Work Text:
“Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one,” said the young lord, plucking another daisy. -- The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter I
“Basil Hallward, is it?” the boy asked, his eyes widening as he languidly extended his hand.
The painter’s voice caught within his throat, and as he took the other’s warm grasp he found himself unable to reply. His heart beat furiously, sounding against his ears, and he pursed his lips, his gaze slowly tracing over the boy’s form. Promises of fortune and progress were raised before Basil’s sight with the gleam of the other’s eyes. “Dorian Gray,” he managed at last, a smile crossing his features. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Of course,” Dorian sighed dramatically. “It is often very hard to find suitable company at this sort of engagement, wouldn’t you say? The Stars and Garters alone are nearly enough to send even the most able-bodied gentleman into hysterics.” He paused, sipping his champagne, and Basil felt the weight of his consideration upon him. “That is why, Mr. Hallward, I shall assume, you were preparing to leave not long ago.”
Basil shook his head, quickly glancing away as he felt his cheeks begin to redden. “No, I... I was momentarily in need of some fresh air.” He glanced to the window where the scene of the lamp-lit street below was refracted by the pouring rain. Dorian arched a brow, seemingly aware of Basil’s distress, though he waited for the painter to continue. “Rest assured, Mr. Gray, the guests in attendance this evening are delightful.”
Dorian laughed, draining the last drops of champagne from his glass. “Perfectly true. And what is it that you do?”
“Oh,” Basil said, smiling, “I’m a painter.”
“My word, that’s marvelous! When Lady Brandon mentioned it earlier, I half expected it to be an utter fabrication of her fancy,” the boy replied, arching a brow. “Absolutely marvelous.”
“I enjoy it, certainly.”
“Tell me, where is your studio?”
Basil grimaced as he felt his voice begin to falter. “Not far from here, actually. Just outside of town.”
“I see,” Dorian said with a curt not. “Now be honest, Mr. Hallward. What brought you here this evening?”
“Ah, I was unable to refuse Lady Brandon’s generous invitation.”
Dorian smiled, his lips parting sweetly as he took a step closer to the painter. “When I first saw you there with that Academic -- a detestable situation, I must say -- I had the most extraordinary idea to come to your rescue. By the knit of your brow, I saw that you were nearly lost.”
“Nonsense, I was merely...”
“Being swept out to sea with boredom,” Dorian finished, a broad smile passing across his mouth. “Ah, Mr. Hallward, I knew that we were destined to become acquainted. You find humor my words? That is perfectly alright, though you saw it too, I am certain. I’m never wrong about this sort of thing, you know.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes,” Dorian laughed. “Some prophesies are self-fulfilling, Mr. Hallward.”
“Ah, that may be so, though I must admit that I’ve had to pay for all of mine.”
Dorian’s eyes glinted delightedly. “You are fortunate to have an account with Fate.”
“Perhaps,” Basil agreed, his voice sounding thick to his own ears as he tried to mask his laughter. Setting a hand to Dorian’s shoulder, he continued confidentially, “But there are days in which she refuses to take heed of anyone, even for ready money.”
“How utterly distressing you are!”
“Only in favorable company, Mr. Gray.”
“Of course!” the boy cried, carefully twining his arm around Basil’s and guiding him to a far corner of the room. “But really now, you must promise me two things.”
“Yes?”
“First, you must take me on a tour of your studio. And second,” he whispered, pressing his shoulder against the painter’s so that their faces were almost touching, “you must call me Dorian.”
Basil swallowed roughly, feeling his stomach clench as Dorian’s presence washed over him. He imagined the boy’s eyes sketched in charcoal, his hands held in pastel, his lips set eternally open in delicate pigment. Feeling at once overwhelmed by Dorian’s youth and fascination, his sprightly step and discerning gaze, Basil sensed his own pursuits as they turned to dust. The surrounding din of banter was diminished, the lights of the parlor faded, and the world itself seemed to pause in its turning as though to better catch a glimpse of Dorian’s smile. “Certainly,” the painter said at last.
“Delightful. It is a pity that the night has grown so late -- I would so love to see it now,” Dorian said, his voice laced by laughter. “No matter. You’ll most likely be leaving soon, yes? I imagine that you are fond of waking up early.” He turned from Basil, straightening the silk at his neck and the lace in his pocket, and stepped away. “With the starlings.”
