Part 25 (1/2)
FICTION
That the gift of composing beautiful verse and the ability to write gracefully and wittily in prose does not of necessity enable an author to produce good fiction, is a truism that requires no elaboration. That the novelist should possess style is a _sine qua non_--that is, if his novels are to take their place as works of art and not merely achieve an ephemeral success amongst the patrons of circulating libraries--but to achieve distinction in the field of romance many other qualities are requisite. To begin with, the story must be of sufficient interest to hold the attention of the reader, the dialogue must be brisk and to the point, and the delineation of character--a gift in itself--lifelike and convincing.
Whether Oscar Wilde would, had his life been prolonged, have ever achieved success in this branch of literature is one of those vexed questions which may well be left to those speculative persons who love to discuss ”The Mystery of Edwin Drood” and other unfinished works of fiction. That he was endowed with an extraordinarily vivid imagination and that his versatility was marvellous are factors that no one should neglect to take into account when considering the matter. His own contributions to fiction are so few that they afford very little data to go upon. They consist of ”The Picture of Dorian Gray,” published in 1890; ”Lord Arthur Savile's Crime”; ”The Incomparable and Ingenious History of Mr W. H., being the true secret of Shakespeare's Sonnets, now for the first time here fully set forth,” the ma.n.u.script of which, after pa.s.sing through the hands of Messrs Elkin Mathews and John Lane, publishers, who had announced the work as being in preparation, has been unaccountably lost, although it is known that it was returned to the author's house on the very day of his arrest. An article in _Blackwood's Magazine_ alone enables us to gather some idea of the last work. Then we have three short stories--”The Sphinx without a Secret,” ”The Canterville Ghost,” ”The Model Millionaire,” which complete the list of Wilde's fiction in the limited sense of the word.
A careful study of these remains must lead to the inevitable conclusion that, so far as we can judge by these more or less fragmentary specimens, Wilde's _forte_ was not fiction. He can in no sense be regarded as a novelist, certainly not as an exponent of modern fiction.
The pieces are brilliantly clever, gemmed with paradoxes and quaint turns of thought, but they are not fiction in the accepted sense of the word. Works of imagination, yes, but ”fiction,” no. That he was a graceful allegorist n.o.body can deny, but that his work in this other field of letters was great is never for a moment to be even suggested.
He used fiction as a means of introducing his curiously topsy-turvy views of life, but his characters are mere puppets, strange creatures with unreal names, without any particular personality or especially characteristic features, who enunciate the author's views and opinions.
In a preface to ”Dorian Gray,” when it was published in book form, Oscar Wilde himself confirms this view--”The highest and the lowest form of criticism,” he tells us, ”is a mode of autobiography.” That he himself believed in the artistic value of his story is evident from the series of brilliant aphorisms which const.i.tute the preface.
When in July, 1890, there appeared in an American magazine the fantastic story of ”Dorian Gray” an astonished public rubbed its eyes and wondered whether all its previous theories as to this cla.s.s of work had been absolutely false and should henceforth be discarded like a garment that has gone out of fas.h.i.+on.
The story provoked a storm of criticism which, for the most part, only served to increase the sale of the magazine in which it appeared. In answer to his critics the author contented himself with the dictum that ”Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.” Whether ”The Picture of Dorian Gray” possessed these three essential qualities is a question which may best be answered by giving a short _resume_ of the story itself. Basil Hallward, a young artist who, some years previously, had caused a great sensation by his disappearance, has painted a full-length portrait of a young man of ”extraordinary personal beauty.” In conversation with Lord Henry Wotton, who is visiting the studio, he inadvertently reveals that it is the portrait of Dorian Gray, and alleges as his reason for not exhibiting the picture that he has put too much of himself into it; and, pressed for an explanation, he tells the story of his meeting the original of the painting at a Society function, and how deeply he had been impressed by his extraordinary personality. He experiences a ”curious artistic idolatry” for the young man, and as they are discussing him the servant announces ”Mr Dorian Gray.” We then get a word-picture of this interesting young man, we are told that there was something in his face which made you trust him, that it was full of the candour of youth and pa.s.sionate purity. During the sitting that follows, Lord Henry enunciates his views of life, and his words leave a deep impression on his youthful auditor. Dorian's acquaintance with Lord Henry soon ripens into friends.h.i.+p, and he confides to his friend that he has fallen deeply in love with Sybil Vane, a young actress he has accidentally discovered in an East End playhouse.
