CHAPTER XIX.

urvanitybysayingso,butIassureyouitistrue.Crimebelongsexclusivelytothelowerorders.Idon’tblametheminthesmallestdegree.Ishouldfancythatcrimewastothemwhatartistous,simplyamethodofprocuringextraordinarysensations.” “Amethodofprocuringsensations?Doyouthink,then,thatamanwhohasoncecommittedamurdercouldpossiblydothesamecrimeagain?Don’ttellmethat.” “Oh!anythingbecomesapleasureifonedoesittoooften,”criedLordHenry,laughing.“Thatisoneofthemostimportantsecretsoflife.Ishouldfancy,however,thatmurderisalwaysamistake.Oneshouldneverdoanythingthatonecannottalkaboutafterdinner.ButletuspassfrompoorBasil.IwishIcouldbelievethathehadcometosuchareallyromanticendasyousuggest,butIcan’t.IdaresayhefellintotheSeineoffanomnibusandthattheconductorhushedupthescandal.Yes:Ishouldfancythatwashisend.Iseehimlyingnowonhisbackunderthosedull-greenwaters,withtheheavybargesfloatingoverhimandlongweedscatchinginhishair.Doyouknow,Idon’tthinkhewouldhavedonemuchmoregoodwork.Duringthelasttenyearshispaintinghadgoneoffverymuch.” Dorianheavedasigh,andLordHenrystrolledacrosstheroomandbegantostroketheheadofacuriousJavaparrot,alarge,grey-plumagedbirdwithpinkcrestandtail,thatwasbalancingitselfuponabambooperch.Ashispointedfingerstouchedit,itdroppedthewhitescurfofcrinkledlidsoverblack,glasslikeeyesandbegantoswaybackwardsandforwards. “Yes,”hecontinued,turningroundandtakinghishandkerchiefoutofhispocket“hispaintinghadquitegoneoff.Itseemedtometohavelostsomething.Ithadlostanideal.Whenyouandheceasedtobegreatfriends,heceasedtobeagreatartist.Whatwasitseparatedyou?Isupposeheboredyou.Ifso,heneverforgaveyou.It’sahabitboreshave.Bytheway,whathasbecomeofthatwonderfulportraithedidofyou?Idon’tthinkIhaveeverseenitsincehefinishedit.Oh!IrememberyourtellingmeyearsagothatyouhadsentitdowntoSelby,andthatithadgotmislaidorstolenontheway.Younevergotitback?Whatapity!itwasreallyamasterpiece.IrememberIwantedtobuyit.IwishIhadnow.ItbelongedtoBasil’sbestperiod.Sincethen,hisworkwasthatcuriousmixtureofbadpaintingandgoodintentionsthatalwaysentitlesamantobecalledarepresentativeBritishartist.Didyouadvertiseforit?Youshould.” “Iforget,”saidDorian.“IsupposeIdid.ButIneverreallylikedit.IamsorryIsatforit.Thememoryofthethingishatefultome.Whydoyoutalkofit?Itusedtoremindmeofthosecuriouslinesinsomeplay—Hamlet,Ithink—howdotheyrun?— “Likethepaintingofasorrow, Afacewithoutaheart.” Yes:thatiswhatitwaslike.” LordHenrylaughed.“Ifamantreatslifeartistically,hisbrainishisheart,”heanswered,sinkingintoanarm-chair. DorianGrayshookhisheadandstrucksomesoftchordsonthepiano.“‘Likethepaintingofasorrow,’”herepeated,“‘afacewithoutaheart.’” Theeldermanlaybackandlookedathimwithhalf-closedeyes.“Bytheway,Dorian,”hesaidafterapause,“‘whatdoesitprofitamanifhegainthewholeworldandlose—howdoesthequotationrun?—hisownsoul’?” Themusicjarred,andDorianGraystartedandstaredathisfriend.“Whydoyouaskmethat,Harry?” “Mydearfellow,”saidLordHenry,elevatinghiseyebrowsinsurprise,“IaskedyoubecauseIthoughtyoumightbeabletogivemeananswer.Thatisall.IwasgoingthroughtheparklastSunday,andclosebytheMarbleArchtherestoodalittlecrowdofshabby-lookingpeoplelisteningtosomevulgarstreet-preacher.A