Chapter 11

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.

For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the book’s influence. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never tried to free himself from it. He obtained no fewer than nine large-paper copies of the first edition from Paris. He had them bound in different colours to suit his various moods and changing fancies. At times, he seemed to have almost entirely lost control over his own nature. The hero was a remarkable young Parisian who strangely combined romantic and scientific temperaments. To Dorian, he became a kind of earlier version of himself. Indeed, the whole book seemed to tell 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.

In one respect, he was luckier than the novel’s extraordinary hero. He never felt that rather absurd dread of mirrors, polished metal surfaces, and still water. Indeed, he never had any reason to feel it. The young Parisian had developed this dread early in life, when his once apparently remarkable good looks suddenly faded. He used to read the later part of the book with almost cruel joy. Perhaps cruelty has a place in nearly every joy, as it certainly does in every pleasure. The later part gave a truly tragic, if somewhat exaggerated, account of a man’s sorrow and despair. The man had lost what he had valued most dearly in other people and in the world.

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.

The remarkable beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward and many others seemed never to leave Dorian. From time to time, strange rumors about his way of life spread through London and became the talk of the clubs. Yet even those who had heard the worst things about him could believe nothing dishonorable of him when they saw him. He always looked like someone who had remained untouched by the world's corruption. Men who spoke crudely fell silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. Something in the purity of his face made them feel ashamed. His mere presence seemed to remind them of the innocence they had tarnished. They wondered how someone so charming and graceful could have escaped the stain of an age both 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.

Often, he would return home after one of his mysterious, prolonged absences. These absences sparked strange speculation among those who were his friends, or thought they were. He would creep upstairs to the locked room and open it with the key he now always carried. Holding a mirror, he would stand before the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He would look from the evil, aging face on the canvas to the beautiful young face laughing back from the mirror. The sharp contrast heightened his pleasure. He grew more and more in love with his own beauty, and more and more interested in his soul’s corruption. He would study the hideous lines on the portrait with great care, sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight. The lines marked the wrinkling forehead and crept around the heavy, sensual mouth. He sometimes wondered which were more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the portrait’s coarse, swollen hands and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and 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.

At night, there were moments when he lay sleepless in his own delicately scented bedroom. Sometimes he lay awake in a shabby room at a little tavern near the docks with a bad reputation. He often visited the tavern in disguise and under a false name. At such moments, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul. He felt a pity made all the more painful because it was purely selfish. But such moments were rare. Lord Henry had first stirred his curiosity about life as they sat together in their friend’s garden. Now that curiosity seemed to grow each time he satisfied it. The more he knew, the more he wanted to know. He had mad appetites that grew more ravenous the more 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.”

Yet he was not really reckless, at least not in his dealings with society. Once or twice a month during the winter, he opened his beautiful house to society. He also did so every Wednesday evening throughout the social season. He invited the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. Lord Henry always helped him plan his small dinners. The dinners were known for the careful choice and seating of the guests. They were equally known for the exquisite taste shown in the table decorations. These included subtly harmonious arrangements of exotic flowers, embroidered cloths, and antique gold and silver tableware. Indeed, many people, especially very young men, saw, or imagined they saw, in Dorian Gray the perfect example of a type they had often dreamed of during their days at Eton or Oxford. This type would combine some of a scholar’s true learning with all the grace, distinction, and perfect manners of a citizen of the world. To them, he seemed to belong among those whom Dante describes as having sought to “make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty.” Like Gautier, he was someone 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.

To him, life itself was certainly the first and greatest of the arts. All the other arts seemed merely to prepare him for it. Fashion fascinated him, of course. It could make what was truly fantastic seem universal for a moment. Dandyism fascinated him too. In its own way, it was an attempt to assert that beauty is always absolutely modern. His clothes and the particular styles he adopted from time to time had a marked influence on young dandies at Mayfair balls and in the windows of Pall Mall clubs. They copied everything he did and tried to reproduce the effortless charm of his elegant displays of fashion, though he took them only half seriously.

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.

