The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde Chapter 06

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, chapter six.
It was long past noon when he awoke. His vallad
had crept several times into the room on tiptoe to
see if he was stirring, and had wondered what made

(00:20):
his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded,
and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea
and a pile of letters on a small tray of
gold severe china, and drew back the olive satin curtains
with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of
the three tall windows. Monsieur has slept well this morning,

(00:43):
he said, smiling. What o'clock is it, Victor asked, Dorian
Gray sleepily. One hour and a quarter Monsieur, how late
it was. He sat up, and, having sipped some tea,
turned over his letters. One was from Lord Henry and
had been brought by hand that morning. He hesitated for

(01:06):
a moment, then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly.
They contained the usual collection of cards, invitations to dinner,
tickets for private views, programs of charity concerts, and the
like that are showered on fashionable young men every morning
during the season. There was a rather heavy bill for

(01:27):
a chased silver Louis Keane's toilet set that he had
not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians,
who were extremely old fashioned people and did not realize
that we live in an age when only unnecessary things
are absolutely necessary to us. And there were several very
courteously worded communications from German street money lenders offering to

(01:49):
advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and
at the most reasonable rates of interest. After about ten minutes,
he got up and, throwing on and elaborate dressing gown,
passed into the onyx paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him.
After his long sleep, he seemed to have forgotten all

(02:09):
that he had gone through. A dim sense of having
taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once
or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream
about it. As soon as he was dressed, he went
into the library and sat down to a light French
breakfast that had been laid out for him on a
small round table close to an open window. It was

(02:31):
an exquisite day. The warm air seemed laden with spices.
A bee flew in and buzzed around the blue dragon
bowl filled with sulfur yellow roses that stood in front
of him. He felt perfectly happy. Suddenly his eye fell
on the screen that he had placed in front of

(02:52):
his portrait, and he started too cold. Monsieur asked his valet,
putting an omelet on the table, I shut the window.
Dorrian shook his head. I am not cold, he murmured.
Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed or

(03:13):
had it been simply his own imagination that had made
him see a look of evil where there had been
a look of joy. Surely a painted canvas could not
alter the thing was absurd. It would serve as a
tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile.
And yet how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing.

(03:36):
First in the dim twilight, then in the bright dawn,
he had seen the touch of cruelty and the warped lips.
He almost dreaded his valet leaving the room. He knew
that when he was alone he would have to examine
the portrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee
and cigarettes had been brought and the man turned to go,
he felt a mad desire to tell him to remain.

(03:59):
As the door closed behind him, he called him back.
The man stood waiting for his orders. Odian looked at
him for a moment. I am not home to any one, victor,
he said, with a sigh. The man bowed and retired.
He rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung

(04:20):
himself down on a luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing
the screen. The screen was an old one of Spanish
gilt leather, stamped and wrought with a rather florid Louis
Cator's pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if it had
ever before concealed the secret of a man's life. Should

(04:42):
he move it aside? After all, why not let it
stay there? What was the use of knowing? If the
thing was true, it was terrible? If it was not true,
why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate
or deadlier chance, other eyes than his spied behind and
saw the horrible change? What should he do? If Basil

(05:04):
Hallward came and asked to look at his own picture,
he would sure do that. No, the thing had to
be examined at at once. Anything would be better than
this dreadful state of doubt, He got up and locked
both doors. At least he would be alone when he
looked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew

(05:26):
the screen aside and saw himself face to face. It
was perfectly true. The portrait had altered, as he often
remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder. He found
himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling

(05:46):
of almost scientific interest. That such a change should have
taken place was incredible to him, And yet it was
a fact. Was there some subtle affinity between the chemical
atoms that shaped themselves into form and color on the
canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it

(06:07):
be that what that soul thought, they realized that what
had dreamed they made true? Or was there some other
more terrible reason. He shuddered and felt afraid, and, going
back to the couch, lay there gazing at the picture
in sickened horror. One thing, however, he felt that it

(06:28):
had done for him. It had made him conscious how unjust,
how cruel he had been to Sybil Vane. It was
not too late to make reparation for that. She could
still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would
yield as some higher influence would be transformed into some
nobler passion, and the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted

(06:52):
of him would be a guide to him through life,
would be to him what holiness was the sum and
conscience was to others, and the fear of God to us. All.
There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the
moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol

