tushanshu_logs | "You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray."

Lord Henry would give nearly anything in existence for a butler, a footman, or a valet to answer that knock. There is something to be said for being able to shelter comfortably in one's sanctum whilst another handles the awkward business of admitting a guest—and surely, in a case such as this, would it not be better for the guest to be greeted by one with no feeling in the matter? For then both he and Dorian could begin the conversation—if not at ease, then in a manner of civilised men.

But no, they must both be wrong-footed from the very start—and Henry the more so, because Dorian has had quite a lot of time to become accustomed to managing without servants, has he not?

None of this consternation shows on Henry's face as he opens the door. "Good evening, Dorian; do come in." No dear fellow, no dear boy. At least he's still using Dorian's Christian name. With a graceful gesture Henry guides him toward the sitting-room; Henry follows and heads straight to the sideboard.

"May I offer you a drink? There is neither hock nor seltzer to be had anymore; merely brandy, or the local facsimile thereof."

"No, thank you." He takes seat without being offered one, not once looking away from Lord Henry. His legs extend out, but his shins cross, and though he leans back, his arms are folded. "What do you want?" Dorian asks, and is suddenly struck with vertigo.

He has stood in Lord Henry's place before, and known the other side of this.

Dorian's gaze breaks in a glance to the side. A limb slips out of the fold to press a curved hand against his lips. His fingers dig into his upper arm, securing the barrier. Grounding him.

Edited 2013-04-16 00:07 (UTC)

The phrase body language is not in Lord Henry's vocabulary, exactly, but he understands the subtleties of the way people move, the way they carry themselves and sit, and he can see the restraint and self-protection in Dorian's movements. His message, he thinks as he pours himself a small measure of brandy, has been understood.

He sits down across from Dorian, his own movements as fluid as ever, and he purses his lips slightly at the short, sharp question.

"What a deceptively simple question that is," he says, quiet, almost abstracted. "Four of the shortest, simplest words with which our language has deigned to equip us, and yet possessed of so many facets, so many ambiguities! Ah, but this is no time for a linguistic disquisition, and as I have asked you here, it is imperative on me to not waste your time."

There is some part of Henry that knows he needs to stop hiding behind the armour of his words, that he had better get straight to the point and stop delaying, but it is so very comfortable behind that verbal plate-mail. Nevertheless, he knows he must set down the shield, unstrap the cuirass and cast off the hauberk—in brief, he must say what is on his mind.

The only problem is that for once, Lord Henry Wotton is quite uncertain of where to begin.

So he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and he draws out the book, placing it on the low table between himself and Dorian. Closer to himself, so that Dorian will have to make an effort if he wants to lay hands on it.

"Even I am forced to admit that it is a beautifully-written book," he says, and he sounds as if he might as well be talking about any book at all. "A trifle precious in the catalogues of indulgences, but full of marvellously polished words, collected with the most discerning care. But tell me, Dorian, why must such a pretty book have such an abomination of a cover?"

Edited 2013-04-16 06:24 (UTC)

Dorian might say that the monologue goes in one ear and out the other, but none of Lord Henry's musical words ever have. Lord Henry has a gift even in that defensive dialogue—Dorian can't mistake it for anything else—and the words wind around Dorian's mind, settling between his thoughts. They will have an effect, as all things Lord Henry says eventually do.

But for the flicker of his eyes, Dorian doesn't move. A short laugh escapes him. That has to be one of the ugliest covers he has ever seen on that book. "Mm, well, Oscar did become popular enough after our time, and I'm afraid that the book's later publishers did not always share our aesthetic tastes." Still smiling from that ugly surprise, though his limbs did not move from their protective positions, Dorian returns his attention to Lord Henry's face and adds, "But I'm glad you at least approve of the prose. How did you take your characterization? I thought it was rather spot on, personally, but after all these years I would love to hear your thoughts on it."

Edited 2013-04-16 06:40 (UTC)

Henry's expression does not alter from that heavy-lidded calm that he has cultivated since his Eton days, for all that he can feel the barbs in Dorian's words.

