove to the bosque redondo, on the pecos river, where , were held prisoners by the government for several years. in a treaty was made with them under which they were removed to fort wingate, and the following year back to their old home around fort defiance and the cañon de chelly, where a reservation of , square miles was assigned them. the latest count puts their number at , -- , of whom are said to come directly under the civilizing influences of the agency. schools are not well established yet, but few of their children attending, and then very irregularly. although they produce largely, yet they are dependent upon the government for two-thirds of their subsistence. they dress well, chiefly in materials of their own make, and covering the whole body. _list of illustrations._ . manulito. the great war-chief of the navajos. has been engaged in many combats, and his breast shows the scars of a number of wounds received in battle; was in command of the indians during their siege of fort defiance. . juanita. the favorite one of five wives of manulito, the chief. . manulito segundo. son of manulito and juanita. . cayatanita. a brother of manulito's, and captain of a band of warriors. . barbas huero. _light beard._ chief councillor of the tribe, and an earnest advocate of a settled peace policy. . cabra negra. a captain, and a sub-chief. . narbona primero. a sub-chief, noted as being a consistent total abstinence advocate, and who exerts himself to save his tribe from the curse of intemperance. . carnero mucho. a captain of a band. { granada mucho. a captain of a band. . { tiene-su-se. third war-chief. { mariana. second war-chief. . juanita and gov. arny. showing navajo blanket and weaving implements. . group of the preceding, members of a delegation to washington in . . barban cito. _little beard._ - . miscellaneous men and boys. iii. dakotas. a large family of north american indians, embracing the assinaboins or stone sioux, the dakotas proper, or, as they are called by the algonkins, nadowesioux, from which is derived the word sioux; omahas, otoes, osages, poncas, iowas, kansas, missourias, minatarees, and crows. until quite recently they occupied the larger portion of the country bounded on the east by the great lakes, on the north by the british possessions, on the west by the rocky mountains, and on the south by the platte river. according to their traditions they came eastward from the pacific, and encountered the algonkins about the headwaters of the mississippi, where the mass of them were held in check. one of the tribes of this great family, called by the chippewas winnebagook (men from the fetid or salt water), pushed through their enemies and secured a foothold on the shores of lake michigan. the quapaws, called by their algonkin foes the alkansas or arkansas, settled on the ohio, but were ultimately driven down the river by the illinois to the region now bearing their name. a few of the tribes retain very nearly their original hunting-grounds; the principal migrations of those who have moved having been southwestwardly, from the headwaters of the mississippi to the missouri. in the indians of this family residing within the limits of the united states numbered nearly , , with about , more within the british possessions. if the estimates of early explorers are to be relied upon, they must have lost heavily in population within the last one hundred years--intestine wars, the aggressions of the whites, and the vices of civilization reducing many once powerful tribes to demoralized remnants that are fast fading out of our knowledge by absorption into the ranks of more powerful neighbors. the majority of the tribes of this family are settled on reservations under the direct care and support of the government, and are fairly on the road to a civilized future. the exceptions are some of the wild bands of the sioux, the minatarees or gros ventres, and the crows. at the present writing most of the first-named are at war with the united states forces, while the two latter are friendly. . crows. the crows, or, as they call themselves, _absaroka_, meaning something or anything that flies, when first known occupied the lower yellowstone and the valleys of the big horn and tongue rivers, but roamed over much of the surrounding country, carrying their incursions even to the plains of snake river and to the valley of the green. were originally one with the minatarees or gros ventres, but separated from them, and were afterward driven from their territory by the ogalallas and cheyennes, settling finally about the head of the yellowstone, dispossessing in their turn the blackfeet and flatheads. are divided into three bands, with a dialect peculiar to each, viz: the kikatsa or crows proper, the ahnahaways, and the allakaweah, numbering in all, as estimated in , , souls. obtaining horses at an early day, they became great marauders. irving writes of them in "astoria:" "they are in fact notorious marauders and horse-stealers, crossing and recrossing the mountains (the big horn), robbing on one side and conveying their spoils to the other." hence, we are told, is derived their name, given them on account of their unsettled and predatory habits, winging their flight, like the crows, from one side of the mountains to the other, and making free booty of everything that lies in their way. in , joined in a treaty with the united states giving a right of way for roads to be built through their country. in a treaty was made, and an attempt made to place all the crows on one reservation, but without success until . they have been much exposed to incursions from some parties of sioux at their new agency on the rosebud as well as at their former one on the yellowstone. "the indians, full of war and revenge, have no thought to bestow upon farming or other peaceful employment, especially as the best farming lands of the reservation are most exposed to these hostile incursions. six families, however, have been induced to tend small farms, and have succeeded well. a mile and a half of ditch, sufficient to irrigate several hundred acres, has been dug, and it is hoped that another season will see at least a beginning made toward the civilization of these , wild but always loyal crows." _list of illustrations._ . kam-ne-but-se. _blackfoot and squaw._ . kam-ne-but-se. _blackfoot._ the principal chief of the mountain crows; a splendid specimen of manhood, standing feet inches in height and of very heavy frame; owes his position to his bravery and success in fighting the sioux, their inveterate enemies. he also ranks high as an orator and councillor in the nation. the first picture, in which he is represented in an elaborate dress of buckskin, was made while on a visit, with a delegation of his tribe, to washington, in ; the other represents him as he appears at his home on the yellowstone, or in his natural every-day garb. . che-ve-te-pu-ma-ta. _iron bull and squaw._ one of the principal chiefs of the mountain crows. . se-ta-pit-se. _bear wolf and squaw._ . perits-har-sts. _old crow and squaw._ { kam-ne-but-se. _blackfoot._ . { eche-has-ka. _long horse._ { te-shu-nzt. _white calf._ { mo-mukh-pi-tche. . { ella-causs-se. _thin belly._ { pish-ki-ha-di-ri-ky-ish. _the one that leads the old dog._ . group of crow delegation to washington in , including agent pease and the interpreters. . in-tee-us. _he shows his face._ . mit-choo-ash. _old onion._ . group of chiefs and headmen. . group of squaws. the last four pictures were made at the old agency of the crows, on the yellowstone, near shields river, in . the following were also made at the same place and time, and represent the old mission buildings (lately destroyed by fire), in which the agent had his headquarters; their tents and manner of living, and their mode of burial. . the mission, or agency buildings. . village scene, showing new adobe houses built for the indians. . inside view of a skin lodge. . mode of burial. . dakotas, or sioux. the word dakota means united, confederated, or many in one, and designates the tribe from which the family takes its name. they seldom or never willingly acknowledge the title _sioux_, first given them by the french, and now by all whites. there are many theories as to the origin of this latter name, the most acceptable of which is that it is a corruption of the word _nadouessioux_--a general chippewa designation for enemies--which was gradually applied by missionaries and traders, through an imperfect understanding of the language, to the tribes thus designated. governor ramsey, of minnesota, thought that the word "originated upon the upper missouri, among the early french traders, hunters, and trappers, they deriving it, in all probability, from the name of a sub-band of the ti-t'-wan (teton), dakotas, called _sioune_, who hunted over the plains of that river, and with whom, consequently, they came most frequently in contact. "in lewis and clark's travels in , they are called the _teton saone_, and their villages are located on the missouri, near cannonball river. "at least we find the term _sioux_ first used in the early maps to designate a large tribe, with various subdivisions, upon the upper missouri only." dakota traditions go back but a comparatively short time, and are vague and obscure in regard to their origin and early residence, which place it, however, in the northwest, above the great lakes. in their progress eastward they early possessed themselves of the country about the headwaters of the mississippi and the red river of the north, where they remained as late as , when they were in part dispossessed by the chippewas, who were eventually the cause of their removal to the missouri. up to , the dakotas were divided into two principal divisions, those east of the missouri, who were known as the minnesota or mississippi dakotas, composed of four bands, viz: the m'dewakantons, or those of the village of the spirit lake; the wa-pe-kutes, or leaf-shooters; the wahpetons, or village in the leaves; and the sissetons, or those of the village of the marsh. most of these have been long in contact with the whites, and, having disposed of the greater portion of their lands to the government, have abandoned most of their old habits, and devote themselves to farming. others of them, however, are restless and devoted to old prejudices, and cause much trouble to the settlers. the massacre of the whites in was inaugurated by the m'dewakantons, the wahpetons and sissetons afterwards joining them. along the missouri, but living mostly on its eastern side, were the shauktonwans (yanktons), or the people of village at the end, inhabiting originally the sioux, desmoines, and jacques rivers, and living now principally about the mouth of the vermillion. the yanktonais, a diminutive of the preceding name, and meaning the lesser or the little people of the end village. lewis and clark described them as the yanktons of the plains, or big devils, who were on the heads of the sioux, jacques, and red rivers. their present range is on the missouri, above the yanktons. from one branch of this band the assiniboines are said to have sprung. pabóksa, or cutheads, a branch of the yanktons, and ranging above them. the i-san-teis, or santees, another sub-band of the yanktons, living originally in minnesota and iowa, but since lately on the missouri, near the yanktons. west of the missouri, occupying the greater portion of dakota, wyoming, and portions of montana and nebraska, the general name of tetons, or tetonwans ("village of the prairie") has been given to the seven principal bands of the dakotas inhabiting that region. lewis and clark placed them on their map in only two principal divisions, viz: as the "tetans of the burnt woods" (brulés), and the "tetans saone," from which some suppose the word sioux has been derived for the whole dakota nation. the seven subdivisions as now recognized are the-- . _siha-sa-pas_ or _blackfeet_, on the missouri in the neighborhood of the cannonball river. . the _si-chan-koo_ or _burnt thighs_, (brulés,) ranging on the niobrara and white rivers, from the platte to the cheyenne. . _oncpapas_, or "those who camp by themselves," who roam over the country between the cheyenne and yellowstone rivers. . _minnekonjous_, "those who plant by the water," south of the black hills. . _itá-zip-cho_, or _sans arcs_, "without bows," affiliating with the oncpapas and blackfeet, and ranging over much the same country. . _ogalallas_, occupy the country between fort laramie and the platte, although they are now confined to a reservation in the northwestern corner of nebraska. have the reputation of being the most friendly disposed toward the whites of all the titonwans. red cloud, so well known as an indian diplomat, is chief of this band. . _o-he-nom-pas_, or _two kettles_. live principally about fort pierre; against whom it is said very few complaints have ever been made, they having always observed faithfully the stipulations of their treaties with the united states. in the report of the commissioner of indian affairs for , there are twenty-one sub-bands of dakotas enumerated, numbering, in the aggregate, , . of these, there are fourteen represented by portraits of their leading men, viz: blackfeet, numbering at the present time about , brulés, numbering at the present time about , cut heads, numbering at the present time about mdewakanton, numbering at the present time about ----- ogalallas, numbering at the present time about , oncpapas , sans arc , santee sisseton santee and sisseton at fort peck , two kettles , wahpeton , yanktons , yanktonais, upper and lower , "the sioux are included under twelve agencies, nine in dakota, two in montana, and one in nebraska, at all of which, except at fort belknap, a beginning in indian farming has been made in spite of all discouragements by reason of unsuitable location and the demoralizing influence of 'the hostiles.'" the ogalallas at red cloud agency, who have almost entirely abandoned the chase on account of scarcity of game, depend almost entirely upon the government for their support. their small beginnings in cultivating the soil came to naught through the grasshoppers. the brulés at spotted tail agency have a thriving school with pupils, and cultivated some lands. at the upper missouri agencies but little has been done beyond feeding the indians who report to them for that purpose, their attempts at farming resulting in failures on account of the grasshopper pest. the yanktons, santees, sissetons, wahpetons, and other sioux on the lower missouri and in eastern dakota have made more substantial progress in civilization, many of them having permanently discarded their indian habits and dress, and live in houses, and are nearly self-supporting. the santees in nebraska especially have entirely renounced their old form of life; have churches and sabbath-schools, which are regularly attended. they have a monthly paper, printed in their native language, with an edition of , copies. _list of illustrations._ . pe-ji'. _grass._ (front.) blackfeet. . pe-ji'. _grass._ (profile.) blackfeet. . pe-ji'. _grass._ (full-length.) blackfeet. . kan-gi'-i-yo'-tan-ka. _sitting crow._ (front.) blackfeet. . kan-gi'-i-yo'-tan-ka. _sitting crow._ (profile.) blackfeet. . ma'-ya-wa-na-pe-ya. _iron scare._ (front.) blackfeet. . ma'-ya-wa-na-pe-ya. _iron scare._ (profile.) blackfeet. . wi'-ya-ka-sha. _red plume._ (copy.) blackfeet. . ma-ga'-sha-pa. _goose._ (copy.) blackfeet. with the exception of the last two numbers the above represent a portion of a delegation of prominent sioux chiefs and warriors who visited washington in . the portraits were made in washington, and represent them in their best attire. . cin-te-gi-le-ska. _spotted tail._ (front.) brulÉ. . cin-te-gi-le-ska. _spotted tail._ (profile.) brulÉ. spotted tail has long been the chief of the brulé sioux, and since his conversion from an intense hostility to an unswerving friendship for the white people has by them been looked upon and considered as the great chief of all the sioux. the honors of this position are equally divided between red cloud and spotted tail; each is chief of his band only, the indians themselves not recognizing any one man as chief of the whole nation; but their great executive abilities, oratorical powers, and popularity with both whites and indians, have been the means of putting them forward as the champions of their people. in his younger days spotted tail was a daring and audacious chief, murdering and massacreing wherever he went. in , he and his band attacked a coach, murdered all the passengers, and perpetrated horrible enormities on the dead. he was eventually captured, and imprisoned for about six mouths in the guardhouse at fort leavenworth, during which time his feelings underwent a great change. instead of a determined foe of the pale-faces, he became their earnest friend and coadjutor in the work of pacification. it has been well said of him that "he is worth more to the government than a dozen major-generals, with their armies to back them." the following extract from a speech by spotted tail, before a board of indian commissioners at fort laramie in , will be read with interest as showing his ability as an orator: "my father and friends, your great father has sent you here to learn what was going on. you have come. your great father has sent you to listen. will you listen well, or only listen to half that is good and to half that is bad, and not take the whole to our great father? he has sent you here to hear and talk. we know you have not come with presents, but you may have a little money in your pockets that you could give them. they are poor and need help. these men here, and the old men, women, and children, have not had much to eat since they have been here, and if you could give them something it would make my heart glad. yesterday my friends hit me a good deal; but it does not matter. i have spoken." spotted tail is of a large, commanding figure, and his face generally wears a pleasant, smiling expression. it is a difficult matter to arrive at the exact age of any indian, and in this case it is uncertain, but is probably about years. he has been to washington four times, each time as a delegate representing the sioux nation. . spotted tail and squaw. brulÉ. . squaw of spotted tail. (front.) brulÉ. . squaw of spotted tail. (profile.) brulÉ. . i-api-otah. _gassy._ (front.) brulÉ. . i-api-otah. _gassy._ (profile.) brulÉ. . i-te'-san-yan. _whitewash his face._ (front.) brulÉ. . i-te'-san-yan. _whitewash his face._ (profile.) brulÉ. . che-tan'-ta'-kpi'. _charge on the hawk._ (front.) brulÉ. . che-tan'-ta'-kpi'. _charge on the hawk._ (profile.) brulÉ. . nom-pa-ap'a. _two strikes._ (front.) brulÉ. . nom-pa-ap'a. _two strikes._ (profile.) brulÉ. . squaw of two strikes. (front.) brulÉ. . squaw of two strikes. (profile.) brulÉ. . kan-gi'-sha'-pa. _black crow._ (front.) brulÉ. . kan gi'-sha'-pa. _black crow._ (profile.) brulÉ. . he-gma-wa-ku-wa. _one who runs the tiger._ (front.) brulÉ. . he-gma-wa-ku-wa. _one who runs the tiger._ (profile.) brulÉ. . wanmble'-shda. _bald eagle._ (front.) brulÉ. . wanmble'-shda. _bald eagle._ (profile.) brulÉ. . che-cha'-lu. _thigh._ (front.) brulÉ. . che-cha'-lu. _thigh._ (profile.) brulÉ. . squaw of thigh. (front.) brulÉ. . squaw of thigh. (profile.) brulÉ. . ta-tan'-ka-sha'-pa. _black bull._ (front.) brulÉ. . ta-tan'-ka-sha'-pa. _black bull._ (profile.) brulÉ. . cho-ni'-cha-wa-ni'-cha. _no flesh._ (front.) brulÉ. . cho-ni'-cha-wa-ni'-cha. _no flesh._ (profile.) brulÉ. . ma'-za-pon-kis'-ka. _iron shell._ (front.) brulÉ. . ma'-za-pon-kis'-ka. _iron shell._ (profile.) brulÉ. . ma'-za-pon-kis'-ka. _iron shell._ (full length.) brulÉ. . ma-to'-shi'-cha. _wicked bear._ (front.) brulÉ. . ma-to'-shi'-cha. _wicked bear._ (profile.) brulÉ. . pa'-hui-zi-zi. _yellow hairs._ (front.) brulÉ. . pa'-hui-zi-zi. _yellow hairs._ (profile.) brulÉ. . i-shta'-ska. _white eyes._ (front.) brulÉ. . i-shta'-ska. _white eyes._ (profile.) brulÉ. . ma-to'-dusa. _swift bear._ (front.) brulÉ. . ma-to'-dusa. _swift bear._ (profile.) brulÉ. . wa-kin'-yan-ska. _white thunder._ (front.) brulÉ. . wa-kin'-yan-ska. _white thunder._ (profile.) brulÉ. . ma'-zu-o-ya'-te. _iron nation._ (front.) brulÉ. . ma'-zu-o-ya'-te. _iron nation._ (profile.) brulÉ. . ma'-zu-o-ya'-te. _iron nation._ (full length.) brulÉ. all of the above, under the famous chief spotted tail, were members of a delegation who visited washington in , and were photographed while there. . ma-to'-wa-kan'. _medicine bear._ (front.) cut head. . ma-to'-wa-kan'. _medicine bear._ (profile.) cut head. . ma-to'-ko-ki'-pa. _afraid of the bear._ (front.) cut head. . ma-to'-ko-ki'-pa. _afraid of the bear._ (profile.) cut head. . ma-to'-po'-zhe. _bear's nose._ (front.) cut head. . ma-to'-po'-zhe. _bear's nose._ (profile.) cut head. . chan-te'-ha. _skin of the heart._ (front.) cut head. . chan-te'-ha. _skin of the heart._ (profile.) cut head. . pi'-pi-sha. _red lodge._ (front.) cut head. . pi'-pi-sha. _red lodge._ (profile.) cut head. . wi-cha-wanmble'. _man who packs the eagle._ (front.) cut head. . wi-cha-wanmble'. _man who packs the eagle._ (profile.) cut head. . squaw of the man who packs the eagle. (front.) cut head. . squaw of the man who packs the eagle. (profile.) cut head. - . che-tan'-wa-ku-te-a-ma'-ni. _the hawk that hunts walking._ mdewakanton. generally known as _little crow_. leader of the hostile bands in the sioux massacre of the whites in minnesota in . he had not only visited washington, and was supposed to be friendly to the whites, but had promised to have his hair cut and become civilized; and at the time of the massacre the government was engaged in building him a house. upon the defeat of the indians, little crow escaped into the british territory, where he was killed the following year. . medicine bottle. son of _little crow._ mdewakanton. . sha-kpe. _six._ mdewakanton. the massacre spoken of in connection with no. was inaugurated by _sha-kpe_ and his band; some of his young men killed some white men while intoxicated, and then, through fear of retaliation, resolved upon an uprising and the extermination of all the whites at the agency. sha-kpe's band was re-enforced by the principal warriors from the mdewakanton and wahpeton bands, little crow taking the leadership. before they were subdued, men, women, and children were massacred, and soldiers killed in battle. . ma-hpi'-ya-lu'-ta. _red cloud._ (front.) ogalalla. . ma-hpi'-ya-lu'-ta. _red cloud._ (profile.) ogalalla. red cloud, who with spotted tail stands pre-eminently forward as the exponents of the peace-policy, is the great chief of the ogalalla sioux, and generally recognized by the military and civil authorities as the head chief of all the sioux. before he buried the tomahawk, red cloud was undoubtedly the most celebrated warrior of all the indians now living on the american continent. he had over , people in his camps, and could put in the field , warriors. when he marched against the settlements he always went in force. he takes his name from the number of his warriors, and their red blankets and paints; it was said that his soldiers covered the hills like a red cloud. he is now about years of age, six feet in height, and straight as an arrow; his face, which is of a dark red, is indicative of indomitable courage and firmness, and his full, piercing eyes seem to take in at a glance the character of friend or foe. red cloud has probably participated in more conventions, treaties, and large assemblies of his own and the white people, in which the greatest interests were involved, than any other living indian. "a man of brains, a good ruler, an eloquent speaker, an able general, and a fair diplomat, the friendship of red cloud is of more importance than that of all the other chiefs combined." while spotted tail has a lively vein of humor in his character, and loves to indulge in a little joke, red cloud is all dignity and seriousness. the following, clipped from the report of the proceedings of the board of indian commissioners at fort laramie, in , is indicative of his earnest and impressive manner: "red cloud then arose, and walking toward the outside group, raised his hands toward the skies, and then touched the ground. then all the indians rose to their feet, as with uplifted hands red cloud uttered the following prayer: "the prayer of red cloud. "'o great spirit, i pray you to look at us. we are your children, and you placed us first in this land. we pray you to look down on us, so nothing but the truth will be spoken in this council. we don't ask for anything but what is right and just. when you made your red children, o great spirit, you made them to have mercy upon them. now, we are before you to-day, praying you to look down on us, and take pity on your poor red children. we pray you to have nothing but the truth spoken here. we hope these things will be settled up right. you are the protector of the people who use the bow and arrow, as well as of the people who wear hats and garments, and i hope we don't pray in vain. we are poor and ignorant. our forefathers told us we would not be in misery if we asked you for assistance. o great spirit, look down on your children and take pity on them.'" . red cloud and mr. blackmore. ogalalla. . shun'-ka-lu'-ta. _red dog._ (front.) ogalalla. . shun'-ka-lu'-ta. _red dog._ (profile.) ogalalla. . shun-to'-ke-cha-ish-na-na. _lone wolf._ (front.) ogalalla. . shun-to'-ke-cha-ish-na-na. _lone wolf._ (profile.) ogalalla. . wa-hu'-wa-pa. _ear of corn._ (squaw of lone wolf. front.) ogalalla. . wa-hu'-wa-pa. _ear of corn._ (squaw of lone wolf. profile.) ogalalla. . si-ha'-tan'-ka. _big foot._ (front.) ogalalla. . si-ha'-tan'-ka. _big foot._ (profile.) ogalalla. . che'-tan-ska. _white hawk._ (front.) ogalalla. . che'-tan-ska. _white hawk._ (profile.) ogalalla. . wanmb'le-ko-ki'-pa. _afraid of the eagle._ (front.) ogalalla. . wanmb'le-ko-ki'-pa. _afraid of the eagle._ (profile.) ogalalla. . shun'-ka-wa-kan-to. _blue horse._ (front.) ogalalla. . shun'-ka-wa-kan-to. _blue horse._ (profile.) ogalalla. . wa-cha-pa. _stabber._ (front.) ogalalla. . wa-cha-pa. _stabber._ (profile.) ogalalla. . i-te'-sha'-pa. _dirty face._ (front.) ogalalla. . i-te'-sha'-pa. _dirty face._ (profile.) ogalalla. . ta-tan'-ka-was-te'. _good buffalo._ (front.) ogalalla. . ta-tan'-ka-was-te'. _good buffalo._ (profile.) ogalalla. . he-ha'-ka-ta'-ma-ka. _poor elk._ (front.) ogalalla. . he-ha'-ka-ta'-ma-ka. _poor elk._ (profile.) ogalalla. . he-ha'-ka-no'm-pa. _two elks._ (front.) ogalalla. . he-ha'-ka-no'm-pa. _two elks._ (profile.) ogalalla. . shun-to'-ke-cha-ish-han-ska. _high wolf._ (front.) ogalalla. . shun-to'-ke-cha-ish-han-ska. _high wolf._ (profile.) ogalalla. . shun'-ka-a-ma'-na. _coyote._ (front.) ogalalla. . shun'-ka-a-ma'-na. _coyote._ (profile.) ogalalla. . chau-te'-su-ta'. _hard heart._ (front.) ogalalla. . chau-te'-su-ta'. _hard heart._ (profile.) ogalalla. . ta-tan'-ka-hun'-ke-sni. _slow bull._ (front.) ogalalla. . ta-tan'-ka-hun'-ke-sni. _slow bull._ (profile.) ogalalla. . he-ha'-ka-he-wan'-zhi. _one horned elk._ (copy.) ogalalla. . chu-tu'-hu-tan'-ka. _big rib._ (copy.) ogalalla. . wanmble'-ki-chi-zu-pi. _war eagle._ (copy.) ogalalla. . ta-shun'-ka-ko-ki-pa. _old man afraid of his horses and his chiefs._ ogalalla. . cha-sa-tonga. _little big man._ ogalalla. . ta-shun'-ka-ko-ki'-pa. _young man afraid of his horses._ ogalalla. . washi-ta-tonga. _american horse._ ogalalla. . ta-oop-che-ka. _little wound._ ogalalla. . shunka-la-lo-ka. _he dog._ ogalalla. . mato'-zi. _yellow bear._ ogalalla. . mato'-yu-mni. _three bears._ ogalalla. . ma-wa-ka-yu-na. _sword._ ogalalla. . wm. garnet, interpreter. . group of the preceding eight numbers. . ma-to'-chu-tu'-hu. _bear's rib._ (front.) oncpapa. . ma-to'-chu-tu'-hu. _bear's rib._ (profile.) oncpapa. . ta-to'-ka-in'-yan-ka. _running antelope._ (front.) oncpapa. . ta-to'-ka-in'-yan-ka. _running antelope._ (profile.) oncpapa. . he-ma'-za. _iron horn._ (front.) oncpapa. . he-ma'-za. _iron horn._ (profile.) oncpapa. . wa-ku'-ta-a-ma'-ni. _walking shooter._ (front.) oncpapa. . wa-ku'-ta-a-ma'-ni. _walking shooter._ (profile.) oncpapa. . wa-kin'-yan-chi'-tan. _thunder hawk._ (front.) oncpapa. . wa-kin'-yan-chi'-tan. _thunder hawk._ (profile.) oncpapa. . wi-cha'-i-we. _bloody mouth._ (front.) oncpapa. . wi-cha'-i-we. _bloody mouth._ (profile.) oncpapa. . wa-kan-ta-i-shni. _lost medicine._ (front.) oncpapa. . wa-kan-ta-i-shni. _lost medicine._ (profile.) oncpapa. . he-sha'-pa. _black horn._ (front.) oncpapa. . he-sha'-pa. _black horn._ (profile.) oncpapa. . p'sa. _bull rushes._ (front.) oncpapa. . p'sa. _bull rushes._ (profile.) oncpapa. - . che-tan-zhi. _yellow hawk._ sans arc. - . wa-ku'-ta. _the shooter._ santee. , . wa'-pa-ha-sha. _red ensign._ santee. . wa-kan'-hdi-sha'-pa. _black lightning._ santee. . o'-wan-cha-du'-ta. _scarlet all over._ santee. . cho'-tan-ka-shka'-ta. _flute-player._ santee. . a-ki'-chi-ta-na-zin. _standing soldier._ santee. . wan-m'di-ta-pa'-a-ma'-ni. _walks following the eagle._ santee. . ta'-shun-ka-wa-kan'-wi-cha. _his man horse._ santee. . ma-hp'i-ya-i-hua-n. _coming among the clouds._ santee. . zi-tka'-da-to. _bluebird._ santee. . ma-hpi'-ya-na'-zin. _standing cloud._ santee. . han-ya'-ta-du'-tu. _scarlet night._ santee. . hu-sha-sha. _red legs._ santee. . pe-hui-uza-tan-ka. _great scalper._ santee. . ta-tan'ka-na'-zin. _standing buffalo._ santee. . wa-kan'-da. _medicine._ santee. . young brave. santee. . old betts. (squaw.) santee. . seraphine