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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[For Henry, the change is the difference between the overture to Tannhäuser and the dissonances of Tristan und Isolde. Even if he doesn't fully understand the bleakness underlying Dorian's words, he knows it's there. And he finds himself somewhat unexpectedly at a loss for how to respond. Sympathy, genuinely felt, is simply not something that he does. He knows, though, that this is not something that can be aestheticised away, as he did with Sibyl's death and any number of other hazards that have fallen across Dorian's path in their years of friendship. So while his words may be the same sort of language he would have used before, his manner is quieter, less flippant.]

I am sure I would find it irresistible and as diverting—and as disorienting—as Keeliai. Though there is something to be said, perhaps, for elegance and a crisply-turned cuff, if not, as you say, for the "button-up feelings".

["I'm worried about you now, Dorian" is simply not a sentence within Henry Wotton's abilities, and more, perhaps, is the pity.]

That being said, I hope that this place provides a sort of respite—a weekend in the country, as it were.

I hope so, too. [The sun reigns again when Dorian smiles.] So tell me: do you like the food? Careful with your answer. A 'yes' might mean I'll have to teach you how to make it.

And a no? [A slightly horrified look crosses Henry's face.] My dear Dorian, do you have any idea when was the last time I saw the inside of a kitchen?

And when you have the means to afford a cook or to dine out every night, you will never have to see the inside of a kitchen again. But in the interim, you need to be able to sustain yourself.

[The sigh with which Henry responds is rather over-dramatic and calculated for effect, but the distress is genuine.]

Very well; I take your point. Your adaptability never ceases to amaze me; when did you learn to cook? [Pause.] The food is rather good, incidentally. The Savoy or Willis's it may not be, but it is not without its own charm.

I'm glad you like it. And oh, I don't know, nineteen twenties, I think it was. I learned the basics in the early nineteen hundreds from a very pretty kitchen maid, but I admit, education was not my intention. [Dorian laughs.] Even if I had servants again—and I haven't bothered in about half a century—even then, I would still want to know how to take care of myself. You never know when you'll have to rely on only yourself.

[He lifts a hand to indicate their current situation.] For example, when dragged up into a strange city in a strange world.

I have carefully arranged my life that the only matters on which I rely on myself are those of taste and judgement. And now I discover that here, at least, all that effort is for naught.

[In actual fact, Henry's annoyance over this problem is slowly wearing down, but it suits him to continue to strike a pose of annoyance.]

Still, I suppose it is inevitable that the teacher must eventually learn from the student, and better you than anyone else, so I accept my fate with grace.

I can't imagine you doing anything without grace. [If Harry will act annoyed, then Dorian can play the part of soothing his annoyance.] And is food not an art? There is aesthetic value in it.

Of course, and pleasure as well. [Something resembling a serious thought occurs to him.] Do you find that pleasure is greater when having performed the labour? Or does the effort pall before one sits down to table.

Not every time. Rarely when it's from necessity. But now and then, when it's something new, when it's a challenge or an experiment, it's better then. And sometimes, though not very often—you've had romances. You've known the pleasure of finding a gift in the right book. It can be like that.

Framed this, it does not sound so terrible. One wonders, then, that we have striven to keep such a pleasure at arm's length. [He's let the annoyance go now; all things considered, he is a little amazed to find himself in such a pleasant mood. He ought to be more disoriented—dare one say, more distressed. But the presence of Dorian and the familiarity of pleasant talk over good food—it has done much to improve his comfort.]

Doubtless, it is because in our circles, we were wonderfully forgiving of sins of the body and so very harsh on sins of the middle class.

Only because the middle class is so harsh on the sins of the upper orders. No one likes to see one's own faults mirrored in others, after all.

Flaws, yes, flaws are ugly, and doubtless that is where all that tired morality comes from. But not sins. There is a fine delight in seeing your sins reflected. You must know that almost as well as I do.

[There's the briefest of pauses before Henry answers.]