Dorian’s last words were veiled by the hum of other conversations, though Basil would not have missed them against the pounding of a storm at sea, so entrenched was his awareness of the other’s spirit. At once he knew that he could never again allow himself to leave. Dorian would be the breath of life itself, the avenger of times unspoken. Dorian would be art.
* * *
As though compelled into motion by the wind itself, the days of late June passed into those of July, swept by time like petals brushing the ground, heavy with dew and refractions of evening light.
The hour of Basil Hallward’s private view was drawing to a close, and as he stood in the center of the room, arms clasped behind his back, he wearily gauged the reception of his guests just as he savored the heady scents of lavender and soot as they twined through the air and fell across his tongue. There was a certain degree of uneasiness hidden behind the cool sweep of his gaze, a quickness to his pulse that was imperceptible to all but Lord Henry, who stood nearby, an unusually broad smile hanging upon his features.
With appeased nods toward the painter, the critics began to leave, trailed by the remaining guests and the close murmuring of appraisals and gossip. Basil watched as the last drops of champagne were drained from flutes, cigarettes were stamped out, and thick, paneled catalogues were idly dropped onto the tiled floor. “You’ll also be leaving now, I suppose,” he said with a glance toward Lord Henry, his head shifting with a curt not.
“I’m afraid so. Rest assured, your paintings have been splendid company,” Lord Henry chuckled. “The chartreuse skyline was particularly engaging in conversation. Perfectly scandalous, actually.”
The painter sighed, setting his hands in his pockets. “Are you quite certain that you’ll not be able to dine with me this evening? We could go to my club and...” he trailed off as the other began to shake his head.
“Basil dear,” Lord Henry said, his brow creasing. “I am sorry.”
“It is well, Harry.”
“Yes.” Reaching into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, Lord Henry sighed. “It has gone splendidly, don’t you think? I can see that you’re pleased, and yet,” he continued, drawing upon his cigarette, and glanced quickly to the blue wreath of smoke that hung before him, “and yet there’s something else, isn’t there?”
Basil arched a brow. “Oh?”
“I am surprised that he didn’t come; surely as surprised as you are.”
“Who?” Basil set his jaw as he spoke, his words sounding sharper than he had intended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry. Ah, this is one of your brilliant diatribes, I should like to imagine.”
Lord Henry laughed shortly, shaking his head and scattering ashes to the floor as he idly tugged upon the orchid at his buttonhole. “No. Basil, please,” he said, his voice almost rueful as he set his hand to the painter’s shoulder. “Do not try to be coy -- that expression is hardly becoming for one as imaginative as you. You know perfectly well of whom I speak.”
“Yes,” Basil sighed at length, turning away. “Yes, I had expected him to come today. His invitation was sent well in advance, of course.”
“Of course. Do not worry, my dear. Even after all of this time, he has his miraculous ways.”
“That is precisely what worries me, Harry.”
Lord Henry only smiled, his eyes glinting with the burning tip of his thin cigarette. “We are hardly fitted, either of us, to take a stand on issues of morality.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come out with me tomorrow, Basil,” Lord Henry said at last, gathering the folds of his cloak and stepping before the door. “Shall we say eight? Yes? I’ll send a cab around for you.” With that, he tapped his ivory-headed cane briefly against the brim of his hat, smiling once more and stepping out into the darkened street.
“Perhaps,” Basil whispered again, his voice hollow within the empty room.
“Shall I begin drawing the curtains, sir?”
The painter nodded, glancing to his aide as he stood before his desk, folding the paperwork there into a leather portfolio. “Yes, thank you, Carroll.”
“Your opening has been a great success, if I may be so bold.”
“I suppose it has.”
“No more visitors this evening, then?”
Basil sighed, briefly pausing and meeting the young man’s eye. “No, it is finished.” He glanced through the various signs and sums of money that were scrawled across the sheets before him; there were purchases and pledges alike, the motions of pleasure, to be sent to his accountant with the morning post. Yes, he thought, it had been a great success. His paintings had acquired many admirers through the passage of time, gaining renown as pigment that lines the smiles of the wealthy.
