tushanshu | I. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information. (Video)

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I. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information. (Video)

[For a man of his era, Lord Henry has picked up the basics of the computer with surprising alacrity and ease. Perhaps he has been motivated by the understanding that it provides him with a platform of unprecedented scale.

So behold: a well-bred Englishman in his mid- to late-forties: if his good looks are a bit worn around the edges, he is still quite handsome in a way that suggests he cut a truly rakish figure when younger. His voice is exceptionally pleasant and musical, and when he speaks, his words are accompanied by graceful—though not excessive—gestures of his slender hands.]

I am given to understand that this device offers a podium to rival the pulpit at Westminster Abbey. Capital—although I assure you that I shall not bore you with a sermon; I can't abide a man who makes of himself an amateur curate.

Allow me to introduce myself—Lord Henry Wotton, late of London, which is not nearly so exciting as the vision of Moreau in which I now find myself. There are many questions with which I'm rather concerned at the moment, but most importantly, where does one find a tailor in this city? And, tiresome though domestic matters are, I suppose I must enquire after a valet. There are many indignities a gentleman may suffer in silence, but not an inadequate selection of poorly-pressed shirts.

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[Dorian covers his mouth with his hand, forcing the laughter back until it is just an amused expression.]

I'm very sorry, Harry. Only I just imagined an occupation for which you are most unsuited. [He ducks his head in contrition, and lifts it when he can give Henry a charming boyish smile, the sort he learned to use to get away with things only after Henry revealed to him the power in his looks.] Please, tell me what you would like? I'll find it for you, whatever it is. I can't stand the thought of you doing anything beneath you.

[The peevishness has worn off somewhat, thanks in no small part to that smile. Henry is still entirely susceptible to that look, even though he knows Dorian is using is quite deliberately.]

Are there no galleries, no libraries? In a city of so many wonders, there must be some ordinary refinements.

[Subtext: Henry is happy to do anything that is first, largely idle and second, not mercantile. Handling books or curating artwork is a gentlemanly sort of meniality, but Henry has the real horror of handling money of which only an aristocratic second son his capable.]

Edited 2013-01-30 13:17 (UTC)

[Dorian's version of apology is to give Lord Henry his full appreciative attention with that frank, wide-eyed air of one who considers his interlocutor the object of unquestionable admiration—in other words, to flatter Henry's vanity in a very different way than Henry often flatters his. It is not, to Dorian, dishonesty or manipulation. The attitude is still harboured in the multiplicity of being that composes Dorian Gray, and to highlight an aspect of himself is no more dishonest than to throw a waterfront into moonlight for effect. It is art, and so it is beyond morality.]

There are a few across the districts. Perhaps we could make a day of visiting them and picking out your favourite?

[Henry knows exactly what Dorian is doing, but knowing these things and not being vulnerable to them are not always mutually inclusive. Particularly where Dorian is concerned. The unspoken apology is received with the equally unspoken acceptance that is Henry's fond smile.]

That will do. I am sure there must be something suitable.

Doubtless there shall. [He hooks his arm in Harry's and thereby turns them in through restaurant doors without in any way seeming to steer his companion.] And it will be quite a pleasure for me to hear your take on the varieties of art the kedan have explored.

Yes, and about the kedan—

[He follows Dorian's lead as invisibly as he is led, and also drops the volume of his voice—not whispering, exactly, but being discreet.

We—those of us who are not native to the city—we are outnumbered by them, are we not? What are they, exactly? Those who brought me to my rooms were entirely civil and well-mannered, but you say that's not true everywhere one goes.

Edited 2013-01-30 23:22 (UTC)

[Oh, right. Henry wouldn't be used to dealing with other species. Dorian had forgotten. He speaks at the same volume, though with a lack of concern.]

Aliens—that is, extraterrestrials. Is that term in usage yet? It's hard to remember. Anyway, they are probably from another planet, or something like that. Dwelling over the technicalities of alternate worlds is a bit too much for me. Their culture is different, but their essential natures have been very like those of humans.

