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

[depicted]

Characters: Lord Henry and Dorian
Date: After this.
Location: Lord Henry's suite.
Situation: Today in Dorian Can't Manage His Personal Affairs: Harry has found a book and wants to have a word about it. This is going to be so awkward.
Warnings/Rating: PG13 for mature themes? References to murder, excessive Victorianness. We'll edit if anything truly dire occurs.



Dorian's portrait is in his house, and that changes everything. More guarded, more vulnerable, Dorian takes the quick path between his new residence and Lord Henry's, hands in his pockets, a neutral expression on his mouth. He doesn't know, but Lord Henry has signalled him. Those bits of Gautier—he recalls in what gifted book he has most often read those lines in recent years, and it is not the one from Adrian Singleton.

With something like the boredom of a condemned man approaching the block, Dorian knocks on on Lord Henry's door. How sad for Harry that he doesn't have any servants to get it for him.

Comments

[epigrammatical]

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."

[depicted]

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?"

[epigrammatical]

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."

[depicted]

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."

[epigrammatical]

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."

[depicted]

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."

[epigrammatical]

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."

[depicted]

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.

[epigrammatical]

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.

[depicted]

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.