CHAPTER X.

thredpencil.Victormighthavereadit.ThemanknewmorethanenoughEnglishforthat. Perhapshehadreaditandhadbeguntosuspectsomething.And,yet,whatdiditmatter?WhathadDorianGraytodowithSibylVane’sdeath?Therewasnothingtofear.DorianGrayhadnotkilledher. HiseyefellontheyellowbookthatLordHenryhadsenthim.Whatwasit,hewondered.Hewenttowardsthelittle,pearl-colouredoctagonalstandthathadalwayslookedtohimliketheworkofsomestrangeEgyptianbeesthatwroughtinsilver,andtakingupthevolume,flunghimselfintoanarm-chairandbegantoturnovertheleaves.Afterafewminuteshebecameabsorbed.Itwasthestrangestbookthathehadeverread.Itseemedtohimthatinexquisiteraiment,andtothedelicatesoundofflutes,thesinsoftheworldwerepassingindumbshowbeforehim.Thingsthathehaddimlydreamedofweresuddenlymaderealtohim.Thingsofwhichhehadneverdreamedweregraduallyrevealed. Itwasanovelwithoutaplotandwithonlyonecharacter,being,indeed,simplyapsychologicalstudyofacertainyoungParisianwhospenthislifetryingtorealizeinthenineteenthcenturyallthepassionsandmodesofthoughtthatbelongedtoeverycenturyexcepthisown,andtosumup,asitwere,inhimselfthevariousmoodsthroughwhichtheworld-spirithadeverpassed,lovingfortheirmereartificialitythoserenunciationsthatmenhaveunwiselycalledvirtue,asmuchasthosenaturalrebellionsthatwisemenstillcallsin.Thestyleinwhichitwaswrittenwasthatcuriousjewelledstyle,vividandobscureatonce,fullofargotandofarchaisms,oftechnicalexpressionsandofelaborateparaphrases,thatcharacterizestheworkofsomeofthefinestartistsoftheFrenchschoolofSymbolistes.Therewereinitmetaphorsasmonstrousasorchidsandassubtleincolour.Thelifeofthesenseswasdescribedinthetermsofmysticalphilosophy.Onehardlyknewattimeswhetheronewasreadingthespiritualecstasiesofsomemedi?valsaintorthemorbidconfessionsofamodernsinner.Itwasapoisonousbook.Theheavyodourofincenseseemedtoclingaboutitspagesandtotroublethebrain.Themerecadenceofthesentences,thesubtlemonotonyoftheirmusic,sofullasitwasofcomplexrefrainsandmovementselaboratelyrepeated,producedinthemindofthelad,ashepassedfromchaptertochapter,aformofreverie,amaladyofdreaming,thatmadehimunconsciousofthefallingdayandcreepingshadows. Cloudless,andpiercedbyonesolitarystar,acopper-greenskygleamedthroughthewindows.Hereadonbyitswanlighttillhecouldreadnomore.Then,afterhisvalethadremindedhimseveraltimesofthelatenessofthehour,hegotup,andgoingintothenextroom,placedthebookonthelittleFlorentinetablethatalwaysstoodathisbedsideandbegantodressfordinner. Itwasalmostnineo’clockbeforehereachedtheclub,wherehefoundLordHenrysittingalone,inthemorning-room,lookingverymuchbored. “Iamsosorry,Harry,”hecried,“butreallyitisentirelyyourfault.ThatbookyousentmesofascinatedmethatIforgothowthetimewasgoing.” “Yes,Ithoughtyouwouldlikeit,”repliedhishost,risingfromhischair. “Ididn’tsayIlikedit,Harry.Isaiditfascinatedme.Thereisagreatdifference.” “Ah,youhavediscoveredthat?”murmuredLordHenry.Andtheypassedintothedining-room.