For he was only too willing to accept the position offered to him almost as soon as he came of age. He even felt a subtle pleasure in imagining that he might become to London what the author of the Satyricon had been to imperial Rome under Nero. But deep in his heart, he wanted to be more than an arbiter elegantiarum, a judge of fashion. He wanted to do more than advise people on wearing a jewel, knotting a necktie, or carrying a cane. He sought to develop a new way of life, with a reasoned philosophy and ordered principles. This way of life would find its highest fulfillment in giving the senses a spiritual dimension.

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.

The worship of the senses has often been condemned, and with good reason. People naturally fear passions and sensations that seem stronger than they are. They know that they share these feelings with less highly developed forms of life. But Dorian Gray felt that the true nature of the senses had never been understood. They had remained savage and animal only because the world had tried to starve them into submission or destroy them through pain. Instead, the world could have made them part of a new spirituality, guided above all by a refined instinct for beauty. As Dorian looked back on humanity’s passage through history, he was haunted by a sense of loss. So much had been given up! And for so little purpose! People had rejected things recklessly and deliberately, and practiced monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial. These practices sprang from fear. They led to a degradation far more terrible than the imagined degradation people had ignorantly sought to escape. With wonderful irony, Nature drove the solitary ascetic out to feed with the wild animals of the desert. She gave the hermit the beasts of the field as 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.

Yes, as Lord Henry had predicted, there would be a new Hedonism. It would remake life and save it from the harsh, ugly puritanism now enjoying a curious revival. This new Hedonism would certainly value the intellect. Yet it would never accept any theory or system that required sacrificing any kind of passionate experience. Its aim would be experience itself, not the results of experience, however sweet or bitter those might be. It would reject both the self-denial that deadens the senses and the crude excess that dulls them. But it would teach people to focus on the moments of a life that is itself only 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.

Few of us have never woken before dawn. Sometimes we wake after a dreamless night that makes us almost fall in love with death. At other times, we wake after a night of horror and twisted joy. During such nights, phantoms sweep through our minds, more terrifying than reality itself. They are full of the vivid life that lurks in all grotesque things and gives Gothic art its lasting vitality. One might imagine that Gothic art belongs especially to those whose minds are troubled by the sickness of daydreaming. Gradually, white fingers creep through the curtains, and the curtains seem to tremble. Silent shadows in strange black shapes crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, birds stir among the leaves, or men go out to work. Or the wind sighs and sobs as it comes down from the hills and wanders around the silent house. It seems afraid to wake the sleepers, yet compelled to call sleep from her purple cave. One by one, veils of thin, dim gauze are lifted. Gradually, things regain their shapes and colors, and we watch the dawn remake the world in its old pattern. The pale mirrors recover their imitation of life. The unlit candles stand where we left them. Beside them lies the partly cut book we had been studying, or the wired flower we wore to the ball. Or perhaps there is a letter we were afraid to read, or one we have read too often. Nothing seems to have changed. The real life we knew returns from the unreal shadows of the night. We must take it up where we left off. A terrible feeling creeps over us that we must keep spending our energy on the same tiresome round of fixed habits. Or perhaps we feel a wild longing to open our eyes one morning on a world remade during the night for our pleasure. In that world, things would have fresh shapes and colors. They would be changed, or hold different secrets. The past would have little or no place there. Or, at least, it would survive without any conscious sense of obligation or regret. For even the memory of joy has its bitterness, and memories of pleasure bring 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.

To Dorian Gray, creating such worlds seemed to be the true purpose of life, or at least one of its true purposes. He sought sensations that were both new and delightful, with the strangeness so essential to romance. In this search, he would often adopt ways of thinking he knew were foreign to his nature. He would surrender to their subtle influence until, as it were, he had taken on their color and satisfied his intellectual curiosity. Then he would leave those ways of thinking behind with a curious indifference. Such indifference is not incompatible with a genuinely passionate temperament. Indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, it is often a condition of such passion.

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 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.

