Chapter 3

At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid, but had retired from the diplomatic service.

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat and smoking. “Well, Harry,” said the old gentleman, “what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five.”

“Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you.”

“Money, I suppose,” said Lord Fermor. “Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything.”

“Yes,” murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat, “and when they grow older they know it. But I don’t want money. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information. Do you know Mr. Dorian Gray?”

“Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?” asked Lord Fermor.

“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? 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. She was a very beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, but she married a penniless young fellow – a mere nobody, sir. Certainly I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. Lady Margaret fell in love when she was very young. She ran away from home and married a soldier. But she did not have a happy life. The poor chap was killed in a duel, a few months after the marriage. Lord Kelso was very angry and never talked to Lady Margaret again. Dorian’s father, the soldier, was killed before Dorian was born. Lady Margaret died before Dorian was a year old. So Dorian was an orphan. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking boy.”

“He is very good-looking,” said Lord Henry.

“He should have a lot of money waiting for him. Dorian is going to be very rich. Soon Dorian would be twenty-one. Then he would have all Lord Kelso’s money,” continued the old man.

“And… his mother was very beautiful?” asked Lord Henry.

“Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. She could have married anybody she chose. She was romantic, though. By the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, Dartmoor wants to marry an American? Ain’t English girls good enough for him?”

“It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George.”

“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. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.”

“Where are you lunching, Harry?”

“At Aunt Agatha’s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest protege.”

“Tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her.”

Lord Henry went out. It was a sad and romantic story. Now Harry was even more interested in Dorian Gray. Dorian Gray… How charming he had been at dinner the night before! Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to fade!

Lord Henry smiled. Yes; he would try to dominate Dorian Gray – had already, indeed, half done so. There was something fascinating in this son of Love and Death.

Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he had passed his aunt’s some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back.

“Late as usual, Harry,” cried his aunt, shaking her head at him.

His neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt’s oldest friends. Lord Henry began to talk. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him. He charmed his listeners, everybody listened to Harry. But Harry was not talking to everybody. He was talking to Dorian. Sometimes Dorian smiled, sometimes his eyes were wide open with surprise. Dorian listened to everything. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell.

Dorian Gray spent every day of the next three weeks with Lord Henry. They had lunch together and went to parties. And Dorian was influenced by Lord Henry more and more. When Dorian was alone, he was always looking for pleasurable things to do.

Chapter 4

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was sitting in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Mayfair. Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late, Dorian Gray was bored and once or twice he thought of going away.

At last he heard a step outside and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry!” he said. “I’m afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray. It is only his wife.”

He looked around quickly and got to his feet. “I am sorry, I thought —”

“I know you quite well by your photographs, I think my husband has got seventeen of them.”

“Not seventeen, Lady Henry?”

“Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the theatre. But here is Harry!”

Lord Henry smiled at them both. “So sorry I am late, Dorian.”

“I am afraid I must go,” said Lady Henry. “Goodbye, Mr. Gray. Goodbye, Harry. You are eating out, I suppose? I am too. Perhaps I will see you later.”

“Perhaps, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her. Then he lit a cigarette and threw himself down on the sofa.

“Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian,” he said.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I will marry, Harry. I am too much in love. I’m in love with the most beautiful girl.”

“Who are you in love with?” asked Lord Henry, after a pause.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray. His face became red.

“How ordinary.”

“You would not say that if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“No one has. People will some day, though. She is a genius.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly.

“Ah! Harry, your views terrify me.”

“Never mind that. How long have you known her?”

“About three weeks.”

“And where did you meet her?”

“I will tell you, Harry, but you must not laugh. You mustn’t laugh at me. I met her because of you.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes. You told me to find out about life. You told me to enjoy life – the good things and the evil things. For days after I met you I searched the streets for beauty. I walked around London. There was excitement and danger everywhere. I knew that something wonderful was going to happen. I walked around the East End until I found a dirty little theatre. I see you are laughing. It is horrible of you!”

“I am not laughing, Dorian. Go on with your story.”

“The play was Romeo and Juliet. Romeo was a fat, ugly old actor. But Juliet was a beautiful young actress. She was about seventeen years old. Her hair was dark brown. Her face was small and pale – like a little flower. Her eyes were large and dark blue. I fell in love with her immediately, Harry; she was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. Why didn’t you tell me about actresses?”

“Because everybody falls in love with actresses, Dorian,” said Lord Henry. “When did you meet her?”

“I went back the next night and the night after that. On the third evening I waited for her outside the theatre.”

“What was she like?”

“Sibyl? Oh, she was shy and gentle. There is something of a child about her. She said quite simply to me, ‘You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming.’”

“Miss Sibyl knows how to flatter you.”

“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother. Sibyl is the only thing I care about.”

“That is the reason, I suppose, that you never have dinner with me now. I thought it might be something romantic.”

“My dear Harry, we eat together every day,” said Dorian.

“You always come very late.”

“Well, I have to see Sibyl play,” he cried.

“Can you have dinner with me tonight, Dorian?”

He shook his head. “Tonight she is Imogen,” he answered, and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.”

“When is she Sibyl Vane?”

“Never.”

“I congratulate you.”

“How horrible you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want you and Basil to come and watch her tomorrow night. You are certain to recognize that she is wonderful.”

“All right. Tomorrow evening. Will you see Basil before then? Or shall I write to him?”

“Dear Basil! I haven’t seen him for a week. It is rather horrible of me as he sent me my portrait a few days ago. I love looking at it. Perhaps you should write to him. I don’t want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice.”

Lord Henry smiled. “People are very fond of giving away advice they need themselves.”

“Oh, Basil is a good man, but I don’t think he really understands about art and beauty. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into his work.”

“I must go now, Harry. My Juliet is waiting for me. Don’t forget about tomorrow. Good-bye.”

As Dorian left the room, Lord Henry began to think about what he had just learned. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray. Yet the mad worship of this actress did not make him annoyed or jealous. He was pleased by it. It made the boy more interesting to study. Soul and body, body and soul – how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.

When he arrived home, about half past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. Dorian Gray was going to marry Sibyl Vane.