Chapter 19

“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.”

“There's no use telling me you're going to be good,” cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl of rosewater. “You're quite perfect. Please 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.”

Dorian Gray shook his head. “No, Harry, I’ve done too many terrible things in my life. I’m not going to do any more. I started doing good things yesterday.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself.”

“In the countryside, Harry. I was staying alone at a small inn.”

“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.”

“My dear boy,” said Lord Henry, smiling, “anyone can be good in the country. There are no temptations there. That is why people who live outside the city are so completely uncivilized. Civilization is by no means easy to achieve. There are only two ways a person can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. Country people have no chance to be 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.”

“Culture and corruption,” Dorian repeated. “I have known something of both. It seems terrible to me now that culture and corruption should ever go together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to change. I think I have changed.”

“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.

“You still haven't told me what your good deed was. Or did you say you had done more than one?” his companion asked. As he spoke, he poured a small crimson pile of strawberries with their seeds removed onto his plate. Then he sprinkled white sugar over them through a perforated, shell-shaped spoon.

“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 can tell you, Harry. I couldn’t tell this story to anyone else. I spared someone. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was very beautiful and looked remarkably like Sibyl Vane. I think that resemblance first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don’t you? That seems so long ago! Well, Hetty wasn’t from our own social class, of course. She was just a girl from a village. But I really loved her. I’m quite sure I loved her. Throughout this wonderful May we’ve been having, I went to see her two or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a small orchard. Apple blossoms kept falling on her hair, and she was laughing. We were going to run away together at dawn this morning. Suddenly, I decided to leave her as innocent as I had found her, like a flower.”

“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.”

“I imagine that feeling something new must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian,” Lord Henry interrupted. “But I can finish your romantic story for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That was the beginning of your reform.”

“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.”

“Harry, you’re awful! You mustn’t say such terrible things. Hetty’s heart isn’t broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But she hasn’t been disgraced. Like Perdita, she can live in her garden of mint and marigolds.”

“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?”

“And cry over an unfaithful Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have such strangely boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be truly happy now with someone of her own social class? I suppose she will marry a rough cart driver or a grinning farmhand someday. Well, meeting you and loving you will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be miserable. From a moral point of view, I cannot say I think much of your great sacrifice. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know Hetty isn’t floating right now in a starlit millpond, surrounded by lovely water lilies, 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.”

“I can’t stand this, Harry! You make fun of everything, and then suggest the most serious tragedies. I’m sorry I told you now. I don’t care what you say to me. I know I was right to do what I did. Poor Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her pale face at the window, like a sprig of jasmine. Let’s not talk about it anymore. And don’t try to convince me that the first good thing I’ve done in years is really a kind of sin. It’s the first time I’ve ever given something up for someone else. I want to be better. I’m going to be better. Tell me something about yourself. What’s happening in town? I haven’t been to the club for days.”

“The people are still discussing poor Basil’s disappearance.”

“People are still talking about 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.

“I would have thought they were tired of that by now,” said Dorian. He poured himself some wine and frowned 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.”

“My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks. The British public really cannot handle the mental strain of more than one topic every three months. They have been very lucky lately, though. They have had my own divorce case and Alan Campbell’s suicide. Now they have the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that poor Basil was the man in the grey overcoat who took the midnight train to Paris on November ninth. The French police say Basil never arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in about two weeks we shall be told that he has been seen in San Francisco. It is odd, but everyone who disappears is said to have been seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, with 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.

“What do you think has happened to Basil?” asked Dorian. He held his Burgundy up to the light. He wondered how he could discuss Basil’s disappearance 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.”

“I have no idea. If Basil chooses to hide, that’s none of my business. If he’s 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.

“Why?” the younger man asked tiredly.

“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.”

“Because,” said Lord Henry, holding the gold grille of an open vinaigrette box beneath his nose, “these days, you can survive anything except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that cannot be explained away. Let’s have coffee in the music room, Dorian. You must play Chopin for me. The man my wife ran away with played Chopin beautifully. Poor Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Of course, married life is just a habit, a bad habit. But you miss even your worst habits when you lose them. Perhaps you miss them most of all. They are such an essential part of your 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?”

Dorian said nothing, but got up from the table and went into the next room. He sat down at the piano and let his fingers wander over the black and white keys. After the coffee was brought in, he stopped and looked over at Lord Henry. “Harry, did you ever think 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.”