renville. (interpreter.) santee. - . groups with rev. mr. hinman. santee. . he-pte'-che'-chi-ka-la. _little short horn._ sisseton. - . ma-wa'-tan'-na-han'-ska. _long mandan._ two kettle. . suk-tan'-ka-ge-le-ska. _spotted horse._ two kettle. . au-pe'-to'-ke-cha. _other day._ wahpeton. - . pa-da'-ni-a-pa'-a-pa'. _struck by the ree._ yankton. , . psi-cha-wa-kin-yan. _jumping thunder._ yankton. , - . si-ha'-han'-ska. _long foot._ yankton. - . pte-wa-kan'. _medicine cow._ yankton. . ma-ga'-ska. _white swan._ yankton. - . wa-hu'-ke-zi-nom'-pa. _two lance._ yankton. . light foot. yankton. . wi'-ya-ka-no-ge. _feather in the ear._ yankton. - . zin-tka'-chi-stin. _little bird._ yankton. - . wan-m'di-sha'-pa. _black eagle._ yankton. . ma-to'-i-wan-ka'. _bear lying down._ yankton. . ta-tan-ka-in'-yan-ka. _running bull._ yankton. . he-ha'-ka-a-ma'-na. _walking elk._ yankton. . he-ha'-ka-a-na'-zin. _standing elk._ yankton. . ma-to'-sa-bi-cha. _smutty bear._ yankton. - . smutty bear and struck by the ree. yankton. . zin-tka-sha'-pa-ma'za. _iron black bird._ yankton. . chon-nom'-pa-kin-yan. _flying pipe._ yankton. . wa-kin-yan-chin-stin. _little thunder._ yankton. . ta-tan'-ka-wa-kan'. _sacred bull._ yankton. . zin-tka'-kin-yan. _flying bird._ yankton. . to-ki'-ya-kte. _he kills first._ yankton. . na-gi'-wa-kan'. _sacred ghost._ yankton. - . ma-to'-ho-tan'-ka. _bear with big voice._ yankton. . in'-yan-was-te'. _pretty rock._ yankton. . to'-ka-ya-yu'-za. _one who catches the enemy._ yankton. . ku-wa's-chin-a-nia-ni. _one who walks home._ yankton. . ma-to'-i-wan-ka'-a-ma'-ni. _bear that walks lying down._ yankton. - . ma-to'-wa-yu-mni. _the bear that turns around._ yankton. . ta-tan'-ka-wa'-kan. _medicine bull._ yankton. . ta-tan'-ka-wa-na'-gi. _bull's ghost._ (front.) lower yanktonais. . ta-tan'-ka-wa-na'-gi. _bull's ghost._ (profile.) lower yanktonais. . ma-to'-wi-tko-tko. _foolish bear._ (front.) lower yanktonais. . ma-to'-wi-tko-tko. _foolish bear._ (profile.) lower yanktonais. . ma-to'-nom'-pa. _two bears._ (front.) lower yanktonais. . ma-to'-nom'-pa. _two bears._ (profile.) lower yanktonais. . na-zu-la-tan'-ka. _big head._ (front.) upper yanktonais. . na-zu-la-tan'-ka. _big head._ (profile.) upper yanktonais. . i'-sta-sha'-pa. _black eye._ (front.) upper yanktonais. . i'-sta-sha'-pa. _black eye._ (profile.) upper yanktonais. . i-cha'-san-tan'-ka. _big razor._ (front.) upper yanktonais. . i-cha'-san-tan'-ka. _big razor._ (profile.) upper yanktonais. . wa-kan'-du'-ta. _red thunder._ (front.) . wa-kan'-du'-ta. _red thunder._ (profile.) . hav-ka-wash-ti. _good hawk._ (front.) . hav-ka-wash-ti. _good hawk._ (profile.) . pe-han'-sa-a-ma'ni. _walking crane._ (front.) . pe-han'-sa-a-ma'ni. _walking crane._ (profile.) . wanmdi-zi. _yellow eagle._ (front.) . wanmdi-zi. _yellow eagle._ (profile.) . hatona. _many horns._ (front.) . hatona. _many horns._ (profile.) . i-ste-sa'-pa. _black eye._ (front.) . i-ste-sa'-pa. _black eye._ (profile.) . ta-tan-ka-han-ska. _long fox._ (front.) . ta-tan-ka-han-ska. _long fox._ (profile.) . ta-tan'-ka-wa-kan'. _medicine bull._ . ma-za'-o-zan-zan. . he-ha'-ka-ma-zu'. _iron elk._ . wanmdi-yan'-ka. _great eagle._ . hin-kan-du'-ta. _red owl._ . cut nose. . ma-zu'-ku'-ta. _iron shooter._ . tall feather joining. . wa-kan'-o-zan-zan. _medicine bottle._ . o-ta-dan. _plenty._ . chief with the big war bonnet. . war dance. . general sherman and commissioners at fort laramie. . commissioners in council, fort laramie. . old man afraid of his horses, and group. - . miscellaneous groups about fort laramie. . sioux burial. - . groups about fort laramie. . indian delegation at the white house. - . st. mary's mission, kansas. . the sergeant of the guard. . iowas. a tribe of indians of dakota stock, inhabiting originally the interior of the state of the same name. marquette in placed them on his map as the pa-houtet. some of the neighboring algonkins called them iowas--a name originally applied to a river, and said to mean "the beautiful land"--and others mascoutin or prairie nadouessi. in their own tongue their name is pahucha, meaning "dusty nose." they were famous as great pedestrians, being able to walk twenty-five or thirty leagues a day, and the names of many of their chiefs show that they prided themselves on their walking. in they were on the mankato, and constantly roaming with the western algonkins. early in the present century they numbered about , , and were involved in wars with the osages, omahas, and the sioux, losing heavily. later they became much decimated through the ravages of the small-pox and other diseases. first treaty was made with them in . in the tribe, numbering , were removed to the west bank of the missouri, and from this time rapidly declined in numbers, many of them becoming vagrants in other tribes, and others killed themselves by intemperance. by had decreased to . in the tribe, now reduced to , ceded all their lands except , acres, which they subsequently, in , shared with some of the sacs and foxes, their old friends. since the tribe has been placed under the charge of the society of friends they have improved somewhat, so that at the present time ( ), although reduced to souls, they are all living in good houses on their fertile reservation in southern nebraska, and are raising much more than is needed for their own consumption. they have good schools, at which nearly one-fourth of the tribe attend, and nearly one-half of the whole number can read. they stand in the front rank of civilized indian tribes. _list of illustrations._ - . nag a-rash. _british._ became first chief of the iowas in , upon the death of nan-chee-ning-a. has always taken a prominent place in favor of civilization and the advancement of his tribe by education and work. has made four visits to washington and two to new york, the first being in , when he travelled from saint joseph, mo., to baltimore in a wagon. took part once in a great battle between the otoes, pawnees, kickapoos, pottawatomies, and sacs and foxes on one side, and the snakes, crows, cheyennes, arapahoes, comanches, and kiowas on the other, lasting from early dawn until dark. british shot balls; of the enemy were left on the field. age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, - / ; weight, . - . mah-hee. _knife._ third chief of the iowas. when young, lived in missouri, but afterward removed to kansas. enjoyed the confidence of the whites to a marked degree, and was mail-carrier for some time between the frontier posts and the agency. was among the first to take the lead in settling down to an agricultural life. has always been a hard-working man, but at one time was dissipated, and once, when under the influence of liquor, killed his father. is a strictly temperate man now, but his rapidly-failing health will soon unfit him for his usual labor, and his example in the tribe as an industrious man will soon be lost. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, - / ; weight, . , . tah-ra-kee. _deer ham._ was fourth chief of the tribe until october, , when he was deposed for persistent interference with the business of the agency. he had been suspended before, but was re-instated by another agent. age, years; height, . - / ; head, ; chest, - / ; weight, . . ki-he-ga-ing-a. _little chief._ fifth chief of the iowas. enlisted in the northern army and participated in the late war of the rebellion, serving two years. was promised the position of a chief if he enlisted, and upon his return the promise was made good. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, ; weight, . . kra-ten-tha-wah. _blade hawk._ was sixth chief of the iowas. died january , , aged about years; height, feet; weight, pounds. - . nan-chee-ning-a. _no heart._ was first chief of the iowas. died in , aged ; height, . ; weight, . . a chief. . group, comprising most of the above numbers. . kaw or kansas. the kansas are an offshoot of the osages, whom they resemble in many respects. in they were placed on marquette's map as on the missouri, above the osages. after the cession of louisiana, a treaty was made with them by the united states. they were then on the river kansas at the mouth of the saline, having been forced back from the missouri by the sioux, and numbered about , in earthen lodges. some of their chiefs visited washington as early as . in ceded their lands on the missouri, retaining a reservation on the kansas, where they were constantly subjected to attacks from the pawnees, and on their hunts from other tribes, so that they lost rapidly in numbers. in they again ceded their lands, and a new reservation of , acres on the neosho in kansas assigned them; but this also soon becoming overrun by settlers, and as they would not cultivate it themselves, it was sold, and the proceeds invested for their benefit and for providing a new home among the osages. the tribe in numbered , ; in , ; and in had dwindled to . under the guidance of orthodox friends they are now cultivating acres, and have broken more than as much again. they raised among other things , bushels of corn; of them are regular church attendants, and of their children attend school. _list of illustrations._ . little bear. . ka-ke-ga-sha. (standing.) . ka-ke-ga-sha. (sitting.) . mandans. the mandans, or mi-ah'-ta-nees, "people on the bank," have resided on the upper missouri for a long time, occupying successively several different places along the river. in resided , miles above the mouth of the missouri, in nine villages located on both sides of the river. lewis and clarke found them in miles farther up in only two villages, one on each side of the river; near them were three other villages belonging to the minnitarees and ahnahaways. in the year these indians were in their most prosperous state, industrious, well armed, good hunters and good warriors, in the midst of herds of buffalo mostly within sight of the village, with large corn-fields, and a trading-post from which they could at all times obtain supplies, and consequently at that time they might have been considered a happy people. in their personal appearance, prior to the ravages of the small-pox, they were not surpassed by any nation in the northwest. the men were tall and well made, with regular features and a mild expression of countenance not usually seen among indians. the complexion, also, was a shade lighter than that of other tribes, often approaching very near to some european nations, as the spaniards. another peculiarity was that some of them had fair hair, and some gray or blue eyes, which are very rarely met with among other tribes. a majority of the women, particularly the young, were quite handsome, with fair complexions, and modest in their deportment. they were also noted for their virtue. this was regarded as an honorable and most valuable quality among the young women, and each year a ceremony was performed, in the presence of the whole village, at which time all the females who had preserved their virginity came forward, struck a post, and challenged the world to say aught derogatory of their character. in these palmy days of their prosperity much time and attention was given to dress, upon which they lavished much of their wealth. they were also very fond of dances, games, races, and other manly and athletic exercises. they are also a very devotional people, having many rites and ceremonies for propitiating the great spirit, practising upon themselves a self-torture but little less severe than that of hindoo devotees. in the spring of that dreaded scourge of the indians, small-pox, made its appearance among the mandans, brought among them by the employés of the fur company. all the tribes along the river suffered more or less, but none approached so near extinction as the mandans. when the disease had abated, and when the remnant of this once powerful nation had recovered sufficiently to remove the decaying bodies from their cabins, the total number of grown men was twenty-three, of women forty, and of young persons sixty or seventy. these were all that were left of the eighteen hundred souls that composed the nation prior to the advent of that terrific disease. the survivors took refuge with the arickarees, who occupied one of their deserted villages, but retained their former tribal laws and customs, preserving their nationality intact, refusing any alliances with surrounding tribes. the two tribes have lived together since then upon terms of excellent friendship. they now number , living in dome-shaped earthen houses, like the pawnees, which are, however, being gradually replaced by log houses. the following representatives of the tribe were part of a joint delegation of arickarees and mandans to washington in : _list of illustrations._ . wa-shÚ-na-koo-rÁ. _rushing war eagle._ the present head chief of the mandans, a man noted for kindliness and benevolence. age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, . . me-ra-pa-ra-pa. _lance._ head soldier or brave. age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, - / . . e-sta-poo-sta. _running face._ young warrior, son of red cow, a "big chief," who was too old to travel, and this son sent in his place. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, - / . . charles papineau. _interpreter._ born in montreal in . has lived in the mandan country since . speaks arickaree, crow, sioux, gros ventres, mandan, french, and english. . missourias. the missourias are a tribe of dakota descent, living on the missouri river, their name being one given them by the illinois, and means the people living by the muddy water. they style themselves _nudarcha_. were first heard of in , as the first tribe up the river which bears their name. became allies of the french at an early day, and assisted them in some of their operations against other tribes. were hostile to the spanish and also opposed to the ascendency of english influence. in , when lewis and clarke passed through their country, they numbered only in all, living in villages south of the platte, and at war with most of the neighboring tribes. they were affiliated with the otoes, having deserted their own villages near the mouth of the grand some time previously in consequence of their almost entire destruction by small-pox. the two have ever since been classed as one tribe. in the combined tribes numbered , and in only . since their consolidation with the otoes their history has been the same as of that tribe. _list of illustrations._ . thrach-tche. _true eagle._ a full-blood missouria, and nephew of ah-ho-che-ka-thocka (quapaw indian striker), a title gained by his bravery in battle against the quapaws, and who was head chief. at his (ah-ho-che-ka-thocka's) death, the hereditary successor, good talker, was assassinated by shungech-hoy and others, when the line of descent fell on true eagle, who became chief in , and held the position of missouria chief in the confederated otoes and missourias until , when he resigned in favor of his nephew. is now about years of age, feet in height, with a stout, well-proportioned frame. . noch-pe-wora. _the one they are afraid of._ is a cousin of true eagle, and chief of the eagle band of missourias. is of a mild, genial disposition, with but little force of character. age, ; height, . - / ; weight, ; head, - / ; chest, . - . wa-thock-a-ruchy. _one who eats his food raw._ his father was of the bear band of otoes, and his mother of the eagle band of missourias. he inherited a chieftaincy among the missourias, and succeeded to that position upon the death of his uncle, white water, in , when he took the name of lod-noo-wah-hoo-wa, or _pipe-stem_. lacks force of character, but is of a mild disposition and well disposed. is about feet in height, and of a well-developed physical organization. . muncha-huncha. _big bear_, or _joseph powell_. is a full-blooded missouria. succeeded his grandfather, cow-he-pa-ha, as chief of the bear band, in . when a young man he lived much of his time among the whites. possessing more than ordinary intelligence, he is at present the leading spirit of the otoes and missourias in the industrial pursuits of civilized life. these qualities have engendered much jealousy in the breasts of the older chiefs, who throw many obstacles in his way. besides his good mental qualities he possesses a splendid physique. height, . ; weight, ; head, - / ; chest, . . black elk. . omahas. the omahas were one of the tribes noticed by marquette in , and by carver in , who found them located on the saint peter's river. they were divided into two bands, the istasunda, or grey eyes, and the hongashans, and cultivated corn, melons, beans, &c. in , from a tribe numbering about , , they were reduced to less than a tenth of that number by small-pox, when they burned their village and became wanderers, pursued by their relentless enemy, the sioux. lewis and clarke found them on the l'eau qui court, numbering about . since many treaties have been made with them, always accompanied by a cession of lands on their part in return for annuities and farming implements. in they returned to their village, between the elkhorn and the missouri, and made a peace with some of the sioux, but their great chief, logan fontanelle, was killed by them not long after. since then they have devoted themselves mainly to agriculture, and, under the fostering care of the friends, are very much improved in their condition. in they numbered , , depending entirely upon their crops for their subsistence, of which they have considerably more than enough for their own use. they have three good schools, which are largely and regularly attended. the older indians are also abandoning their old habits and assisting in building for themselves upon forty-acre allotments of their lands. _list of illustrations._ . shu-dthe-nuzhe. _yellow smoke._ a leading and influential chief among the omahas, and a man of more than ordinary intelligence and executive ability. holds his position by hereditary descent. is well off, possessing a large number of horses and a very well furnished house. . gre-dthe-nuzhe. _standing hawk and squaw._ the oldest chief in the tribe, and consequently one whose words always command attention in their councils. this view represents him leading his pony, followed by his faithful squaw. . o-hun-ga-nuzhe. _standing at the end._ a brave, nearly nude, decorated with "war-paint" and astride a characteristic indian pony. . mo-ha-nuzhe. _standing bent._ a policeman, or one appointed by the chiefs to preserve order in the village. . gi-he-ga. _chief._ one of the nine chiefs who govern the tribe, holding their positions by hereditary descent. - . betsy. a noted character among the omahas, an exponent of women's rights. has always accompanied the tribe on their annual buffalo-hunts, and participates in the chase with the men. speaks three indian languages, besides french and english. . agency buildings. . the village of the omahas. ( .) . the village. near view, showing lodges. . gi-he-ga's lodge. - . view from blackbird hill. in irving's astoria is a short sketch of some of the romantic deeds of wa-shinga-sah-ba, or blackbird, a famous chief of the omahas, who died in , which concludes as follows: "his dominant spirit and his love for the white man were evinced in his latest breath with which he designated his place of sepulture. it was to be on a hill, or promontory, upward of feet in height, overlooking a great extent of the missouri, from which he had been accustomed to watch for the barks of the white men. the missouri washes the base of the promontory, and after winding and doubling in many links and mazes in the plains below, returns to within yards of its starting-place, so that for thirty miles, navigating with sail and oar, the voyager finds himself continually near to this singular promontory, as if spell-bound. "it was the dying command of the blackbird that his tomb should be upon the summit of this hill, in which he should be interred, seated on his favorite horse, that he might overlook his ancient domain, and behold the barks of the white men as they came up the river to trade with his people." the river has now changed its course, running far to the eastward, leaving at the foot of the hill a lake in the old bed of the river. the mound which was raised over the chief and his horse is now nearly obliterated, "yet the hill of the blackbird continues an object of veneration to the wandering savage, and a landmark to the voyager of the missouri." - . groups of school-children. . eba-hom-ba's lodge. . village scene. . a brave. . indian carpenters building houses for the tribe. . osages. the osages were placed on the missouri in by marquette, who called them the wasashe; were allies of the illinois, and near the last of the past century had been driven down to the arkansas. coming in contact with the french, they became their firm allies, and joined them in many of their operations against spanish and english and other indians; in , made peace with the sacs and foxes, with whom they had been at war, and settled on the great osage river. their numbers were estimated then at , . the usual succession of treaties ceding lands, and wars with neighboring indians followed, reducing them very much in numbers, until the breaking out of the civil war, when , of them went south and joined the confederacy. treaties of , , and provided for the conveying of their lands in trust to the united states, and for their removal to the indian territory, where they have been placed under the care of the society of friends, and are now making rapid progress toward a self-supporting condition. they now number , , of whom are civilized, self-supporting mixed-bloods. _list of illustrations._ . joseph, paw-ne-no-pa-zhe. _not afraid of the pawnees._ governor or chief of the tribe. was born on the osage reservation when in kansas, and when years of age was placed in a catholic mission, where he received a good english education. he still retains the old customs and habits of his tribe, however. is a brave and warlike chief, but yet exerts all his influence to secure peace between his people and the whites. is about years of age, feet in height, with a large and commanding physique; head, - / ; chest, . . shonga-sa-pa. _black dog._ the youngest of the six principal chiefs of the tribe. is years of age, and was born on the present reservation. is the descendant of a long line of chiefs, one of whom was principal in establishing peace between the government and the wild tribes. with the governor, joseph, he visited washington in to adjust various business matters in connection with his tribe. age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, . . group representing the governor and some of the headmen or councillors of the nation, as follows: joseph paw-ne-no-pa-zhe. see no. . chetopah. died in , aged . was among the first to commence farming and to live in the white man's way. pa-tsa-lun-kah. _strike axe._ born on the osage reservation in kansas years ago. is one of the principal "peace chiefs," and also chief of one of the largest bands of the osages, over whom he has unbounded influence. che-zhe-lun-kah. _big chief._ chief councillor of the nation, a man of good sense and much influence. is the son of a chief; years of age, and was born in kansas. hard rope. head war chief of the nation, and a man of considerable ability as an orator. served as a scout under general custer during the indian war in the indian territory. is now years old. . kah-he-ka-wah-ti-an-ka. _saucy chief._ . nom-pa-wa-le. _a savage._ . ke-si-si-gre. _a distant land._ . mah-kea-pu-at-see. _one who reaches to the sky._ . joseph and black dog. . joseph, black dog, ogeas captain, and j. n. florer. . otoes. the otoes, calling themselves watoohtahtah, were known to the french as early as , under the name of otontanta; were originally part of the missourias, and, with the iowas, claim to have migrated to the missouri with the winnebagoes. they have long resided on the south side of the platte river, in mud lodges, confederated with the missourias, who formed one village with them. the two tribes now number souls. under the care of the friends, many are laying aside their indian dress and habits, and learning to labor. in common with many other tribes, their annuities are payable only in return for labor performed, which exercises a most beneficial effect. _list of illustrations._ . ar-ke-ke-tah. _stand by it._ is a full-blooded otoe indian. he was a leading warrior in his tribe, and during the early settlement of nebraska, when an emigrant train had been attacked on big sandy creek, and robbed of all they had by a party of pawnees, ar-ke-ke-tah, leading a band of otoes, fell on them, and, killing the entire party, restored the goods back to the emigrants, for which he gained notoriety, and received papers commendatory of this and other valuable services rendered the whites. by being a man of deep scheming and cunning, he succeeded in gaining the position of head chief of the tribe, while on a visit to washington, in , when the treaty was concluded, in which the otoes ceded to the government the southeastern part of nebraska. he was deposed from his chiefship in , re-instated in , but has been inactive as a chief since, and has lost his influence in the tribe. he is still living, about years of age, and feet inches high, with square, well-built frame. , - , . shun-gech-hoy. _medicine horse._ his father was an otoe, and his mother a missouria indian. by hereditary descent he became, in , head chief of the bear band of otoes, and being ambitious, worked himself finally into the position of head chief of the otoes and missourias. in he led a portion of the tribe away from their reservation, in violation of law and agency regulations, for which he, with five others, was arrested and confined for a time at fort wallace. in consequence, he became alienated from the agency and main part of the tribe, and lost his position as chief. has features remarkably coarse; has a very stern, fierce disposition; is a deep schemer; would be willing to sacrifice almost any interest of his tribe in order to maintain a supremacy over them, and has been engaged in many stratagems of the kind. he is tenacious of old indian customs, opposed to improvement that makes innovations thereon, and is a heavy clog on the tribe in their endeavors to advance in civilized pursuits. in stature, he is about feet inches, with a heavy-set, well-developed muscular frame; about years of age. , , . lod-noo-wa-inga. _little pipe._ is a son of hick-a-poo or kick-a-poo, formerly a prominent chief of the tribe. the chiefship had been hereditary through many successors, and after the death of hick-a-poo, the present little pipe, in , took his place. he was one of the followers of shungech-hoy in ; was arrested and imprisoned with him, and has not since been recognized as a chief. he is of a mild disposition, well disposed toward improvement, but quiet and without much individual force of character. has been under unfavorable influences, and therefore makes but little progress. he is about years of age, feet - / inches in stature, head inches, chest , and weighs . . pah-ho-cha-inga. _little iowa._ generally known by his more proper name of baptiste devoin, is a son of john devoin, who is half french and half missouria indian. his mother is half omaha, one-quarter french, and one-quarter iowa indian. he was partially educated at the pawnee mission, at belleview, nebr.; can read, write, and speak the english language tolerably well; also speaks pawnee, omaha, and french. he married into the otoe tribe, and has been employed at otoe agency in the several positions of teamster, farmer, interpreter, and miller, under former agents. in , he was employed as interpreter for the tribe, and has continued in that office until the present. in height he is feet - / inches, head measurement - / inches, chest inches, and weighs pounds. he is about years of age, and quite corpulent. . tcha-wan-na-ga-he. _buffalo chief._ is an otoe indian, though his grandfather belonged to the iowa tribe. he was, when a young man, a self-constituted chief, leading a portion of the buffalo band of otoes, at a time when sack-a-pie was chief, and at whose death he became the recognized head chief of the band, which position he held until . he is still living; is about years of age, in stature feet inches, and weighs about pounds. he is of rather a mild disposition, though decided in his ways; concilitory to the whites, and has gained many friends among them. . baptiste devoin and tcha-wan-na-ga-he. the same as given and described in nos. and . . { e'en-brick-to. _blackbird._ { op-po-hom-mon-ne. _buck elk walking._ the first is half otoe and half omaha; the second, who is represented sitting, is a full-blood missouria. . { insta-muntha. _iron eagle._ { ko-inga. _little thunder._ { op-po-hom-mon-ne. { e'en-brick-to. .--little pipe, with missouria chief and interpreter. .