(07:12):
of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever present
sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls. Three
o'clock struck and four and half past four. But he
did not stir. He was trying to gather up the
scarlet threads of his life and to weave them into
a pattern, to find his way through the sanguine labyrinth

(07:35):
of passion through which he was wandering. He did not
know what to do or what to think. Finally, he
went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter
to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and
accusing himself of madness. He covered page after page with
wild words of sorrow and wilder words of pain. There

(07:57):
is a luxury and self reproach when we blame ourselves.
We feel that no one else has a right to
blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that
gives us absolution. When Dory and Gray had finished the letter,
he felt that he had been forgiven. Suddenly there came
a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry's

(08:19):
voice outside. My dear Dorian, I must see you. Let
me in at once. I can't bear you shutting yourself
up like this. He made no answer at first, but
remained quite still. The knocking still continued and grew louder. Yes,
it was better to let Lord Henry in and to
explain to him the new life he was going to

(08:40):
lead to quarrel with him if it had become necessary
to quarrel, to part if parting was inevitable. He jumped
up and drew the screen hastily across the picture, and
unlocked the door. I am so sorry for it all,
my dear boy, said Lord Henry, coming in. But you
must not think about it too much. Do you mean

(09:01):
sybyl Vane, asked Dorrian. Yes, of course, answered Henry, sinking
into a chair and slowly pulling his gloves off. It
is dreadful from one point of view, but it was
not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and
see her after the play was over? Yes? And I
felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?

(09:25):
I was brutal, Harry, perfectly brutal. But it is all
right now. I am not sorry for anything that has happened.
It has taught me to know myself better. Oh, Dorrian,
I am so glad you take it in that way.
I was afraid I would find you plunged in remorse

(09:45):
and tearing your nice hair. I have got through all that,
said Dorrian, shaking his head and smiling. I am perfectly
happy now. I know what conscience is to begin with.
It is not what you told me it was. It
is the divinest thing in us. Oh, don't sneer it
in Harry any more, at least not before me. I

(10:06):
want to be good. I can't bear the idea of
my soul being hideous. A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian,
I congratulate you on it, But how are you going
to begin by marrying sybil Vain? Marrying sybil Vaine, cried

(10:27):
Lord Henry, standing up and looking at him in a
perplexed amazement. But my dear Dorian. Yes, Harry, I know
what you are going to say, something dreadful about marriage.
Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind
to me again. Two days ago I asked Sybil to
marry me. I am not going to break my word
to her. She is to be my wife, Your wife,

(10:51):
dor Orion, didn't you get my letter? I wrote to
you this morning and sent the note down by my
own man. Your letter. Oh, yes, I remember. I've not
ready yet, Harry. I was afraid there might be something
in it that I wouldn't like. Lord Henry walked across
the room, and, sitting down by Dorrian, took both hands

(11:13):
in his and held them tightly. Dorian, he said, my letter,
don't be frightened. My letter was to tell you that
Sybil Vane is dead. A cry of pain rose from
the Lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing
his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. Dead, Sybil dead.

(11:37):
It is not true. It is a horrible lie. It
is quite true, Dorian, said Lord Henry gravely. It is
in all the morning papers. I wrote down to you
to ask you not to see any one till I came.
There will have to be an inquest, of course, and
you must not be mixed up in it. Things like

(11:58):
that make a man fashionable in Paris, but in London
people are so prejudiced here. One should never make one's
debut with a scandal. One should reserve that to give
an interest to one's old age. I don't suppose they
know your name at the theater. If they don't, it
is all right. Did anyone see you going round to

(12:18):
her room? That is an important point. Dorian did not
answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.
Finally he murmured, in a stifled voice, Harry, did you
say an inquest? What did you mean by that? Did?
Oh Harry, I can't bear it, but be quick tell

(12:41):
me everything at once. I've no doubt that it was
not an accident, Dorian, though it must be put in
that way to the public. As she was leaving the
theater with her mother about half past twelve or so,
she said she had forgotten something upstairs. They waited some
time for her, but she did not come down again.