Once, people rumored that he was about to join the Roman Catholic Church. Certainly, its rituals had always attracted him greatly. The daily sacrifice was more awe-inspiring than all the sacrifices of the ancient world. It moved him as much by its magnificent rejection of what the senses revealed as by its elements’ primitive simplicity. He was equally moved by the eternal sadness of the human tragedy the sacrifice sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel on the cold marble floor and watch the priest in his stiff, flowered dalmatic. With white hands, the priest would slowly move aside the veil of the tabernacle. Or he would raise the jeweled, lantern-shaped monstrance with its pale wafer. At times, one would like to think that the wafer really is the “panis cælestis,” the bread of angels. Or the priest, dressed in robes of Christ’s Passion, would break the Host into the chalice and strike his breast for his sins. The smoking censers also held a subtle fascination for him. The solemn boys, dressed in lace and scarlet, tossed them into the air like great golden flowers. As he left, he would look with wonder at the black confessionals. He longed to sit in the dim shadow of one and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating. There, they would tell the true stories 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.

But he never made the mistake of stopping his intellectual development by formally accepting a creed or system. Nor did he mistake an inn for a home. It was only fit for a night's stay, or for a few hours of a night without stars, when the moon was in labor. For a time, mysticism moved him, with its marvelous power to make ordinary things seem strange. He was also moved by the subtle rejection of moral rules that always seems to accompany mysticism. For a time, he leaned toward the materialist doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany. He found a curious pleasure in tracing people's thoughts and passions to a pearly cell in the brain or a white nerve in the body. He delighted in the idea that the spirit depended entirely on certain physical conditions, whether unhealthy or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed important to him compared with life itself. He was keenly aware 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.

So he began to study perfumes and the secrets of how they were made. He distilled heavily scented oils and burned fragrant resins from the East. He saw that every mood of the mind had a counterpart in the life of the senses. He set out to discover the true relationship between them. He wondered what it was about frankincense that made a person feel mystical, and about ambergris that stirred passion. He wondered why violets awakened memories of lost romances, musk disturbed the mind, and champak stained the imagination. He often tried to develop a true psychology of perfumes. He sought to understand the different effects of sweet-smelling roots and fragrant, pollen-filled flowers, of aromatic balms and dark, fragrant woods. He also studied spikenard, which makes people feel sick, hovenia, which drives men mad, and aloes, which are said to drive 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.

At another time, he devoted himself entirely to music. He gave unusual concerts in a long room with latticed windows, a vermilion and gold ceiling, and olive-green lacquered walls. There, wild Gypsies tore fierce music from little zithers, and solemn Tunisians in yellow shawls plucked the taut strings of enormous lutes. Grinning Black musicians beat copper drums in a steady rhythm. Slim, turbaned Indians crouched on scarlet mats and played long reed or brass pipes. They charmed, or pretended to charm, great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill clashes of this music stirred him at times. Then the grace of Schubert, the beautiful sorrows of Chopin, and even Beethoven’s mighty harmonies passed unnoticed. He gathered the strangest instruments he could find from all over the world. Some came from the tombs of vanished nations, others from the few tribal peoples who had survived contact with Western civilizations. He loved to touch and play them. He had the mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians. Women were not allowed to look at them, and even young men could not see them until they had fasted and been whipped. He had Peruvian clay jars that made the shrill cries of birds, and flutes made from human bones, like those Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile. He also had resonant green jaspers found near Cuzco, which gave out a uniquely sweet note. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when shaken. He had the long Mexican clarin, through which the player draws in air rather than blowing. He had the harsh ture of the Amazon tribes. It was played by sentinels who sat all day in tall trees and, reportedly, could be heard three leagues away. He had the teponaztli, with two vibrating wooden tongues. It was beaten with sticks coated in a springy gum made from the milky juice of plants. He had Aztec yotl-bells, hung in clusters like grapes, and a huge cylindrical drum covered with the skins of great serpents. It was like the drum Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple. Diaz left a vivid description of its mournful sound. The fantastic nature of these instruments fascinated him. He took a curious delight in the thought that art, like Nature, has its monsters, with beastly shapes and hideous voices. Yet after a while he grew tired of them. He would sit in his opera box, alone or with Lord Henry, listening to “Tannhauser” with rapt pleasure. In the prelude to that great work of art, he saw the tragedy of his own soul portrayed.

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.