At length, the painter stood, loosening the silk at his neck with idle fingers. He took a gulp of the champagne that he had left on a far mantle, nearly forgotten as he had spoken to Lord Henry.
Presently, Basil stood before an expansive cityscape, a painting that he had completed years before, and his eyes traced over minute swirls of paint and imperfections that seemed to somehow enrich the greater whole. Streaks of light glinted from the tainted movement of the Thames, blue and yellow with the morning bells of a bygone hour. Reaching forward, he delicately touched the painting’s rough surface with a reluctant reverence, remembering each stroke of his brush. He mused that he could still make out the distant sounds of that day -- the clatter of hooves against wet cobbles and the calls of fishermen across the docks. A smile passed over his lips, only retreating as he heard a commotion across the gallery and a voice that had long been engrained upon his soul. As he turned, his heart lurched within his chest.
“I am sorry, sir,” the aide said to the darkly clad young man who leaned haphazardly against the doorframe. “Mr. Hallward has specifically requested that no more guests enter this evening.”
“Nonsense,” the other said, his voice clipped with laughter. “I have an invitation.”
“Dorian!” Basil cried, setting his hand gently to his mouth and crossing the room. He quickly turned toward the aide. “It’s alright, Carroll -- Mr. Gray is a great personal friend. That will be all for tonight.”
“As you wish, sir,” the aide mumbled, stepping away, though his reply was unheard as Basil now stood spellbound in Dorian’s presence.
Pulling his cloak from his shoulders with a sweeping movement, Dorian smiled, taking Basil’s arm and leading him away. “Basil, what a pleasure it is to see you.”
The painter nodded, attempting to suppress his eagerness just as he leaned into Dorian’s grasp. “I had all but given up hope of your arrival.”
“Yes, I was delayed. A most unfortunate business, daily life.”
“Indeed,” Basil laughed, his brow furrowing in expectation of Dorian’s next words.
“Tell me, my dear,” Dorian said, pulling Basil close to his chest. “How many weeks has it been since I’ve seen you?”
“It has been a year and two months, Dorian.” Basil shook his head, pursing his lips as he looked into the other’s eyes.
“Has it really?” An expression of intense interest swiftly passed over Dorian’s features. “It seems a dour time for us all.”
“Nonsense.”
“Of course, you have your paintings here,” Dorian laughed, for the first time taking true notice of the canvases that lined the walls, their gilded frames glinting in the candlelight. “Marvelous,” he commented at length. “You’ve kept yourself busy, I trust?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Traveling to the ends of the earth for the sake of your art?”
The painter shook his head, glancing from Dorian to the painting that hung before them. “No, I wouldn’t say that, unless one considers Wales to be as such.”
“Wales,” Dorian repeated, a note of disdain creeping into his voice. “Whatever were you doing there?”
“I suppose...” Basil trailed off, once more meeting Dorian’s eye. “Well, I suppose I needed a bit of a change.”
“Change? Wales seems a peculiar place to find such a thing, if you ask me, when one could have Paris or Malta.”
“Or San Francisco?” the painter laughed shortly, tilting his head. “And you, Dorian? Where have you been these last months?”
A smile grazing his mouth, the boy shrugged, his movement almost imperceptible against the dark folds of his jacket. “Ah, you are always inquiring, always seeking. See?” He raised a hand to the painter’s temple, his fingers lightly brushing against the curls there that Basil knew to be gray. “You, Basil, are getting old.”
“Yes.” Basil smiled, shuddering slightly at Dorian’s touch, his voice smoothly working over the sadness in his tone as he spoke. “The crow’s foot has been generous with its indelible steps.”
“And have you yet found your quarry?”
Frowning, Basil surveyed the boy’s expression, sensing the lines of cruelty that had been stamped across the other’s face, no less unsettling for their invisibility. “Yes,” he sighed at last, his heart clamoring against his breastbone, “I think I have.”
“This one,” Dorian said, suddenly turning away from Basil and pointing to a small, ornately colored landscape that hung a few paces away. He stepped before it, breathing deeply as he continued, “I remember the day that you did it. It rained all morning -- remorseless, really, as we have come to love it as such here in London -- and then the sun finally came out. Your hand was so quick across the canvas that hour, Basil, so agile. You found meaning where others would surely have missed it, pulling it out of the glade with your smile like a conjurer spinning tricks in a fashionable drawing room.” He turned toward the painter, whose gaze had not moved from the curve of the boy’s lips. “Do you remember?”