(13:02):
They ultimately found her lying dead on the floor of
her dressing room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some
dreadful thing they use at theaters. I don't know what
it was, but it was either prussic acid or white
lead in it. I should fancy it was prussic acid.
As she seems to have died instantaneously. It is very tragic,

(13:22):
of course, but you must not get yourself mixed up
in it. I see by the standard that she was seventeen,
I should have thought she was almost younger than that.
She looked such a child and seemed to know so
little about acting during You mustn't let this thing get
on your nerves. You must come and dine with me,
and afterwards we'll go in at the opera. It is

(13:44):
a patty knight and everyone will be there. You can
come to my sister's box. She has got some smart
women with her. So I have murdered simple Vane, said Dorry,
and Gray, half to himself, murdered her as certainly as
if I had cut her little throat with a knife.

(14:04):
And the roses are not less lovely for all that,
the birds sing just as happily in my garden. And
to night I am to dine with you, and then
go on to the opera and sup somewhere I suppose afterwards,
how extraordinarily dramatic life is. If I had read all
this in a book, Harry, I think I would have

(14:27):
wept over it somehow. Now that it has happened, actually,
and to me it seems far too wonderful for tears.
Here's the first passionate love letter I've ever written in
my life. Strange that my first passionate love letter should
have been addressed to a dead girl. Can they feel?

(14:50):
I wonder those silent people we call the dead Sybil?
Can she feel? Or no? Or listen? Oh, Harry, how
I loved her once. It seems years ago to me
now she was everything to me. Then came that dreadful night.

(15:14):
Was it really only last night? When she played so
badly and my heart almost broke? She explained it all
to me. It was terribly pathetic, but I was not
moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Then something happened

(15:34):
that made me afraid. I can't tell you what it is,
but it was awful. I said I would go back
to her. I felt I had done wrong, and now
she is dead. My god, my god, But Harry, what
shall I do? You don't know the danger I am in,
and there is nothing to keep me straight. She would

(15:56):
have done that for me. She had no right to
kill herself. It was selfish of her, My dear Dorian.
The only way a woman can ever reform a man
is by boring him so completely that he loses all
interest in life. If you had married this girl, you
would have been wretched. Of course, you would have treated
her kindly. One can always be kind to people about

(16:17):
whom one cares nothing. But she would have soon found
out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. And when
a woman finds that out about her husband, she either
becomes dreadfully dowdy or wears some very smart bonnets that
some other woman's husband has to pay for. I say
nothing about the social mistake, but I assure you that

(16:39):
in any case, the whole thing would have been in
absolute failure. I suppose it would muttered the lad walking
up and down the room and looking horribly pale. But
I thought it was my duty. It is not my
fault that this terrible tragedy had prevented my doing what
was right. I remember your once that there is a

(17:01):
fatality about good resolutions, that they are always made too late.
Mine certainly were. Good resolutions are simply a useless attempt
to interfere with scientific laws. Their origin is pure vanity,
their result is absolutely nil. They give us now and

(17:21):
then some of those luxurious, sterile emotions that have a
certain charm for us. That is all that can be
said for them. Harry cried Dorian Gray, coming over and
sitting down beside him. Why is it that I cannot
feel this tragedy as much as I want to? I

(17:43):
don't think I am heartless to you, You've done too
many foolish things in your life to be entitled to
give yourself that name, Dorian answered, Lord Henry with his sweet,
melancholy smile. The lad frowned. I don't like that explanation, Harry,
he rejoined, But I am glad you don't think I
am heartless. I am nothing of that kind. I know

(18:05):
I am not. And yet I must admit that this
thing that has happened does not affect me as it should.
It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful
ending to a wonderful play. It is all the terrible
beauty of a great tragedy, a tragedy in which I
took part, but by which I have not been wounded.

(18:27):
It is an interesting question, said Lord Henry, who found
an exquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism.
An extremely interesting question. I fancy that the explanation is this.
It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur
in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us. By

(18:51):
their cruel violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning,
their entire lack of style. They affect us just as
vulgarity affects us. They give us an impression of sheer
brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a

(19:13):
tragedy that has artistic elements of beauty crosses over our lives.
If these elements of beauty are real, the whole thing
simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenly we
find that we are no longer the actors but the
spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We

(19:35):
watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us.
In the present case, what is it that has really happened?
Some one has killed herself for love of you. I
wish I had ever had such an experience. It would
have made me in love with love for the rest
of my life. The people who have adored me, there