"I always did wonder what it was that Oscar was scribbling on his cuffs in the dining-room after dinner," he says, as if it bothered him not a bit. (It had, though—how often, as he read that slender yellowing volume, he had needed to set it down and find some other trifling occupation, until he had found some measure of equilibrium and fended off the attentions of the green-eyed monster again.) "I suppose that I am actually quite gratified that he was paying attention, and not simply sharpening his own epigrams."

"So that's what you really thought about me."

It just slips out, set jaw and the slightest vocal tremble. But words spoken can't be taken back.

There is a faint ripple in the millpond composure, just for an eyeblink. Henry would like to find some way to cajole and flatter Dorian out of this, but he is certain it will not work. And while he certainly never stated so baldly in Oscar's presence that he would try to be to Dorian Gray what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned the wonderful portrait ... would seek to dominate him ... would make that wonderful spirit his own—he knew, in his own self-vivisected heart, that it was true. Like an oracle, Oscar had divined what was truth in Lord Henry's words, and what was simply said for shock; it was extraordinary, really. Only the knife-sharp sense of betrayal kept him from admiring it unreservedly.

But can he admit this to Dorian Gray?

Like hell.

"That you were an individual of extraordinary personal beauty and possessed of a marvellous personality? That you interested me far more than any other individual I had met to date? That it was a delight to watch your passion for poor Miss Vane? All of that was quite true."

"That I was your experiment." The silencing hand falls, and Dorian does not even notice himself rising before he is on his feet. Lord Henry's unbroken facade and his careless twisting of words, pretending that he doesn't know what he has done, that if innocence isn't his he at least has ignorance. Dorian can't endure it.

He wants Harry to deny it. He wants Harry to admit his guilt. Lord Henry might have freshly felt betrayal, but that injury has festered unattended for years now in Dorian, and it twists to make him speak.

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to realize that? Even with this book, even with friends trying to me to make me see, I defended you for decades." Half of a laugh turns Dorian away from Lord Henry. "Not that it matters to you, except for study. I wonder if you can tell me, Harry, how much of you is standing back and watching this with interest? Don't say it. I don't want to know."

Edited 2013-04-16 19:25 (UTC)

That Henry does not even flinch is a wonder even to himself. He remains seated, but sets down his glass next to the book on the table. Only the slightest trembling of his hand as he does so betrays him, and because of that, he is glad to have the glass out of his grasp.

"You make it sound so dreadfully cold," he says, not taking his eyes from Dorian's face. His voice carries a faint wounded tone. "You do yourself a disservice to speak of yourself as if you were a rabbit in a cage, and I am no Victor Frankenstein. Can you really not credit me with genuine affection? You know that I ever stood by you." Even when Berwick cut him in the Churchill, even when poor Gwendolen's name had become a by-word. Henry does not say this; he knows he does not need to.

"Yes, Oscar had a line about that, too. It wouldn't be in your edition, but I remember the words perfectly." The memory comes easy. "Of all his friends, or so-called friends, Lord Henry was the only one who remained loyal to him, and in the eyes of some it was a question whether that was an honour or a disgrace."

It had meant a lot to Dorian, that loyalty. And now he knows he never really had that, either. "Men have made greater sacrifices for science and art. You had to stand by me if you were to mould me, if you wanted to see how your ideal turned out."

Edited 2013-04-16 20:11 (UTC)

A muscle tightens along Henry's jaw, the fingers of the hand resting idly on his knee curl slightly. It's the first sign of real, visible emotion. "I consider it an honour, Dorian—I always have. To see you realise your potential, but more importantly, to know you and to call you friend—it was worth any calumny or whisper. Do you really doubt that? Perhaps you doubted before you were aware that you did, in light of how my loyalty has been repaid."

His hand comes down on the book, but where a lesser man might have slammed his fist on it, Henry merely lays his fingers lightly on the cover as if touching swansdown. Nor does he raise his voice: still that same, even, slightly wounded, perfectly reasonable tone.

Dorian notices the gesture and, in that part of him Lord Henry fostered, he particularly notices the lightness of it. The rest of him is jarred into a sudden stillness, as it is when blade hits bone.

