CHAPTER II.

therebefore. “Andyet,”continuedLordHenry,inhislow,musicalvoice,andwiththatgracefulwaveofthehandthatwasalwayssocharacteristicofhim,andthathehadeveninhisEtondays,“Ibelievethatifonemanweretoliveouthislifefullyandcompletely,weretogiveformtoeveryfeeling,expressiontoeverythought,realitytoeverydream—Ibelievethattheworldwouldgainsuchafreshimpulseofjoythatwewouldforgetallthemaladiesofmedi?valism,andreturntotheHellenicideal—tosomethingfiner,richerthantheHellenicideal,itmaybe.Butthebravestmanamongstusisafraidofhimself.Themutilationofthesavagehasitstragicsurvivalintheself-denialthatmarsourlives.Wearepunishedforourrefusals.Everyimpulsethatwestrivetostranglebroodsinthemindandpoisonsus.Thebodysinsonce,andhasdonewithitssin,foractionisamodeofpurification.Nothingremainsthenbuttherecollectionofapleasure,ortheluxuryofaregret.Theonlywaytogetridofatemptationistoyieldtoit.Resistit,andyoursoulgrowssickwithlongingforthethingsithasforbiddentoitself,withdesireforwhatitsmonstrouslawshavemademonstrousandunlawful.Ithasbeensaidthatthegreateventsoftheworldtakeplaceinthebrain.Itisinthebrain,andthebrainonly,thatthegreatsinsoftheworldtakeplacealso.You,Mr.Gray,youyourself,withyourrose-redyouthandyourrose-whiteboyhood,youhavehadpassionsthathavemadeyouafraid,thoughtsthathavefilledyouwithterror,day-dreamsandsleepingdreamswhosemerememorymightstainyourcheekwithshame—” “Stop!”falteredDorianGray,“stop!youbewilderme.Idon’tknowwhattosay.Thereissomeanswertoyou,butIcannotfindit.Don’tspeak.Letmethink.Or,rather,letmetrynottothink.” Fornearlytenminuteshestoodthere,motionless,withpartedlipsandeyesstrangelybright.Hewasdimlyconsciousthatentirelyfreshinfluenceswereatworkwithinhim.Yettheyseemedtohimtohavecomereallyfromhimself.ThefewwordsthatBasil’sfriendhadsaidtohim—wordsspokenbychance,nodoubt,andwithwilfulparadoxinthem—hadtouchedsomesecretchordthathadneverbeentouchedbefore,butthathefeltwasnowvibratingandthrobbingtocuriouspulses. Musichadstirredhimlikethat.Musichadtroubledhimmanytimes.Butmusicwasnotarticulate.Itwasnotanewworld,butratheranotherchaos,thatitcreatedinus.Words!Merewords!Howterribletheywere!Howclear,andvivid,andcruel!Onecouldnotescapefromthem.Andyetwhatasubtlemagictherewasinthem!Theyseemedtobeabletogiveaplasticformtoformlessthings,andtohaveamusicoftheirownassweetasthatofvioloroflute.Merewords!Wasthereanythingsorealaswords? Yestherehadbeenthingsinhisboyhoodthathehadnotunderstood.Heunderstoodthemnow.Lifesuddenlybecamefiery-colouredtohim.Itseemedtohimthathehadbeenwalkinginfire.Whyhadhenotknownit? Withhissubtlesmile,LordHenrywatchedhim.Heknewtheprecisepsychologicalmomentwhentosaynothing.Hefeltintenselyinterested.Hewasamazedatthesuddenimpressionthathiswordshadproduced,and,rememberingabookthathehadreadwhenhewassixteen,abookwhichhadrevealedtohimmuchthathehadnotknownbefore,hewonderedwhetherDorianGraywaspassingthroughasimilarexperience.Hehadmerelyshotanarrowintotheair.Hadithitthemark?Howfascinatingtheladwas! Hallwardpaintedawaywiththatmarvellousboldtouchofhis,thathadthetruerefinementandperfectdelicacythatinart,atanyratecomesonlyfromstrength.Hewasunconsciousofthesilence. “Basil,Iamtiredofstanding,”criedDorianGraysuddenly.“Imustgooutandsitinthegarden.Theairisstiflinghere.” “Mydearfellow,Iamsosorry.WhenIampainting,Ican’tthinkofanythingelse.Butyouneversatbetter.Youwereperfectlystill.AndIhavecaughttheeffectIwanted—thehalf-partedlipsandthebrightlookintheeyes.Idon’tknowwhatHarryhasbeensayingtoyou,buthehascertainlymadeyouhavethemostwonderfulexpression.Isupposehehasbeenpayingyoucompliments.Youmustn’tbelieveawordthathesays.” “Hehascertainlynotbeenpayingmecompliments.PerhapsthatisthereasonthatIdon’tbelieveanythinghehastoldme.” “Youknowyoubelieveitall,”saidLordHenry,lookingathimwithhisdreamylanguorouseyes.“Iwillgoouttothegardenwithyou.Itishorriblyhotinthestudio.Basil,letushavesomethingicedtodrink,somethingwithstrawberriesinit.” “Certainly,Harry.Justtouchthebell,andwhenParkercomesIwilltellhimwhatyouwant.Ihavegottoworkupthisbackground,soIwilljoinyoulateron.Don’tkeepDoriantoolong.IhaveneverbeeninbetterformforpaintingthanIamto-day.Thisisgoingtobemymasterpiece.Itismymasterpieceasitstands.” LordHenrywentouttothegardenandfoundDorianGrayburyinghisfaceinthegreatcoollilac-blossoms,feverishlydrinkingintheirperfumeasifithadbeenwine.Hecameclosetohimandputhishanduponhisshoulder.“Youarequiterighttodothat,”hemurmured.“Nothingcancurethesoulbutthesenses,justasnothingcancurethesensesbutthesoul.” Theladstartedanddrewback.Hewasbareheaded,andtheleaveshadtossedhisrebelliouscurlsandtangledalltheirgildedthreads.Therewasalookoffearinhiseyes,suchaspeoplehavewhentheyaresuddenlyawakened.Hisfinelychisellednostrilsquivered,andsomehiddennerveshookthescarletofhislipsandleftthemtrembling. “Yes,”continuedLordHenry,“thatisoneofthegreatsecretsoflife—tocurethesoulbymeansofthesenses,andthesensesbymeansofthesoul.Youareawonderfulcreation.Youknowmorethanyouthinkyouknow,justasyouknowlessthanyouwanttoknow.” DorianGrayfrownedandturnedhisheadaway.Hecouldnothelplikingthetall,gr