Edited 2013-01-31 08:47 (UTC)

Perhaps it is amongst the tweedy young men of Oxford with thick spectacles and lank hair who are constantly peering into their telescopes. [Even though the term is new to him, his grasp of language is sufficient to figure out what Dorian means. That is actually less interesting to him than the comment about "essential natures". He is content to let Dorian negotiate the business of getting them a table while he considers this.]

There is of course nothing so interesting as human life and human psychology. That even the ancient Greek and the modern Londoner have passions and desires in common is something I have often imagined to be true, but how much more interesting to think that such elements would be common amongst different races—not in the sense that fool Beddoe means, of course, but in the sense of which you speak.

[Dorian does so, getting them a quieter table which, he suspects, will suit Henry's desires in that it allows one a fine place to observe others, but also meets Dorian's desire for a certain amount of privacy.]

I haven't made a study of it, but experience so far indicates that it's so. [There is a certain disinterest in that statement. Dorian has never wholly taken on his mentor's interest in psychology, though he has had phases in it.] Shall I order for you?

[Henry has often thought that Dorian would have benefitted from further interest in psychology, but in his usual way has only ever merely dropped suggestions, and let Dorian do would he would.]

By all means, please do. And do tell me that there is some manner in which a man can acquire some decent sherry or cognac to keep about the house; or at the very least some local equivalent.

[When Dorian orders for Henry, he selects for both appeal and novelty.]

[And perhaps that is to affirm that he can both give Henry something to suit his tastes while moving on to something new. But Dorian isn't quite introspective enough to look so deeply into his own motives, particularly not when he is tremulously balanced before Henry. Acting without thinking, existing in the material present—right now, only by fleeing contemplation can he be himself, or at least the person he wants to be.]

[How fortunate that he has had so much practice staying functional when a complete mess.]

[He laughs happily.] Your drinks cabinet won't have to be empty for long. On the way home, we can pick up at least a bottle of the nearest thing to sherry. And while there are close cousins to what you are accustomed to, there are also a few interesting local creations you'll want to try.

Edited (suffer under the pain of my bracket analysis!) 2013-01-31 21:50 (UTC)

[Henry notes Dorian's selections with interest and approval, whilst also committing them to memory for future reference.]

It is a relief to know that one can still conduct oneself as a gentleman ought, even in a city on the back of a turtle.

[He turns to look at Dorian, and somehow in that moment—perhaps it's a trick of the light, or something about the fold of his shirt—Henry has an intuition that's almost painful: that Dorian has become something for which he, Henry, has no true frame of reference, and for which he never will. The insight is brief and fleeting; he can scarcely grasp it before it's gone, leaving only a peculiar unease. To Dorian it will seem that his expression darkens briefly, shade cast by a curtain blown in the wind. And then it's replaced with the old fond look, and when Henry speaks, it's with an unusual honesty.]

You know, my dear boy, I really am very glad to have found you here. While I don't doubt that I would have found my footing eventually on my own, struggle does not really ennoble the spirit, and I am glad to have you to help me circumvent the worst of it.

[Dorian notices that odd moment, but even if it is something more than a trick of the light, he is certain that Harry won't welcome inquiry. Still, he observes and he remembers.]

[Even with the distraction of Henry's rare candour.]

[Dorian looks down at the drink that has been brought for him, turning the glass in his fingers.] You'll have my help however you want it. I'm not happy you've been dragged into such a thing as this, but I—it's been so long, Harry. I haven't ever heard a voice like yours since. Et celle-là chantait comme le vent des grèves— [Dorian breaks into a laugh, looks up at Harry, smiles.] But perhaps I should apologise. I think, in certain aspects, I have not made it much easier on you. Yet I do wonder if it is not the matter of Oscar's book that most gives you pause.

[The Baudelaire pleases Henry, and he murmurs, almost to himself:]

Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?

[But the reminder of Oscar's book makes him frown.]

Blue is the only colour of book in which a gentleman should appear in his lifetime. It seems grossly imprudent of him to pilfer the lives of his friends for his novel, to say nothing of the appalling lack of taste. I suppose I shall have to go abroad for a season after it is published—Italy, perhaps; they have no feeling for what passes for literature in England there. [He drinks, still frowning.] You say it is known to people here. Is there a copy to be found?