Once, he began studying jewels. He appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, wearing a costume covered with 560 pearls. His fascination with jewels held him for years and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He often spent a whole day arranging and rearranging the stones he had collected in their cases. These included the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, and the cymophane with its thin, wirelike silver line. There were also pistachio-colored peridots, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, and fiery scarlet carbuncles with shimmering, four-pointed stars. He had flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with alternating layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, the pearly whiteness of the moonstone, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He obtained three emeralds from Amsterdam, remarkable for their size and rich color. He also had a de la vieille roche turquoise 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.

He also discovered wonderful stories about jewels. In Alphonso’s Clericalis Disciplina, a serpent was described as having eyes made of real jacinth. In the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of Emathia was said to have found snakes in the valley of Jordan. They had “collars of real emeralds growing on their backs.” Philostratus told us that a dragon had a gem in its brain. The monster could be put into a magical sleep and killed “by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe.” According to the great alchemist Pierre de Boniface, a diamond made a man invisible, and Indian agate made him eloquent. Cornelian calmed anger, hyacinth brought on sleep, and amethyst dispelled the fumes of wine. Garnet drove out demons, and hydropicus took away the moon’s color. Selenite grew and shrank with the moon. Meloceus, which revealed thieves, could be affected only by the blood of young goats. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly killed toad. The stone was a sure antidote to poison. Bezoar, found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. Aspilates was found in the nests of Arabian birds. According to Democritus, it protected its wearer from any danger from 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.

The King of Ceilan rode through his city holding a large ruby as part of his coronation ceremony. The gates of John the Priest’s palace were “made of sardius, inlaid with horn from the horned snake, so that no one could bring poison inside.” Above the gable were “two golden apples, each containing a carbuncle,” so the gold would shine by day and the carbuncles by night. Lodge’s strange romance ‘A Margarite of America’ described the queen’s chamber. There, one could see “all the chaste ladies of the world, engraved in silver, looking through beautiful mirrors of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and green emeralds.” Marco Polo had seen the people of Zipangu place rose-colored pearls in the mouths of the dead. A sea monster had fallen in love with a pearl that a diver brought to King Perozes. The monster killed the thief and mourned the loss for seven moons. Procopius tells the rest of the story. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he threw the pearl away. It was never found, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundredweight of gold coins for it. The King of Malabar had shown a Venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for each god 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 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.

When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI., visited Louis XII. of France, his horse was covered with gold leaves, according to Brantome. His cap had double rows of rubies that shone brightly. Charles of England had ridden with 421 diamonds hanging from his stirrups. Richard II had a coat covered with balas rubies, valued at thirty thousand marks. Hall described Henry VIII. on his way to the Tower before his coronation. He wore “a jacket of raised gold, with the front embroidered with diamonds and other precious stones, and a large jeweled band around his neck set with large balas rubies.” The favorites of James I wore emerald earrings set in gold filigree. Edward II gave Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armor studded with jacinths. He also gave him a collar of gold roses set with turquoise stones and a skullcap studded with pearls. Henry II. wore jeweled gloves that reached to his elbows. He also had a hawking glove sewn with twelve rubies and fifty-two large oriental pearls. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his family, 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.

How beautiful life had once been! How magnificent, with all its splendor and decoration! Even reading about the luxury of those who had died 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.

