CHAPTER XIX.

sIpassedby,Iheardthemanyellingoutthatquestiontohisaudience.Itstruckmeasbeingratherdramatic.Londonisveryrichincuriouseffectsofthatkind.AwetSunday,anuncouthChristianinamackintosh,aringofsicklywhitefacesunderabrokenroofofdrippingumbrellas,andawonderfulphraseflungintotheairbyshrillhystericallips—itwasreallyverygoodinitsway,quiteasuggestion.Ithoughtoftellingtheprophetthatarthadasoul,butthatmanhadnot.Iamafraid,however,hewouldnothaveunderstoodme.” “Don’t,Harry.Thesoulisaterriblereality.Itcanbebought,andsold,andbarteredaway.Itcanbepoisoned,ormadeperfect.Thereisasoulineachoneofus.Iknowit.” “Doyoufeelquitesureofthat,Dorian?” “Quitesure.” “Ah!thenitmustbeanillusion.Thethingsonefeelsabsolutelycertainaboutarenevertrue.Thatisthefatalityoffaith,andthelessonofromance.Howgraveyouare!Don’tbesoserious.WhathaveyouorItodowiththesuperstitionsofourage?No:wehavegivenupourbeliefinthesoul.Playmesomething.Playmeanocturne,Dorian,and,asyouplay,tellme,inalowvoice,howyouhavekeptyouryouth.Youmusthavesomesecret.Iamonlytenyearsolderthanyouare,andIamwrinkled,andworn,andyellow.Youarereallywonderful,Dorian.Youhaveneverlookedmorecharmingthanyoudoto-night.YouremindmeofthedayIsawyoufirst.Youwererathercheeky,veryshy,andabsolutelyextraordinary.Youhavechanged,ofcourse,butnotinappearance.Iwishyouwouldtellmeyoursecret.TogetbackmyyouthIwoulddoanythingintheworld,excepttakeexercise,getupearly,orberespectable.Youth!Thereisnothinglikeit.It’sabsurdtotalkoftheignoranceofyouth.TheonlypeopletowhoseopinionsIlistennowwithanyrespectarepeoplemuchyoungerthanmyself.Theyseeminfrontofme.Lifehasrevealedtothemherlatestwonder.Asfortheaged,Ialwayscontradicttheaged.Idoitonprinciple.Ifyouaskthemtheiropiniononsomethingthathappenedyesterday,theysolemnlygiveyoutheopinionscurrentin1820,whenpeopleworehighstocks,believedineverything,andknewabsolutelynothing.Howlovelythatthingyouareplayingis!Iwonder,didChopinwriteitatMajorca,withtheseaweepingroundthevillaandthesaltspraydashingagainstthepanes?Itismarvellouslyromantic.Whatablessingitisthatthereisoneartlefttousthatisnotimitative!Don’tstop.Iwantmusicto-night.ItseemstomethatyouaretheyoungApolloandthatIamMarsyaslisteningtoyou.Ihavesorrows,Dorian,ofmyown,thatevenyouknownothingof.Thetragedyofoldageisnotthatoneisold,butthatoneisyoung.Iamamazedsometimesatmyownsincerity.Ah,Dorian,howhappyyouare!Whatanexquisitelifeyouhavehad!Youhavedrunkdeeplyofeverything.Youhavecrushedthegrapesagainstyourpalate.Nothinghasbeenhiddenfromyou.Andithasallbeentoyounomorethanthesoundofmusic.Ithasnotmarredyou.Youarestillthesame.” “Iamnotthesame,Harry.” “Yes,youarethesame.Iwonderwhattherestofyourlifewillbe.Don’tspoilitbyrenunciations.Atpresentyouareaperfecttype.Don’tmakeyourselfincomplete.Youarequiteflawlessnow.Youneednotshakeyourhead:youknowyouare.Besides,Dorian,don’tdeceiveyourself.Lifeisnotgovernedbywillorintention.Lifeisaquestionofnerves,andfibres,andslowlybuilt-upcellsinwhichthoughthidesitselfandpassionhasitsdreams.Youmayfancyyourselfsafeandthinkyourselfstrong.Butachancetoneofcolourinaroomoramorningsky,aparticularperfumethatyouhadoncelovedandthatbringssubtlememorieswithit,alinefromaforgottenpoemthatyouhadco