Lord Henry yawned. “Basil was very popular and always wore a Waterbury watch. Why would anyone have murdered him? He was not clever enough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful talent for painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and still be as dull as possible. Basil really was rather dull. He interested me only once. That was years ago, when he told me he adored you wildly and that you were the main inspiration for 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?”

“I cared a lot about Basil,” Dorian said sadly. “But don’t people say 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.”

“Oh, some of the newspapers do. It does not seem at all likely to me. I know there are terrible places in Paris, but Basil was not the sort of man to visit them. He had no curiosity. That was his greatest flaw.”

“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.

“What would you say, Harry, if I told you I killed Basil?” the younger man asked. After speaking, he watched Harry closely.

“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.”

“I would say, my dear fellow, that you’re playing a part that doesn’t suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is a crime. Dorian, you’re not capable of committing murder. I’m sorry if that hurts your pride, but I assure you it’s true. Crime belongs exclusively to the lower classes. I don’t blame them in the least. I imagine crime is to them what art is to us, simply a way of experiencing 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.”

“A way to experience sensations? Do you really think a man who has committed murder could commit 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.”

“Oh! Anything becomes a pleasure if you do it too often,” cried Lord Henry, laughing. “That is one of the most important secrets of life. Still, I think murder is always a mistake. You should never do anything you cannot talk about after dinner. But let us leave poor Basil. I wish I could believe he had met such a truly romantic end as you suggest, but I can’t. I suppose he fell off a bus into the Seine, and the conductor covered up the scandal. Yes, I imagine that was his end. I can see him now, lying on his back under those dull green waters. Heavy barges float over him, and long weeds catch in his hair. You know, I don’t think he would have done much more good work. His painting had declined a great deal over the last ten years.”

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.

Dorian sighed, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began stroking the head of an unusual Java parrot. The large bird had grey feathers, a pink crest, and a pink tail. It was balancing on a bamboo perch. As Lord Henry’s pointed fingers touched the parrot, it lowered its white, wrinkled eyelids over its glassy black eyes. Then it began to sway back and forth.

“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.”

“Yes,” he continued, turning around and taking his handkerchief from his pocket. “His painting had really declined. It seemed to me to have lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he stopped being great friends, he stopped being a great artist. What separated you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. Bores have a habit of doing that. By the way, what happened to that wonderful portrait he painted of you? I don’t think I’ve seen it since he finished it. Oh! I remember you told me years ago that you had sent it to Selby. It was lost or stolen on the way. You never got it back? What a pity! It was truly a masterpiece. I remember wanting to buy it. I wish I had bought it. It belonged to Basil’s best period. After that, his work became a curious mixture of bad painting and good intentions. That mixture always earns a man the title of a representative British artist. Did you advertise for the portrait? 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?—

“I forget,” said Dorian. “I suppose I did. But I never really liked it. I’m sorry I sat for it. I hate the memory of it. Why do you talk about it? It used to remind me of some strange lines in a play. Hamlet, I think. How do they go?

Yes: that is what it was like.”

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.

Lord Henry laughed. “If a man treats life as an art, his brain is his heart,” he replied, sinking into an armchair.

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.’”

Dorian Gray shook his head and played some soft chords on the piano. “‘Like a painting of 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 older man leaned back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. After a pause, he said, “By the way, Dorian, what does the quotation say? ‘What does a man gain if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul’?”

The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend. “Why do you ask me that, Harry?”

The music sounded harsh, and Dorian Gray flinched 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.”

“My dear fellow,” said Lord Henry, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “I asked you because I thought you might be able to answer me. That is all. I was walking through the park last Sunday. Near the Marble Arch, a small crowd of shabby-looking people stood listening to a vulgar street preacher. As I passed, I heard the man shouting that question to his audience. It struck me as rather dramatic. London is full of curious scenes like that. A rainy Sunday, a crude Christian in a raincoat, a ring of sickly white faces beneath a broken roof of dripping umbrellas. Then a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill, hysterical lips. It was really very good in its way, quite an inspiration. I thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul, but that man did not. However, I am afraid 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.”

“Don’t, Harry. The soul is real, and that is frightening. It can be bought, sold, or traded away. It can be poisoned or made perfect. Each of us has a soul. I know it.”

“Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?”

“Are you quite sure of that, Dorian?”

“Quite sure.”

“Completely 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 1820, 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.”