Then he turned his attention to embroidery and tapestries. In the cold rooms of northern Europe, tapestries served the same purpose as frescoes. As he studied the subject, he was almost saddened by the thought of how time ruined beautiful and wonderful things. He always had an extraordinary ability to become completely absorbed in whatever interested him at the moment. He, at least, had escaped time’s ruin. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times. Nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he remained unchanged. No winter spoiled his face or blemished his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they gone? Where was the great crocus-colored robe showing the gods fighting the giants? Brown girls had embroidered it for Athena’s pleasure. Where was the enormous velarium that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum in Rome? On that giant purple awning were the starry sky and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by white horses with gilded reins. He longed to see the unusual napkins made for the Priest of the Sun. They showed every delicacy and dish anyone could want for a feast. He longed to see the burial cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees. He wanted to see the fantastic robes that had angered the Bishop of Pontus. They showed “lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters, everything, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature.” He also longed to see the coat Charles of Orleans once wore. Its sleeves bore the embroidered verses of a song beginning “Madame, je suis tout joyeux.” The music was worked in gold thread. Each note, square in those days, was made from four pearls. He read about the room prepared at the palace at Rheims for Queen Joan of Burgundy. It was decorated with “thirteen hundred and twenty-one embroidered parrots, bearing the king’s coat of arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies. Their wings were similarly decorated with the queen’s coat of arms. All of it was worked in gold.” Catherine de Medicis had a mourning bed made of black velvet sprinkled with crescents and suns. Its damask curtains had leafy wreaths and garlands on a gold and silver background. Pearl embroidery fringed their edges. The bed stood in a room hung with rows of the queen’s emblems, cut from black velvet and set on silver cloth. Louis XIV. had gold-embroidered caryatids fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade. Verses from the Koran were embroidered on it in turquoises. Its supports were made of gilded silver, beautifully engraved and lavishly set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. The bed had been taken from the Turkish camp outside Vienna. The standard of Mohammed had stood beneath the trembling gold 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.

And so, for a whole year, he sought out the most exquisite textiles and embroidery he could find. He collected delicate Delhi muslins, finely decorated with gold-thread palm motifs and stitched with iridescent beetles’ wings. He found Dacca gauzes, so transparent that people in the East call them “woven air,” “running water,” and “evening dew”. He collected unusual patterned cloths from Java and elaborate yellow Chinese hangings. He found books bound in tawny satin or pale blue silk, decorated with fleurs-de-lis, birds, and figures. He collected veils of lacis made with Hungary point, Sicilian brocades, and stiff Spanish velvets. He also collected Georgian work decorated with gilded coins, and Japanese Foukousas with green-toned golds and birds with magnificent plumage.

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.

He also had a special passion for church vestments, as he did for everything connected with Church services. Long cedar chests lined the west gallery of his house. In them he had stored many rare and beautiful examples of what are really the clothes of the Bride of Christ. She must wear purple, jewels, and fine linen to hide her pale, wasted body. Her body is worn by the suffering she seeks and wounded by pain she inflicts on herself. He owned a magnificent cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask. It had a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in formal six-petalled flowers. On either side of the flowers was a pineapple design worked in seed pearls. The decorated bands, or orphreys, were divided into panels showing scenes from the life of the Virgin. The hood showed the coronation of the Virgin in coloured silks. This was Italian work from the fifteenth century. Another cope was made of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped clusters of acanthus leaves. Long-stemmed white flowers spread out from the clusters, their details picked out in silver thread and coloured crystals. The clasp bore a seraph’s head in raised gold-thread embroidery. The orphreys were woven with a repeating pattern in red and gold silk. They were dotted with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among them St. Sebastian. He also had chasubles made of amber-coloured silk, blue silk and gold brocade, yellow silk damask, and cloth of gold. They showed scenes of Christ’s Passion and Crucifixion and were embroidered with lions, peacocks, and other emblems. He had dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips, dolphins, and fleurs-de-lis. He had altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen, and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. The mystical rituals in which these things were used stirred 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.

These treasures, and everything he collected in his lovely house, were meant to help him forget. They let him escape for a while from a fear that sometimes seemed almost too great to bear. He had hung the terrible portrait himself in the lonely, locked room where he had spent much of his boyhood. Its changing features showed him how degraded his life had become. He had draped the purple and gold pall in front of it as a curtain. For weeks, he would stay away from the room and forget the hideous painted thing. He would become lighthearted again, recovering his wonderful joy and his passionate delight in simply being alive. Then, suddenly, one night he would creep out of the house and go to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields. He would stay there day after day, until he was driven away. When he returned, he would sit in front of the portrait, sometimes loathing it and himself. At other times, he was filled with the pride in being an individual that is half the attraction of sin. Then he would smile 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.

After a few years, he could not bear to spend long away from England. He gave up the villa at Trouville that he had shared with Lord Henry. He also gave up the little white house enclosed by walls at Algiers, where they had spent several winters. He hated being separated from the picture, which was such a part of his life. He was also afraid that someone might get into the room while he was away, despite the elaborate bars he had ordered placed on 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?