Late upon the same night on which the confidence was made Lord Henry finds, on his return home, a telegram from Dorian Gray announcing his engagement to the object of his affections. We are next introduced to Sybil's shabby home in the Euston Road; to her mother, a faded, tired-looking woman with bis.m.u.th-whitened hands, and to her brother, a young lad with a thick-set figure, rough brown hair and large hands and feet ”somewhat clumsy in movement.” The faded beauty of the elder woman and her theatrical gestures and manners are deftly touched upon. The son, whom we learn is about to seek his fortune in Australia, goes with his sister for a walk in the park, and their talk is all of her love for Dorian, of which he does not approve. Sybil catches sight of her lover, but before she can point him out to her brother he is lost to sight.
They return home; the lad's heart is filled with jealousy, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between him and his sister. Downstairs he startles his mother with a sudden question--”Were you married to my father?” The woman had been dreading the question for years, but she answers it in the negative, and tells him that his parent was a gentleman and highly connected, but not free to marry her. In the meanwhile, Lord Henry and Basil are discussing the proposed marriage in the private room of a fas.h.i.+onable restaurant, and presently they are joined by Dorian himself, who takes part in the discussion, till it is time for them to go to the theatre.
His two friends are delighted with the beauty of his _fiancee_, but her acting is below mediocrity, and the boy, who has seen her act really well on previous occasions, is terrible disconcerted.
Later, in the green-room, Sybil explains the reason of this falling off.
She is quite candid about it: she tells him she will never act well again, because he has transfigured her life, and that acting, which had before been a matter of reality to her, had become a hollow sham, and that she can no longer mimic a pa.s.sion that burns her like fire.
Flinging himself down on a seat, Dorian exclaims, ”You have killed my love,” and after an impa.s.sioned tirade answers his own question of ”What are you now?” with ”A third-rate actress with a pretty face.” In vain she pleads for his love; he leaves her telling her that he can never see her again, for she has disappointed him. When, after wandering aimlessly about all night, he returns home, he is suddenly conscious of a change in the portrait Basil had painted of him. The expression is different, and there are lines of cruelty round the mouth, though he can trace no such lines in his own face.
”Suddenly, there flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished.... He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young and the portrait grow old, that his own beauty might be untarnished and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his pa.s.sions and his sins.” He is struck with remorse for his cruelty to Sybil, and by the time Lord Henry comes to see him has determined to atone for it by marrying her, but it is too late. He learns from his friend's lips that Sybil has committed suicide in the theatre shortly after he had left her.
He spends the evening at the opera with Lord Henry Wotton, and his sister, Lady Gwendolen. When, next day, he mentions this to Basil the latter is horrified, but Dorian is perfectly callous and is inclined to be flattered by the fact that the girl should have committed suicide for love of him.
Basil wishes to look at the picture, which he intends to exhibit in Paris, and before which Dorian has placed a screen, but the latter will not let him see it, and the former presently goes away greatly puzzled by the refusal. When he is gone Dorian sends for a framemaker, and gets him and his a.s.sistant to remove the draped picture to a disused room in his house, having previously sent his man out with a note to Lord Henry in order to get him out of the way. Having dismissed the framemaker and his a.s.sistant, he carefully locks the door of the room and retains the key. When he comes down, he finds that Lord Henry has sent him a paper containing an account of the inquest on Sybil, and an unhealthy French book which fascinates whilst it repels him, and the influence of which he cannot shake off for years after.
Time pa.s.ses, but the hero of the story shows no signs of growing older, nor does he lose his good looks. Meanwhile, the most evil rumours as to his mode of life are in circulation. We learn that he is in the habit of frequenting, disguised and under an a.s.sumed name, a little ill-famed tavern near the docks, and we are given a long a.n.a.lysis of his mental and spiritual condition, whilst his various idiosyncrasies are carefully recorded, and we are insensibly reminded of the surroundings invented for himself by the hero of Huysman's ”A Rebours.”
All the while, the picture remains hidden away, a very skeleton in the cupboard. Dorian Gray is nearly blackballed for a West End Club, Society looks askance at him, and there are all sorts of ugly rumours current as to his doings and movements.