"Try a new experience, Harry. Say what you mean."

A brief silence, Henry regarding Dorian's face.

Then he picks up the book and ruffles the pages. Stops about a quarter of the way in. And then he reads out loud:

"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confess it to you. You would understand me."

He closes the book again, sets it down.

"But you could not confess to me, could you, Dorian?"

"I tried." Dorian can hardly move at all. "You wouldn't hear it of me."

"When?" Henry frowns. "At Selby? I think I should remember that." Before Dorian can answer, his expression clears. "Or do you speak of that scene in the nineteenth chapter of this book? I hope you have not become confused; it is surely as much an invention of Oscar's as that final scene in your attic."

It doesn't occur to him right away that the conversation in question—or one very like it—has not happened for him yet, just as he wants to imagine that the scene of Basil's murder is some sort of dreadful metaphor, some sensational invention of Oscar's.

Edited 2013-04-16 23:01 (UTC)

"What?" Dorian is shaking his head. They haven't had that last conversation yet, he knew that. But the scene in the attic?

"You mean my suicide? Yes that was an invention, of course it was. But that was the only invention. The rest was true."

There is a gravid silence.

"All of it?"

Dorian is able to meet Lord Henry's eyes.

"All."

Henry looks into those beautiful eyes without wavering, even as the profundity of his unprecedented loss for words fills the room as deafeningly as a scream.

So it is true. Basil is dead. And at Dorian's hand.

Basil is dead at Dorian's hand, and Dorian told Oscar, and Oscar wove it into his book as neatly as a well-turned classical allusion.

He wonders at his own stillness, his own silence.

Then he bows his head—not in grief nor anger, but to reach into his coat-pocket and retrieve his cigarette-case and silver match-box.

So. Harry hadn't believe it.

Dorian watches Lord Henry's movement in impassivity. Told, and told, and told again, Lord Henry had denied it. What is that on his part, Dorian wonders. Charity? Blindness? Stubborn self-defence?

At least he sees it now.

'Can't you see your ideal in it?'

Dorian waits for Lord Henry to speak.

Henry's hand trembles as he lights the cigarette, and he hates it; it takes him far too long to shake the match out and in the end he is simply glad to have not inadvertently set himself on fire. Though perhaps he wouldn't have minded; the entire situation is so dreadful, so impossible to grasp that a touch of farce would have nearly been apposite.

"Basil—" he begins, and stops. There is a note in his own voice that he has never heard, not even when his father died, and he does not like it. He pauses to draw on his cigarette, and when he speaks again, he is glad to hear his usual calm.

"Basil never struck me as the sort of man who could inspire passion—much less murderous passion," he says. He looks back up at Dorian, and there is something flat and cold in his brown agate gaze. Something new.

Dorian takes a half-step back.

"I'm afraid you aren't quite as good a judge of character as you thought."

Everything will be burnt into his memory. That trembling hand will stay forever in his mind's eyes. He will always have the scent of that smoke. And that voice and those eyes will be with him forever.

Dorian very suddenly dreads that.

Edited 2013-04-16 23:55 (UTC)

And then Henry is on his feet. He strides toward Dorian and raises his hand but he does not strike—instead, with perfect gentleness he touches Dorian's chin, tilting his head so that he might examine Dorian's face minutely, impassively. He says nothing as he does this—and then he releases Dorian.

"Not a change," he murmurs. "It really is incredible, you know; there is not the slightest alteration to your eyes. There are still lilies and camellias in your cheek, your mouth is still a rose—" With a swift movement he takes Dorian's hand, raises it, subjects it to the same examination. "Your hands are white and unstained. You have not altered. You are not marred. Those words Oscar put into my mouth are not untrue." He releases Dorian's hand, steps away, draws on his cigarette again.

"But the pitch of your voice, Dorian. How have I not heard it before? Or rather, I suppose I heard it but did not listen. Basil was a genius, but he could not capture your voice in his painting, could he?"

The moment Henry releases him, Dorian takes another backwards step.

"What do you mean?"

He wants to escape this conversation. Why did he even come here?