--medicine horse, baptiste devoin, and interpreter. . poncas. the poncas were originally part of the omaha tribe, to whom they are related. lived originally on the red river of the north, but were driven southwestwardly across the missouri by the sioux, and fortified themselves on the ponca river. united for a time with the omahas for protection, but have generally lived apart. were so exposed to the forays of the savage sioux that they were almost exterminated at one time, but after the treaties of and rallied and began to increase. were estimated then at , which has remained their average number ever since. in sold their lands and went on a reservation near the yanktons, but being too near their old foes, and not being able to raise any crops, were in removed down to the mouth of the niobrara, where they now have three villages. are still exposed to raids from the sioux, retarding very much their progress toward a self-supporting condition. efforts are being made to have them join their relatives, the omahas. _list of illustrations._ - . { ash-nom-e-kah-ga-he. _lone chief._ { ta-tonka-nuzhe. _standing buffalo._ { wa-ga-sa-pi. _iron whip._ { waste-co-mani. _fast walker._ . wa-ga-sa-pi. _iron whip._ . native drawing. . winnebagoes. the winnebagoes are a branch of the great dakota family, calling themselves o-tchun-gu-rah, and by the sioux, hotanke, or the big-voiced people; by the chippeways, winnebagonk--whence their common english name--a word meaning men from the fetid waters. the french knew them as la puans (the stinkers), supposed to have been given them in consequence of the great quantity of decaying and putrid fish in their camps when first visited by white men. with some others they formed the van of the eastward migration of the dakotas, penetrating apparently some distance, but were forced back to green bay. this was some time previous to , as the map of the french jesuit missionaries, dated , styles green bay the "bayo des puans," and the map accompanying marquette's journal, dated , notes a village of the "puans" as near the north end of winnebago lake, on the west side.[a] [footnote a: alexander ramsey.] they were then numerous and powerful, holding in check the neighboring algonkin tribes, but soon after an alliance of tribes attacked and very nearly exterminated them. became firm friends of the french until the revolution, when they joined the english; made peace with the colonists afterward, but sided with the english again in . in they numbered about , , and were living in five villages on winnebago lake and fourteen on rock river. by a treaty in they ceded all their lands south of the wisconsin and fox rivers, for a reservation on the mississippi, above the upper iowa, but here they became unsettled, wasteful, and scattered. in they surrendered this reservation for another above the saint peter's. this proved unfit, and they became badly demoralized, losing many of their number by disease, but were kept on it by force. in they were removed to crow river, and in to blue earth, minnesota, where they were just getting a start in civilized pursuits when the sioux war broke out, and the people of minnesota demanded their removal. thus again they were put on the march, and this time landed at crow creek, on the missouri, near fort randall, a place so utterly unfit, that the troops could not retain them on it. out of , when taken there, only , reached the omaha reserve, to which place they had fled for protection. they were then assigned a new reservation on the omaha lands, and placed under the care of the friends, and since then have prospered. at the time of their removal, in , from minnesota, many of the tribe who had taken up farms remained, receiving their share of the tribal funds. there were also last year in wisconsin, of whom have lately joined those in nebraska, swelling their numbers to , . nearly all of these now dress in civilized attire, and many of them have taken farms, their lands being divided into -acre allotments for the purpose, upon which they are building neat and comfortable cottages. there is an industrial and three day schools on the reserve, which are attended by one-sixth of their whole number. their chiefs are now elected annually by the tribe, who in turn appoints a force of twelve policemen from the indians to preserve order. . jno. m. st. cyr. a delegate representing the wisconsin winnebagoes. has been to washington three times. his mother was a relative of little priest, one of the most prominent chiefs of the tribe, and his father a frenchman. . { naw-cher-choo-nu-kaw. { bad thunder. . wah-kunk-scha-kaw, and daughter. wife of "martin van buren," a former prominent chief of the tribe. . ka-ra-cho-we-kaw. _a blue cloud passing by._ , . winnebago children. iv. pawnees. . arickarees. the arickarees, ricarees, or rees, as variously written, call themselves sa-nish, or tanish, meaning "the people," a common form of expression among indians to indicate their superiority. they were originally the same people as the pawnees of the platte river, their language being nearly the same. that they migrated upwards along the missouri from their friends below is established by the remains of their dirt-villages, which are yet seen along that river, though at this time mostly overgrown with grass. at what time they separated from the parent stock is not correctly known, though some of their locations appear to have been of very ancient date, at least previous to the commencement of the fur-trade on the upper missouri. at the time when the old french and spanish traders began their dealings with the indians of the upper missouri, the arickaree village was situated a little above the mouth of grand river, since which time they have made several removals, and are now located at fort clark, in a former village of the mandans. the cabins or huts of the arickarees and other stationary tribes are built by planting four posts in the ground in the form of a square, the posts being forked at the top to receive transverse beams. against the beams other timbers are inclined the lower extremities of which describe a circle, or nearly so, the interstices being filled with small twigs, the whole thickly overlaid with willows, rushes, and grass, and plastered over with mud laid on very thick. a hole is left in the top for smoke to pass out, and another at the side for a door. the door opens a few steps distant from the main building on the surface of the ground, from which, by a gradual descent through a covered passage, the interior of the hut is reached. the door is of wood, and the aperture large enough to admit a favorite horse to the family circle, which is often done. these buildings are located within fifteen or twenty feet of each other without any regard to regularity. they cultivate considerable land, each family separating its little farm from their neighbors' by rush fences. corn is their principal dependence, of which they raise considerable quantities. the work is done entirely by the women, the primitive hoe being their only implement. they generally have quite a surplus, which they trade to the dakotas and to the fur companies. the arickarees are quite expert in manufacturing a very serviceable kind of pottery, neatly shaped, and well adapted for cooking purposes. they are of clay, hand wrought, but not glazed. at the present time they number , and are associated with gros ventres and mandans at the fort berthold agency on the upper missouri, where , square miles has been set apart for them as their reservation. they have acres under cultivation, and are receiving considerable assistance from the government in the way of improved implements. many houses are being built, and the more progressive indians are abandoning the old mud-lodges for them. _list of illustrations._ . ku-nugh-na-give-nuk. _rushing bear._ head chief; age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, - / . . e-gus-pah. _bull head._ age, ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, - / . . che-wa-koo-ka-ti. _black fox._ son of black bear, a great chief of the tribe. age, ; height, . ; head, ; chest, - / . . black buffalo. . long knife. . keechies. the keechies, of whom there are now only a small remnant of about in the indian territory, affiliated with the wichitas, wacos, and tawacanies; were originally from texas, and are supposed to be the quitzies of the spanish authorities of . even at that time they were a small tribe, numbering about warriors. after the admission of texas, were placed on a state reservation, where they remained undisturbed until , when their presence became so distasteful to the settlers that it became necessary to remove them. land was leased from the choctaws and chickasaws, and the keechies settled on it, building their villages of grass houses along the canadian river. the breaking out of the civil war set them back, just as they were beginning to prosper, compelling another remove for safety. in they were restored to their lands again, and since then have progressed rapidly in civilized pursuits. like the wichitas and wacos, they are of the same stock as the pawnees. _list of illustrations._ . knee-war-war, (front.) . knee-war-war, (profile.) . pawnees. there is but little definite knowledge of the early history of the pawnees, although they are among the longest known to the whites west of the mississippi. marquette notes them in his map, , as divided into various bands. they are supposed to be the panimaha of la salle's voyage in . at the time of lewis and clarke's visit, in , their principal village was on the south side of the platte. pike, in , estimated the population of three of their villages at , , with nearly , warriors, engaged in fierce combats with neighboring tribes. in , three of the four bands into which they have been for a long time divided resided on the banks of the platte and its tributaries, with a reservation on loup fork, on the ninety-eighth meridian. were then estimated at about , souls, living in earth-covered lodges, and much devoted to the cultivation of the soil, but engaging regularly every season in a grand buffalo-hunt. the delawares, in , burnt the great pawnee village on the republican, and these pawnees, becoming much reduced in numbers by small-pox soon after, sold all their lands south of the platte, and removed to the reservation on lou fork. the means were provided, and many exertions made to place them on the high road to prosperity; but their inveterate foe, the sioux, harassed them continually; drove them repeatedly off their reservation, and despoiled their villages. this warfare and disease soon reduced them to half their former number. in , they raised a company of scouts for service against the sioux, and a much larger force under the volunteer organization, incurring in consequence an increased hostility from their enemies, who harassed them so continuously, that in the chiefs in general council determined upon removing to a new reservation in the indian territory, lying between the forks of the arkansas and cimarron, east of the ninety-seventh meridian. their removal was almost entirely effected during the winter of -' . the pawnees now number in all , , and yet retain the subdivision into bands, as follows: the skeedee (pawnee mahas, or loups), kit-ka-hoct, or republican pawnees, petahoweret, and the chowee or grand pawnees. there are also living on the washita, a small band of affiliated wacos and wichitas, sometimes called pawnee picts, who are undoubtedly an offshoot of the grand pawnees. they are under the care of the friends; have well-organized day and industrial schools, and are well supplied with implements and means to carry forward a systematic cultivation of the soil. _list of illustrations._ - . peta-la-sha-ra. _man and chief._ chowee. reputed head chief of the pawnees, though really chief only of his own band, the _chowee_. his claim was based partly on the fact of having been the first signer of their treaty of . being a good indian orator, and of dignified bearing, he was generally awarded the first place in their councils, and led off in speech. in , it is said that he put a stop to the custom, then prevalent among the pawnees, of offering human sacrifices, but only by a display of great courage. in he visited washington with a delegation of his tribe, and attracted much attention by his fine presence. has always been friendly to the whites and in favor of the advancement of his tribe in civilized habits, although very slow himself to adopt new ideas. he died in the summer of from an accidental pistol-shot. had but one wife, and she survives him. . la-ta-cuts-la-shar. _eagle chief._ skeedee. at present the oldest, and consequently the head chief of the tribe. . la-roo-chuk-a-la-shar. _sun chief._ chowee. a son of peta-la-sha-ra and head chief of the chowee band; also a leader in the councils. height, . ; head, ; chest, - / . . tuh-cod-ix-te-cah-wah. _brings herds._ skeedee. height, . ; head, ; chest, . . tu-tuc-a-picish-te-ruk. _gives to the poor._ skeedee. a soldier or policeman of the skeedees. height, . ; head, - / ; chest, . . squaw of tu-tuc-a-picish-te-ruk. skeedee. . la-hic-ta-ha-la-sha. _pipe chief._ chowee. one of the signers of the treaty of . { la-roo-chuk-a-la-shar. _sun chief._ see no. . chowee. { { aru-saw-la-kit-towy. _a fine horse._ skeedee. { . { ski-ar-ra-ra-shar. _lone chief._ chowee. { { se-ted-e-row-weet. _one aimed at._ skeedee. { { cot-ta-ra-tet-goots. _struck with a tomahawk._ skeedee. { te-rar-a-weet. _stopped with the horses._ kit-ka-hoct. { { height, . ; head, - / ; chest, . a soldier of his { band. { { la-shara-chi-eks. _humane chief._ kit-ka-hoct. { { one of the four chiefs of his band, dresses well; is { pleasant in manner, and of progressive tendencies. { height, . ; head, - / ; chest, . . { { as-son-oo-cot-tuk. _as a dog, but yet a high { chief._ kit-ka-hoct. { { one of the four chiefs of his band. height, . ; { head, ; chest, . { { la-shara-tu-ra-ha. _good chief._ kit-ka-hoct. { { head chief of the band. height, . ; head, - / ; { chest, . { { la-sharoo-too-row-oo-towy. _difficult chief._ kit-ka-hoct. { { one of the soldiers and head men of this band. - . group of four brothers of the kit-ka-hoct band, viz: la-roo-rutk-a-haw-la-shar. _night chief._ la-roo-ra-shar-roo-cosh. _a man that left his enemy lying in the water._ a noted brave. height, . ; head, ; chest, . tec-ta-sha-cod-dic. _one who strikes the chiefs first._ second chief of his band, and one of four noted brothers (see no. ), pre-eminent in their tribe for bravery in war and wisdom in council. height, . ; head, ; chest, . te-low-a-lut-la-sha. _sky chief._ a chief, and a brave leader of his band, taking the first place in war or peace. was killed by the sioux in the massacre of the pawnees in , while hunting buffalo in the valley of the republican. baptiste bayhylle, or la-shara-se-re-ter-rek. _one whom the great spirit smiles upon._ united states interpreter, french half-breed. - . night chief and the man that left his enemy lying in the water. - . baptiste bayhylle. . te-low-a-lut-la-sha. _sky chief._ the same as in no. , no. . { coo-towy-goots-oo-ter-a-oos. _blue hawk._ petahowerat. { - .{ tuc-ca-rix-te-ta-ru-pe-row. _coming around with { the herd._ petahowerat. { - . perrus-kitty-busk. _small boy._ skeedee. . loo-kit-towy-hoo-ra. _on a fine horse._ petahowerat. . luh-sa-coo-re-culla-ha. _particular in the time of day._ kit-ka-hoct. . la-roo-chuk-a-rar-oo. _the sun coming in._ chowee. . se-rar-wot-cowy. _behind the one that strikes first._ skeedee. , , . caw-caw-kitty-busk. _little raven._ skeedee. . as-sau-taw-ka. _white horse._ petahowerat. . loots-tow-oots. _rattlesnake._ skeedee. . ke-wuk. _fox._ kit-ka-hoct. . ke-wuk-o-we-te-rah-rook. _acting a fox._ skeedee. . kit-toox. _beaver._ kit-ka-hoct. . as-sow-weet. . as-sow-weet and sawka. _white._ chowee. . ter-ra-re-caw-wah. petahowerat. died in ; the oldest chief in the tribe. very prominent in his day as a brave warrior. . caw-heek. _an old man._ kit-ka-hoct. { loo-kit-towy-his-sa. _on a fine horse._ skeedee. .{ { are-wauks. _a male calf._ chowee. . loots-tow-oos. _rattlesnake_, and squaw. skeedee. . e-rah-cot-ta-hot. _in the front of battle_, and squaw. skeedee. alias jim curoux. a steady worker, and wearing citizens' dress. . a-rus-saw-e-root-cowy. _a nice horse._ skeedee. . cu-roox-ta-ri-ha. _good bear._ skeedee. . tit-towy-oot-se. _beginning to go to war._ skeedee. alias johnson wright. a civilized indian. . ke-wuk-o-car-war-ry. _fox on the war-path._ skeedee. alias fat george. assistant carpenter at the agency. . caw-caw-ke-reek. _crow eyes._ petahowerat. . kee-week-o-war-uxty. _medicine bull._ skeedee. . tec-ta-sha-cod-dic. _one who strikes the chiefs first._ kit-ka-hoct. . le-ta-cuts-a-war-uxty. _medicine eagle._ skeedee. . ta-caw-deex-taw-see-ux. _driving a herd._ skeedee. . us-caw-da-war-uxty. _medicine antelope._ kit-ka-hoct. . ter-ra-ha-tu-riha. _good buffalo._ petahowerat. . sit-te-row-e-hoo-ra-reek. _seen by all._ skeedee. . loo-kit-towy-his-sa. _on a fine horse._ skeedee. . paw-hoo-cut-taw-wah. _knee-mark on the ground on stooping to drink._ skeedee. . squaw and pappoose. , - . the village of the pawnees. situated on the loupe fork of the platte river, about miles west of omaha. it was divided into two parts, the skeedees occupying one part by themselves, and the other three bands jointly in the other. the entire village accommodated about , people. each lodge was capable of holding several families; they were formed by erecting several stout posts in a circle, forked at the top, into which cross beams were laid, and against these long poles were inclined from the outside toward the centre; all was then covered with brush, and finally with earth, leaving a hole at the apex for the escape of smoke, and a long tunnel-like entrance at the base. this village is now ( ) entirely destroyed, and the indians removed to the indian territory. , . a mud lodge. in the pawnee village, showing the tunnel-like entrance. (see no. .) - . school building on the pawnee reserve, on the loupe fork, nebraska. - . groups of the head men of the tribe. - . groups of indian children (attending the boarding-school on the reservation). the first shows the younger children of the primary classes, and the two latter numbers the older and more advanced scholars. - . groups of children in their every-day attire, which consists principally of the covering with which nature first clothed them. . a group of young squaws in the village. - . agency buildings. . native painting on a buffalo-skin. a biography, or narration of the principal events in the life of a prominent chief, by the means of picture-writing. - ; - ; - ; . miscellaneous portraits of pawnees without information as to name or history. . wacos. . long soldier. (front.) . long soldier. (profile.) . wichitas. . assadawa. (front.) . assadawa. (profile.) . esquitzchew. (front.) . esquitzchew. (profile.) . black horse. , . buffalo goad. (front.) , . buffalo goad. (profile.) was one of the great delegation of chiefs from the indian territory in , among whom were little raven, little robe, bird chief, &c. he impressed all as being a man of more than usual ability and dignity. v. shoshones. . bannacks. the bannacks, bonnacks, or pannaques, a small, scattered tribe of shoshone stock, roaming over the desert plains of idaho and portions of the surrounding territories, were first found about the blue mountains. in bonneville met them on the snake river, near the mouth of the portneuf, "numbering about lodges. they are brave and cunning warriors, and deadly foes of the blackfeet, whom they easily overcome in battle when their forces are equal. they are not vengeful and enterprising in warfare, however, seldom sending parties to attack the blackfeet towns, but contenting themselves with defending their own territories and houses." they frequent the headwaters of the snake and yellowstone countries to hunt and fish. they have generally enjoyed a reputation for friendliness, although, in , all but the eastern bannacks under tahgee engaged in hostilities against the whites. at the present time there are bannacks associated with shoshonees at the fort hall reservation on snake river, where the attempt is being made to civilize them. there are more at the lemhi reservation, where there are also sheep-eaters, a band of the bannacks living a retired life in the mountains dividing idaho from montana, and shoshonees. _list of illustrations._ . group of eight of the leading chiefs and braves; photographed at the snake river agency in , among whom are paquits, or _bannock jim_, a prominent chief; totse-cabe-natsy, _the white-faced boy_, and _major jim_. . group of a miscellaneous crowd at the agency. . family group. in , while returning from the exploration of the yellowstone region, and while encamped near the head of the medicine lodge creek, the camp of a family of the sheep-eater band of bannacks was accidentally discovered near by, almost completely hidden in a grove of willows. their tent or tepee is made of a few boughs of willow, about which are thrown an old canvas picked up in some of the settlements. the present of a handful of sugar and some coffee reconciled them to having their photographs taken. in the group are the father and mother and five children. the sheep-eaters are a band of the bannacks, running in the mountains north of the kamas prairies, and are so shy and timid that they are but rarely seen. - . groups and scenes about the agency. eleven views, showing the various operations of the agency, some of the idlers, and a few groups of squaws and pappooses. . comanches. a roving, warlike, and predatory tribe of shoshone descent, roaming over much of the great prairie country from the platte to mexico. their traditions and early history are vague, but they claim to have come from the west. they call themselves _naüni_ (live people), but the spanish called them comanches or camanches (_les serpents_), the name adopted by the americans. procuring horses from the spaniards at an early day they became expert riders, which, united with their daring and aggressiveness, made them noted and feared throughout the southwest. engaged in long and bloody wars with the spaniards, but were subdued by them in . were estimated about that time at , warriors. in lost heavily by small-pox. up to were variously estimated at from , to , in all. were at one time on a reservation in texas, but were driven out of the state, and since then have been unrelenting enemies of the people of that state. the general government has set apart a new reservation for them in the western part of the indian territory and are gradually drawing them all on to it, though not without much trouble. they now number , in all, and are divided into eight bands. have made a commencement in farming, and have been induced to send a few of their children to an industrial school. w. blackmore, esq., in an article on the north american indians, thus describes the comanche: "these fierce, untamed savages roam over an immense region, eating the raw flesh of the buffalo, drinking its warm blood, and plundering mexicans, indians, and whites with judicial impartiality. arabs and tartars of the desert, they remove their villages (pitching their lodges in regular streets and squares) hundreds of miles at the shortest notice. the men are short and stout, with bright copper faces and long hair, which they ornament with glass beads and silver gewgaws." catlin says of them: "in their movements they are heavy and ungraceful, and on their feet one of the most unattractive and slovenly races i have ever seen; but the moment they mount their horses they seem at once metamorphosed, and surprise the spectator with the ease and grace of their movements. a comanche on his feet is out of his element, and comparatively almost as awkward as a monkey on the ground without a limb or branch to cling to; but the moment he lays his hand upon his horse his _face_ even becomes handsome, and he gracefully flies away, a different being." _list of illustrations._ . asa havie. _the milky way._ (front.) penetathka. . asa havie. _the milky way._ (profile.) is one of the head men of his band, dividing the office of chief with toshoway. (no. .) has been one of the most noted raiders into texas, leading many bands of the restless young men of his tribe, until about ten years since, when he was badly wounded in an encounter and left for dead upon the field. is now endeavoring to live in the white man's ways, having had a comfortable log house built for himself, and a few acres of ground enclosed, which he is successfully cultivating. this portrait of _asa havie_ was made in , while on a visit to washington with a delegation of his tribe. age, about ; height, . - / ; head, - / ; chest, - / ; weight, about pounds. . wife of asa havie. (front.) . wife of asa havie. (profile.) age, about ; height, . ; head, ; chest, ; weight, pounds. . timber bluff. (front.) . timber bluff. (profile.) . toshoway. _silver knife._ (front.) penetathka. . toshoway. _silver knife._ (profile.) penetathka. one of the chiefs of his band, sharing the position with _asa havie_. is noted for good sense and fair dealing, and has long been friendly to the whites. in youth, however, was not behind the other adventurous spirits of his tribe in predatory exploits and raids into texas. age, about ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, ; weight, . . wife of toshoway. (front.) . wife of toshoway. (profile.) age, ; height, . ; head, ; chest, ; weight, . - , . asa-to-yet. _gray leggings._ (front.) penetathka. one of the leading men of his tribe, taking an active interest in their advancement. lives in a house, cultivates the ground, and has a good lot of stock. speaks english fluently. age, ; height, . ; head, ; chest, . - . cheevers. _he goat._ tamparethka. a prominent and influential man in his tribe, and chief of his band. - . wife of cheevers. tamparethka. one of the three wives of cheevers. she accompanied him to washington with the delegation in . none of his wives have any children. - . mother of cheevers. tamparethka. - . quirts-quip. _chewing elk._ tamparethka. one of the chiefs of the tribe; a shrewd and able person, with considerable executive and financial ability. age, ; height, . - / ; head, ; chest, . , . ho-we-oh. _gap in the salt._ tamparethka. a chief who is doing his best to lead his tribe in civilized ways, as well as to walk in that way himself. age, --; height, . - / ; head, ; chest, . - . daughter of gap in the salt. tamparethka. - . parry-wah-sa-men. _ten bears._ tamparethka. formerly head chief of the tamparethkas band of comanches. he died in november, , just after his return from washington with a visiting delegation from his tribe. was friendly to the whites, and a man of influence among his people, maintaining this influence and his chieftainship to the unusual age of years. - . buffalo hump. tamparethka. - . jim. tamparethka. - . native drawings. . kiowas. the kiowas, or prairie men, are one of the tribes that compose the shoshone family. they are a wild and roving people, occupying the country about the headwaters of the arkansas, but also formerly ranging over all of the country between the platte and the rio grande. they had the reputation of being the most rapacious, cruel, and treacherous of all the indians on the plains, and had a great deal of influence over the comanches and other neighboring indians. our first knowledge of them was through lewis and clarke, who found them on the paducah. they were at war with many of the northern tribes, but carried on a large trade in horses with some other tribes. little intercourse was had with them until , when they made a treaty and agreed to go on a reservation, but soon broke it and went raiding into texas. the citizens of that state drove them out, but in revenge for the stoppage of their annuities, they retaliated upon the texans, and until recently the warfare was kept up between them. in , were placed on a reservation of over three and a half millions of acres with some comanches and apaches, but were restive and unsettled. in , under their great chief satanta, raided texas again, but it resulted in the capture of himself and big tree, and their imprisonment soon after. were afterwards pardoned by the governor of texas, in whose custody they were, through interposition from washington, and restored to their tribe; but this did not seem to lessen their hostility, and new disturbances arose, chiefly in consequence of raiding parties of whites from texas, that led finally to the re-arrest of satanta and his imprisonment in texas. _list of illustrations._ . lone wolf. (front.) . lone wolf. (profile.) . squaw of lone wolf. (front.) . squaw of lone wolf. (profile.) . squaw of lone wolf. (standing.) . sleeping wolf. . son of the sun. (front.) . son of the sun. (profile.) . native drawing. . shoshones. the shoshones, or snakes, are a tribe inhabiting the country about the headwaters of the green and snake rivers, and a part of a great family of the same name, including the comanches, utahs, and kiowas. they occupy nearly all of the great salt lake basin, to the eastern base of the sierra nevada, and extend also easterly to texas. the shoshonees proper are divided into many bands under various names, the most important being the buffalo-eaters, of wind river; the mountain sheep-eaters, of salmon river, and the western shoshonees, near boise, separated from the rest of the tribe by the kindred bannacks, numbering in the aggregate, with some lesser tribes on the humboldt, between five and six thousand souls. our first knowledge of them was through lewis and clarke, who found them west of the rocky mountains on the waters of the columbia, but are supposed to have at one time inhabited the plain-country east of the mountains. james irwin, united states indian agent, in his report to the commissioner, says: "they emigrated north about , and proceeded to the upper waters of green river under a leader or chief called shoshone, or snake. at this point they divided, one party going over