“Yes, certainly.”
Dorian nodded, stirring himself, and quickly glanced to the painting once more before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. “Congratulations on your opening, Basil. Everything appears to be quite in order here, which is an accomplishment in itself when one considers the world as it is.”
Basil puzzled over Dorian’s words for a moment, his brow creasing. “I’m not sure what... My word, must you really leave this moment? Dear Dorian, I’ve not had the opportunity to speak to you for so long.”
“I simply can’t stay.”
“Please consider dining with me this evening.”
“I’m sorry, Basil, really I am, but my cab awaits,” Dorian declined distractedly with a sweep of his hand, a look of relish passing across his mouth.
“Another time, then?”
“Of course.”
“Dorian, I...” Basil began, following the other to the doorway. “I’ve missed you.”
His smile unexpectedly tender, Dorian leaned forward to take Basil’s hand, his leather gloved fingers firm and vital against Basil’s own. Their lips brushed together, a fleeting movement that the painter had for so long dreamed of. Basil’s pulse sounded within his ears as he pressed against Dorian, the memory of such moments, as they had arisen in the past, now eclipsing the present.
Dorian pulled away, his eyes betraying the wash of his amusement as Basil hesitantly met his gaze. “Of course,” the boy said again as he stepped away, adjusting his hat and striding across the glistening cobbles of the street.
“Goodnight, Dorian,” the painter called from the curb as the other stepped into the hansom. His tongue darted across his lips, savoring the lingering traces of Dorian’s presence, the flavors of spice and tobacco quickly lost in the cool air. “We shall see each other soon.”
Dorian grinned, tipping his hat as he settled against the polished cushions of his seat. He seemed to whisper something into the night, his words lost to Basil’s ear, though there was a smooth movement from within and with the pulse of a thought a second form peered out from the gloom. It was a young man, his face the color of moonlight, only offset by shadows and the black mass of his hair; his bright eyes blinked once and were again cast in darkness as the carriage began to roll forward. There seemed to be a merging of forms, a flutter of white hands, an echo of laughter, before the scene was lost into the night.
Folding his arms across his chest, Basil stood at the curb a moment longer before entering the gallery, shivering with the sudden breeze that tousled his hair and tugged at the hem of his jacket. As he stood before his paintings, alone once more, he was unable to forgive the tears that came to his eyes.
* * *
“Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
Basil shook his head, settling against the deep, ruddy leather of a high-backed armchair. “No. Thank you Francis,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “You’ve been more than kind to allow me to wait here for Mr. Gray. When do you expect he’ll return?”
“I’m sorry, sir, he made no mention of time.”
“That’s quite understandable,” the painter laughed, his brow knitting as he watched the servant exit, at once motioning with a languid turn of his wrist. “Just one more thing, if you will, Francis. Does Mr. Gray happen to keep any cigarettes on hand?”
“Certainly, sir,” Francis replied, crossing the room once more and rummaging through a large chest of drawers before returning to Basil with a gilded cigarette case. He opened it, smiling slightly as he said, “I trust that these will do?”
“Oh yes.” Basil nodded, taking one and setting its golden tip to his lips, allowing Francis to swiftly light it and exit the room with a gentle shuffling of fabric.
Minutes passed, marked by the somber ticking of the hall clock and Basil’s fingers as they steadily tapped against the matte arm of his chair. He felt his cheeks flush with the pull of the fire, warming his skin where the winter chill had so recently delivered its remorseless kiss as he had walked alone through the streets. The expansive, open hearth seemed to envelop each shadowed corner of the room with scatterings of amber light.
As he finished his drink and set his chin to his palm, Basil gazed ahead, imagining ghastly forms borne upon the back of the flames, twining with talons and jaws through the surrounding gloom. Quiet moments drove against one another, racing with the forms of flame and the rush of blood against Basil’s thoughts. He imagined faces, lovers entwined with gangly limbs, together and apart, at once swept by a golden sea as though provoked by a storm. They seemed to cry out just as they promised eternity, voices held with haggard breath.