[The quote compels brief amusement, not untouched by flattery or by sorrow, and he answers.] I'm afraid not, unless somebody has one hidden and not mentioned it to me. It only covers my life from our first meeting in Basil's studio to an imagined incident that isn't set long after that accident at Selby Royal, with a handful of matters adjusted for the art of it.

[But he could copy The Picture of Dorian Gray out if he needs to, if he really wanted to share it with Henry. He knows it word for word; there is no reason he couldn't. Except that to hep Lord Henry read it would be to confess to it. Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères breloques—and would Henry forgive him Basil's murder? Would he condemn him, or would he let it pass without blame? All possibilities are too horrible for Dorian to court them.]

[Henry at this point suspects nothing of Dorian, of course—certainly he knows of the rumours about his friend (and admittedly he has been cause or witness or both to the sources in some cases)—but they have never shaken his loyalty; and at the moment he is entirely too self-centred for anything but to continue being rather put out about Oscar's book.]

I have rarely objected to sacrificing Truth on the altar of a tale well-told, but when the tale is one's own, one feels a little iconoclasm might be in order after all. Does he mention Basil's disappearance? I found the Albemarle talking of nothing else on my return to London—they say that Mr Holmes has been approached about it. Though I am sure some entirely pedestrian explanation will reveal itself before long; it is not in Basil's nature to be the protagonist of a particularly thrilling tale.

Edited 2013-02-01 19:35 (UTC)

[As has often been true in the matter of Basil's murder, Dorian maintains such calmness that he is almost surprised at himself.]

Oscar does touch on it—but even Sherlock never gets to the root of it. I'm afraid Basil's remains an unsolved case.

[One which eventually has consequences for Henry, but Harry doesn't need to know about that, either.]

[Henry is troubled by this, but it is not in his nature to show it—even to Dorian. He copes with it in his own way—an utter nonchalance that can easily be taken for heartlessness.]

A shame. And yet somehow appropriate, for it is almost as if the poor man has quite faded away over the last decade. Certainly his painting has not been what it was—not since you and he stopped seeing quite so much of one another. Perhaps he has vanished into some garret in Paris or slipped discreetly away to America. All manner of people have a way of turning up in America when one least expects it.

[Dorian remembers a variation on this conversation and smiles.] San Francisco. With all the attractions of the next world.

Just so. [Henry laughs softly.] Indeed, I cannot say I should be altogether surprised if he turned up here.

[He laughs, a short, sharp thing.] Don't damn me to that. He would be completely helpless and depend on us, on me for guidance. You're a delight to help. Basil would be his dreary self and find a way to drain the fun out of it.

Edited 2013-02-01 20:41 (UTC)

Dullness is hardly a mortal sin, though it is certainly a venial one. Though I am glad to be more entertaining than Basil, even if that is not a particularly difficult race to win. And there is little enough point in dwelling on him, for if there was nothing one could do in London, there is even less here.

[He may, in the absolute privacy of his own room, dwell on this later. For now he pushes the matter entirely aside.]

I feel as if I ought to enquire more as to my own future, you know. But I am curiously disinclined, and besides, I do not think you wish to play the part of the Delphic Oracle, do you?

[Dorian is pleased to have moved on from the issue of Basil's death (murder) though the next subject is not vastly improved over the last. Still, he keeps a light heart about it.]

Not particularly. The world does not often treat prophets kindly, and it is even more cruel to those who ask their fortunes. And really, do you want all the uncertainty taken out of your life? I wouldn't.

As time passes, the range of life's uncertainties narrows down to a single inevitability; therefore I intend to enjoy every bit of uncertainty I have remaining to me.

[He gestures at the surroundings with a graceful wave of his hand.]

And I am quite pleased to discover that I have been granted an entirely new range of uncertainties. Far more than I should have expected at my age.

Harry, if you must keep referencing your age like that, I'll have to start thinking of you as old. You've stayed thirty in my mind for over a hundred years, and I can't have it changed now.

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action - one of those tags you regret as you write it

action - oh Dorian. and Henry is not helping.

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