on the oregon slope, who are now called western shoshones, and have an agency in common with the bannacks at fort hall. the other party constitute the eastern band of shoshones, and have roamed around the wind river mountains from the time mentioned until , when a treaty was made at fort bridger, that provided a reservation for them embracing the wind river valley. recently they entered into a contract with the government by which they ceded a portion of their reservation, leaving them a district perhaps miles in length, and in breadth, embracing a beautiful valley on the east side of the wind river mountains. they now number about , souls, and must have diminished greatly since the time of lewis and clarke. their life was a continued warfare; at first with the crows and blackfeet, and since then with the cheyennes, arapahoes, and sioux, and all this time contending almost naked with the elements and struggling for subsistence." _list of illustration._ - . village in south pass. during the expedition of , the united states geological survey of the territories came across the above village of shoshones, numbering nearly one hundred lodges, encamped among the southern foot-hills of the wind river mountains, where the above and some of the following views were secured. they were under the well-known chief washakie, and were on their way to the wind river valley to hunt buffalo for the winter's supply of food and clothing. although the village had all the appearance of being a permanent abiding-place, yet the following morning, before the sun was an hour high, there was not a tent in sight, and the last pack-pony with trailing lodge-poles had passed out of sight over the hills to the eastward. - . war chief's tent. the war chief is generally a man of more importance in the village, especially when in the neighborhood of enemies, than the chief himself. in this instance his tent, situated in the centre of the encampment, is adorned with broad bands of black, yellow, and white, rendering it quite conspicuous. the war chief, or his lieutenant, issues forth frequently to announce, in the far-reaching voice peculiar to indians, the orders which are to govern their actions, while within is an almost uninterrupted thumping on drums. - . washakie and his warriors. a group in front of the tent of the head chief washakie. about him are gathered all the chief men of the encampment. - . washakie. this well-known chief is a man of more than ordinary ability, and his record as a steadfast friend of the white people has come down to the present time without a blemish. he is now well advanced in years, but still retains his vigor, and his influence over the tribe. one of the above portraits was made in the south pass encampment, and the other is a copy of one made in salt lake city. - . views in the village. - . groups of in-door and out-door subjects, copied from small card views made in salt lake city, and which formed a part of the first blackmore collection. . utahs. the utahs, yutas, or utes, as the name is variously written, are a large tribe belonging to the great shoshone family, and who occupy the mountainous portion of colorado, with portions of utah, new mexico, and nevada. those living in the mountains where game abounds have a fine physical development, are brave and hardy, and comparatively well to do; while those who inhabit the sterile plains of the salt lake basin are miserably poor, and spiritless. we derive our first knowledge of the utahs from the early spanish explorers, who came in contact with them on the upper waters of the rio grande del norte, and who gave them the reputation of being a brave and warlike tribe. their country bordered that of the navajos on the south (the rio san juan now dividing them), who formerly ranged as far north as the waters of the grand, but were crowded back by the utahs. a continuous warfare was kept up between the tribes, in which the navajos were worsted. the utahs were employed against them by the government at the time of their expulsion from their country in . the tribe is divided into many bands, which are continually changing, but as now recognized are as follows: capotes, weeminuches, tabeguaches, muaches, grand river, yampas, uintahs, peahs, goships, and mouaches. the tribe now numbers in the aggregate , . the pi-utes, pi-edes, timpanagos, san-pitches, and others in utah are kindred tribes. the utahs have generally been friendly to the whites, although there was some fighting in and about pike's peak, many emigrants plundered at various times, and stray miners cut off by disaffected bands. the capotes, weeminuches, and others in the southern portion of the territory have been more troublesome than those of the north. treaties were made in and , giving them , square miles of reservation in the western part of the territory. the southern portion of it, known as the san juan region, was found to be rich in precious metals, and as it was already attracting a large influx of miners, additional treaties were made in for the cession of that part of their reservation. in the tribe consented to the sale of about , square miles for $ , a year forever. much dissatisfaction ensued from the failure of the government to promptly carry out the provisions of the treaty, and from the fact that much of their most valuable agricultural lands were unwittingly included in the purchase. "though holding a hereditary friendship for the white people and acknowledging the supremacy of the government, and for the most part included under agencies and receiving government rations to a greater or less extent, no tribe in the country is more averse to manual labor, or has yielded less to civilizing influences, partly because of the abundance of game and partly because of their remoteness from settlements." _list of illustrations._ - . ouray. _arrow._ tabeguache. ouray was born in , in taos, n. mex., his father being a ute, and his mother a jicarilla apache. he attended the mexican school at taos, under the tuition of jesuit priests, and acquired there a perfect knowledge of the spanish language. in , he married, and joined his tribe as a warrior, it being then at war with the navajos of new mexico, and the cheyennes and arapahos of colorado. soon after, in a fight with the arapahos, his only son was captured and carried off by the enemy, and since then he has never ceased, nor allowed his tribe to rest, from hostilities against these indians. in , his knowledge of the spanish language and superior executive ability secured him the position of government interpreter, which position he has held ever since, and through the same means he has gradually risen from a simple warrior to be the principal chief of the nation. in , he accompanied, as interpreter, a delegation of his tribe to washington, when their first treaty with the government was made. in , he again, as chief of the tabeguaches, in company with the chiefs of the other tribes, visited washington, and it was mainly through his influence and eloquence a treaty was made, whereby the utes ceded a large portion of their country in colorado. soon after his return, the principal chief of utes, nevava, died, and he became the acknowledged leader. in , when the discovery of rich mines upon their lands (the san juan region) was very near involving the utes in war with the miners, he avoided this by agreeing to a cession of the lands in dispute, and against a strong opposition from the greater portion of the nation. as a chief he is very strict with his people, punishing all crimes, and sometimes simple disobedience, with death; but he is very kind nevertheless, and has gained his influence more through moral suasion than command. he is a steadfast friend of the whites, and has never lifted his hand against any of them, though some of his people have at times been on the point of making war. ouray is quite wealthy, owning a herd of several hundred horses, among which are some famous racers, and also large flocks of sheep. he lives at the government agency in a comfortable house, in a somewhat civilized style, and has a carriage with driver, while his people live altogether in tents. the government places great confidence in his ability and suggestions, and he has managed to keep the utes at peace with the fast-encroaching people of colorado. . guero. present chief of the tabeguache utes. guero belongs to that class of chiefs among the indians who generally succeed their fathers as leaders of a band which hunts and fights in a separate party. he has about lodges in his band, and therefore has considerable influence. when younger he distinguished himself in the wars against the navajos, but in later years has abandoned his warlike proclivities. he is a staunch supporter of ouray's peace policy with the government, and generally lives at the agency, assisting the agent in the distribution of the annuity goods and provisions. - , . shavano. tabeguache. war chief of the tabeguaches, and the most prominent warrior among the utes. the arapahoes and cheyennes fear and hate him; he never goes on the war-path but brings back a scalp of his enemies. has distinguished himself often by the fierceness of his attack, generally going into a fight naked, and has been wounded several times in such encounters. in the council he is always for peace with the whites, and has used his influence to make those treaties whereby all difficulties were obviated. he is an eloquent orator, and when speaking is often applauded by his people. . tapuche. capote. a young chief of the capote band of utes, son of sobita, their principal chief. the latter is now very old, and does not attend to the duties of his office, his son taking his place. both are strong supporters of ouray and his peace-policy. tapuche was the delegate of his tribe to visit washington and confirm the treaty of . . mautchick. muache. a young chief of the muache utes, who has during the last few years gained considerable influence, and is now considered the war chief of his band in place of curacanto. was also delegate to washington in . . co-ho. _the lame man._ muache. - . antero. _graceful walker._ - . wa-ne-ro. _yellow flower._ - . tabiyuna. _one who wins the race._ - . ko-mus. an intelligent young indian of the uinta band, who was brought east by major powell, of the colorado exploring expedition, who educated him, and then employed him as a clerk in his office in washington, but died suddenly a short time since. . john. yampah. a young warrior of the yampah utes, well known among the people of colorado by the soubriquet of "john," and as a particularly good friend of the white settlers. died suddenly at the hot springs in middle park in . . kwa-ko-nut. _a king_, and mose. muache. . cu-ra-can-te. muache. the old war chief of his band, and in former days quite noted for his independent raids into the country of the cheyennes and their allies. in the winter of -' he organized a body of warriors, and, as leader of these, was attached to the column under colonel evans, operating against the kiowas and comanches, which campaign ended in the surrender of these indians. he is now quite old and has lost much of his influence, his son maut chick succeeding him. . wa-rets and shavano. tabeguache. . group representing-- ouray. shavano. guero. ankatosh. wa-rets. . group of seven, representing-- "john." ma-ku-tcha-wo or sa-pe-a. cu-ra-can-te. to-shi-my, or _black bear_. kwa-ko-nut, or _a king_. "mose." mexicano. . suriap. yampah. a son of lodge pole, a prominent chief and a warrior in his band. was one of a delegation to visit washington in to make the treaty with the government. he has not, however, come up to the expectations of his people, as, although a young man, he has not distinguished himself in any way, so that he remains a simple warrior to this day. . chippin. _always riding._ . little soldier. . squaw of little soldier. . lovo. _the wolf._ lovo was noted among the utes for his ability in following the trail of man or beast, hunting, or on the war-path, and had gained the name of being the best scout. was frequently employed as "runner" by the government in carrying dispatches, and was noted for his promptness in executing these commissions. is a brother of the chief guero, and died in october, , while hunting on the republican river. . rainbow. . nick-a-a-god. _green leaf._ yampah. a chief of the yampahs and formerly a man of considerable influence, which he has lost, however, through several petty thieving excursions which he has led against the whites. he has but few followers left, and is one of the few mischievous utes. in , was delegated to go to washington, and while there was considered to have equal influence with ouray, both being in favor of the treaty made that year. speaks english well, has considerable intelligence, and a good knowledge of the customs of the whites, but since his repudiation by his tribe he has not come in contact with them much. . pe-ah, or _black-tail deer_. a young chief of the grand river band of utes. as a delegate of his tribe, he helped to make the treaty of in washington, and signed it; but since then he has never acknowledged it, and, with his band, has kept off the present reservation, camping generally near denver. he has about lodges, or people, with him. he is a nephew of the late principal chief nevava, who died in . he is quite a young man, very adroit and ambitious, and possessed of considerable ability. has distinguished himself as a warrior in contests with the arapahoes. he has many enemies among the utes on account of his overbearing disposition and pride of birth and position, but manages to gain in influence, so that the government has been obliged to establish a special agency for his band at denver. . colorado. . sappix and son. . chu. . kanosh. - , - . miscellaneous groups, all copies; a portion of the original blackmore collection. - . ute encampment on the plains near denver. - . camp scenes among the utes at los pinos. . group of pe-ah and his head men. vi. sahaptins. the sahaptin family inhabit the country south of the salish, between the cascade and bitter root mountains, reaching southward, in general terms, to the forty-fifth parallel, but very irregularly bounded by the shoshone tribes of the california group. of its nations, the nez percés, or sahaptins proper, dwell on the clearwater and its branches, and on the snake about the forks. the palouse occupy the region north of the snake, about the mouth of the palouse; the south banks of the columbia and snake, near their confluence, and the banks of the lower walla walla, are occupied by the walla wallas. the yakimas and klikelats inhabit the region north of the dalles, between the cascade range and the columbia. the natives of oregon, east of the cascade range, who have not usually been included in the sahaptin family, are divided somewhat arbitrarily into the wascoes, extending from the mountains eastward to john day river, and the cayuses from this river across the blue mountains to the grande ronde. . nez percÉs. the nez percés, or the sahaptin proper, inhabit idaho and portions of oregon and washington. they style themselves numepo, but lewis and clarke called them the chopunnish. the origin of their present name is buried in obscurity. early in the present century they were estimated to number , ; and in , when a mission was established among them, about , . in the oregon indian war most of the tribe remained friendly and did effective service for the whites on a number of occasions. in a treaty was made ceding part of their lands, but only a portion of the tribe recognizing it, led to a separation, one party becoming wandering hunters, while the other remained on the reservations. "of the , nez percés now living, nearly half located on the kamiah and lapwai reservations in northern idaho, and a few others settled on lands outside the reserve, are prosperous farmers and stock-growers. the rest are 'non-treaties,' who, with other non-treaty indians in that region, make every exertion to induce the reservation indians to lease their farms and join them in their annual hunting and root-gathering expeditions." early in the summer of the present year troubles arose in regard to the occupancy of the wallowa valley by white settlers, it having been withdrawn in from the reservation assigned them by treaty in , from a failure on their part to permanently occupy it. an indian, belonging to a band of malcontents or non-treaties under the chief joseph, was killed by some settlers, when they insisted upon the removal of all the whites and the restitution of the valley to them. upon the refusal of the government to this demand, and further attempts to compel all the non-treaty indians to come into the reservation at lapwai, an outbreak occurred under the leadership of joseph, which resulted in a number of pitched battles, with great loss of life, but were compelled to retreat, the forces under general howard pursuing them eastwardly across the headwaters of the snake river and through the yellowstone national park, where the pursuit was taken up by the forces under general terry, resulting finally in the capture of joseph and the remainder of hi s force by general miles. _list of illustrations._ - . kal-kal-shu-a-tash, or _jason_. - . ta-ma-son, or _timothy_. - . encampment on the yellowstone river. the temporary camp of a small hunting party, who were visiting their friends the crows at the old agency, near the mouth of shields river. this and the following views were made in : - . lodges in the village. . the chief of the village. . this man has long yellow hair and blue eyes, but is in every other respect a thorough indian. is said to be a son of one of the expedition under lewis and clarke, who visited their country early in this century. - . village views. . warm springs. the warm springs indians, so named from their location about the thermal springs in northern oregon, are related to the walla wallas, and number , on a reservation of some square miles, on which are also some wascoes and teninoes. the combined tribes cultivate about acres of the land. they are very well off in live stock and derive some of their income by lumbering. all wear citizen's dress, many have good comfortable houses, and support two schools, with an attendance of about scholars. they assisted in the operations against the modocs in , raising a company of scouts for that purpose, who rendered good service. _list of illustrations._ . cappolas. _a boney man._ took a prominent part in the modoc war, and distinguished himself by the capture of captain jack in the lava-beds. height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / . . shaka. _little beaver._ a sergeant in the company that captured captain jack. height, . ; circumference of head, - / . . ske-metze. _chopped up._ familiarly known as "billy." height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / . . ke-hey-a-kin. _crooked stick._ height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / . . histo. _clam fish._ _height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / ._ . wey-a-tat-han. _owl._ the married man of the party, his wife accompanying him on his travels. was wounded in the lava-beds, and with five others were the scouts who first discovered captain jack's hiding-place in the cave. . chin-chin-wet. _alone._ wife of wey-a-tat-han. a very comely and intelligent indian woman, of whom but very few are found among the far western tribes. height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / . . semeo, or _umatilla jim_. . wascos. the wascos, like the warm springs indians, are related to the walla wallas, and through them to the sahaptin family. the name signifies "basin," and the tribe derives its name, traditionally, from the fact that formerly one of their chiefs, his wife having died, spent much of his time in making cavities or basins in the soft rock for his children to fill with water and pebbles, and thereby amuse themselves. they came originally from around the dalles. are associated with the warm springs and teninoes on a reservation in oregon just south of the columbia. now number , profess the christian religion, and are more advanced in civilization than any tribe in the state. all the tribes of this reservation are self-supporting, deriving about half their subsistence by agriculture and the rest by fishing and hunting. _list of illustrations._ . kle-mat-chosny. _agate arrow-point._ is a chief and a member of the presbyterian church, and a zealous worker for the spiritual welfare of his people. height, . - / ; circumference of head, - / . . stat-tla-ka. _pole cat._ height, . ; circumference of head, - / . . oscar mark, or _little vessel_. height, . ; circumference of head, - / . vii. klamaths. . klamaths. a comprehensive name applied to this as well as to several tribes on the klamath river, differing in language and type. live mainly by fishing and root-digging. by treaty in the klamaths and modocs ceded all their lands, reserving a small tract on klamath lake, in oregon, of , square miles, the government to pay $ , in fifteen years, as well as other large sums for subsistence. much of their reservation is mountainous, only a small portion being fit for cultivation. the klamaths did not like the introduction of the modocs on their reservation, and it eventually led to the modoc war. they now number , and are quite prosperous. have a large number of horses and cattle, but derive their chief support by lumbering. _list of illustrations._ - . wal-aiks-ski-dat. known as david hill, cousin of captain jack, is the war chief of the klamaths (the parent tribe of the modocs), and is recognized as the leader in civilization of all the indians of the lake country. he is years of age. he distinguished himself, before the indians were gathered into reservations, as the leader of the young braves of the klamaths in their wars with surrounding tribes, and his military record shows that he has never known defeat. he has always been the friend of the white man. in the long protracted fight with the snake tribe, lasting over eight years, he was our ally as the leader of the klamath warriors. he commanded the klamath scouts during the war with captain jack. mr. hill is a christianized indian, and is a member of the methodist episcopal church. his father was the first chief who became friendly with the white man. this was in , when he met frémont and acted as his guide. . yum-nis-poc-tis. (chief without beads), better known as tecumseh, is the "medicine man" of the klamaths, and is the descendant of a long line of "medicine men." he has had a damon and pythias friendship with david hill since his childhood. in his native tongue he is famous as an orator. he won great distinction in the snake war, as hill's comrade; and, with him, is the earnest champion of civilization in his tribe. he is also a methodist and lives a civilized life in the reservation. both tecumseh and hill are covered with scars that they have received in their desperate conflicts. . modocs. the modocs were originally part of the klamaths, but recently hostile to them. their name is an indian word meaning _enemies_. their original territory was on the south side of klamath lake, including some , square miles. were early known as a treacherous and cruel people, and up to had cut off more than whites. engagements followed between them and the whites in --when wright massacred out of a total of --which were kept up until , when they agreed to go on a reserve. the treaty to that effect was not ratified for seven years, and in the mean time were induced to go on the klamath reserve. were harassed and dissatisfied, and afterwards put on yaniax reservation, but most of the tribe left under two rival chiefs, schonchin and captain jack. the former settled peaceably near the settlements, while the latter went back to their old home and became troublesome. in , were ordered back to the reserve, and upon their refusing to go troops were called on to enforce the order, the citizens joining in an attack on their entrenched camps, but were repulsed. the modocs then retreated to the "lava-beds," a volcanic region so broken up into great caves and fissures as to serve as a natural fortification. after several engagements a commission was organized to enquire into the trouble, and while holding a conference with the leaders were attacked, and general canby and dr. thomas were killed, (april , .) after two months' further operations, the hostiles were reduced, their leaders hung, and the rest removed to the indian territory. about who took no part in the trouble remained at the klamath agency. _list of illustrations._ . scar-faced charley. the famous war chief of the lava-bed warriors, and the greatest of their soldiers. he was the most trusted of captain jack's braves, and the most desperate of his fighters. rev. dr. thomas; who was slain at the peace-commission massacre, on the day before his death called scar-faced charley the "leonidas of the lava-beds." he was never known to be guilty of any act not authorized by the laws of legitimate warfare, and entered his earnest protest against the assassination of general canby and dr. thomas. he led the modocs against major thomas and colonel wright when the united states troops were so disastrously repulsed and when two-thirds of our men were killed and wounded. wearied of the slaughter, he shouted to the survivors, "you fellows that are not dead had better go home; we don't want to kill you all in one day." he has said since, "my heart was sick of seeing so many men killed." . shack-nasty jim. the sub-chief of the tribe and chief of the hot creek band of the modocs; although hardly twenty-one years of age, is known throughout christendom as one of the most fearless warriors that the red men ever sent to fight the pale-faces. he led the tribal forces that suffered most severely. after the massacre he quarrelled with captain jack; and, with "bogus charley," "hooker jim," and "steamboat frank," became scout for general jeff. c. davis--which led to the capture of the remnants of the modoc army. . steamboat frank. one of the participators in the modoc war, but after the massacre of general canby's party, left his tribe, and as a scout under general davis, did good service in securing the capture of the remnants of captain jack's forces. . wi-ne-ma, or _tobey riddle_. the modern pocahontas, who, at the risk of her own life, saved the life of col. a. b. meacham, chairman of the modoc peace commission, at the modoc massacre. the oregon statesman truly says: "a truer heroine was never born in the american forest than the poor indian woman, tobey riddle, whose exertions to save one who had befriended herself and people were no less daring and resolute than the devotion of pocahontas. we have nowhere read of a woman, white, black, or red, performing an act of sublimer heroism than tobey riddle, when, under suspicions of treachery, she returned to her people in the rocks, with an almost absolute certainty of being flayed alive. the description of that event is one of the finest passages in mr. meacham's speech, and is a fitting tribute to the courage and fidelity of his dusky, lion-hearted friend. the gratitude, fidelity, and devotion of that poor squaw ought to forever put to silence and shame those heartless savages who, in the midst of a christian civilization, are clamoring for the extinction of a people whom god had planted where they were found." tobey is years of age, and the wife of frank riddle. she is honored by all who know her. . rogue rivers. the rogue rivers, so called from the stream upon which they have lived for a long time, have also been known by the names lototen or tototutna. as a general rule the coast tribes are inferior in physique and character to the inland tribes, but an exception must be made in favor of the rogue rivers. "the men are tall, muscular, and well made, the women are short and some of them quite handsome, even in the caucasian sense of the word." they are associated with some or tribes or bands at the siletz agency, the whole numbering less than , souls. _list of illustrations._ . ol-ha-the, or _george harvey_. chief of the confederated tribes of indians of siletz reservation, oregon, lineal descendant of a long line of rogue river chiefs, was captured when a small boy at the rogue river war between the united states forces and the rogue river tribes of southern oregon, and carried to the siletz reservation, where he has lived ever since. he is a fine speaker, and has acted many years as an interpreter. this office having brought him into close and constant contact with american civilization, he long ago abandoned his aboriginal habits and religion, and adopted the customs and faith of the whites. he is well known throughout oregon, and is held in the highest esteem. he has been complimented by the judges everywhere for his integrity and intelligence, and both by his loyalty and education is a living proof of the folly and wickedness of the theory that the indian can neither be civilized nor be made the friend of the white race. viii. pimas. . papagos. the papapootans, as they style themselves, belong to the pima family, and have long resided in the country south of the gila. have always been at enmity with the apaches until within the last year, but were friendly to the spaniards, who, with a few exceptions, have maintained missions among them continuously up to the present time. at the close of the mexican war were mexican citizens, and partly civilized, but were not recognized as such by the united states, and were left without an agency or reservation until , when they were settled on the santa cruz river, a tributary of the gila, on a tract of , acres. they now number between , and , souls. have well-cultivated farms, and live in houses of their own construction. . ascencion rios. (front.) . ascencion rios. (profile.) . pimas. the pimas, calling themselves ohotama, are a portion of a family of indians of the same name, comprising, besides themselves, the opates, eudevis, and joves, occupying much of southern arizona, sonora, and sinaloa. missions were established among them at an early day by the spaniards, but they revolted many times, killing several of the missionaries. they have long been divided into the upper and lower pimas, the former living on the gila, in mud-covered huts, and cultivating the soil extensively. have been long associated with the maricopas, the two tribes now living together as one on a reservation of , acres. the pimas now number , ; are self-supporting, wear civilized dress, and are ready for the privileges of citizenship. . luig morague. (front.) . luig morague. (profile.) . antonio azul. (front.) . antonio azul. (profile.) ix. iroquois. . senecas. one of the five iroquois nations in western new york, comprising, originally, the sinnekaas, as the dutch called them, (hence the word senecas,) onondagas, mohawks, cayugas, and oneidas. when first known to the french, were living on the south side of lake ontario, and engaged in a fierce war with their algonkin neighbors. by conquest several other tribes became incorporated with them. missions were established among them by the french as early as . in the senecas alone, of the six nations, joined in pontiac's league to extirpate the english. during the revolution sided with the english, but made a peace in , and during the second war remained loyal. early in the century part of the tribe settled in ohio, afterwards removing to the indian territory, where they now are to the number of . the new york senecas still occupy the alleghany, cattaraugus, and tonawanda reserve of , acres, where they all live in good houses and have large, well-cultivated farms, and are in every way a civilized and well-regulated class of people. . dyar-yo-naÄ-dar-ga-dah. _one who carries hemlock boughs on his back._ english name, caster redeye. was born on the alleghany reservation; belongs to the traditionary bear clan. is now president of the new york senecas. does not speak english, but is an eloquent speaker in his native tongue. has been a councillor three terms. is a farmer and lumberman, and has also been a pilot for several years on the alleghany river. caster is a grandson of governor blacksnake, the famous chief of the senecas, who died in at the age of years. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, . . dar-gar-swen-gar-ant. _dropping the stock of the gun._ commonly known as harrison halftown; belongs to the snipe clan. was born on the alleghauy reservation. is the clerk of the nation, which position he has held for the last eight years. was well educated at a quaker school adjoining the reservation, and speaks english fluently. is a fine speaker, and is quite noted as an orator. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, . . hoh-ho-i-yo. _splendid doer._ samuel jimson, as he is ordinarily known, is one of a family of thirty-one children, and was born on the alleghany reservation in . is a descendant of mary jimson, a white captive among the senecas, whose descendants now number . is a farmer, but also a fine orator, and of more than ordinary ability. has been a councillor for eleven terms in succession. height, . ; head, ; chest, . . john irving. president of the peacemakers' court. is a grandson of governor blacksnake. age, ; height, . - / ; head, ; chest, . . myron silverheels. . groups comprising - - . . a daughter of general parker. copy from an old daguerreotype. . wyandots. the wyandots, or hurons, a western iroquois tribe, lived originally on the shores of lake huron, where they raised tobacco to such an extent that they were called petem, or tobacco indians. were driven west to wisconsin and to the shores of lake superior, and by the sioux back again to the neighborhood of detroit, where they remained up to the close of the wars between the united states and england. in ceded all their lands in ohio to the government, and were removed to kansas, where they have since resided, at the junction of the kansas and missouri rivers. in many became citizens, and had their lands divided among them, the others being removed to the indian territory, where they now are, numbering souls. some of the wyandots remained near detroit, and by treaty with the english government were assigned a reservation on the detroit river of , acres, where they yet remain, but have declined within the present century from to . their hereditary king remained with the canadian band. _list of illustrations._ . mathew mudeater. head chief of the wyandots, and a delegate in to washington, with power to settle all complications between his tribe and the government growing out of sundry treaties. was born in , in canada. . nicholas cotter. a councillor in his tribe, and delegate to washington with mudeater, . was born in canada in . x. muskogees. . creeks. the creeks are known in their own language as the muskokee or muskogee and occupied originally the greater part of georgia, alabama, and florida. their traditions say that they emigrated from the northwest until they reached florida, when they fell back to the country between the headwaters of the alabama and savannah rivers. as this was full of small rivers and creeks it was called by the early settlers the creek country, hence the name of the creek indians, who, when first known to the whites, were living there. those remaining in florida were called the seminoles or isti-semole (wild men). the nation became a confederacy of tribes speaking other languages, modifying somewhat the original muskogee, but who, nevertheless, numbered seven-eighths of their whole number. before a dominant power was established in the south they were courted by the spanish, french, and english, and were about equally divided in their allegiance to these nations, but the final success of the english brought them entirely under their influence. "they took an active part in the war of the revolution against the americans, and continued their hostilities till the treaty concluded at philadelphia in . they then remained at peace eighteen years; but at the beginning of the last war with great britain a considerable portion of the nation, excited, it is said, by tecumseh, and probably receiving encouragement from other sources, took arms without the slightest provocation, and at first committed great ravages in the vicinity of their western frontier. they received a severe chastisement, and the decisive victories of general jackson at that time, and some years later over the seminoles, who had renewed the war, have not only secured a permanent peace with the southern indians, but, together with the progress of the settlements, have placed them all under the absolute control of the united states. the creeks and seminoles, after some struggles among themselves, have ceded the whole of their territory and accepted in exchange other lands beyond the mississippi."--_gallatin._ twenty-four thousand five hundred and ninety-four were removed west of the mississippi, only remaining on their old hunting-grounds. at the breaking out of the civil war the western creeks numbered less that , . the tribe divided and engaged in pitched battles against each other, the unionists suffering badly, many fleeing to kansas. they were brought together again after the war, and in numbered , , on a reservation of over , , acres in the indian territory. by the report of the commissioner of indian affairs for , they were numbered at , , including , mixed-bloods, and all wearing citizens' dress and living in good houses. they have school buildings, with an attendance of about pupils; over $ , was expended upon their education. there are churches on the reserve, with a membership among the creeks of over , . they rank among the first of civilized tribes. _list of illustrations._ . lo-cha-ha-jo. _the drunken terrapin._ served as a first lieutenant in the union army during the rebellion, and was at that time and is now the leading spirit of the loyal creeks. is the treaty-making chief. age, about . . tal-wa-mi-ko. _town king._ commonly known as john mcgilvry. is a brother-in-law of oporthleyoholo, a famous chief of the last generation, and stood by him during their struggles with and flight from the rebel creeks. is at the present time the second leading spirit of the loyal creeks. age, about . . tam-si-pel-man. _thompson perryman._ first organizer of the loyal creeks that came north during the rebellion. was a councillor of oporthleyoholo, and a steadfast adherent to the treaties made with the government. age, about . . ho-tul-ko-mi-ko. _chief of the whirlwind._ english name, silas jefferson; is of mixed african and creek parentage; born in alabama and raised among the creeks in that state, removing with them to their present home in the indian territory. is to all intents and purposes one of the tribe, taking a wife from among them, and sharing all their troubles. was interpreter for the loyal creeks during the war, and is now the official interpreter of the nation. age, . . group of the preceding chiefs. . kot-co-cu, or _tiger_. served in the union army as a lieutenant. was one of the council in framing the treaty of . in was a candidate for chief, but was defeated, and died shortly after. . ok-ta-ha-sas-hajo, or _sand_. the predecessor of lo-cha-ha-jo as the treaty-making chief of the nation, and second chief under oporthleyoholo. was among the first to join the union forces during the rebellion. was chief of the council that framed the new constitution in . has not been educated, but has great natural ability, and is of an extremely sensitive and kindly disposition. - . family of george steadman. (half-bloods.) . a creek brave. . seminoles. "the isti-semole (wild men) who inhabit the peninsula of florida ( ) are pure muskogees, who have gradually detached themselves from the confederacy, but were still considered members of it till the united states treated with them as with an independent nation. the name of seminoles was given to them on account of their being principally hunters and attending but little to farming." were very hostile to the americans up to the cession of florida in , but a treaty was finally made with them in . other treaties followed looking to their removal westward, in attempting to carry out which a war ensued, lasting from until . nearly , had then been removed, leaving about in florida, and of these, under billy bowlegs, joined the western band in the indian territory in . had much trouble in getting settled upon a reservation, locating finally upon a tract of , acres bought of the creeks, where they now number , --a prosperous and civilized tribe. _list of illustrations._ . o-lac-to-mi-co. _billy bowlegs._ the well-known and famous leader of the seminoles in the florida war, -' , but was finally compelled to remove with the remnants of his tribe to the indian territory. . chickasaws. when first known the chickasaws were located north of mississippi on the cumberland and tennessee rivers. were mixed up in the early french and english wars, remaining loyal to the english up to . operated with the americans against the creeks in . commenced to migrate west of the mississippi early in the present century. sold their lands to good advantage and amassed considerable wealth, and were in every way a prosperous, progressive nation. they purchased a large tract of land from the choctaws, a tribe speaking the same language, and affiliated with them in all tribal affairs. in , on payment of $ , to the choctaws, they effected a political separation. like the choctaws, they first went south with the confederates during the civil war, but returned to the northern army afterwards. they lost very much property, besides a large number of slaves. their numbers have not undergone any material change, the latest census placing their numbers at , . nearly , of these are mixed bloods. two weekly papers are supported between the choctaws and themselves. they are also well supplied with churches, schools, and other appliances of an industrious, civilized, and prosperous people. they have intermarried to a great extent with the whites, some of the following portraits being of subjects having a large proportion of white blood in their veins. _list of illustrations._ . j. d. james. . ash-ke-he-na-niew. . sho-ni-on. . annie guy. . a young brave. . choctaws. the choctaws, or chahtas, at the time of de soto's visit in , were living south of the chickasaws, and west of the creeks. unlike the surrounding tribes, they were peaceably disposed, and a nation of farmers, and much farther advanced in civilization than any of their neighbors. coming in contact with the french, spanish, english, and americans, they have never been at war with any of them. commenced moving west of the mississippi in , and by had exchanged all their lands for other in the indian territory. by had advanced far in civilization, numbering with the chickasaws , , with , slaves. in the civil war they joined first the south and then the north, losing a great deal in property, and a reduction to , of their population. they now number , , of whom two-thirds are of mixed blood. are governed by a written constitution; elect their chief every four years; have a council, consisting of members, and a judiciary, and trial by jury. of the following subjects, nearly all are of mixed blood. _list of illustrations._ . israel folsom. . peter folsom. . samuel folsom. . ---- folsom. . faunceway baptiste. . b. l. le flore. . samuel garland. . colonel pytchlynn. . allen wright. - . squaws. - . young boys. xi. independent and unclassified tribes. . arapahos. "very little is known of the early history of the arapahos, but are supposed by some to be the querechos of the early spanish explorers. they called themselves atsinas, of whom, however, they are but a branch. the early english knew them as the fall indians, and the french as the gros ventres of the south. they were then roaming over the plain country about the heads of the platte and arkansas. gallatin speaks of them as a detached tribe of the rapid indians, which has wandered as far south as the platte and arkansas and formed a temporary union with the kaskasias and some other erratic tribes. at the present time ( ) the arapahos are divided into two portions or bands. the first portion call themselves na-ka-si-nin, 'people of the sage,' and number one hundred and eighty lodges. they wander about the sources of the south platte and the region of pike's peak; also northward to the red buttes on the north platte. sometimes they extend their journeyings in search of buffalo along the foot of the big horn mountains in the crow country. the second band call themselves na-wuth-i-ni-hau, the meaning of which is obscure. it implies a mixture of different kinds of people of different bands. they number lodges, and range along the arkansas river and its tributaries."--_hayden._ in morse estimated them at , , and speaks of them as a warlike people and often making predatory and murderous excursions on their eastern and northern neighbors. the arapahos affiliate with the cheyennes, with whom they have been on friendly terms for many years. lately, however, an antipathy seems to be growing up between the two tribes in the indian territory, and the commissioner of indian affairs advises a separation. they are divided into two principal divisions, known respectively as the northern and southern arapahos. those of the north, numbering , , affiliate with the cheyennes and ogalallas at the red cloud agency. they have been ordered to join their southern brethren, and at the present time the necessary preparations are under way. the southern apaches, who number , , with the southern cheyennes and a small band of apaches, are temporarily occupying a large reservation in the western portion of the territory. the new reservation assigned them lies along the northern border of the territory west of the creek and cherokee countries, and was purchased from them. it comprises nearly , , acres. but little has been done by them looking toward civilization, beyond signifying their willingness to have farms apportioned to them and in sending their children to school. . yellow bear. northern arapahos. little wolf. northern arapahos. . powder face and squaw. northern arapahos. . medicine pipe. northern arapahos. fool dog. northern arapahos. . crazy bull. northern arapahos. friday. northern arapahos. . plenty bears. northern arapahos. old eagle. northern arapahos. - . bi-nan-set. _big mouth._ southern arapahos. - . white crow. southern arapahos. - . black crow. southern arapahos. - . left hand. southern arapahos. - . yellow horse. southern arapahos. - . heap o' bears. southern arapahos. - . ohaste. _little raven._ southern arapahos. in , richardson described him as follows: "the savage, like falstaff, is a coward on instinct; also treacherous, filthy, and cruel. but our chief, the little raven, was the nearest approximation i ever met to the ideal indian. he had a fine manly form, and a human, trustworthy face." , . bird chief. (bust, front and profile.) , . bird chief. (standing, front and profile.) , . friday. the well-known chief of the northern arapahos and one who has had a prominent position for the last twenty-five years. speaks english fluently and always acts as his own interpreter. . a young man. living with and brought up with the southern arapahos, but claimed by ouray, chief of the utes, to be his son, captured in battle several years since. ouray has made an appeal to the government for his restitution, but the young man prefers his present home. . caddos. the caddos, or cadodaquious, at present a small remnant of a tribe that once ranged over the red river country, where they were first met with in by jontel and other survivors of the la salle expedition. they are now consolidated with wacos, wichitas, keechies, tawacanies, ionies, and delawares, and number , occupying the wichita reservation of about , square miles in extent between the branches of the-- they have now well-managed farms, and are noted for industry and general intelligence. - . sho-e-tat. _little boy._ english name, geo. washington. born in louisiana in . is probably the most progressive indian on the reservation; has long since adopted the dress and customs of the whites; owns a trading-store, and has a well-cultivated farm of acres, with good houses and improvements. was captain during the rebellion of a company of indian scouts and rangers in the service of the confederate states army, and engaged in three battles, one on cache creek, indian territory, with kiowas and apaches; one with cheyennes, in the wichita mountains; and one on the little washita, with renegade caddos. - . nah-ah-sa-nah. _indian._ anadarko. commonly known as war-loupe; probably a corruption of guadeloupe. was born near nacitoches about . is now chief of the caddos, and considered in advance of most of his people. is doing his utmost to elevate his tribe to the standard of the white man. height, . - / ; chest, inspiration, ; expiration, - / ; circumference of head over ears, - / ; diameter of head from ear to ear, - / . - . antelope. with the preceding was a delegate to washington in , but died shortly after his return. . cherokees. when first discovered, the cherokees were occupying the mountainous country about the headwaters of the tennessee river and portions of georgia and south carolina, up to . they form a family by themselves, supposed, however, to be somewhat remotely connected with the great iroquois family. they call themselves in their language tsaraghee. according to their traditions, they came to this country before the creeks, dispossessing a people of whom there is now no record. before and during the revolution they were friendly to and aided the english. a treaty of peace was made with them, by which they acknowledged the sovereignty of the united states november , , and were confirmed in the possession of their lands, occupying a considerable portion of tennessee and parts of north carolina, georgia, alabama, and mississippi. commenced migrating to the trans-mississippi country as early as , consequent upon the encroachments of civilization, and in , more emigrated. as frequent cessions of their lands had reduced their territory to less than , square miles in extent, and also in consequence of the hostility of the georgians, they were all removed in to their present reservation in the indian territory, excepting about , , who remained in north carolina. at the opening of the civil war they had progressed to a high degree of prosperity, but suffered great injury from both parties ravaging their country, and also in the emancipation of their slaves. nearly all the cherokees at first joined the confederacy, but after the fight at pea ridge, seeing the result doubtful, , , under colonel downing, with a majority of the nation, abandoned the southern cause and joined the union forces; , adhered to the confederacy to the end. at the time of their removal west the cherokees numbered about , . in they were reduced to , , but since then have increased, so that they now number about , . there are about , yet in north carolina, in a prosperous condition, owning about , acres of land. the reservation in the indian territory comprises about , , acres, only one-third of it capable of cultivation, and of which they are now working some , acres. their crops for aggregated , bushels corn, , bushels wheat, , bushels oats, , tons hay, , feet of lumber, &c. they have schools, attended by nearly , children, that are supported by a fund of $ , , , held by the united states. under their present constitution they are governed by a national committee and council elected for two years. the executive, or chief, is elected for four years. the following portraits show the effects of the civilizing influences they have been living under, and also the extensive admixture of white blood among them by intermarriage: _list of illustrations._ . colonel downing. . richards. . colonel adair. . samuel smith. . borum davis. . captain scraper. . bingo. . moquis. a tribe of semi-civilized indians living in seven villages on the plateau between the san juan and little colorado rivers. they were among the pueblos visited by the expedition under coronado in , who named the region inhabited by them the province of tusayan. the franciscans established missions among them, but in the general uprising of all were expelled or killed. numerous attempts were afterward made to reduce them, but without success, and they have remained independent to this day. they have the reputation of being an extremely kind-hearted and hospitable people; are exclusively agricultural, raising maize, squashes, pumpkins, and peaches. they also have many sheep and goats. have suffered much by depredations from the apaches and navajos. their villages are perched upon the summits of mesas, from to feet in height. their houses are built of stone laid in adobe-mortar, in terrace form, seldom exceeding three stories in height, and reached only by ladders. the women knit, spin, and weave, making fine blankets, women's robes, and other like articles, which they trade to the neighboring tribes. when they first came under the jurisdiction of the united states, were estimated to number , . were almost destroyed by small-pox in and , and lost many more by the famine in . on both occasions their villages were abandoned and the people scattered among the mountains, or took refuge among the kindred zuñis, and other pueblos. are now estimated at , souls. they use no intoxicating drink; are industrious and virtuous. the men adopt the usual mexican dress, while the women wear a woven tunic and a small blanket tacked over the shoulders. before marriage the hair of the women is worn in two large rosettes upon each side of the head, and after marriage, is worn loose down the back or rolled up back of the head. being entirely self-supporting, they have had but few agents and very little assistance from the general government. their remote and nearly inaccessible location has also removed them beyond the reach of most missionary enterprises. within the last two or three years some efforts have been made to establish schools among them, supported mainly by presbyterian enterprise. _list of illustrations._ . delegation to brigham young. copy of a photograph of three moqui indians from the pueblo of oraybi, delegated to visit the mormon president for the purpose of encouraging trade. . num-payu. _harmless snake._ a comely young maiden of the pueblo of téwa. the peculiar style in which the hair is worn, as shown in this picture, is a sign of maidenhood. after marriage the hair is allowed to hang down the back, or is gathered in a small knot at the back of the head. the moquis dress themselves entirely in woolen goods of their own manufacture, in which they are quite expert, their women's dress and blankets forming their principal stock in trade. . tÉwa. . house of the capitan of tÉwa. . street view in tÉwa. , . gualpi or o-pee-ki. . she-mÓ-pa-ve. . moo-sha-na-ve. , . she-paÚ-la-vay. . house of the capitan of she-mo-pa-ve. the above are four of seven towns which are collectively generally known as the moquis pueblos. by a census taken in the spring of , they were found to contain a population of men, women and children, , in all; of which téwa has , gualpi , she-mo-pa-ve , and she-pau-la-vay . with the exception of oraybi, all these villages are built upon the summits of sandstone mesas, feet above the valleys below them, and from which has to be brought their water, wood, and everything they raise. they possess considerable flocks of goats and sheep, which are secured every night in pens along the sides and upon the summits of the mesa, as shown in no. . although there is no running water within many miles, and consequently they cannot irrigate, yet they are quite successful in cultivating corn, melons, &c., usually raising much more than they consume. . pueblos. a general name applied by the spaniards to several tribes of semi-civilized indians in what is now new mexico. the term _pueblo_, in spanish, literally means the _people_ and their _towns_. they were first visited by cabeza de vaca in , who conveyed the first authentic account of their villages to mexico, which resulted, in , in the expedition of coronado. as nearly as can be ascertained at the present time, he visited and subdued the pueblos in the neighborhood of zuñi, along the rio grande, and the moqui of the province of tusayan; but only occupied the country two years. were finally subdued in , and the spanish retained uninterrupted control, with the exception of the period of the insurrection of , until the cession of the territory to the united states in . at the time of coronado's visit they were as advanced as now, raising grain, vegetables, and cotton, and manufacturing fine blankets. their houses are sometimes built of stone, but generally of adobe; are several stories in height--three to five usually--each one receding from the one below, leaving a terrace or walk. the general plan is a hollow square, although in some cases they are built in a solid mass, like a pyramid, six or eight stories in height. in each pueblo there are large rooms, sometimes under ground, for religious observances or councils, called in spanish, _estufas_. the towns are sometimes built upon the summits of high terraces or _mesas_, extremely difficult of approach. the pueblos constitute several tribes, with different languages; some are now extinct; but those existing are the zuñis; toltos in taos, with whom are classed the people of picuris, the sandia, and isleta; the tiguas in san juan, santa clara, nambé, san ildefonso, pojuaque, and tesuque; (the moquis of pueblo of te'-wa are said to speak this language); the queres in cochité, san domingo, san filipe, santa aña, zia, laguna, and acoma; the jemez, in the pueblo of the same name. in the pueblos named there are now estimated to be , people, the most populous being zuñi, with some , souls, and the least, pojuaque, numbering only some or persons. were recognized as citizens under mexican rule, but since the admission of new mexico the matter has been left in doubt. in , government confirmed to them the old spanish grants of the land the pueblos cultivate, averaging about twelve square leagues to each pueblo. they retain their own form of government, each village electing a governor, and a council consisting of three old men. have been under catholic influence since the spanish conquest; but in the division of the tribes among the religious denominations, the pueblos were first assigned to the baptists, and afterward to the presbyterians, who are now actively engaged in establishing schools among them. _list of illustrations._ . na-na-Án-ye. _a al metor de la sierra._ spanish name, antonio josé atencio. head chief of all the pueblos. can read and write spanish. age, ; height, . - / . . tse-wa-Án-ye. _tail of the eagle fluttering._ spanish name, antonio al churleta. governor of the