(19:58):
have not been very many, but there have been. Some
have always insisted on living on long after I cease
to care for them, or they to care for me.
They become stout and tedious, and when I meet them,
they go in at once for reminiscence that awful memory
of woman. What a fearful thing it is, and what

(20:21):
an utter intellectual stagnation it reveals. One should absorb the
color of life, but one should never remember its details.
Details are always vulgar. Of course, now and then things linger.
I once wore nothing but violence all and what through
one season as mourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately,

(20:43):
however it did die. I forget what killed it. I
think it was sir, proposing to sacrifice the whole world
for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills
one with the terror of eternity. Well would you believe it?
A week ago at Lady Hampshire's I found myself seated

(21:05):
at dinner next the lady in question, and she insisted
on going over the whole thing again, and digging up
the past and raking up the future. I had buried
my romance in a bed of puppies. She dragged it
out again, and it should be that I had spoiled
her life and bound to state that she ate an

(21:28):
enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But
what a lack of taste she showed. The one charm
of the past is that it is the past. But
women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always
want a sixth act, and as soon as the interest
of the plays entirely over, they proposed to continue it.

(21:51):
If they were allowed to have their way, every comedy
would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate
in a farce. They are charming, artificial, but they have
no sense of art. You are more fortunate than I am.
I assure you, Dorian, that not one of the women
I have known would have done for me what Sybil

(22:13):
Vain did for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some
of them do it by going in for sentimental colors.
And never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her
age may be, or a woman over thirty five who
is fond of pink ribbons. It always means they have
a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering

(22:37):
the good qualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal
felicity in one's face, as if it was the most
fascinating of sins. Religion, console some its mysteries, have all
the charm of a flirtation. A woman once told me,
I can quite understand it. Besides, nothing makes one so

(22:58):
vain as being told that one is a sinner. There
is really no end in the consolations that women find
in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the most
important one of all. What is that, Harry, said Dorian listlessly. Oh,
the obvious one taking some one else's admire when one

(23:20):
loses one's own in good society, that always whitewash is
a woman. But really, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vain must
have been from all the women one meets. There is
something to me quite beautiful about her death. I am
glad I am living in this century When such wonders happen.

(23:41):
They make one believe in the reality of the things
that shallow fashion of people play with, such as romance, passion,
and love. I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that.
I believe that women appreciate cruelty more than anything else.
They have wonderfully primive instincts. We have emancipated them, but

(24:03):
they remained slaves looking for their masters. All the same,
they love being dominated. I am sure you are splendid.
I've never seen you angry, but I can fancy how
delightful you looked. And after all, you said something to
me the day before yesterday that seemed to me at
the time to be mere fanciful, But that I see

(24:24):
now was absolutely true, and it explains everything. What was that, Harry,
You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you
all the heroines of Romance, That she was Desdemona one night,
Ophelia the other, that if she died as Juliet, she

(24:44):
came to life as Imogen. She will never come to
life again. Now, murmured the lad, burying his face in
his hands. Oh, she will never come to life. She
has played her last part. But you must say, think
of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing room simply
as a strange, lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as

(25:09):
a wonderful scene from Webster or Ford or Cyril tournay.
The girl never really lived, and so she has never
really died. To you, at least, she was always a dream,
a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them

(25:30):
lovelier for its presence. A read through it, Shakespeare's music
sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she
touched actual life, she marred it, and it marred her,
and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like,
put ashes on your head because Cordelia was strangled. Cry

(25:52):
out against heaven, because the daughter of Brabantio died. But
don't waste your tears over sybil Vein. She was less
real than they are. There was a silence. The evening
darkened in the room, noiselessly, and with silver feet. The
shadows crept in from the garden. The colors faded, warily

(26:15):
out of things. At some time Dorian looked up. You
have explained to me myself, Harry, he murmured, with something
of a sigh of relief. I felt all that you
have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and
I could not express it to myself. How well you

(26:38):
know me, But we will not talk again of what
has happened. It has been a marvelous experience. That is all.
I wonder if life has still in store for me
anything as marvelous life has everything in store for you, Dorian.
There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks,

(26:59):
will not be to do. But s'pose, Harry, I become haggard,
gray and wrinkled. What then, ah, then, said Lord Henry,
rising to go. Then, my dear Dorian, you would have
to fight for your victories as it is they are
brought to you. No, you must keep your good looks.

