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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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.

What high praise! Managing to create something strange and wonderful for you, Harry, is almost an art in itself.

Your life is your art, Dorian, so that is only fitting, I should think.

["Yes, life has been exquisite," he murmured, "but I am not going to have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant things to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if you did, even you would turn from me."]

[Dorian is almost bashful, looking down.] You should not make such judgements on incomplete information, Harry. My life might have become ugly since you knew me.

But sometimes a touch of the grotesque is needed to throw the beauty into sharper contrast, like a gargoyle on a cathedral—the beauty becomes the greater, and the grotesquerie transcends itself. Most men, grown old, have only further hideousness in their futures—but not you, I think. You may pass through what you perceive as ugliness, but it is merely a transition, a means by which the masterpiece that is your life becomes all the more magnificent.

[Dorian laughs without looking up. He can't tell if Henry is flattering him, trying to be kind in his way, or saying something he believes. But Dorian's ability to put faith in such ideas has been wounded over the years, so he turns the conversation away from himself. (A miracle, we know.)] I hope you don't believe you only have hideousness ahead.

[Henry's words encompass all of those possibilities, in fact. Not that he would ever plainly admit to any of them, much less all.]

I have wondered. It seems to me now that my future in London consists in no small part of being an object of the most irritating sorts of gossip. Thus, I intend to enjoy this particular respite as much as I can.

Oh, a few years abroad can be fun. English morality as it is, it is often healthier as well. [And Henry will have more cause to flee England than he realizes.]

Yes, both the literal climate and the moral climate do grow oppressive. But years? Surely the English public is not capable of sustaining a subject of interest for more than a season.

Well, there's the Lippincott's edition, that's first, and then a year later a book publication, and then—the 1890s will be busy. I won't spoil it with detail. Suffice to say, I spent a great deal of time on the Continent. But that would have been necessary regardless, so I don't blame Oscar for it. But you, Harry, are too talented at negotiating scandal to require an exile as long as mine.

Your confidence is inspiring. [Said rather dryly; it's not sarcastic, exactly, but it does encompass a fair amount of chagrin at what he imagines is to come. ] Well, one bears up as well as one can, I suppose. And here I had thought Victoria's divorce suit would be the worst of my social burdens.

[Dorian almost says, "Don't worry: all the best people will be at your funeral." But even Dorian can recognize how cruel that would be.]

[So he is kind instead.]

I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Here, at least, we shall be free. [Not really thinking about the source of that line, he continues,] And exile is best when it is with friends, don't you agree?

["Almighty hath not built / Here for his envy, will not drive us hence." Henry's mind completes the line almost without his consciously willing it, but he does not say it.]

As many things are, indeed.

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

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