The Picture of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde (scary books to read txt) đ
- Author: Oscar Wilde
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Hallward bit his lip. âIf Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorianâs whims are laws to everybody, except himself.â
Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. âYou are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at the Orleans. Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearly always at home at five oâclock. Write to me when you are coming. I should be sorry to miss you.â
âBasil,â cried Dorian Gray, âif Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Ask him to stay. I insist upon it.â
âStay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me,â said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. âIt is quite true, I never talk when I am working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tedious for my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay.â
âBut what about my man at the Orleans?â
The painter laughed. âI donât think there will be any difficulty about that. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and donât move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henry says. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with the single exception of myself.â
Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greek martyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom he had rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made a delightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a few moments he said to him, âHave you really a very bad influence, Lord Henry? As bad as Basil says?â
âThere is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoralâ âimmoral from the scientific point of view.â
âWhy?â
âBecause to influence a person is to give him oneâs own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone elseâs music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize oneâs nature perfectlyâ âthat is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to oneâs self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religionâ âthese are the two things that govern us. And yetâ ââ
âJust turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a good boy,â said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a look had come into the ladâs face that he had never seen there before.
âAnd yet,â continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and with that graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic of him, and that he had even in his Eton days, âI believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dreamâ âI believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medievalism, and return to the Hellenic idealâ âto something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, daydreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shameâ ââ
âStop!â faltered Dorian Gray, âstop! you bewilder me. I donât know what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Donât speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think.â
For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to have come really from himself. The few words that Basilâs friend had said to himâ âwords spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox in themâ âhad touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses.
Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere
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