(27:22):
We live in an age that reads too much to
be wise and thinks too much to be beautiful. We
cannot spare you. And now you'd better dress and drive
down to the club. We are rather late as it is.
I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry.
I feel too tired to eat anything. What is the
number of your sister's box twenty seven? I believe it

(27:48):
is on the grand tier. You will see her name
on the door. But I'm sorry you won't come and dine.
I don't feel up to it, said Dorian wearily. But
I am awfully obliged to you for all that you
have said to me. You are certainly my best friend.
No one has ever understood me as you have. We

(28:09):
are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian answered
Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. Good bye. I
shall see you before nine thirty. I hope, remember Patty
is singing. As he closed the door behind him, Dorrian
touched the bell, and in a few minutes Victor appeared
with lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently

(28:33):
for him to go. The man seemed to take an
interminable time about everything. As soon as he had left,
he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No,
there was no further change in the picture. It had
received the news of sybil Van's death before he had
known it himself. It was conscious of the events of

(28:53):
life as they occurred. The vicious cruelty that marred the
fine lines of the mouth had no doubt, appeared at
the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison.
Whatever it was, or was it indifferent to results? Did
it merely take cognizance of what had passed within the soul?
He wondered and hoped that some day he would see

(29:15):
the change taking place before his fairy eyes, shuddering as
he hoped it. Poor Sybil, What a romance it had
all been. She had often mimick death on the stage,
and at last death himself had touched her and brought
her with him. How had she played that dreadful scene?

(29:36):
Had she cursed him as she died? No, she had
died for love of him, and love would always be
a sacrament to him. Now she had atoned for everything
by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He
would not think any more of what she had made
him go through that horrible night to the theater. When

(29:58):
he thought of her, it would be a wonderful tragic
figure to show love had been a great reality, a
wonderful tragic figure. Tears came to his eyes as he
remembered her childlike look in winsome, fanciful ways and shy,
tremulous grace. He wiped them away hastily and looked again

(30:19):
at the picture. He felt that the time had really
come for making his choice, or had his choice already
been made? Yes, life had decided that for him, Life
and his own infinite curiosity about life, eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures,

(30:40):
subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder sins. He was
to have all these things. The portrait was to bear
the burden of his shame, That was all. A feeling
of pain came over him as he thought of the
desecration that was in store, or for the fair face

(31:01):
on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockery of Narcissus, he
had kissed, or feigned a kissed those painted lips that
now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning, he
had sat before the portrait, wondering at its beauty, almost
enamored of it, as it seemed to him at times.

(31:22):
Was it to alter now with every mood to which
he yielded. Was it to become a hideous and loathsome thing,
to be hidden away in a locked room, to be
shut out from the sunlight that had so often touched
to brighter gold, the waving wonder of the hair, the
pity of it, the pity of it. For a moment

(31:46):
he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy that existed
between him and the picture might cease. It had changed
in an answer to a prayer. Perhaps in answer to
a prayer, it might remain unchanged. And yet who that
knew anything about life, would surrender the chance of remaining
always young, however fantastic that chance might be, or with

(32:12):
what faithful consequences it might be fraught. Besides, was it
really under his control? Had it indeed been prayer that
had produced the substitution, might there not be some curious
scientific reason for it? All? If thought could exercise its
influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an

(32:36):
influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or
conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in
unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom
in secret love or in secret affinity. But the reason

(32:59):
was of no importance. He would never again tempt by
a prayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter,
it was to alter, that was all. Why inquire too
closely into it? For there would be a real pleasure
in watching it. He would be able to follow his

(33:22):
mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to
him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed
to him his own body, so it would reveal to
him his own soul. And when winter came upon it,
he would still be standing where spring troubles on the
verge of summer, when the blood crept from its face

(33:47):
and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes.
He would keep the glamor of boyhood. Not one blossom
of his loveliness would ever fade, not one pulse of
his life, whatever weaken, Like the gods of the Greeks,
he would be strong and fleet and joyous. What did

(34:09):
it matter what happened to the colored image on the canvas.
He would be safe. That was everything. He drew the
screen back into its former place in front of the picture,
smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom,
whereas Valet was already waiting for him. An hour later,

(34:30):
he was at the opera and Lord Henry was leaning
over his chair. End of Chapter six of The Picture
of Dorry and Gray