At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young, and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the Diplomatic Service in a capricious moment of annoyance at not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his despatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been his father's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers, as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his
When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. Well, Harry, said the old gentleman, what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up until two, and were not visible until five.
Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.
Money, I suppose, said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.
Yes, murmured Lord Henry, settling his buttonhole in his coat; and when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information; not useful information, of course; useless information.
Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue-book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him.
Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue-books, Uncle George, said Lord Henry, languidly.
Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he? asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows.
That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who, he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him.
Kelso's grandson! echoed the old gentleman. Kelso's grandson!... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux; and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow, a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public, paid him, sir, to do it, paid him, and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of a boy is he? If he is like his mother he must be a good-looking chap.
He is very good-looking, assented Lord Henry.
I hope he will fall into proper hands, continued the old man. He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there.
I don't know, answered Lord Henry. I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And... his mother was very beautiful?
Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain't English girls good enough for him?
It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.
I'll back English women against the world, Harry, said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist.
The betting is on the Americans.
They don't last, I am told, muttered his uncle.
A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a chance.
Who are her people? grumbled the old gentleman. Has she got any?
Lord Henry shook his head. American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past, he said, rising to go.
They are pork-packers, I suppose?
Is she pretty?
She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm.
Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the Paradise for women.
It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it, said Lord Henry. Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.
Where are you lunching, Harry?
At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latestprotégé.
Humph! Tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me with any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but write cheques for her silly fads.
All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic.
The old gentleman growled approvingly, and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street, and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.
So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to
Suddenly he stopped, and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt's some distance, and smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall the butler told him that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick and passed into the dining-room.
Late as usual, Harry, cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.
He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories, and thinking with the Liberals, in
We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry, cried the Duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. Do you think he will really marry this fascinating young person?
I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess.
How dreadful! exclaimed Lady Agatha. Really, some one should interfere.
I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an American dry-goods store, said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious.
My uncle has already suggested pork-packing, Sir Thomas.
Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods? asked the Duchess, raising her large hands in wonder, and accentuating the verb.
American novels, answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail.
The Duchess looked puzzled.
Don't mind him, my dear, whispered Lady Agatha. He never means anything that he says.
When America was discovered, said the Radical
Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered, said Mr. Erskine. I myself would say that it had merely been detected.
Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants, answered the Duchess, vaguely. I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses in Paris. I wish I could afford to do the same.
They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris. chuckled Sir Thomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes.
Really! And where do bad Americans go when they die? inquired the Duchess.
They go to America, murmured Lord Henry.
Sir Thomas frowned. I am afraid that your nephew is prejudiced against that great country, he said to Lady Agatha. I have travelled all over it, in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it.
But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated? asked Mr. Erskine, plaintively. I don't feel up to the journey.
Sir Thomas waved his hand. Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world on his shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishing characteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. I assure you there is no nonsense about the Americans.
How dreadful! cried Lord Henry. I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable.
I do not understand you, said Sir Thomas, growing rather red.
I do, Lord Henry, murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile.
Paradoxes are all very well in their way... rejoined the Baronet.
Was that a paradox? asked Mr. Erskine. I did not think so. Perhaps it was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To test Reality we must see it on the tight-rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can judge them.
Dear me! said Lady Agatha, how you men argue! I am sure I never can make out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed with you. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give up the East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They would love his playing.
I want him to play to me, cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he looked down the table and caught a bright answering glance.
But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel, continued Lady Agatha.
I can sympathize with everything, except suffering, said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better.
Still, the East End is a very important problem, remarked Sir Thomas, with a grave shake of the head.
Quite so, answered the young lord. It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves.
The politician looked at him keenly. What change do you propose, then? he asked.
But we have such grave responsibilities, ventured Mrs. Vandeleur, timidly.
Terribly grave, echoed Lady Agatha.
Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, History would have been different.
You are really very comforting, warbled the Duchess. I have always felt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take no interest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able to look her in the face without a blush.
A blush is very becoming, Duchess, remarked Lord Henry.
Only when one is young, she answered. When an old woman like myself blushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tell me how to become young again.
He thought for a moment. Can you remember any great error that you committed in your early days, Duchess? he asked, looking at her across the table.
A great many, I fear, she cried.
Then commit them over again, he said, gravely. To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies.
A delightful theory! she exclaimed. I must put it into practice.
A dangerous theory, came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agatha shook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened.
Yes, he continued, that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
A laugh ran round the table.
He played with the idea, and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy, and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and Philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of Pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinary improvisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate, seemed to give his wit keenness, and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips, and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes.
At last, liveried in the costume of the age, Reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the Duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. How annoying! she cried. I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. If I am late, he is sure to be furious,
For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess, said Lord Henry, with a bow.
Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you, she cried; so mind you come; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies.
When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.
You talk books away, he said; why don't you write one?
I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet, and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopædias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.
I fear you are right, answered Mr. Erskine. I myself used to have literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?
I quite forget what I said, smiled Lord Henry. Was it all very bad?
Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good Duchess we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley, and expound
I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host, and a perfect library.
You will complete it, answered the old gentleman, with a courteous bow. And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at the Athenæum. It is the hour when we sleep there.
All of you, Mr. Erskine?
Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English Academy of Letters.
Lord Henry laughed, and rose. I am going to the Park, he cried.
As he was passing out of the door Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. Let me come with you, he murmured.
But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him, answered Lord Henry.
I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so wonderfully as you do.
Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day, said Lord Henry, smiling. All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me, if you care to.