The Picture of Dorian Gray
them up. You don’t know what an existence they lead down there. It is
pure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they have
so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to
think about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood since
the time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleep
after dinner. You shan’t sit next either of them. You shall sit by me
and amuse me.”
Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:
it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seen
before, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those
middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,
but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, an
overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always
trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to
her great disappointment no one would ever believe anything against
her; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and
Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess’s daughter, a dowdy
dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once
seen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,
white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the
impression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack of
ideas.
He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at the
great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on the
mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: “How horrid of Henry Wotton to be
so late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promised
faithfully not to disappoint me.”
It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door
opened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some
insincere apology, he ceased to feel bored.
But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went away
untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called “an
insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the _menu_ specially for you,” and
now and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence
and abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glass
with champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.
“Dorian,” said Lord Henry at last, as the _chaud-froid_ was being
handed round, “what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out
of sorts.”
“I believe he is in love,” cried Lady Narborough, “and that he is
afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I
certainly should.”
“Dear Lady Narborough,” murmured Dorian, smiling, “I have not been in
love for a whole week—not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town.”
“How you men can fall in love with that woman!” exclaimed the old lady.
“I really cannot understand it.”
“It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,
Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry. “She is the one link between us and
your short frocks.”
“She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But I
remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how _décolletée_
she was then.”
“She is still _décolletée_,” he answered, taking an olive in his long
fingers; “and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an
_édition de luxe_ of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and
full of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary.
When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief.”
“How can you, Harry!” cried Dorian.
“It is a most romantic explanation,” laughed the hostess. “But her
third husband, Lord Henry! You don’t mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?”
“Certainly, Lady Narborough.”
“I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends.”
“Is it true, Mr. Gray?”
“She assures me so, Lady Narborough,” said Dorian. “I asked her
whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and
hung at her girdle. She told me she didn’t, because none of them had
had any hearts at all.”
“Four husbands! Upon my word that is _trop de zêle_.”
“_Trop d’audace_, I tell her,” said Dorian.
“Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol
like? I don’t know him.”
“The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,”
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.
Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. “Lord Henry, I am not at all
surprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked.”
“But what world says that?” asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.
“It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent
terms.”
“Everybody I know says you are very wicked,” cried the old lady,
shaking her head.
Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. “It is perfectly
monstrous,” he said, at last, “the way people go about nowadays saying
things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely
true.”
“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.
“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all
worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry
again so as to be in the fashion.”
“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry.
“You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she
detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he
adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”
“Narborough wasn’t perfect,” cried the old lady.
“If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,” was the
rejoinder. “Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them,
they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will never
ask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough,
but it is quite true.”
“Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for
your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be
married. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however,
that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like
bachelors, and all the bachelors like married men.”
“_Fin de siêcle_,” murmured Lord Henry.
“_Fin du globe_,” answered his hostess.
“I wish it were _fin du globe_,” said Dorian with a sigh. “Life is a
great disappointment.”
“Ah, my dear,” cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, “don’t
tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knows
that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and I sometimes
wish that I had been; but you are made to be good—you look so good. I
must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don’t you think that Mr. Gray
should get married?”
“I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough,” said Lord Henry with a
bow.
“Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall go
through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the
eligible young ladies.”
“With their ages, Lady Narborough?” asked Dorian.
“Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done
in a hurry. I want it to be what _The Morning Post_ calls a suitable
alliance, and I want you both to be happy.”
“What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!” exclaimed Lord
Henry. “A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love
her.”
“Ah! what a cynic you are!” cried the old lady, pushing back her chair
and nodding to Lady Ruxton. “You must come and dine with me soon again.
You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew
prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet,
though. I want it to be a delightful gathering.”
“I like men who have a future and women who have a past,” he answered.
“Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?”
“I fear so,” she said, laughing, as she stood up. “A thousand pardons,
my dear Lady Ruxton,” she added, “I didn’t see you hadn’t finished your
cigarette.”
“Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I am going
to limit myself, for the future.”
“Pray don’t, Lady Ruxton,” said Lord Henry. “Moderation is a fatal
thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a
feast.”
Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. “You must come and explain that
to me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory,” she
murmured, as she swept out of the room.
“Now, mind you don’t stay too long over your politics and scandal,”
cried Lady Narborough from the door. “If you do, we are sure to
squabble upstairs.”
The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of the
table and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and
sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the
situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The
word _doctrinaire_—word full of terror to the British mind—reappeared
from time to time between his explosions. An alliterative prefix served
as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles
of thought. The inherited stupidity of the race—sound English common
sense he jovially termed it—was shown to be the proper bulwark for
society.
A smile curved Lord Henry’s lips, and he turned round and looked at
Dorian.
“Are you better, my dear fellow?” he asked. “You seemed rather out of
sorts at dinner.”
“I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all.”
“You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to
you. She tells me she is going down to Selby.”
“She has promised to come on the twentieth.”
“Is Monmouth to be there, too?”
“Oh, yes, Harry.”
“He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very
clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of
weakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image
precious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay.
White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and
what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences.”
“How long has she been married?” asked Dorian.
“An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is
ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,
with time thrown in. Who else is coming?”
“Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, Geoffrey
Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian.”
“I like him,” said Lord Henry. “A great many people don’t, but I find
him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed by
being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type.”
“I don’t know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to
Monte Carlo with his father.”
“Ah! what a nuisance people’s people are! Try and make him come. By the
way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left before eleven.
What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?”
Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.
“No, Harry,” he said at last, “I did not get home till nearly three.”
“Did you go to the club?”
“Yes,” he answered. Then he bit his lip. “No, I don’t mean that. I
didn’t go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... How
inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has been
doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in at
half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left my
latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want any
corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him.”
Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “My dear fellow, as if I cared! Let
us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.
Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not
yourself to-night.”