One night he meets Hallward, who wants to talk to him about his mode of life. The painter enumerates all the scandalous stories he has heard about him; he ends up by expressing a doubt whether he really knows his friend. To do so, he says, he should have to see his soul. ”You shall see it yourself to-night,” Dorian exclaims, ”it is your handiwork,” and, holding a lamp, he takes him up to the locked room, and removes the drapery from the picture. An exclamation of horror breaks from the painter as he perceives the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him.
It fills him with loathing and disgust, and he has difficulty in believing it to be his own work. Dorian is seized with an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for his friend, and, seizing a knife lying on a chest, stabs him in the neck and kills him. After the murder he locks the door, and goes quietly downstairs. He slips out into the street closing the front door very gently, and rings the bell. When his valet opens it he explains that he had left his latchkey indoors, and casually inquires the time, which the man informs him is ten minutes past two.
The next day Dorian sends for a former friend of his, Alan Campbell, whose hobby is chemistry, and after telling him of the murder, begs him by some chemical process to destroy the body. Alan refuses to help him.
Dorian then writes something upon a piece of paper and gives it to the other to read. Alan is terror-struck and consents to do what is required of him, though reluctantly. When later, provided with the necessary chemicals, they enter the locked room, Dorian perceives that the hands of the picture are stained with blood.
He dines out that night, and when he returns home he provides himself with some opium paste he keeps locked up in a secret drawer, and having dressed himself in rough garments makes his way to the docks. He enters an opium den, but the presence of a man who owes his downfall to him irritates him, and he decides to go to another. A woman greets him with the t.i.tle ”Prince Charming” (the name Sybil had given him), and on hearing it a sailor gets up from his seat and follows him. In a dim archway he feels himself seized by the throat and sees a revolver pointed at his head. Briefly, his a.s.sailant tells him that he is Sybil's brother, and that he means to avenge his sister's death. A sudden inspiration comes to Dorian and he inquires of the man how long it is since his sister died. ”Eighteen years,” is the answer, and Gray triumphantly exclaims ”Look at my face.” He is dragged under a lamp, and at sight of the youthful face Sybil's brother is convinced that he has made a mistake. Hardly has Dorian gone, when the woman who had called him Prince Charming comes up, and from her the sailor learns that in eighteen years Dorian has not altered.
Dorian goes down to his country house, where he entertains a large party of guests, though all the while he lives in deadly terror lest Sybil's brother should trace him. During a _battue_ a man is accidentally shot by one of Dorian's guests. It is at first thought that the victim of the accident is one of the beaters but it turns out to be a stranger, a seafaring man presumably. Dorian goes to look at the body, and to his intense relief finds that the dead man is his a.s.sailant of some nights back.
Back in London one night Dorian Gray determines that he will reform, and, curious to see whether his good resolutions have had any effect on the portrait, he goes up to look at it. No, it still bears the same repulsive look, and in a rage he stabs at it with the knife with which he had murdered Basil. A loud agonised cry rings through the house, and when the servants at last make their way into the room they find hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, while lying on the floor with a knife through his heart was a dead man ”withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage,” whom they could only identify by the rings on his fingers.
Such, shorn of all its brilliant dialogue and exquisite descriptive pa.s.sages, is the story of ”The Portrait of Dorian Gray,” in its bald outlines. As an imaginative work it must rank high, and in spite of the fantastic character of the plot and its inherent improbability, it exercises a weird fascination over us as we read. That its author (more even in the treatment than in the plot) was inspired by Balzac's incomparable ”Peau de Chagrin” is beyond question. In the one story we have a man purchasing a piece of s.h.a.green skin inscribed with Sanskrit characters which, as each of its possessor's desires are gratified, by its shrinkage marks a diminution in the span of his life. In the other, whilst the original man remains outwardly unchanged, his portrait ages with the years and reveals in its features all the pa.s.sions and sins that gradually transform his nature. In both cases the story ends in tragedy.
The colouring of the tale is one of its most remarkable features. In pa.s.sages of rare beauty Oscar Wilde gives us descriptions of jewels and perfumes, rare tapestries and quaint musical instruments. The catalogue of the jewels as set out by him deserves to be quoted for the marvellous knowledge of precious stones it reveals as well as for the exquisite description of them.