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tushanshu2013-01-26 09:25 pm
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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[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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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[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.
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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.
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[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.
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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?
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[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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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action - one of those tags you regret as you write it
action - oh Dorian. and Henry is not helping.
[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?
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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.
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[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.
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I am glad that there is somewhere I have retained my youth, then. I suppose that under the circumstances, it is appallingly cheeky of me to call myself "old". [It's said with perfect lightness, as if it's completely normal for your friend to be over a hundred years older than oneself.] It is a wonder, though. You have still got the most marvelous freshness about you, as if you were still the boy burying his face in the lilacs in Basil's garden. It is marvellous, truly.
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[When he does, he speaks quietly.] The city of Keeliai has been a relief to me. You might not have found me in the same state in London.
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[Harry's attention appears to be on their food, but in his usual manner, he is watching Dorian carefully.]
Have age and custom staled the city for you, then? Surely you have been abroad.
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[Dorian is almost indifferent to it—very like the indifference with which he treats his lovers after he has bored of them. He has taken pleasure from his travels, and now they have nothing left to offer him.]
Well, perhaps humanity will change the shape of itself enough in future that I can find new experience in travelling. At the present, my high hopes are set on space exploration. With any luck, we'll have settlements off-planet within the century. [He actually smiles then.] But the inheritors of Wells and Verne have been predicting that for decades now, so it's best I don't get too attached to the idea.
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