“Ah! Then it must be an illusion. The things we feel absolutely certain about are never true. That is the tragedy of faith and the lesson of romance. How serious you look! Don’t be so serious. What do the superstitions of our age have to do with either of us? No, we have given up believing in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian. And as you play, tell me quietly how you have kept your youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you, and I am wrinkled, worn out, and yellow. You really are wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do tonight. You remind me of the day I first saw you. 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 my youth back, I would do anything in the world, except exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It’s absurd to talk about how little young people know. The only people whose opinions I now listen to with any respect are much younger than I am. They seem ahead of me. Life has revealed its latest wonder to them. As for old people, I always contradict them. I do it on principle. If you ask their opinion about something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions people held in 1820. Back then, people wore high collars, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that piece you are playing is! I wonder, did Chopin write it in Majorca? Did he write it with the sea weeping around the villa and salt spray beating against the windows? It is wonderfully romantic. What a blessing that we still have one art that does not imitate anything! Don’t stop. I want music tonight. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows of my own, Dorian, that even you know nothing about. The tragedy of old age is not that you are old, but that you are young. Sometimes I am amazed at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What a wonderful life you have had! You have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. Yet all of it has been no more to you than the sound of music. It has not spoiled you. You are still the same.”

“I am not the same, Harry.”

“I’m 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.”

“Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be like. Don’t spoil it by giving things up. Right now, you are a perfect example of your type. Don’t make yourself incomplete. You are completely flawless now. There’s no need to shake your head. You know you are flawless. Besides, Dorian, don’t deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life depends on nerves, fibers, and slowly formed cells, where thought hides and passion dreams. You may think you are safe and strong. But a chance shade of color in a room or in the morning sky can change things. So can a perfume you once loved, bringing subtle memories with it. Or a line from a forgotten poem that you come across again. Or a phrase from a piece of music you no longer play. I tell you, Dorian, our lives depend on things like these. Browning writes about that somewhere, but our own senses can imagine these things for us. Sometimes the scent of lilas blanc suddenly reaches me. Then I have to live through the strangest month of my life again. I wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has condemned us both, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the kind of person this age is searching for, and fears it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue or painted a picture. You have never produced anything outside 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.”

Dorian stood up from the piano and ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, life has been wonderful,” he murmured, “but I’m not going to live the same way, Harry. And you mustn’t say such extravagant things to me. You don’t know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn away from me. You’re laughing. 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.”

“Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Play the nocturne for me again. Look at that great, honey-colored moon hanging in the dim evening air. She is waiting for you to charm her. If you play, she will come closer to the earth. You won’t? Then let’s go to the club. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly. Someone at White’s very much wants to meet you. It’s young Lord Poole, Bournemouth’s eldest son. He has already copied your neckties and begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite delightful and reminds me a little 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.”

“I hope not,” said Dorian, his eyes sad. “But I’m tired tonight, Harry. I won’t go to the club. It’s 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.”

“Please stay. You have never played as well as you did tonight. There was something wonderful in your touch. It was more expressive than I had ever heard before.”

“It is because I am going to be good,” he answered, smiling. “I am a little changed already.”

“Because I’m going to be good,” he replied, smiling. “I’ve already changed a little.”

“You cannot change to me, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “You and I will always be friends.”

“Your feelings toward me can’t change, 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.”

“Yet you once poisoned me with a book. I should not forgive you for that. Harry, promise me you will never lend that book to anyone. 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.”

“My dear boy, you really are beginning to preach. Soon you’ll be going around like a convert or a revivalist, warning people against all the sins you’ve grown tired of. You’re far too delightful for that. Besides, there’s no point. You and I are what we are, and we’ll be what we’ll be. As for being poisoned by a book, there’s no such thing. Art has no influence on action. It destroys the desire to act. It is wonderfully sterile. The books the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That’s all. But let’s not discuss literature. Come over tomorrow. I’m going riding at eleven. We could go together, and afterward I’ll take you to lunch with Lady Branksome. She’s a charming woman and wants your advice about some tapestries she’s thinking of buying. Make sure you come. Or shall we have lunch with our little duchess? She says she never sees you now. Perhaps you’re 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?”

“Do I really have to come, Harry?”

“Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don’t think there have been such lilacs since the year I met you.”

“Of course. The park is beautiful now. I don’t think the lilacs have been this lovely 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.

“Okay. I’ll be here at eleven,” said Dorian. “Good night, Harry.” At the door, he paused for a moment, as if he had something more to say. Then he sighed and left.