pueblo of san juan, and is the bearer of a cane, the badge of his office, which is marked "a. lincoln, á san juan, ." can read and write in the spanish language. age, ; height, . - / . . wa-sÓ-to-yÁ-min. _small feathers of the eagle._ spanish name, juan jesus leo. governor of the pueblo of taos; which position is retained but for one year. is the bearer of a cane marked "a. lincol á taos." age, ; height, . - / . . ambrosia abeita. . alejandro padillo. - . groups with abeita and padillo. . group of antonio josÉ atencio, antonia al churleta, and juan jesus leo. - . the herder. one of the former governors of the pueblo of taos. . group of corridores. young men who are selected to run foot-races during the "feasts" or religious holidays. , . young maiden. a very good-looking young woman of the pueblo of taos, with her hair gathered over the ears, signifying her single state. this custom also obtains among the moquis. - ; , - . young girls and women of the pueblo of taos. , , , , - . various individuals belonging to the pueblo of taos. - . views of the pueblo of taos. . tawacanies. a small tribe in the indian territory associated with the caddos, kiowas, and others on the wichita agency. they are well advanced toward civilization. - . dave. - . caw-lac-its-ca. _son of dave._ . temiculsa. a small band of indians living in the southern portion of california, who are extensively intermarried with the mexicans. they are a thrifty, prosperous people, fully able to take good care of themselves, and are not under the care of any agent. . ka-lek. _hanging._ chief of the temiculas, and delegate recently to washington, to seek from the general government the restitution of some of their land, from which this tribe had been ejected by the state government. is a man of marked intelligence, and speaks spanish fluently. age, ; height, . ; head, - / ; chest, - / ; weight, . . andrew magrand. temicula and mexican half-breed. age, . . john clift. temicula and mexican half-breed. age, . numerical index. page. - . es-kel-ta-sa-la, _apache_, - . santo, _apache_, - . ta-ho, _apache_, - . gray eagle, _apache_, - . capitan, _apache_, - . pacer, _apache_, - . wife of pacer, _apache_, - . the herder, governor of taos, _pueblo_, . son of vicenti, _apache_, . a pueblo indian, . corridores, or runners, _pueblo_, . yellow bear and little wolf, _arapaho_, . powder face and squaw, _arapaho_, . medicine pipe and fool dog, _arapaho_, . crazy bull and friday, _arapaho_, . plenty bears and old eagle, _arapaho_, . lame white man and wild hog, _cheyenne_, . bald bear and cut foot, _cheyenne_, . dull knife and little wolf, _cheyenne_, . crazy head and spotted wolf, _cheyenne_, - . stone calf and squaw, _cheyenne_, - . big mouth, _cheyenne_, - . white crow, _cheyenne_, - . black crow, _cheyenne_, - . left hand, _cheyenne_, - . yellow horse, _cheyenne_, - . heap o' bears, _cheyenne_, - . groups of bannacks, . family of sheep-eater bannacks, - . groups about the bannack agency, - . little raven, _arapaho_, . colonel downing, _cherokee_, . richards, _cherokee_, . colonel adair, _cherokee_, . samuel smith, _cherokee_, . borum davis, _cherokee_, . captain scraper, _cherokee_, . bingo, _cherokee_, . j. d. james, _chickasaw_, . ash-ke-he-naw-niew, _chickasaw_, . sho-ni-on, _chickasaw_, . annie guy, _chickasaw_, . a young brave, _chickasaw_, - . hole in the day, _chippewa_, . bad boy, _chippewa_, . crossing sky, _chippewa_, . standing forward, _chippewa_, . stump, _chippewa_, . red bird, _chippewa_, . foremost sitter, _chippewa_, . noon-day, _chippewa_, . israel folsom, _choctaw_, . peter , _choctaw_, . samuel folsom, _choctaw_, . ---- folsom, _choctaw_, . faunceway batiste, _choctaw_, . b. l. le flore, _choctaw_, . samuel garland, _choctaw_, . colonel pytchlynn, _choctaw_, . allen wright, _choctaw_, . the drunken terrapin, _creek_, . town king, _creek_, . thompson ferryman, _creek_ . chief of the whirlwind, _creek_ . group of creeks, . tiger, _creek_, . sand, _creek_, - . family of george stedman, _creek_, . a creek brave, . little robe, _cheyenne_, . whirlwind, _cheyenne_, . white shield, _cheyenne_, . white horse, _cheyenne_, . medicine man, _cheyenne_, . pawnee, _cheyenne_, . edward guerrer, interpreter, _cheyenne_, . whilwind and pawnee, _cheyenne_, - . little robe, _cheyenne_, . high toe, _cheyenne_, - . groups at cheyenne agency, - . pedro scradalicto, _apache_, . es-cha-pa, _apache_, - . asa-havie, _comanche_, - . wife of asa-havie, _comanche_, - . timber bluff, _comanche_, - . silver knife, _comanche_, - - . wife of silver knife, _comanche_, - . gray leggings, _comanche_, - . cheevers, _comanche_, - . wife of cheevers, _comanche_, - . mother of cheevers, _comanche_, - . chewing elk, _comanche_, - . gap in the salt, _comanche_, - . daughter of gap in the salt, _comanche_, - . ten bears, _comanche_, - . buffalo hump, _comanche_, - . jim, _comanche_, - . george washington, _caddo_, - . war-loupe, _caddo_, - . antelope, _caddo_, - . buffalo goad, _wichita_, - . red thunder, _dakota_, - . good hawk, _dakota_, - . walking crane, _dakota_, - . yellow eagle, _dakota_, - . comanche drawings, - . black beaver, _delaware_, . great bear, _delaware_, - . long mandan, _two kettle dakota_, . spotted horse, _two kettle dakota_, . little short horn, _sissiton dakota_, . other day, _wahpeton dakota_, - . yellow hawk, _sans-arc dakota_, - . little crow, _m'dewakanton_, . medicine bottle, _m'dewakanton dakota_, . sha-kpe, _m'dewakanton dakota_, - . the shooter, _santee dakota_, . red ensign, _santee dakota_, . black lightning, _santee dakota_, . scarlet all over, _santee dakota_, . flute player, _santee dakota_, . standing soldier, _santee dakota_, . walks following the eagle, _santee dakota_, . red ensign, _santee dakota_, . his man horse, _santee dakota_, . coming among the clouds, _santee dakota_, . blue bird, _santee dakota_, . standing cloud, _santee dakota_, . scarlet night, _santee dakota_, . red legs, _santee dakota_, . seraphin renville, interpreter, _santee dakota_, . struck by the ree, _yankton dakota_, - . jumping thunder, _yankton dakota_, . long foot, _yankton dakota_, . white swan, _yankton dakota_, - . medicine cow, _yankton dakota_, - . two lance, _yankton dakota_, . feather in the ear, _yankton dakota_, - . little bird, _yankton dakota_, - . black eagle, _yankton dakota_, . bear lying down, _yankton dakota_, . running bull, _yankton dakota_, . walking elk, _yankton dakota_, . standing elk, _yankton dakota_, . smutty bear, _yankton dakota_, . struck by the ree, _yankton dakota_, - . smutty bear and struck by the ree, _yankton dakota_, . yankton war-dance, . santee brave, . great scalper, _santee_, . standing buffalo, _santee_, . old betts, _santee_, - . grass, _blackfeet dakota_, - . sitting crow, _blackfeet dakota_, - . iron scare, _blackfeet dakota_, . red plume, _blackfeet dakota_, - . bear's rib, _oncpapa dakota_, - . running antelope, _oncpapa dakota_, , - . iron horn, _oncpapa dakota_, - . walking shooter, _oncpapa dakota_, - . thunder hawk, _oncpapa dakota_, - . big head, _upper yanktonais dakota_, - . black eye, _upper yanktonais dakota_, - . big razor, _upper yanktonais dakota_, - . bull's ghost, _lower yanktonais dakota_, - . foolish bear, _lower yanktonais dakota_, - . two bears, _lower yanktonais dakota_, - . medicine bear, _cut head dakota_, - . afraid of the bear, _cut head dakota_, - . bear's nose, _cut head dakota_, - . skin of the heart, _cut head dakota_, - . red lodge, _cut head dakota_, - . man who packs the eagle, _cut head dakota_, - . squaw of the man who packs the eagle, _cut head dakota_, - . red cloud, _ogalalla dakota_, . red cloud and mr. blackmore, _ogalalla dakota_, - . red dog, _ogalalla dakota_, - . lone wolf, _ogalalla dakota_, - . ear of corn, squaw of lone wolf, _ogalalla dakota_, - . big foot, _ogalalla dakota_, - . white hawk, _ogalalla dakota_, - . afraid of the eagle, _ogalalla dakota_, - . blue horse, _ogalalla dakota_, - . stabber, _ogalalla dakota_, - . dirt face, _ogalalla dakota_, - . good buffalo, _ogalalla dakota_, - . poor elk, _ogalalla dakota_, , - . two elks, _ogalalla dakota_, - . high wolf, _ogalalla dakota_, - . coyote, _ogalalla dakota_, - . hard heart, _ogalalla dakota_, - . slow bull, _ogalalla dakota_, . one horned elk, _ogalalla dakota_, . big rib, _ogalalla dakota_, . war eagle, _ogalalla dakota_, . old man afraid of his horses and chiefs, _ogalalla dakota_, - . spotted tail, _brulé dakota_, , . spotted tail and squaw, _brulé dakota_, - . squaw of spotted tail, _brulé dakota_, - . gassy, _brulé dakota_, - . whitewash his face, _brulé dakota_, - . charge on the hawk, _brulé dakota_, - . two strikes, _brulé dakota_, - . squaw of two strikes, _brulé dakota_, - . black crow, _brulé dakota_, - . one who runs the tiger, _brulé dakota_, - . bald eagle, _brulé dakota_, - . thigh, _brulé dakota_, - . squaw of thigh, _brulé dakota_, - . black bull, _brulé dakota_, - . no flesh, _brulé dakota_, , - . iron shell, _brulé dakota_, - . wicked bear, _brulé dakota_, - . yellow hairs, _brulé dakota_, - . white eyes, _brulé dakota_, - . swift bear, _brulé dakota_, - . white thunder, _brulé dakota_, - . iron nation, _brulé dakota_, - . group of santees with mr. hinman, - . british, _iowa_, . black hawk, _iowa_, - . knife, _iowa_, . little chief, _iowa_, . deer ham, _iowa_, - . no heart, _iowa_, . deer ham, _iowa_, . george gomez, _sac and fox_, . little bear, _kansas_, , . ka-ke-ga-sha, _kansas_, . wahcoma, _sac and fox_, . grey eyes, _sac and fox_, , . lone wolf, _kiowa_, - . squaw of lone wolf, _kiowa_, . sleeping wolf, _kiowa_, , . son of the sun, _kiowa_, . drawing by a kiowa indian, , . knee-war-war, _keechie_, , . josé pocati, _apache_, . moqui delegates, . lum-ki-kom, _miami_, . thomas miller, _miami_, . joe dick, _miami_, , . roubideaux, _miami_, . thomas richardwell, _miami_, . roubideaux and richardwell, _miami_, , . jason, _nez percé_, , . timothy, _nez percé_, , . a nez percé camp, , . nez percé lodges, . a nez percé chief, . a nez percé half-breed, - . views in a nez percé camp, . guerito, _apache_, . a young brave, _apache_, . son of guerito, _apache_, - . young braves, _apache_, . pah-yeh, _apache_, . a young brave, _apache_, . guachinito, _apache_, . a young brave, . kle-zeh, _apache_, - . navajos, , . omaha indian agency buildings, , . view from black bird hill, , . omaha indian village, . gihiga, _omaha_, . gihiga's lodge, _omaha_, , . standing hawk and squaw, _omaha_, . standing at the end, _omaha_, . standing bent, _omaha_, , . betsy, _omaha_, . indian carpenters at work, _omaha_, - . groups of school-children, _omaha_, . a brave, _omaha_, . eba-hom-ba's lodge, _omaha_, . village scene, _omaha_, . standby it, _otoe_, . true eagle, _missouria_, , . medicine horse, _otoe_, - . one who eats his food raw, _missouria_, . big bear, _missouria_, . little pipe, _otoe_, . little iowa, _otoe_, , . little pipe, _otoe_, . little pipe and group, _otoe_, - . medicine horse, _otoe_, . buffalo chief, _otoe_, . medicine horse, buffalo chief, and interpreter, _otoe_, . baptiste devoin and buffalo chief, _otoe_, . black elk, _missouria_, . medicine horse and buffalo chief, _otoe_, . blue bird and buck elk walking, _otoe_, . group of otoes, . medicine horse, _otoe_, . the one they are afraid of, _missouria_, . sucker, _ottawa_, . lightning, _ottawa_, . john wilson, _ottawa_, . passing through, _ottawa_, . the savage, _osage_, . the distant land, _osage_, . joseph, _osage_, . one who reaches to the sky, _osage_, . saucy chief, _osage_, , . group of four ponca chiefs, . iron whip, _ponca_, . pe-ah and other ute chiefs, . native ponca drawing, . thunder coming down to the ground, _pottawatomie_, . pawnee indian village, _nebraska_, . pawnee mud lodge, - . groups of pawnee school-children, , . groups of pawnee chiefs and headmen, , - . peta-lashara, _pawnee_, . eagle chief, _pawnee_, . sun chief, _pawnee_, . one who brings herds, _pawnee_, . group of pawnee squaws, - . pawnee school-buildings, _nebraska_, . pawnee decorative painting on buffalo-skin, , . pawnee agency buildings, . one who gives to the poor, _pawnee_, . squaw of one who gives to the poor, _pawnee_, . a brave, _pawnee_, . pipe chief, _pawnee_, . a brave, _pawnee_, , . group of two pawnee chiefs, , . group of four pawnee chiefs, , . baptiste bahylle, _pawnee_, , . small boy, _pawnee_, , . blue hawk and coming with the herd, _pawnee_, . sky chief, _pawnee_, - . miscellaneous groups of pawnees, , . pawnee indian village, . pawnee mud lodge, , . pawnee pappooses, , . groups of pawnee chiefs, . on a fine horse, _pawnee_, . particular as to time of day, _pawnee_, . the sun coming in, _pawnee_, . behind the one who strikes first, _pawnee_, . little raven, _pawnee_, . white horse, _pawnee_, . rattlesnake, _pawnee_, . fox, _pawnee_, . acting like a fox, _pawnee_, . beaver, _pawnee_, . little raven, _pawnee_, . as-sow-weet, _pawnee_, , . young braves, _pawnee_, . ter-ra-re-caw-wah, _pawnee_, . long dog, _pawnee_, . an old man, _pawnee_, . as-sow-weet and sawka, _pawnee_, . male calf and on a fine horse, _pawnee_, . rattlesnake and squaw, _pawnee_, . in the front and squaw, _pawnee_, . nice horse, _pawnee_, . good bear, _pawnee_, . beginning to go to war, _pawnee_, . fox on the war-path, _pawnee_, . crow's eyes, _pawnee_, . medicine bull, _pawnee_, . one who strikes the chiefs first, _pawnee_, . medicine eagle, _pawnee_, . driving a herd, _pawnee_, . medicine antelope, _pawnee_, . good buffalo, _pawnee_, . little raven, _pawnee_, . one seen by all, _pawnee_, . on a fine horse, _pawnee_, . knee-mark on the ground, &c., _pawnee_, . bad man, _pawnee_, . growling bear, _pawnee_, . pueblo indian from taos, - . indian girls and women from the pueblo of taos, . a pueblo girl, . a pueblo man, . a pueblo girl, , . pueblo men, - . pueblo women, . a pueblo man, , . pueblo girls, - . views in the pueblo of taos, new mexico, . ambrosia abeita, _pueblo_, . alejandro padillo, _pueblo_, , . abeita and padillo, _pueblo_, . ambrosia abeita, _pueblo_, . alejandro padillo, _pueblo_, . w. f. m. arny, pueblo agent, _pueblo_, - . ascencion rios, _papago_, . es-cha-pa, _apache_, , . luig morague, _pima_, , . antonio azul, _pima_, , . shoshone village in south pass, , . war chief's tent, shoshone village, , . washakie and his warriors, _shoshone_, , . washakie, _shoshone_, , . views in a shoshone village, - . groups and miscellaneous portraits of shoshones, . keokuk, sr., _sac and fox_, . keokuk, jr., _sac and fox_, . charles keokuk, _sac and fox_, - . keokuk, jr., and charles keokuk, _sac and fox_, , . mo-less, _sac and fox_, - . sacapee, _sac and fox_, - . mo-less and sacapee, _sac and fox_, . george gomez, _sac and fox_, . dead indian, _sac and fox_, . the sea, _sac and fox_, . big bear, _sac and fox_, - . mo-ko-ho-ko, _sac and fox_, . mano-to-wa, _sac and fox_, . george gomez, _sac and fox_, . keokuk, jr., _sac and fox_, , . group of delegates, _sac and fox_, . sac chief, _sac and fox_, . group of sac and fox chiefs, _sac and fox_, . commissioner and delegates, _sac and fox_, . wa-wa-si-mo, _shawnee_, . f. a. rogers, _shawnee_, . charles tucker, _shawnee_, . billy bowlegs, _seminole_, . a daughter of general parker, _seneca_, . bertram, _shawnee_, . black buffalo, _arickaree_, . long knife, _arickaree_, . light foot, _yankton dakota_, , . many horns, _dakota_, , . black eye, _dakota_, , . long fox, _dakota_, , . dave, _tawacanie_, , . caw-hac-its-ca, _tawacanie_, , . long soldier, _waco_, , . assadawa, _wichita_, , . esquitzchew, _wichita_, . black horse, _wichita_, , . charlie arriwawa, _apache_, . tapuche, _utah_, . mautchick, _utah_, . guerito, _apache_, . co-ho, _utah_, . utah-arapaho, - . antero, _utah_, , . wa-ne-ro, _utah_, , . tabiyuna, _utah_, , . ko-mus, _utah_, - . ouray, _utah_, . guero, _utah_, . john, _utah_, . kwa-ko-nut and mose, _utah_, . cu-ra-can-te, _utah_, , . shavano, _utah_, . wa-rets and shavano, _utah_, . group of ouray and chiefs, _utah_, . group of chiefs, _utah_, . shuriap, _utah_, . chippin, _utah_, . little soldier, _utah_, . squaw of little soldier, _utah_, . shavano, _utah_, . lovo, _utah_, . rainbow, _utah_, . nick-a-a-god, _utah_, . pe-ah, _utah_, . barban-cito, _navajo_, . sappix and son, _utah_, . chu, _utah_, . kanosh, _utah_, - . miscellaneous groups, _utah_, , . bloody mouth, _oncpapa dakota_, , . lost medicine, _oncpapa dakota_, , . black-horn, _oncpapa dakota_, , . bull-rushes, _oncpapa dakota_, . group of fox chiefs, . commissioner bogy reading treaty, . group of winnebagoes, - . winnebago children, . wife of martin van buren, _winnebago_, . winnebago children, . blue cloud passing, _winnebago_, . general sherman and indian commissioners at fort laramie, , . commissioners in council at laramie, . old man afraid, and group, - . miscellaneous groups about laramie, . sioux burial, - . groups about larami, . sioux delegation at the white house, - . saint mary's mission, kansas, (pottawatomie school), . the sergeant of the guard, . little shell and chiefs, _chippewas_, . moses ladd, _menominee_, . eskiminzin, _apache_, . eskiminzin and squaw, _apache_, . cassadora, _apache_, . cassadora and squaw, _apache_, . eskinilay, _apache_, . eskinilay and squaw, _apache_, . group of crow delegates, . chiquito, _apache_, . chiquito and squaw, _apache_, . saygully, _apache_, . eskayela, _apache_, . skellegunny, _apache_, . cullah, _apache_, . hautushnehay, _apache_, . napashgingush, _apache_, . cushashado, _apache_, . pinal, _apache_, . passelah, _apache_, . marijildo grijalva, interpreter, , . group of apache delegates, . little big man, _ogalalla dakota_, . young man afraid of his horses, _ogalalla dakota_, . american horse, _ogalalla dakota_, . little wound, _ogalalla dakota_, . he dog, _ogalalla dakota_, . yellow bear, _ogalalla dakota_, . three bears, _ogalalla dakota_, . sword, _ogalalla dakota_, . garnet, interpreter, _ogalalla dakota_, . group, including nos. - , _ogalalla dakota_, . charles papinea, interpreter for mandans, . yellow smoke, _omaha_, . black dog, _osage_, . group of chiefs, _osage_, . joseph and black dog, _osage_, . joseph, black dog, and others, _osage_, . iron black bird, _yankton dakota_, . flying pipe, _yankton dakota_, . little thunder, _yankton dakota_, . sacred ball, _yankton dakota_, . flying bird, _yankton dakota_, . chief with big war bonnet, _yankton dakota_, . he kills first, _yankton dakota_, . sacred ghost, _yankton dakota_, , . bear with a big voice, _yankton dakota_, . pretty rock, _yankton dakota_, . one who catches the enemy, _yankton dakota_, . one who walks home, _yankton dakota_, . bear that walks lying down, _yankton dakota_, , . the bear that tarns around, _yankton dakota_, , . long foot, _yankton dakota_, . medicine bull, _yankton dakota_, - . bird chief, _arapaho_, . maza-o-zau-zan, _dakota_, . iron elk, _dakota_, . goose, _blackfeet dakota_, . iowa chief, . group of iowas, . red owl, _dakota_, . cut nose, _dakota_, . iron shooter, _dakota_, . tall feather joining, _dakota_, . medicine bottle, _dakota_, . plenty, _dakota_, . colorado, _utah_, , . choctaw boys, , . choctaw girls, . blackfoot and squaw, _crow_, . iron bull and squaw, _crow_, . bear wolf and squaw, _crow_, . old crow and squaw, _crow_, . blackfoot, long horse, and white calf, _crow_, . mo-mukh-pi-tche, thin belly, and the one that leads the old dog, _crow_, . blackfoot, _crow_, . he shows his face, _crow_, . old onion, _crow_, . group of chiefs, _crow_, . group of squaws, _crow_, . inside view of a crow lodge, . crow village, (adobe houses), . the old mission, or crow agency, . crow burial, - . encampment of ute indians, near denver, - . ute indians in camp at los pinos, - . miscellaneous groups of ute indians, - . wal-aiks-ski-dat, _klamath_, . yum-nis-poc-tis, _klamath_, . ol-ha-the, _rogue river_, . myron silverheels, _seneca_, . group of senecas, . mathew mudeater, _wyandot_, . nicholas cotter, _wyandot_, . num-payu, _moqui_, - . friday, _arapaho_, . street view in tewa, _moqui pueblos_, . view of gualpi, _moqui pueblos_, . view in shepaulave, _moqui pueblos_, . group of pueblo governors, . ka-lek, or oligario, _temicula_, . andrew magrand, _temicula_, . john clift, _temicula_, . little shell, _chippewa_, . little bull, _chippewa_, . something blown up by the wind, _chippewa_, . the man who knows how to hunt, _chippewa_, . lance, _mandan_, . bushing war eagle, _mandan_, . running face, _mandan_, . scar-faced charley, _modoc_, . shack-nasty jim, _modoc_, . steamboat frank, _modoc_, . win-ne-ma, _modoc_, . antonio josè atencio, _pueblo_, . antonio al churleta, _pueblo_, . juan jesus leo, _pueblo_, . group of atencio, churleta, and leo, _pueblo_, . téwa, _moqui pueblos_, . house of the capitan of tewa, _moqui pueblos_, . gualpi, _moqui pueblos_, . shepaulave, _moqui pueblos_, . moo-sha-na-ve, _moqui pueblos_, . she-mo-pa-ve, _moqui pueblos_, . house of the capitan, she-mo-pa-ve, _moqui pueblos_, . manulito, _navajo_, . juanita, _navajo_, . manulito segundo, _navajo_, . cayatanito, _navajo_, . barbas hueros, _navajo_, . cabra negra, _navajo_, . narbona primero, _navajo_, . carnero mucho, _navajo_, . granada mucho, tienne-su-se, and mariano, _navajo_, . juanita and governor arny, . frank king, _ottawa_, . joseph king, _ottawa_, . l. s. dagnet, _ottawa_, . rushing war eagle, _arickaree_, . black fox, _arickaree_, . bull head, _arickaree_, . harrison halftown, _seneca_, . samuel jimson, _seneca_, . john irving, _seneca_, . caster red eye, _seneca_, . j. c. w. adams, _stockbridge_, . jacob jacobs, _stockbridge_, . ke-hey-a-kin, _warm spring_, . oscar mark, _wasco_, . ske-metze, _warm spring_, . semeo, _warm spring_, . cappolas, _warm spring_, . wayatatkin, _warm spring_, . stat-tla-ka, _wasco_, . shaka, _warm spring_, . kle-mat-chosny, _wasco_, . histo, _warm spring_, . chin-chin-wet, _warm spring_, . lyman p. fowler, _brotherton_, . sour spittle, _chippewa_, . bad boy, _chippewa_, . the boy, _chippewa_, . auguste, _chippewa_, . moose's dung, _chippewa_, . something in the air falling, _chippewa_, . the son of essiniwub, _chippewa_, . something beginning to sail off, _chippewa_, . a yellow-haired one sailing along, _chippewa_, . like a bird, _chippewa_, . john m. st. cyr, _winnebago_, addendum. _list of negatives taken during the printing of the catalogue._ . hde-dÁ-ska. _white eagle._ ponca. head chief. age, years; height, feet inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . ta-tÁu-ka-nÚ-zhe. _standing buffalo._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches, circumference of chest, - / inches. . ma-chÚ-nÚ-zhe. _standing bear._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. . Úmp-pa-tonga. _big elk._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, inches; circumference of chest, inches. . khÁ-ka-sÁpa. _black crow._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . ma-gÁ-ska. _white swan._ ponca. age, years; height, feet inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches. . gi-he-ga. _big chief._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches. . shÚ-da-gÁ-ka. _smoke maker._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . ma-chÚ-hinkth-tÁ. _hairy bear._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, - / inches. . wase-Á-toÚga. _big snake._ ponca. age, years; height, feet - / inches; circumference of head, - / inches; circumference of chest, inches. . charles le clair. _interpreter._ french and ponca half-breed. . baptiste bumaby. _interpreter._ mother an iowa and father an otoe. . group of four chiefs and two interpreters of the ponca delegation. . group of all the members of the ponca delegation in washington, november , . * * * * * transcriber notes punctuation has been corrected without note. obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note. inconsistent spelling of the same word in the original, with the exception of hyphens, has been retained except as listed below. page iii: "measurememts" changed to "measurements" (photographs, measurements or other details). page : "cultivate" changed to "cultivates" (while his family cultivates corn and potatoes). page : "miembro" changed to "miembre" in listing of names for consistent spelling. page : "napasgingush" changed to "napashgingush" for consistency. page : "ah-he-cho-ka-thocka" changed to "ah-ho-che-ka-thocka" (at his (ah-ho-che-ka-thocka's) death) for consistent spelling. page : "callling" changed to "calling" (the otoes, calling themselves). page : "hic-a-poo" changed to "hick-a-poo" (and after the death of hick-a-poo). page : "babtiste" changed to "baptiste" (baptiste devoin). page : "anually" changed to "annually" (are now elected annually). page : "aboat" changed to "about" (consented to the sale of about). page : "tawaconies" changed to "tawacanies" (keechies, tawacanies, ionies). page : the last sentence in the paragraph about the caddos does not have an ending in the original book. the reservation was located between the washita and canadian rivers. page : "ter-rer-e-caw-wah" changed to "ter-ra-re-caw-wah" for consistency. the best portraits in engraving. by charles sumner. _fifth edition._ frederick keppel & co. new york, east th street. london, paris, duke street, adelphi. quai de l'horloge. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by frederick keppel, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington. the best portraits in engraving. engraving is one of the fine arts, and in this beautiful family has been the especial handmaiden of painting. another sister is now coming forward to join this service, lending to it the charm of color. if, in our day, the "chromo" can do more than engraving, it cannot impair the value of the early masters. with them there is no rivalry or competition. historically, as well as æsthetically, they will be masters always. everybody knows something of engraving, as of printing, with which it was associated in origin. school-books, illustrated papers, and shop windows are the ordinary opportunities open to all. but while creating a transient interest, or, perhaps, quickening the taste, they furnish little with regard to the art itself, especially in other days. and yet, looking at an engraving, like looking at a book, may be the beginning of a new pleasure and a new study. each person has his own story. mine is simple. suffering from continued prostration, disabling me from the ordinary activities of life, i turned to engravings for employment and pastime. with the invaluable assistance of that devoted connoisseur, the late dr. thies, i went through the gray collection at cambridge, enjoying it like a picture-gallery. other collections in our country were examined also. then, in paris, while undergoing severe medical treatment, my daily medicine for weeks was the vast cabinet of engravings, then called imperial, now national, counted by the million, where was everything to please or instruct. thinking of those kindly portfolios, i make this record of gratitude, as to benefactors. perhaps some other invalid, seeking occupation without burden, may find in them the solace that i did. happily, it is not necessary to visit paris for the purpose. other collections, on a smaller scale, will furnish the same remedy. in any considerable collection, portraits occupy an important place. their multitude may be inferred when i mention that, in one series of portfolios, in the paris cabinet, i counted no less than forty-seven portraits of franklin and forty-three of lafayette, with an equal number of washington, while all the early presidents were numerously represented. but, in this large company, there are very few possessing artistic value. the great portraits of modern times constitute a very short list, like the great poems or histories, and it is the same with engravings as with pictures. sir joshua reynolds, explaining the difference between an historical painter and a portrait-painter, remarks that the former "paints men in general, a portrait-painter a particular man, and consequently a defective model."