He knew perfectly well that this would tell them nothing. Despite all the foulness and ugliness of the face, the portrait still clearly looked like him. But what could they learn from that? He would laugh at anyone who tried to mock him. He had not painted it. Why should he care how vile and shameful 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.

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes he stayed at his great house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining fashionable young men of his own social rank. They were his closest companions. His extravagant luxury and splendid way of life amazed the whole county. But he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to London. He wanted to make sure no one had tampered with the door and that the picture was still there. What if someone stole it? 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.

Although he fascinated many people, quite a few distrusted him. He was almost rejected for membership in a West End club, although his birth and social position fully entitled him to join. It was said that a friend once brought him into the smoking room at the Churchill. The Duke of Berwick and another gentleman pointedly stood up and left. After he turned twenty-five, strange stories began to circulate about him. Rumor had it that he had been seen fighting with foreign sailors in a seedy haunt in a remote part of Whitechapel. He was also rumored to associate with thieves and counterfeiters and know the secrets of their trade. His long, unexplained absences became notorious. When he reappeared in society, men would whisper to each other in corners or pass him with a sneer. Others would study him coldly, as though 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.

Of course, he paid no attention to such insults and attempts to slight him. Most people thought his open, carefree manner and charming boyish smile were answer enough to the stories circulating about him. So was the endless grace of his wonderful youth, which seemed never to leave him. They called the stories slander. Yet people noticed that some of those who had been closest to him seemed to avoid him after a time. Some women had adored him wildly, braving all social disapproval and defying convention for his sake. If Dorian Gray entered the room, they were seen to turn pale with shame or horror.

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 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.

Yet for many people, these whispered scandals only increased his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth gave him a measure of security. Society, civilized society at least, is never very ready to believe anything bad about people who are both rich and fascinating. Society instinctively feels that manners matter more than morals. In its opinion, even the greatest respectability is worth much less than having a good chef. And, after all, it is poor comfort to hear that a man leads a blameless private life after he has served you a bad dinner or poor wine. As Lord Henry once remarked in a discussion on the subject, even the cardinal virtues cannot make up for half-cold entrées. There is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the rules of good society are, or should be, the same as the rules of art. Form is absolutely essential to good society. It should have both the dignity and the unreality of a ceremony. It should combine the insincerity 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 way for us to 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.

At least, that was Dorian Gray’s opinion. He often wondered at the shallow psychology of those who saw the human self as simple, permanent, reliable, and having one essential nature. To him, a person had countless lives and countless sensations. Each was a complex creature with many forms, carrying strange legacies of thought and passion within. Even the flesh was tainted by the monstrous diseases of the dead. He loved to stroll through the bleak, cold picture gallery of his country house. There he would look at the portraits of his ancestors. Here was Philip Herbert. In his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James, Francis Osborne described him as someone who was “caressed by the Court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company.” Was it young Herbert’s life that Dorian sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ passed from body to body until it reached his own? Had some faint sense of Herbert’s lost beauty made him speak that mad prayer in Basil Hallward’s studio? He had spoken it so suddenly, and almost without cause, and it had changed his life so profoundly. Here stood Sir Anthony Sherard, in a red doublet embroidered with gold, a jeweled surcoat, and a ruff and wristbands edged in gold. His silver and black armor lay in a pile at his feet. What had this man’s legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples left him an inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to make real? Here Lady Elizabeth Devereux smiled from the fading canvas. She wore a gauze hood, a pearl-covered bodice panel, and pink sleeves with slits in them. She held a flower in her right hand. Her left hand clasped an enameled collar of white and damask roses. A mandolin and an apple lay on a table beside her. Large green rosettes decorated her small pointed shoes. He knew her life and the strange stories told about her lovers. Did he have some of her temperament in him? Her oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to study him curiously. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fanciful beauty patches? How evil he looked! His face was gloomy and dark, and his sensual lips seemed twisted in disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over his thin, yellow hands, which were weighed down with rings. He had been an eighteenth-century macaroni, a man known for his extravagant fashion, and in his youth a friend of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Beckenham? He had been the Prince Regent’s companion in his wildest days and a witness at the secret marriage to Mrs. Fitzherbert. How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and defiant pose! What passions had he passed on? The world had regarded him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered on his chest. Beside him hung a portrait of his wife, a pale, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood stirred within Dorian too. How curious it all seemed! And then there was his mother, with her face like Lady Hamilton’s and her moist lips stained with wine. He knew what he had inherited from her. She had given him his beauty and his passion for beauty in others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. Vine leaves were woven into her hair. Purple wine spilled from the cup she held. The rosy flesh tones in the painting had faded, but her eyes were still wonderfully deep and brilliant in color. 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.

