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After the disaster that was Sibyl Vane’s Juliet, the terrible disfigurement of art, Basil and Lord Henry left Dorian to his misery, as he had requested of them, and shared a cab back to more respectable neighbourhoods. It was a particularly murky and tenebrous night. There was no moon in the sky and without its brilliance lighting up the night the tiny stars seemed to sparkle brighter, trying in their faint and pitiful way to illuminate the darkness. When the cab reached the front of Basil’s house, he politely invited Harry in for a drink. He expected Harry to beg off. The night was still young by Harry’s standards, still full of experiences to be captured and they would not be found in Basil Hallward’s drawing room. And so Basil was surprised when the offer was accepted.
They sat close and spoke of Greek literature, drifting from the tragedy of Phaedra, to Sappho’s poem of envious yearning, to, at last, Plato’s treatise on love. During a lull in the conversation, Harry placed his hand on Basil’s knee. Basil knew then why Lord Henry had chosen to spend the late hours of the evening with him instead of out enjoying the pleasures of London.
“Harry, don’t. I can’t.”
“You certainly can. I know you’re capable. None know better than I. But, if you do not wish it, consider it forgotten.” He removed his soft hand and placed it delicately in his lap.
“It would be inappropriate,” Basil offered in explanation.
“More inappropriate than before?”
“It is always inappropriate. But yes, more inappropriate than before. Besides, I’m still rather angry with you.”
“With me?” Harry said, his eyebrows raised in innocent puzzlement.
“Your innuendo, ‘Elizabethan theatre,’ and in front of Dorian, no less. I don’t want him to think ill of me.”
“He doesn’t. He won’t. Do you trust him so little?” Lord Henry smiled. “My dear fellow, I’m simply trying to help you. You would be a good deal happier if you loved with less fear.”
Basil crossed his arms over his chest and gazed towards a darkened window. During the daylight hours it looked upon a charming garden, but at night it was nothing but a black mirror. “How can I not be afraid? I know the judgement that is coming for me when I die.”
“Basil,” Harry put his hand on Basil’s shoulder, “if you of all people are too decadent to pass through the pearly gates, then there is no hope for all of civilization and the Almighty may as well send the torrential rains and smite us all down this very night.”
Basil scoffed, but the edges of his lips curled up. “Don’t be ridiculous, Harry.”
“How can I not, when you say ridiculous things?”
Basil kissed him then. And they spoke no more for quite some time.
The clock struck one. Harry and Basil reclined on a divan, languid and dishevelled. The oil lamp had sputtered out unnoticed, neither could say when, so once Basil regained his senses he rose to light a candle. Harry watched the little flame spark to life and propped himself up on his elbow. “Take out your charcoal and do a sketch of me.”
“What, now? Harry, if you want a picture, we can set up an appointment and do a proper sitting.”
“Nonsense. It’s not the picture I want, but rather you producing art, any art. A person is never finer than when he is creating art.”
“Finer than a person who is beautiful?” Basil asked, although he suspected he knew Harry’s answer.
“No, never that. A person who is beautiful is himself art. But the ability to touch beauty, to sculpt it, for those who are not gifted with beauty themselves, it is the next best thing.”
The sketch did not take long to complete. Basil’s fingers were quickly tipped black from charcoal dust. A smear crossed his right cheekbone and darkened the hollow of his eye socket, a remnant of a moment when he paused to rub the tiredness of the late night from his eye. It made him appear almost as if he were a shaman engaging in some strange, mystical ritual. When he turned the sketchbook around for display, Harry shook his head.
“Tsk, tsk, Basil. So many shadows. I look like a sad chimney sweep, my face is so black.”
“There isn’t much light in the room, just the one lonely candle, and your face is in darkness. I drew you as you are at this moment.”
“That was terribly unimaginative of you, to draw me as I am. What good is a picture if it simply shows you what is in front of your face?”
Basil gave an aggrieved sigh and began another sketch. His hand moved lightly over the page leaving behind long, loose lines that rapidly formed the shape of a face.
“Is this more to your approval, Harry? It’s from memory as much as vision. I can scarcely see you in this gloom.”
The second picture was more delicate in its shading. A line of wit about the eyes, a smudge of mischievousness in the curves of his mouth, sharp intellect in the forehead, it was a wholly different interpretation than the first drawing, quite nearly two different men entirely.
“If a bit of yourself is in it, then I approve.”
They slept a few hours, Basil established Lord Henry in the guestroom for propriety’s sake, and so they were both at breakfast together when Parker brought in the morning paper.
“Good Heavens,” Basil muttered, breakfast forgotten.
“What is it, Basil? It can’t be too shocking. The papers always manage to relate everything of interest without saying anything interesting.”
“Sibyl Vane is dead.”
“Poor Dorian. His heart will be broken, I’m sure. A romantic tragedy for the ages...until he falls in love again. But is that relief I hear in your voice?”
“Harry! What a terrible thing to say!”
“But is it true?”
“I could never take joy in anything that hurt Dorian. Whatever else I may feel about him, he is my friend.”
“Then as his friends we must go to him and offer him comfort. Come, Basil.”