[ ] a portrait, therefore, may be an accurate presentment of its subject without æsthetic value. but here, as in other things, genius exercises its accustomed sway without limitation. even the difficulties of a "defective model" did not prevent raffaelle, titian, rembrandt, rubens, velasquez, or vandyck from producing portraits precious in the history of art. it would be easy to mention heads by raffaelle, yielding in value to only two or three of his larger masterpieces, like the dresden madonna. charles the fifth stooped to pick up the pencil of titian, saying "it becomes cæsar to serve titian!" true enough; but this unprecedented compliment from the imperial successor of charlemagne attests the glory of the portrait-painter. the female figures of titian, so much admired under the names of flora, la bella, his daughter, his mistress, and even his venus, were portraits from life. rembrandt turned from his great triumphs in his own peculiar school to portraits of unwonted power; so also did rubens, showing that in this department his universality of conquest was not arrested. to these must be added velasquez and vandyck, each of infinite genius, who won fame especially as portrait-painters. and what other title has sir joshua himself? [sidenote: suyderhoef.] historical pictures are often collections of portraits arranged so as to illustrate an important event. such is the famous peace of mÜnster, by terburg, just presented by a liberal englishman to the national gallery at london. here are the plenipotentiaries of holland, spain, and austria, uniting in the great treaty which constitutes an epoch in the law of nations. the engraving by suyderhoef is rare and interesting. similar in character is the death of chatham, by copley, where the illustrious statesman is surrounded by the peers he had been addressing--every one a portrait. to this list must be added the pictures by trumbull in the rotunda of the capitol at washington, especially the declaration of independence, in which thackeray took a sincere interest. standing before these, the author and artist said to me, "these are the best pictures in the country," and he proceeded to remark on their honesty and fidelity; but doubtless their real value is in their portraits. unquestionably the finest assemblage of portraits anywhere is that of the artists occupying two halls in the gallery at florence, being autographs contributed by the masters themselves. here is raffaelle, with chestnut-brown hair, and dark eyes full of sensibility, painted when he was twenty-three, and known by the engraving of forster--julio romano, in black and red chalk on paper,--massaccio, called the father of painting, much admired--leonardo da vinci, beautiful and grand,--titian, rich and splendid,--pietro perugino, remarkable for execution and expression,--albert dürer, rigid but masterly,--gerhard dow, finished according to his own exacting style,--and reynolds, with fresh english face; but these are only examples of this incomparable collection, which was begun as far back as the cardinal leopold de medici, and has been happily continued to the present time. here are the lions, painted by themselves, except, perhaps, the foremost of all, michael angelo, whose portrait seems the work of another. the impression from this collection is confirmed by that of any group of historic artists. their portraits excel those of statesmen, soldiers, or divines, as is easily seen by engravings accessible to all. the engraved heads in arnold houbraken's biographies of the dutch and flemish painters, in three volumes, are a family of rare beauty.[ ] the relation of engraving to painting is often discussed; but nobody has treated it with more knowledge or sentiment than the consummate engraver longhi in his interesting work, _la calcografia_.[ ] dwelling on the general aid it renders to the lovers of art, he claims for it greater merit in "publishing and immortalizing the portraits of eminent men for the example of the present and future generations;" and, "better than any other art, serving as the vehicle for the most extended and remote propagation of deserved celebrity." even great monuments in porphyry and bronze are less durable than these light and fragile impressions subject to all the chances of wind, water, and fire, but prevailing by their numbers where the mass succumbs. in other words, it is with engravings as with books; nor is this the only resemblance between them. according to longhi, an engraving is not a copy or imitation, as is sometimes insisted, but a translation. the engraver translates into another language, where light and shade supply the place of colors. the duplication of a book in the same language is a copy, and so is the duplication of a picture in the same material. evidently an engraving is not a copy; it does not reproduce the original picture, except in drawing and expression; nor is it a mere imitation, but, as bryant's homer and longfellow's dante are presentations of the great originals in another language, so is the engraving a presentation of painting in another material which is like another language. thus does the engraver vindicate his art. but nobody can examine a choice print without feeling that it has a merit of its own different from any picture, and inferior only to a good picture. a work of raffaelle, or any of the great masters, is better in an engraving of longhi or morghen than in any ordinary copy, and would probably cost more in the market. a good engraving is an undoubted work of art, but this cannot be said of many pictures, which, like peter pindar's razors, seem made to sell. much that belongs to the painter belongs also to the engraver, who must have the same knowledge of contours, the same power of expression, the same sense of beauty, and the same ability in drawing with sureness of sight as if, according to michael angelo, he had "a pair of compasses in his eyes." these qualities in a high degree make the artist, whether painter or engraver, naturally excelling in portraits. but choice portraits are less numerous in engraving than in painting, for the reason, that painting does not always find a successful translator. [illustration: philip melancthon. (engraved by albert dürer from his own design.)] [sidenote: dürer.] the earliest engraved portraits which attract attention are by albert dürer, who engraved his own work, translating himself. his eminence as painter was continued as engraver. here he surpassed his predecessors, martin schoen in germany, and mantegna in italy, so that longhi does not hesitate to say that he was the first who carried the art from infancy in which he found it to a condition not far from flourishing adolescence. but, while recognizing his great place in the history of engraving, it is impossible not to see that he is often hard and constrained, if not unfinished. his portrait of erasmus is justly famous, and is conspicuous among the prints exhibited in the british museum. it is dated , two years before the death of dürer, and has helped to extend the fame of the universal scholar and approved man of letters, who in his own age filled a sphere not unlike that of voltaire in a later century. there is another portrait of erasmus by holbein, often repeated, so that two great artists have contributed to his renown. that by dürer is admired. the general fineness of touch, with the accessories of books and flowers, shows the care in its execution; but it wants expression, and the hands are far from graceful. another most interesting portrait by dürer, executed in the same year with the erasmus, is philip melancthon, the st. john of the reformation, sometimes called the teacher of germany. luther, while speaking of himself as rough, boisterous, stormy, and altogether warlike, says, "but master philippus comes along softly and gently, sowing and watering with joy according to the rich gifts which god has bestowed upon him." at the date of the print he was twenty-nine years of age, and the countenance shows the mild reformer. [sidenote: caracci.] agostino caracci, of the bolognese family, memorable in art, added to considerable success as painter undoubted triumphs as engraver. his prints are numerous, and many are regarded with favor; but out of the long list not one is so sure of that longevity allotted to art as his portrait of titian, which bears date , eleven years after the death of the latter. over it is the inscription, _titiani vicellii pictoris celeberrimi ac famosissimi vera effigies_, to which is added beneath, _cujus nomen orbis continere non valet_! although founded on originals by titian himself, it was probably designed by the remarkable engraver. it is very like, and yet unlike the familiar portrait of which we have a recent engraving by mandel, from a repetition in the gallery of berlin. looking at it, we are reminded of the terms by which vasari described the great painter, _guidicioso, bello e stupendo_. such a head, with such visible power, justifies these words, or at least makes us believe them entirely applicable. it is bold, broad, strong, and instinct with life. this print, like the erasmus of dürer, is among those selected for exhibition at the british museum, and it deserves the honor. though only paper with black lines, it is, by the genius of the artist, as good as a picture. in all engraving nothing is better. [sidenote: goltzius.] contemporary with caracci was hendrik goltzius, at harlem, excellent as painter, but, like the italian, pre-eminent as engraver. his prints show mastery of the art, making something like an epoch in its history. his unwearied skill in the use of the burin appears in a tradition gathered by longhi from wille, that, having commenced a line, he carried it to the end without once stopping, while the long and bright threads of copper turned up were brushed aside by his flowing beard, which at the end of a day's labor so shone in the light of a candle that his companions nicknamed him "the man with the golden beard." there are prints by him which shine more than his beard. among his masterpieces is the portrait of his instructor, theodore coernhert, engraver, poet, musician, and vindicator of his country, and author of the national air, "william of orange," whose passion for liberty did not prevent him from giving to the world translations of cicero's offices and seneca's treatise on beneficence. but that of the engraver himself, as large as life, is one of the most important in the art. among the numerous prints by goltzius, these two will always be conspicuous. [illustration: jan lutma. (etched by rembrandt from his own design.)] [sidenote: pontius.] [sidenote: rembrandt.] [sidenote: visscher.] in holland goltzius had eminent successors. among these were paul pontius, designer and engraver, whose portrait of rubens is of great life and beauty, and rembrandt, who was not less masterly in engraving than in painting, as appears sufficiently in his portraits of the burgomaster six, the two coppenols, the advocate tolling, the goldsmith lutma, all showing singular facility and originality. contemporary with rembrandt was cornelis visscher, also designer and engraver, whose portraits were unsurpassed in boldness and picturesque effect. at least one authority has accorded to this artist the palm of engraving, hailing him as corypheus of the art. among his successful portraits is that of a cat; but all yield to what are known as the great beards, being the portraits of william de ryck, an ophthalmist at amsterdam, and of gellius de bouma, the zutphen ecclesiastic. the latter is especially famous. in harmony with the beard is the heavy face, seventy-seven years old, showing the fulness of long-continued potation, and hands like the face, original and powerful, if not beautiful. [illustration: the sleeping cat. (engraved by cornelis visscher from his own design.)] [sidenote: vandyck.] in contrast with visscher was his companion vandyck, who painted portraits with constant beauty and carried into etching the same virgilian taste and skill. his aquafortis was not less gentle than his pencil. among his etched portraits i would select that of snyders, the animal painter, as extremely beautiful. m. renouvier, in his learned and elaborate work, _des types et des maniéres des maîtres graveurs_, though usually moderate in praise, speaks of these sketches as "possessing a boldness and delicacy which charm, being taken, at the height of his genius, by the painter who knew the best how to idealize the painting of portraits." such are illustrative instances from germany, italy, and holland. as yet, power rather than beauty presided, unless in the etchings of vandyck. but the reign of louis xiv. was beginning to assert a supremacy in engraving as in literature. the great school of french engravers which appeared at this time brought the art to a splendid perfection, which many think has not been equalled since, so that masson, nanteuil, edelinck, and drevet may claim fellowship in genius with their immortal contemporaries, corneille, racine, la fontaine, and molière. [illustration: the sudarium of st. veronica. (engraved by claude mellan from his own design.)] [sidenote: mellan.] the school was opened by claude mellan, more known as engraver than painter, and also author of most of the designs he engraved. his life, beginning with the sixteenth century, was protracted beyond ninety years, not without signal honor, for his name appears among the "illustrious men" of france, in the beautiful volumes of perrault, which is also a homage to the art he practiced. one of his works, for a long time much admired, was described by this author: "it is a christ's head, designed and shaded, with his crown of thorns and the blood that gushes forth from all parts, by one single stroke, which, beginning at the tip of the nose, and so still circling on, forms most exactly everything that is represented in this plate, only by the different thickness of the stroke, which, according as it is more or less swelling, makes the eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, hair, blood, and thorns; the whole so well represented and with such expressions of pain and affliction, that nothing is more dolorous or touching."[ ] this print is known as the sudarium of st. veronica. longhi records that it was thought at the time "inimitable," and was praised "to the skies;" but people think differently now. at best it is a curiosity among portraits. a traveler reported some time ago that it was the sole print on the walls of the room occupied by the director of the imperial cabinet of engravings at st. petersburgh. [sidenote: morin.] morin was a contemporary of mellan, and less famous at the time. his style of engraving was peculiar, being a mixture of strokes and dots, but so harmonized as to produce a pleasing effect. one of the best engraved portraits in the history of the art is his cardinal bentivoglio; but here he translated vandyck, whose picture is among his best. a fine impression of this print is a choice possession. [illustration: cardinal bentivoglio. (painted by anthony van dyck, and engraved by jean morin.)] [sidenote: masson.] among french masters antoine masson is conspicuous for brilliant hardihood of style, which, though failing in taste, is powerful in effect. metal, armor, velvet, feather, seem as if painted. he is also most successful in the treatment of hair. his immense skill made him welcome difficulties, as if to show his ability in overcoming them. his print of henri de lorraine, comte d'harcourt, known as _cadet à la perle_, from the pearl in the ear, with the date , is often placed at the head of engraved portraits, although not particularly pleasing or interesting. the vigorous countenance is aided by the gleam and sheen of the various substances entering into the costume. less powerful, but having a charm of its own, is that of brisacier, known as the gray-haired man, executed in . the remarkable representation of hair in this print has been a model for artists, especially for longhi, who recounts that he copied it in his head of washington. somewhat similar is the head of charrier, the criminal judge at lyons. though inferior in hair, it surpasses the other in expression. [sidenote: nanteuil.] nanteuil was an artist of different character, being to masson as vandyck to visscher, with less of vigor than beauty. his original genius was refined by classical studies, and quickened by diligence. though dying at the age of forty-eight, he had executed as many as two hundred and eighty plates, nearly all portraits. the favor he enjoyed during life was not diminished with time. his works illustrate the reign of louis xiv., and are still admired. among these are portraits of the king, annie of austria, john baptiste van steenberghen, the advocate-general of holland, a heavy dutchman, franÇois de la motte le vayer, a fine and delicate work, turenne, colbert, lamoignon, the poet loret, maridat de serriÈre, louise-marie de gonzague, louis hesselin, christine of sweden--all masterpieces; but above these is the pompone de belliÈvre, foremost among his masterpieces, and a chief masterpiece of art, being, in the judgment of more than one connoisseur, the most beautiful engraved portrait that exists. that excellent authority, dr. thies, who knew engraving more thoroughly and sympathetically than any person i remember in our country, said in a letter to myself, as long ago as march, : "when i call nanteuil's pompone the handsomest engraved portrait, i express a conviction to which i came when i studied all the remarkable engraved portraits at the royal cabinet of engravings at dresden, and at the large and exquisite collection there of the late king of saxony, and in which i was confirmed or perhaps, to which i was led, by the director of the two establishments, the late professor frenzel." and after describing this head, the learned connoisseur proceeds:-- "there is an air of refinement, _vornehmheit_, round the mouth and nose as in no other engraving. color and life shine through the skin, and the lips appear red." it is bold, perhaps, thus to exalt a single portrait, giving to it the palm of venus; nor do i know that it is entirely proper to classify portraits according to beauty. in disputing about beauty, we are too often lost in the variety of individual tastes, and yet each person knows when he is touched. in proportion as multitudes are touched, there must be merit. as in music a simple heart-melody is often more effective than any triumph over difficulties, or bravura of manner, so in engraving the sense of the beautiful may prevail over all else, and this is the case with the pompone, although there are portraits by others showing higher art. no doubt there have been as handsome men, whose portraits were engraved, but not so well. i know not if pompone was what would be called a handsome man, although his air is noble and his countenance bright. but among portraits more boldly, delicately, or elaborately engraved, there are very few to contest the palm of beauty. [illustration: pompone de belliÈvre. (painted by charles le brun, and engraved by robert nanteuil.)] and who is this handsome man to whom the engraver has given a lease of fame? son, nephew, and grandson of eminent magistrates, high in the nobility of the robe, with two grandfathers chancellors of france, himself at the head of the magistry of france, first president of parliament according to inscription on the engraving, _senatus franciæ princeps_, ambassador to italy, holland, and england, charged in the latter country by cardinal mazarin with the impossible duty of making peace between the long parliament and charles the first, and at his death, great benefactor of the general hospital of paris, bestowing upon it riches and the very bed on which he died. such is the simple catalogue, and yet it is all forgotten. a funeral panegyric pronounced at his death, now before me in the original pamphlet of the time,[ ] testifies to more than family or office. in himself he was much, and not of those who, according to the saying of st. bernard, give out smoke rather than light. pure glory and innocent riches were his, which were more precious in the sight of good men, and he showed himself incorruptible, and not to be bought at any price. it were easy for him to have turned a deluge of wealth into his house; but he knew that gifts insensibly corrupt,--that the specious pretext of gratitude is the snare in which the greatest souls allow themselves to be caught,--that a man covered with favors has difficulty in setting himself against injustice in all its forms, and that a magistrate divided between a sense of obligations received and the care of the public interest, which he ought always to promote, is a paralytic magistrate, a magistrate deprived of a moiety of himself. so spoke the preacher, while he portrayed a charity tender and prompt for the wretched, a vehemence just and inflexible to the dishonest and wicked, with a sweetness noble and beneficent for all; dwelling also on his countenance, which had not that severe and sour austerity that renders justice to the good only with regret, and to the guilty only with anger; then on his pleasant and gracious address, his intellectual and charming conversation, his ready and judicious replies, his agreeable and intelligent silence, his refusals, which were well received and obliging; while, amidst all the pomp and splendor accompanying him, there shone in his eyes a certain air of humanity and majesty, which secured for him, and for justice itself, love as well as respect. his benefactions were constant. not content with giving only his own, he gave with a beautiful manner still more rare. he could not abide beauty of intelligence without goodness of soul, and he preferred always the poor, having for them not only compassion but a sort of reverence. he knew that the way to take the poison from riches was to make them tasted by those who had them not. the sentiment of christian charity for the poor, who were to him in the place of children, was his last thought, as witness especially the general hospital endowed by him, and presented by the preacher as the greatest and most illustrious work ever undertaken by charity the most heroic. thus lived and died the splendid pompone de bellièvre, with no other children than his works. celebrated at the time by a funeral panegyric now forgotten, and placed among the illustrious men of france in a work remembered only for its engraved portraits, his famous life shrinks, in the voluminous _biographie universelle_ of michaud, to the seventh part of a single page, and in the later _biographie généralle_ of didot disappears entirely. history forgets to mention him. but the lofty magistrate, ambassador, and benefactor, founder of a great hospital, cannot be entirely lost from sight so long as his portrait by nanteuil holds a place in art. [sidenote: edelinck.] younger than nanteuil by ten years, gérard edelinck excelled him in genuine mastery. born at antwerp, he became french by adoption, occupying apartments in the gobelins, and enjoying a pension from louis xiv. longhi says that he is the engraver whose works, not only according to his own judgment, but that of the most intelligent, deserve the first place among exemplars, and he attributes to him all perfections in highest degree, design, chiaro-oscuro, ærial perspective, local tints, softness, lightness, variety, in short everything which can enter into the most exact representation of the true and beautiful without the aid of color. others may have surpassed him in particular things, but, according to the italian teacher, he remains by common consent "the prince of engraving." another critic calls him "king." it requires no remarkable knowledge to recognize his great merits. evidently he is a master, exercising sway with absolute art, and without attempts to bribe the eye by special effects of light, as on metal or satin. among his conspicuous productions is the tent of darius, a large engraving on two sheets, after le brun, where the family of the persian monarch prostrate themselves before alexander, who approaches with hephæstion. there is also a holy family, after raffaelle, and the battle of the standard, after leonardo da vinci; but these are less interesting than his numerous portraits, among which that of philippe de champaigne is the chief masterpiece; but there are others of signal merit, including especially that of madame heliot, or _la belle religieuse_, a beautiful french coquette praying before a crucifix; martin van der bogaert, a sculptor; frederic lÉonard, printer to the king; mouton, the lute-player; martinus dilgerus, with a venerable beard white with age; jules hardouin mansart, the architect; also a portrait of pompone de belliÈvre which will be found among the prints of perrault's illustrious men. the philippe de champaigne is the head of that eminent french artist after a painting by himself, and it contests the palm with the pompone. mr. marsh, who is an authority, prefers it. dr. thies, who places the latter first in beauty, is constrained to allow that the other is "superior as a work of the graver," being executed with all the resources of the art in its chastest form. the enthusiasm of longhi finds expression in unusual praise: "the work which goes the most to my blood, and with regard to which edelinck, with good reason, congratulated himself, is the portrait of champaigne. i shall die before i cease to contemplate it with wonder always new. here is seen how he was equally great as designer and engraver."[ ] [illustration: martin van der bogaert. (painted by hyacinthe rigaud, and engraved by gérard edelinck.)] and he then dwells on various details; the skin, the flesh, the eyes living and seeing, the moistened lips, the chin covered with a beard unshaven for a few days, and the hair in all its forms. between the rival portraits by nanteuil and edelinck it is unnecessary to decide. each is beautiful. in looking at them we recognize anew the transient honors of public service. the present fame of champaigne surpasses that of pompone. the artist outlives the magistrate. but does not the poet tell us that "the artist never dies?" [sidenote: drevet.] as edelinck passed from the scene, the family of drevet appeared, especially the son, pierre imbert drevet, born in , who developed a rare excellence, improving even upon the technics of his predecessor, and gilding his refined gold. the son was born engraver, for at the age of thirteen he produced an engraving of exceeding merit. he manifested a singular skill in rendering different substances, like masson, by the effect of light, and at the same time gave to flesh a softness and transparency which remain unsurpassed. to these he added great richness in picturing costumes and drapery, especially in lace. he was eminently a portrait engraver, which i must insist is the highest form of the art, as the human face is the most important object for its exercise. less clear and simple than nanteuil, and less severe than edelinck, he gave to the face individuality of character, and made his works conspicuous in art. if there was excess in the accessories, it was before the age of sartor resartus, and he only followed the prevailing style in the popular paintings of hyacinthe rigaud. art in all its forms had become florid, if not meretricious, and drevet was a representative of his age. among his works are important masterpieces. i name only bossuet, the famed eagle of meaux; samuel bernard, the rich councillor of state; fÉnelon, the persuasive teacher and writer; cardinal dubois, the unprincipled minister, and the favorite of the regent of france; and adrienne le couvreur, the beautiful and unfortunate actress, linked in love with the marshal saxe. the portrait of bossuet has everything to attract and charm. there stands the powerful defender of the catholic church, master of french style, and most renowned pulpit orator of france, in episcopal robes, with abundant lace, which is the perpetual envy of the fair who look at this transcendent effort. the ermine of dubois is exquisite, but the general effect of this portrait does not compare with the bossuet, next to which, in fascination, i put the adrienne. at her death the actress could not be buried in consecrated ground; but through art she has the perpetual companionship of the greatest bishop of france. [illustration: jacques bÉnigne bossuet, bishop of meaux. (painted by hyacinthe rigaud, and engraved by pierre imbert drevet.)] [sidenote: balechou.] [sidenote: beauvarlet.] [sidenote: ficquet.] with the younger drevet closed the classical period of portraits in engraving, as just before had closed the augustan age of french literature. louis xiv. decreed engraving a fine art, and established an academy for its cultivation. pride and ostentation in the king and the great aristocracy created a demand which the genius of the age supplied. the heights that had been reached could not be maintained. there were eminent engravers still; but the zenith had been passed. balechou, who belonged to the reign of louis xv., and beauvarlet, whose life was protracted beyond the reign of terror, both produced portraits of merit. the former is noted for a certain clearness and brilliancy, but with a hardness, as of brass or marble, and without entire accuracy of design; the latter has much softness of manner. they were the best artists of france at the time; but none of their portraits are famous. to these may be added another contemporary artist, without predecessor or successor, stephen ficquet, unduly disparaged in one of the dictionaries as "a reputable french engraver," but undoubtedly remarkable for small portraits, not unlike miniatures, of exquisite finish. among these the rarest and most admired are la fontaine, madame de maintenon, rubens and vandyck. [sidenote: schmidt.] [sidenote: wille.] two other engravers belong to this intermediate period, though not french in origin: georg f. schmidt, born at berlin, , and johann georg wille, born in the small town of königsberg, in the grand duchy of hesse-darmstadt, , but attracted to paris, they became the greatest engravers of the time. their work is french, and they are the natural development of that classical school. [sidenote: schmidt.] schmidt was the son of a poor weaver, and lost six precious years as a soldier in the artillery at berlin. owing to the smallness of his size he was at length dismissed, when he surrendered to a natural talent for engraving. arriving at strasburg, on his way to paris, he fell in with wille, a wandering gunsmith, who joined him in his journey, and eventually, in his studies. the productions of schmidt show ability, originality, and variety, rather than taste. his numerous portraits are excellent, being free and life-like, while the accessories of embroidery and drapery are rendered with effect. as an etcher he ranks next after rembrandt. of his portraits executed with the graver, that of the empress elizabeth of russia is usually called the most important, perhaps on account of the imperial theme, and next those of count rassamowsky, count esterhazy, and de mounsey, which he engraved while in st. petersburgh, where he was called by the empress, founding there the academy of engraving. but his real masterpieces are unquestionably pierre mignard and latour, french painters, the latter represented laughing. [illustration: l'instruction paternelle, (the "satin gown.") (painted by gerard terburg, and engraved by johann georg wille.)] [sidenote: wille.] wille lived to old age, not dying till . during this long life he was active in the art to which he inclined naturally. his mastership of the graver was perfect, lending itself especially to the representation of satin and metal, although less happy with flesh. his satin gown, or _l'instruction paternelle_, after terburg, and _les musiciens ambulans_, after dietrich, are always admired. nothing of the kind in engraving is finer. his style was adapted to pictures of the dutch school, and to portraits with rich surroundings. of the latter the principal are comte de saint-florentin, poisson marquis de marigny, john de boullongne, and the cardinal de tencin. [sidenote: bervic.] [sidenote: toschi.] [sidenote: desnoyers.] [sidenote: müller.] [sidenote: vangelisti.] [sidenote: anderloni and jesi.] especially eminent was wille as a teacher. under his influence the art assumed a new life, so that he became father of the modern school. his scholars spread everywhere, and among them are acknowledged masters. he was teacher of bervic, whose portrait of louis xvi. in his coronation robes is of a high order, himself teacher of the italian toschi, who, after an eminent career, died as late as ; also teacher of tardieu, himself teacher of the brilliant desnoyers, whose portrait of the emperor napoleon in his coronation robes is the fit complement to that of louis xvi.; also teacher of the german, j. g. von müller, himself father and teacher of j. frederick von müller, engraver of the sistine madonna, in a plate whose great fame is not above its merit; also teacher of the italian vangelisti, himself teacher of the unsurpassed longhi, in whose school were anderloni and jesi. thus not only by his works, but by his famous scholars, did the humble gunsmith gain sway in art. [illustration: napoleon i. (painted by françois gérard, and engraved by auguste boucher desnoyers.)] among portraits by this school deserving especial mention is that of king jerome of westphalia, brother of napoleon, by the two müllers, where the genius of the artist is most conspicuous, although the subject contributes little. as in the case of the palace of the sun, described by ovid, _materiam superabat opus_. this work is a beautiful example of skill in representation of fur and lace, not yielding even to drevet. [sidenote: longhi.] longhi was a universal master, and his portraits are only parts of his work. that of washington, which is rare, is evidently founded on stuart's painting, but after a design of his own, which is now in the possession of the swiss consul at venice. the artist felicitated himself on the hair, which is modelled after the french masters.