Once I would have said I knew it better, but I think perhaps you have a keener mirror than even I ever did. My own mirror has always been in the eyes of others.

[He leaves unspoken what he and Dorian both know about the painting. He knows Dorian can fill in the rest.]

Is that why you wanted to see it? [He smiles, sweetly.] I confess, not all the sins you'd see would be reflections of your own, but you might consider it a garden engendered by them. To see how one's words have bloomed over so many decades is a privilege offered to very few.

[Ever so mildly:]

I may have given you some cuttings, but the hand that cultivated them was yours.

[Which is not actually a judgement. Nor is it entirely an evasion of responsibility, but Henry has always been adept at passing onto others what ought to have been paid by him.]

Hands that you guided, Harry. [Dorian has had a very, very long time to think about his relationship with Henry and what it has brought to fruition.] "To project one's soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one's own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that—"

I believe is how the quote goes. I've sometimes wondered, flipping through that marvellous book of his, how well Oscar had measure of you. Very well, I think.

Tell me. [Dorian leans in, voice lowered to the tones of a co-conspirator, smile sweet with the playfulness of games.] Did Basil ever really ask you not to influence me? I can imagine him begging such a thing, and I can imagine you laughing away the entire idea, so I am liable to believe that such a conversation did occur, but of course I can't know.

[Henry is determined not to bristle at Dorian bringing up Oscar's damnable book again, but even he, with his practised calm, cannot prevent a certain sharpness in his agate eyes. He recalls conversations amongst men over port and cigarettes, holding forth on his ideas of education and influence, and realises that Oscar must have been taking notes. It is not a comfortable feeling.]

With the way you speak of it, I feel I must read this book eventually. It rather sounds as if I ought to demand royalties.

[He regards Dorian steadily.]

He very nearly refused to tell me your name. If there is one charm to Basil, it is the secrecy with which he attempts to conceal that which affects him most deeply. He has always been thus, since I knew him at Oxford; when he evaded my attempts to learn your name, I knew you must be something quite remarkable indeed.

[It's not an answer to the question as stated. And yet, it is.]

Oh, Harry. I'm too fond of you yet. [Dorian settles back, the langor coming back to him. Lord Henry is not a friend wisely kept. Dorian has known that for a long time. But Henry is good company for Dorian.]

[His laughter seems not to have known the heaviness of the moments that came before.]

I'm very sorry for dragging all this up, Harry. I'm afraid that in a hundred years, curiosity for unavailable answers has only grown greater for its starvation, and so I committed the tediousness of springing such silly fact-checking on you so soon after your arrival. It was wrong of me.

Edited 2013-02-04 17:27 (UTC)

Never speak to me of wrong, Dorian; it does not become you. [He puts his hand on Dorian's arm for a moment, a conciliatory gesture.] Were our places to be reversed, I have no doubt that I too would have questions for you, no less urgent. But if I am trapped here for some indeterminate period, there will be for us more than enough time for your curiosity and mine to be satisfied.

[Dorian accepts the touch this time.] Thank you, Harry. Oh, but all this talk of wrongs reminds me.

[And Dorian rises up enough that he can place a brief but not especially chaste kiss on Harry's lips, then sits once more.] Public morality is a bit more open-minded around here. I hope you'll enjoy the freedom.

[Henry has to give Dorian considerable credit; he did not see that coming. It is certainly not unwelcome, though—and he will deny this forever, if asked—there is a momentary stab of panic that comes from habits of discretion carefully cultivated over more than thirty years and the not-too-distant passage of the Labouchere Amendment. But the panic is replaced quickly enough by amusement and pleasure, and he laughs.]

That is rather more than "a bit", dear boy. But if that is any indication, I think I shall enjoy it very much.

I intend to make certain of that.

[And Henry recalls a night-time excursion years ago, when after a dinner at the Albemarle, he brought Dorian to a certain house of what was in fact rather excellent repute in certain circles, when he had made a very similar promise to Dorian.]

I have said this before, but it never grows less true—how strange and wonderful it is, to have you as my guide where once I was yours.

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