Henry remains standing in place, holding his cigarette at an angle, not looking away from Dorian.

"The years, Dorian. The things you have done. They do not show on your face or on your hands, but it is in your voice. A voice that is no less lovely, but it is not a boy's anymore, is it? It has not been a boy's for a long time, I think."

The faintest of smiles plays across his lips.

"What did Oscar say when you told him about Basil?"

"He—he listened." Lord Henry has often fixed Dorian in place with some dulcet words. Now he has him pinned in a smile and a look. "Does it matter? I don't care to talk about that."

This vertigo is unnatural, when Dorian is immortal and a murderer and Lord Henry's an aged unlabouring man, and that unbalances Dorian even more.

Edited 2013-04-17 01:35 (UTC)

And Henry laughs—melodiously as ever.

"Then you and I are unique—we are the only men in London to whom Oscar Wilde has ever truly listened. It is a distinction I shall wear with pride, for it is the sole consolation I shall have in the inevitable scandal that will follow the publication."

He seats himself again—lounging in his chair, almost, still not taking his eyes off Dorian—and strangely his movements seem even more graceful, more free than when Dorian first entered. Something has been shaken loose, some unseen binding cut. "So Basil told you of his passion, did he? I ought to have realised that something of the kind must have happened. I could not bear to be loved by him either, you know—but that was long before either of us met you."

Distantly he wonders why he's saying this. It's not the most accurate representation of their friendship in those days amid the dreaming spires, but it will suffice for his purpose, which is—what, exactly? To become angry in the only manner that he will permit himself? To try and wound Dorian as he himself has been injured? To satisfy some debt to Basil that he does not understand and cannot explain? Perhaps it is all of these things.

Dorian stays standing. He won't invite a prolonged conversation by seating himself. He wants to close with this and be gone—be done with it.

But he doesn't run to leave. He can't, so long as Lord Henry is talking to him.

At his side, Dorian's fingertips rub against his thumb. Harry has a way with slipping presuppositions into his sentences, such that you react to the pleasant words before realizing you have unknowingly consented to the barbed meanings underneath.

Dorian won't allow it. He takes the trap head on.

"So you did have that with him once? I had wondered at times, but I was never certain." Dorian's smile lacks any sweetness, but the voice Lord Henry remarked on takes on a dangerous lightness. "What a friend you are, Harry. You have a man's love at Oxford, hear his secrets in confidence years later, and then steal away the new object of his affections not even an hour after he asks you not to do exactly that. And you were the one who first let me know of his affections—a rather speedy betrayal on all counts. I'm rather glad now that I didn't tell you my secrets. I can't imagine in what ears your wonderful voice might have murmured them."

It helps, perhaps, that Henry anticipated this cruelty; his previous conversations with Dorian have prepared him for that much. It's probably the only reason he retains any equilibrium at this point.

"Perhaps I was a poor friend to Basil. I am sure that he would agree with you," he says. His voice is colourless and flat—a tone that Dorian will have heard last after telling Henry that Toby Matthews wanted to kill him. "But I did not force you to listen to me. I did not tell you to love and then abandon your little actress. And I certainly did not place the knife in your hand, or summon Alan Campbell to your side with blackmail."

Dorian doesn't flinch. "No, you didn't. You never do." The bright anger shortens his sentences, turns his phrases all into staccato as he says, "You've never forced me to do anything, never forced anyone to do anything, nor have you any grave crimes to your own accounts. Oh, there are a few carnal sins here or there, but no one really counts those, and God is forgiving. All you ever do is talk."

The voice becomes quieter, the consonants more softly spoken. Anger gives way to hurt. "And yet you broke me, Harry. I know it. I was only a child. You made your ideal out of me, and because all you ever do is talk, you could be careless in that. You never have to worry about the consequences, for me or for anyone else. None of it ever falls on you."

Something in Dorian shifts as the words fall into place. He could almost hear Chopin in his ears, moving him to a place he has so often sought. Perhaps he can reach it this time.

"But I wonder, sometimes." Dorian can see the broken, weathered idol before him. Why was he afraid? "If your soul were painted as mine has been, what would it be?"