[ ] the portraits of michael angelo, and of dandolo, the venerable doge of venice, are admired; so also is the napoleon, as king of italy, with the iron crown and finest lace. but his chief portrait is that of eugene beauharnais, viceroy of italy, full length, remarkable for plume in the cap, which is finished with surpassing skill. [sidenote: morghen.] contemporary with longhi was another italian engraver of widely extended fame, who was not the product of the french school, raffaelle morghen, born at florence in . his works have enjoyed a popularity beyond those of other masters, partly from the interest of their subjects, and partly from their soft and captivating style, although they do not possess the graceful power of nanteuil and edelinck, and are without variety. he was scholar and son-in-law of volpato, of rome; himself scholar of wagner, of venice, whose homely round faces were not high models in art. the aurora, of guido, and the last supper, of leonardo da vinci, stand high in engraving, especially the latter, which occupied morghen three years. of his two hundred and one works, no less than seventy-three are portraits, among which are the italian poets dante, petrarch, ariosto, tasso, also boccaccio, and a head called raffaelle, but supposed to be that of bendo altoviti, the great painter's friend, and especially the duke of mencada on horseback, after vandyck, which has received warm praise. but none of his portraits is calculated to give greater pleasure than that of leonardo da vinci, which may vie in beauty even with the famous pompone. here is the beauty of years and of serene intelligence. looking at that tranquil countenance, it is easy to imagine the large and various capacities which made him not only painter, but sculptor, architect, musician, poet, discoverer, philosopher, even predecessor of galileo and bacon. such a character deserves the immortality of art. happily an old venetian engraving reproduced in our day,[ ] enables us to see this same countenance at an earlier period of life, with sparkle in the eye. [illustration: giovanni boccaccio firenze presso luigi bardi e c'borgo degli albizzi n^o ] raffaelle morghen left no scholars who have followed him in portraits; but his own works are still regarded, and a monument in santa croce, the westminster abbey of florence, places him among the mighty dead of italy. [sidenote: houbraken] thus far nothing has been said of english engravers. here, as in art generally, england seems removed from the rest of the world; _et penitus toto divisos orbe britannos_. but though beyond the sphere of continental art, the island of shakespeare was not inhospitable to some of its representatives. vandyck, rubens, sir peter lely, and sir godfrey kneller, all dutch artists, painted the portraits of englishmen, and engraving was first illustrated by foreigners. jacob houbraken, another dutch artist, born in , was employed to execute portraits for birch's "heads of illustrious persons of great britain," published at london in , and in these works may be seen the æsthetic taste inherited from his father, author of the biography of dutch artists, and improved by study of the french masters. although without great force or originality of manner, many of these have positive beauty. i would name especially the sir walter raleigh and john dryden. [illustration: mary queen of scots. (painted by federigo zuccaro, and engraved by francesco bartolozzi.)] [sidenote: bartolozzi.] different in style was bartolozzi, the italian, who made his home in england for forty years, ending in , when he removed to lisbon. the considerable genius which he possessed was spoilt by haste in execution, superseding that care which is an essential condition of art. hence sameness in his work and indifference to the picture he copied. longhi speaks of him as "most unfaithful to his archetypes," and, "whatever the originals, being always bartolozzi." among his portraits of especial interest are several old "wigs," as mansfield and thurlow; also the death of chatham, after the picture of copley in the vernon gallery. but his prettiest piece undoubtedly is mary queen of scots, with her little son james i., after what mrs. jameson calls "the lovely picture of zuccaro at chiswick." in the same style are his vignettes, which are of acknowledged beauty. [sidenote: strange.] meanwhile a scotchman honorable in art comes upon the scene--sir robert strange, born in the distant orkneys in , who abandoned the law for engraving. as a youthful jacobite he joined the pretender in , sharing the disaster of culloden, and owing his safety from pursuers to a young lady dressed in the ample costume of the period, whom he afterwards married in gratitude, and they were both happy. he has a style of his own, rich, soft, and especially charming in the tints of flesh, making him a natural translator of titian. his most celebrated engravings are doubtless the venus and the danaË after the great venetian colorist, but the cleopatra, though less famous, is not inferior in merit. his acknowledged masterpiece is the madonna of st. jerome called the day, after the picture by correggio, in the gallery of parma, but his portraits after vandyck are not less fine, while they are more interesting--as charles first, with a large hat, by the side of his horse, which the marquis of hamilton is holding, and that of the same monarch standing in his ermine robes; also the three royal children with two king charles spaniels at their feet, also henrietta maria, the queen of charles. that with the ermine robes is supposed to have been studied by raffaelle morghen, called sometimes an imitator of strange.[ ] to these i would add the rare autograph portrait of the engraver, being a small head after greuze, which is simple and beautiful. [illustration: john hunter (painted by sir joshua reynolds, and engraved by william sharp.)] [sidenote: sharp.] one other name will close this catalogue. it is that of william sharp, who was born at london in , and died there in . though last in order, this engraver may claim kindred with the best. his first essays were the embellishment of pewter pots, from which he ascended to the heights of art, showing a power rarely equalled. without any instance of peculiar beauty, his works are constant in character and expression, with every possible excellence of execution; face, form, drapery--all are as in nature. his splendid qualities appear in the doctors of the church, which has taken its place as the first of english engravings. it is after the picture of guido, once belonging to the houghton gallery, which in an evil hour for english taste was allowed to enrich the collection of the hermitage at st. petersburgh; and i remember well that this engraving by sharp was one of the few ornaments in the drawing-room of macaulay when i last saw him, shortly before his lamented death. next to the doctors of the church is his lear in the storm, after the picture by west, now in the boston athenæum, and his sortie from gibraltar, after the picture by trumbull, also in the boston athenæum. thus, through at least two of his masterpieces whose originals are among us, is our country associated with this great artist. it is of portraits especially that i write, and here sharp is truly eminent. all that he did was well done; but two were models; that of mr. boulton, a strong, well-developed country gentleman, admirably executed, and of john hunter, the eminent surgeon, after the painting by sir joshua reynolds, in the london college of surgeons, unquestionably the foremost portrait in english art, and the coequal companion of the great portraits in the past; but here the engraver united his rare gifts with those of the painter. [sidenote: mandel.] in closing these sketches i would have it observed that this is no attempt to treat of engraving generally, or of prints in their mass or types. the present subject is simply of portraits, and i stop now just as we arrive at contemporary examples, abroad and at home, with the gentle genius of mandel beginning to ascend the sky, and our own engravers appearing on the horizon. there is also a new and kindred art, infinite in value, where the sun himself becomes artist, with works which mark an epoch. charles sumner. washington, th dec., . [illustration] footnotes: [footnote : discourses before the royal academy, no. iv.] [footnote : de groote schonburgh der nederlantsche konctschilders en schilderessen.] [footnote : this rare volume is in the congressional library, among the books which belonged originally to hon. george p. marsh, our excellent and most scholarly minister in italy. i asked for it in vain at the paris cabinet of engravings, and also at the imperial library. never translated into french or english; there is a german translation of it by carl barth.] [footnote : les hommes illustres, par perrault, tome ii., p. . the excellent copy of this work in the congressional library belonged to mr. marsh. the prints are early impressions.] [footnote : panégyrique funébre de messire pompone de bellièvre, premier président au parlement, pronouncé á l'hostel-dieu de paris, le avril, , par un chanoine régulier de la congrégation de france. the dedication shows this to have been the work of f. lallemant of st. geneviève.] [footnote : _la calcografia_, p. .] [footnote : _la calcografia_, pp. , .] [footnote : les arts au moyen age et à l'epoque de la renaissance, par paul lacroix, p. .] [footnote : longhi, _la calcografia_, p. .] cartoons _and_ caricatures _of_ seattle citizens published by the associated cartoon service e. a. thomson. manager from the press of the general lithographing & printing company seattle, washington photographs from which these pen and ink sketches were produced have been furnished principally by james & bushnell _and_ e. s. curtis engravings by the art engraving company seattle artists f. calvert john r. gill chas. h. dickson, jr. edwin f. brotze ernest jenner a. bobbett george hager tom thurlby copyright by e. a. thomson a word about the wise "a laugh," wrote the gentle and genial charles lamb, "is worth a hundred groans in any market." our hard-headed and far-figuring men of business have been quick to see and seize the truth of this great law of supply and demand. being themselves alert men of the market place, and appreciating fully the melancholy world's urgent need of the titillating tonic called laughter, they have cheerfully set to work to supply that need. the man who laughs, they wisely argued, is the man who buys. they required, however, in their altruistic schemes, just a little assistance from their brothers of the pointed pens and the black ink pots--the newspaper cartoonists. would these kindly step forward and help in a noble cause? gaily these worthies sharpened their rusting pens, right merrily they stirred the thickening ink, and here you have the crystallization of their comic brew--a precious handful of gilded homeopathic pills, sometimes called cartoons, which will prove to be a sure cure for all business troubles of an internal nature, as well as for many that have nothing to do with business. these cartoons are sweet and clean and wholesome, very pleasant to the palate and remarkably efficacious in chronic cases of indigestion and disordered spleen. they clear the mind and restore business confidence. they enrich the blood, the brain, the liver--and the purse. mixed with the wine of good sense they produce a volatile drink that sparkles and effervesces into rippling mirth and bubbling laughter, a draught the high olympian gods might long for. best of all, not a single pill is bitter to the taste. in short, the cartoonists of seattle prove conclusively, so he who smiles may read, that a laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market. antony e. anderson. [illustration: edgar ames, general manager seattle and lake washington waterway co. ] [illustration: r. b. albertson, judge superior court. ] [illustration: e. w. andrews, president seattle national bank. ] [illustration: s. s. bailey, capitalist. ] [illustration: alfred battle, lawyer. ] [illustration: r. a. ballinger, lawyer. ] [illustration: john e. ballaine, alaska central railway. ] [illustration: charles h. bebb, architect. ] [illustration: m. p. benton, broadway automobile co. ] [illustration: w. m. bolcom, lumber. ] [illustration: j. s. brace, president brace-hergert mill co. ] [illustration: payton brown, real estate. ] [illustration: m. c. brown, lawyer. ] [illustration: fred'k r. burch, lawyer. ] [illustration: george a. burch, real estate. ] [illustration: herman chapin, banker and builder--vice president seattle national bank. ] [illustration: thomas burke, lawyer. ] [illustration: c. h. burnett, jr., real estate and insurance. ] [illustration: a. j. buhtz, cooperage manufacturer--fremont barrel mfg. co. ] [illustration: c. b. bussell, real estate. ] [illustration: scott calhoun, corporation counsel. ] [illustration: elmer e. caine, president alaska pacific navigation co. ] [illustration: wm. m. calhoun, president calhoun, denny & ewing co. inc., general insurance and real estate. ] [illustration: p. p. carroll, lawyer. ] [illustration: r. b. calley, vice president and manager the quaker drug co. ] [illustration: geo. s. casedy, secretary hatfield investment co. ] [illustration: henry carstens, president washington fire insurance co. ] [illustration: george albers, albers bros. milling co., cereal millers. ] [illustration: wm. f. calvert, president the realty security co. ] [illustration: j. e. chilberg, president the century co.--vice president the scandinavian american bank. ] [illustration: andrew chilberg, president scandinavian american bank--vice consul sweden and norway. ] [illustration: o. d. colvin, general manager seattle-tacoma power co. ] [illustration: f. w. crary, lawyer. ] [illustration: lester w. david, lumber. ] [illustration: george j. danz, vice president hofius steel and equipment co. ] [illustration: r. w. dearborn, real estate. ] [illustration: j. f. douglas, lawyer. ] [illustration: george donworth, lawyer. ] [illustration: matthew dow, builder. ] [illustration: george driver, builder. ] [illustration: richard stevens eskridge, lawyer. ] [illustration: f. o. ehrlich, secretary and treasurer ehrlich-harrison co., inc. ] [illustration: c. e. farnsworth, union machinery co. ] [illustration: pacific coast co., j. c. ford, vice president and general manager. ] [illustration: j. a. forehand, manager the postal telegraph cable co. ] [illustration: wm. r. forrest, president seattle security co. ] [illustration: walter f. foster, foster & kleiser, inc. ] [illustration: j. m. frink, president and manager the washington iron works. ] [illustration: francis g. frink, secretary washington iron works. ] [illustration: clark davis, mining. ] [illustration: robert r. fox, manager simonds manufacturing co. ] [illustration: j. e. galbraith, president and manager the galbraith-bacon & co., inc. ] [illustration: e. c. garratt, manager gorham rubber co. ] [illustration: james a. ghent, physician and surgeon. ] [illustration: jonathan gifford, manager gifford realty co. ] [illustration: j. s. gibson, washington stevedore co. ] [illustration: herman goetz, contractor. ] [illustration: e. s. goodwin, real estate. ] [illustration: a. warren gould, architect. ] [illustration: john graham, architect. ] [illustration: l. h. griffith, the griffith co. ] [illustration: w. j. grambs, seattle electric co. ] [illustration: h. f. grant, general manager seattle electric co. ] [illustration: robert l. keith, physician. ] [illustration: frank hanford, lumbermen's indemnity exchange and general agent pennsylvania casualty. ] [illustration: j. harrisberger, general superintendent seattle-tacoma power co. ] [illustration: h. r. harriman, lawyer and secretary alaska petroleum & coal co. ] [illustration: john p. hartman, lawyer. ] [illustration: f. g. haywood, secretary and general manager seattle car manufacturing co. ] [illustration: andrew hemrich, president seattle brewing and malting co. ] [illustration: alvin hemrich, president hemrich bros. brewing co. ] [illustration: h. c. henry, banker and railroad contractor. ] [illustration: c. r. hesseltine, secretary and treasurer the washington meteor mining co. and roger hesseltine co. ] [illustration: robert w. hill, real estate. ] [illustration: james d. hoge, president union savings and trust co. ] [illustration: george m. horton, physician and surgeon. ] [illustration: e. w. houghton, architect. ] [illustration: p. d. hughes, lawyer. ] [illustration: omar j. humphrey, alaska coast steamship co. ] [illustration: d. h. jarvis, north western fisheries co. ] [illustration: w. e. humphrey, u. s. congressman. ] [illustration: frank c. jackson, real estate, investments. ] [illustration: t. e. jones, contractor. ] [illustration: w. j. kahle, crescent manufacturing co. ] [illustration: j. w. kahle, crescent manufacturing co. ] [illustration: j. f. lane, cashier the scandinavian american bank. ] [illustration: warren d. lane, lawyer. ] [illustration: maurice d. leehey, mining lawyer. ] [illustration: g. v. p. lansing, state manager otis elevator co. ] [illustration: william h. lewis, real estate--brick manufacturer. ] [illustration: robert h. lindsay, lawyer. ] [illustration: t. s. lippy, president w. b. hutchinson co., seattle mattress and upholstering co., w. c. hill brick co. ] [illustration: chas. h. lilly, flour, grain, seeds and groceries. ] [illustration: sam s. loeb, independent brewery. ] [illustration: h. lohse, jr., builder. ] [illustration: wm. martin, lawyer. ] [illustration: j. s. mcbride, physician and surgeon. ] [illustration: george f. meacham, real estate, mortgage loans, rentals and insurance. ] [illustration: a. e. mead, governor. ] [illustration: john francis mclean, lawyer. ] [illustration: henry f. mcclure, lawyer. ] [illustration: c. a. holmes, dentist. ] [illustration: john megrath, contractor and builder. ] [illustration: john h. mcgraw, president seattle chamber of commerce. ] [illustration: j. b. metcalfe, lawyer. ] [illustration: wm. hickman moore, mayor. ] [illustration: j. a. moore, manager moore investment co. ] [illustration: i. a. nadeau, vice president chamber of commerce. ] [illustration: will h. parry, parry investment co. ] [illustration: william meister, california commission co. ] [illustration: g. s. peterkin, physician. ] [illustration: reginald h. parsons, bemis bros. bag co. ] [illustration: c. a. peplow, hammond milling co. ] [illustration: edwin peterson, manager seattle mining exchange. ] [illustration: cyrus f. clapp, capitalist. ] [illustration: samuel h. piles, united states senator. ] [illustration: philip rowe, president hallidie machinery co. ] [illustration: claude c. ramsey, ramsey & battle, real estate, loans, rentals and fire insurance. ] [illustration: frank h. renick, real estate and loans. ] [illustration: w. w. robinson, wholesale dealer in grain, hay and feed. ] [illustration: c. a. reynolds, lawyer. ] [illustration: e. m. rininger, physician and surgeon. ] [illustration: w. f. richardson, manager john a. roeblings' sons. ] [illustration: t. f. ruhm, naval constructor, u. s. navy. ] [illustration: fred e. sander, president fred e. sander, inc., real estate and investment securities. ] [illustration: james h. schack, architect. ] [illustration: john schram, president washington trust co. ] [illustration: r. b. snowdon, north american transportation and trading co. ] [illustration: joseph k. smith, alaska's magazine co. ] [illustration: watson c. squire, ex-united states senator. ] [illustration: a. h. soelberg, vice president and cashier state bank of seattle. ] [illustration: robert g. stevenson, district manager the barber asphalt paving co. ] [illustration: james r. stirrat. contractor. ] [illustration: george e. sylvester, wholesale grocer. ] [illustration: frederick k. struve, real estate. ] [illustration: boyd j. tallman, judge superior court. ] [illustration: a. j. tennant, lawyer. ] [illustration: james tracy, eagle brass foundry. ] [illustration: j. edgar brown, secretary hamm-schmitz co. ] [illustration: w. p. trimble, lawyer. ] [illustration: edward p. tremper, osborne, tremper & co., inc. ] [illustration: o. a. tucker, lawyer. ] [illustration: wilmon tucker, lawyer. ] [illustration: lester turner, president first national bank of seattle. ] [illustration: herbert s. upper, real estate, loans and insurance. ] [illustration: george a. virtue, real estate and loans. ] [illustration: wm. l. waters, lawyer. ] [illustration: george h. walker, lawyer. ] [illustration: john c. watrous, real estate, rentals and insurance. ] [illustration: edward e. webster, general manager independent telephone co. ] [illustration: c. f. white, lumber. ] [illustration: w. h. white, lawyer. ] [illustration: w. d. wood, president the trustee company. ] [illustration: e. f. sweeney, hotel savoy. ] [illustration: george t. williams, north coast literage co., nome. ] [illustration: john davis, real estate. ] [illustration: w. l. mccabe, mccabe & hamilton, inc., stevedores. ] [illustration: f. e. brightman, lawyer. ] [illustration: john a. rosene, president northwestern commercial co. ] [illustration: michael earles, president puget sound mills and lumber co. ] [illustration: w. d. hofius, railway supplies, iron and steel. ] [illustration: e. c. hughes, lawyer. ] [illustration: a. lawrence, real estate, broker. ] [illustration: c. h. farrell, lawyer. ] [illustration: j. b. meikle, lawyer. ] [illustration: thomas b. hardin, lawyer--general attorney seattle-tacoma power co. ] [illustration: godfrey chealander, promoter alaska-yukon exposition. ] [illustration: george b. littlefield, real estate. ] [illustration: d. s. fotheringham, portland cordage co. ] [illustration: r. petkovits, furrier. ] [illustration: m. v. strauss, seattle trunk factory. ] [illustration: moritz thomsen, president centennial mill co. ] [illustration: jacob furth, president puget sound national bank. ] [illustration: frank t. hunter, real estate, loans and insurance. ] [illustration: wm. piggott, iron and steel manufacturer. ] [illustration: george w. stetson, president and manager stetson & post mill co. ] [illustration: james h. calvert, president san juan fishing and packing co. ] [illustration: d. a. hatfield, hatfield investment co. ] [illustration: carl schmitz, manager the rathskeller. ] [illustration: george ladd munn, lawyer. ] [illustration: frank j. martin, secretary and manager northwestern mutual fire assn. ] [illustration: chas. e. crane, president seattle-boston copper co. (loans and investments). ] [illustration: j. s. graham, merchant. ] [illustration: e. s. curtis, photographer. ] [illustration: d. b. trefethen, lawyer. ] [illustration: jay c. allen, lawyer. ] [illustration: rufus h. smith, loans. ] [illustration: george b. lamping, real estate. ] [illustration: louis hemrich, vice president and general manager seattle brewing and malting co. ] [illustration: james p. gleason, manager american savings bank and trust co. ] [illustration: l. c. crawford, real estate. ] [illustration: frank waterhouse, president frank waterhouse co., inc. ] [illustration: leonard l. teachout, art engraving co. ] [illustration] contents a page. r. b. albertson george albers jay c. allen edgar ames e. w. andrews b s. s. bailey john e. ballaine r. a. ballinger alfred battle charles h. bebb m. p. benton [a]james t. blakistone w. m. bolcom j. s. brace j. edgar brown m. c. brown payton brown f. e. brightman fred'k r. burch george a. burch a. j. buhtz thomas burke c. h. burnett. jr. c. b. bussell c elmer e. caine scott calhoun wm. m. calhoun r. b. calley james h. calvert wm. f. calvert p. p. carroll henry carstens geo. s. casedy herman chapin godfrey chealander andrew chilberg j. e. chilberg cyrus f. clapp [a]j. m. colman o. d. colvin f. w. crary l. c. crawford e. s. curtis chas. e. crane d george j. danz lester w. david clark davis john davis r. w. dearborn george donworth j. f. douglas matthew dow george driver e michael earles f. o. ehrlich richard stevens eskridge f c. e. farnsworth c. h. farrell j. a. forehand wm. r. forrest walter f. foster d. s. fotheringham robert r. fox francis g. frink j. m. frink jacob furth g j. e. galbraith e. c. garratt james a. ghent j. s. gibson jonathan gifford [a]d. h. gilman james p. gleason herman goetz e. s. goodwin a. warren gould john graham j. s. graham w. j. grambs h. f. grant [a]f. m. gribble l. h. griffith h frank hanford thomas b. hardin h. r. harriman j. harrisberger john p. hartman d. a. hatfield f. g. haywood andrew hemrich alvin hemrich louis hemrich h. c. henry c. r. hesseltine robert w. hill w. d. hofius james d. hoge c. a. holmes 	 george m. horton e. w. houghton p. d. hughes omar j. humphrey frank t. hunter w. e. humphrey e. c. hughes j frank c. jackson d. h. jarvis t. e. jones k j. w. kahle w. j. kahle robert l. keith l george b. lamping j. f. lane warren d. lane g. v. p. lansing a. lawrence maurice d. leehey william h. lewis robert h. lindsay chas. h. lilly t. s. lippy george b. littlefield sam s. loeb h. lohse, jr. m frank j. martin wm. martin j. s. mcbride w. l. mccabe john h. mcgraw john francis mclean henry f. mcclure a. e. mead george f. meacham john megrath j. b. meikle william meister j. b. metcalfe j. a. moore wm. hickman moore george ladd munn n i. a. nadeau p pacific coast co. will h. parry reginald h. parsons [a]charles e. peabody [a]l. b. peeples c. a. peplow g. s. peterkin edwin peterson r. petkovits samuel h. piles wm. piggott r claude c. ramsey frank h. renick c. a. reynolds w. f. richardson e. m. riniger w. w. robinson john a. rosene philip rowe t. f. ruhm s fred e. sander james h. schack carl schmitz john schram joseph k. smith rufus h. smith r. b. snowdon a. h. soelberg watson c. squire george w. stetson robert g. stevenson james r. stirrat m. v. strauss frederick k. struve george e. sylvester e. f. sweeney [a]the seattle lumber co. t boyd t. tallman a. j. tennant moritz thomsen james tracy d. b. trefethen edward p. tremper w. p. trimble o. a. tucker wilmon tucker lester turner leonard l. teachout u herbert s. upper union pacific railway co. v george a. virtue w george h. walker wm. l. waters frank waterhouse john c. watrous edward e. webster c. f. white w. h. white george t. williams w. d. wood [a] subscribers not appearing in the book. general lithographing and printing co. seattle * * * * * transcriber's note: italic text is denoted by _underscores_.