A shudder passed through Basil’s form, tossing ashes to his lap and stirring him from his dream. “Ridiculous,” he whispered, pressing against the arms of the chair and standing. “Jumping at shadows on the walls.”
Crossing the room, the painter lightly brushed the tips of his fingers to the gleaming spines of the books that lined the wall. He tilted his head, straining his eyes against the fractured light in order to better see the titles before him. Philosophy, poetry, detective stories, gothic romance, fine satire, metaphysics, penny dreadfuls, and prophecy made up much of Dorian’s collection, as well as many volumes that defied definition. Basil frowned, pulling one such book from the shelf and coughing quietly as he flipped through the yellowed pages, scattering dust.
Basil settled back into his chair, opening the book and touching the lines of text while he read. His brow knit as he began translating the French, the tip of his tongue grazing across his lips as he mouthed the silken words. Passages had been highlighted with delicate pencil marks and notes of interest in the margins, a script that Basil at once knew to be Dorian’s. The book’s descriptions of decadence and betrayal caused his heart to lurch within his chest, and he paused as he came to what seemed to be the last strains of a madman.
“The waters of human mediocrity, like a tidal wave, are rising up to the sky and will engulf this haven whose sea-walls I have with my own hands most unwillingly breached,” Basil read aloud, his voice labored. He shuddered once more. Closing the book and setting it to the floor, he stood and crossed the room. Softly, he pulled upon the bell-rope, silently calling Francis from his undoubted dozing. The pounding of his heart was only matched by the heavy crackling of the fire and the chiming of the clock as the hour at last reached eleven.
There was a stirring from outside, a hushed creaking of floorboards as Francis opened the door to the library, entering and looking to the hearth where Basil still stood. “Yes, Mr. Hallward?”
Basil smiled, setting his jaw as he moved toward the servant. “Thank you, Francis. I’m afraid that I must be off -- I’ve a midnight train to catch.”
“Certainly, sir,” Francis said with a nod, moving into the hall and retrieving Basil’s ulster. “I am sorry that you were unable to meet with Mr. Gray this evening.”
“Yes,” Basil sighed, shrugging the coat over his shoulders and moving before the door. “Do tell him that I stopped by, Francis. I’ll not be in London again for quite some time.”
“Of course.”
The painter smiled, holding his bag tightly against his chest as he stepped outside. “Try to get some sleep.”
“As you wish, sir. Have a pleasant journey.”
As the door closed with a metallic click, Basil felt the winter chill against his face once more. He raised the collar of his ulster, huddling into its woolen folds, and began forward as disappointment began to immerse his thoughts. The train would take him to Paris, yes, though his heart would always be connected to London, a shadow of Dorian’s own soul.
Although it was not unusually late at night, the streets were nearly deserted, save for strays and vagabonds, addicts and lone hansom cabs, clattering against the darkened cobbles. Basil quickened his pace as a form shifted from the shadows before him, moving suddenly forward, the slightness of his frame hunched into the dark mass of his clothes.
The other figure was walking quickly, warding the fog as it twined about his legs, catching wearily against the hem of his fur coat. Contempt seemed to hang within his eyes, red-rimmed and agitated, and his jaw was sternly set. Those eyes, once fresh and eager, that jaw once daunting and wry, those lips once the harbinger of melody with their supple curve.
Basil’s memory stirred, drawing upon his hopes through the still of the night, and he stopped in his tracks. His hands clenched, his knuckles growing white as he gripped the wooden handle of his bag. With apparent grief, he chided himself for his ill nerves, at once recognizing that it was Dorian who had so suddenly passed him by.
Springing forward, Basil twined his arm around Dorian’s waist, pulling him to a stop. He allowed himself to ignore the annoyance that passed over the other’s features, gritted teeth and furrowed brow, eyes stormy and callous, as he cried, “Dorian!”
Dorian slowly smiled, turning his head uncertainly as though only now taking notice of Basil’s presence. His laughter was brittle in the winter air, carried upon the wings of darkness and shrouded by the glint of his eyes. “Hello, Basil.”
--------------
Endnotes: The quoted text in the third segment is from the final passage of JK Huysman's À Rebours (trans. Mauldon), which is thought by many to be the "strange book" that encourages Dorian's decadence and ultimate downfall.