Yet people had ancestors in literature as well as in their own families. Many of these literary ancestors were perhaps closer to them in character and temperament. Their influence was certainly more clearly felt. At times, Dorian Gray felt that all of history was simply the record of his own life. It was not the life he had actually lived, but the life his imagination had created in his mind and passions. He felt he had known them all, those strange, terrible figures who had appeared on the world’s stage. They had made sin so marvelous and evil so subtle. It seemed to him that, somehow, 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 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.

The hero of the remarkable novel that had so influenced his life had known this strange fancy himself. In the seventh chapter, he tells how, as Tiberius, he had sat in a garden at Capri. He wore a laurel crown to protect himself from lightning and read the shameful books of Elephantis. Dwarfs and peacocks strutted around him, and the flute player mocked the man swinging the censer. As Caligula, he had drunk and feasted with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables. He had also dined in an ivory manger with a horse wearing a jeweled headpiece. As Domitian, he had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors. With haunted eyes, he looked for the reflection of the dagger that would end his life. He was sick with boredom, that terrible tædium vitæ, or weariness of life, that afflicts those whom life denies nothing. He had peered through a clear emerald at the bloody slaughter in the circus. Then he had been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold. He rode in a pearl and purple litter drawn by silver-shod mules, and heard men call out to Nero Caesar as he passed. As Elagabalus, he had painted his face and spun thread among the women. He had brought the Moon from Carthage and given her in mystical 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.

Dorian read this fantastic chapter and the two chapters immediately after it over and over again. Like curious tapestries or skillfully made enamels, they pictured the terrible and beautiful forms of people made monstrous or mad by vice, bloodshed, and weariness. There was Filippo, Duke of Milan, who killed his wife and painted her lips with a scarlet poison. He did this so that her lover would suck death from the dead body he caressed. There was Pietro Barbi, the Venetian known as Paul the Second. In his vanity, he tried to take the title of Formosus. His tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin. There was Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to hunt living men. A prostitute who had loved him covered his murdered body with roses. There was the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him and his cloak stained with Perotto’s blood. There was Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, the child and favorite of Sixtus IV. His beauty was matched only by his debauchery. He received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs. He had a boy gilded so that he could serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas. There was Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the sight of death. He had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine. He was said to be the son of the Devil and to have cheated his father at dice when they gambled for Ezzelin’s soul. There was Giambattista Cibo, who mockingly took the name Innocent. A Jewish doctor infused the blood of three boys into his sluggish veins. There was Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta and lord of Rimini. His effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man. He strangled Polyssena with a napkin and gave Ginevra d’Este poison in an emerald cup. In honor of a shameful passion, he built a pagan church for Christian worship. There was Charles VI., who had adored his brother’s wife so wildly that a leper warned him of his coming insanity. When his mind became ill and strange, only Saracen cards painted with images of love, death, and madness could soothe him. And there was Grifonetto Baglioni, in his trimmed jerkin, jeweled cap, and curls shaped like acanthus leaves. He killed Astorre along with his bride, and Simonetto along with his page. He was so beautiful that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, even those who had hated him could not help weeping. 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.

They all held a horrifying fascination for him. He saw them at night, and they haunted his imagination during the day. The Renaissance knew strange ways to poison people: with a helmet and a lit torch, an embroidered glove and a jeweled fan, a gilded pomander and an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. At times, he saw evil simply as a way to bring his idea of beauty to life.