Edited 2013-04-17 06:51 (UTC)

Henry was ready for more cruelty. He isn't ready for this.

He stares at Dorian, stung, astonished, a denial ready on his lips, but the words won't come.

Very deliberately, he puts out the smouldering remains of his cigarette in the ash-tray on the table, and as he pulls back, his hand passes over that hideous paper-bound book. And suddenly he laughs bitterly, a flash of insight so sharp, so painful that he can neither ignore it nor push it away.

"Basil's painting of you was his great masterpiece. Nothing he wrought before or after could touch it. And if, as you contend, my words shaped you, then they shaped you as they did no other man or woman I have known, for all that my family and my friends call me a bad influence. And finally, this book of Oscar's—it endures long after he and I are dust, does it not? And in it, I suppose that I am frozen forever, an insect in a polished amber jewel."

It's not an answer to Dorian's question. But perhaps somewhere within his words an answer hides.

"And you, Dorian? Unmarred, beautiful forever. You live—a nocturne in the flesh, as exquisite and as immortal. And meanwhile, poor dead Basil's painting bears the ravages of your life like a whipping-boy, I will grow old and die, and Oscar's books are cursed with hideous covers and woolly type-setting." A pause. "I rather think Oscar has the best of it, in the end."

Edited 2013-04-17 07:33 (UTC)

It isn't an answer, no. But Dorian didn't expect one. This is as close as they can get.

"Oscar was the best of us. He understood all of it so much better than we did."

Dorian approaches Lord Henry in soft footsteps. He gestures to the novel with a hand. "A gift, please, Harry? Even with those ugly covers, it is my very favourite book. I want to keep it near me, if you'll allow."

Of Oscar Henry says nothing, but there is a small twist of the corner of his mouth that isn't quite a smile, and might be taken as agreement.

The request surprises Henry and yet it doesn't. It is not a difficult request to grant; he has read it as often as he must, and if it must haunt him, it is better to not have the object nearby. He cannot bring himself to destroy it, but he dares not give it to anyone—except, of course, Dorian.

He picks up the book, slender fingers handling it delicately, and rises to meet Dorian, holding the volume out to him. "It is yours, dear boy, more than it could possibly be anyone else's."

Edited 2013-04-17 13:39 (UTC)

Dorian takes the book in both hands.

"Thank you."

His lips curve. Now he has both pictures.

"And goodbye. If you have anything else to ask, you are always welcome."

The painting, the book, and the boy. If Henry knew that Dorian had the painting again, he would say that it is only right that all three works of art be together.

He reaches out and puts a hand on Dorian's shoulder. There is an unwonted sombre quality to his expression; he is actually serious. Sincere, even, to his own surprise.

"Do not think that I shall ever forget what you have done." The secrets he spoke to Oscar. Basil. For a just a moment his grip tightens, almost painfully—then he lets go, with a small, unconscious pat before letting his hand fall back to his side. "But somehow I remain fond of you all the same, my dear Dorian. I expect I always shall. There is no one like you, in our world or any other." He smiles then, a faintly brittle expression. "And make no mistake, I will take up your offer. You must know that."

Dorian's expression doesn't change, not even at that moment of near pain.

"I know."

He does. That Harry will have more questions, and a right to them; that Basil's murder will always stain him. That neither he nor Harry can simply stop caring about one another.

At least for the moment, he accepts it.

Henry nods. He is suddenly very tired, and feels his years like a heavy coat worn in summer. "Adieu for now, then, mon monstre charmant. We shall speak again," he says, a very real—if weary—affection in his voice and eyes. He places a light hand on Dorian's arm and leans forward to kiss his cheek.

Dorian closes his eyes as he receives the kiss. Through his memories, it, too, takes immortality.

"I'm not sure I quite like that one," Dorian says with a smile, as if he cannot see his old friend ageing before his eyes. "I'll see myself out."

And he leaves Lord Henry to whatever thoughts may charm or haunt him. Dorian goes home. He settles down to reread for the first time in months The Picture of Dorian Gray.

"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject