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His
eye
fell
on
the
yellow
book
that
Lord
Henry
had
sent
him
.
What
was
it
,
he
wondered
.
He
went
towards
the
little
pearl-coloured
octagonal
stand
,
that
had
always
looked
to
him
like
the
work
of
some
strange
Egyptian
bees
that
wrought
in
silver
,
and
taking
up
the
volume
,
flung
himself
into
an
arm-chair
,
and
began
to
turn
over
the
leaves
.
After
a
few
minutes
he
became
absorbed
.
It
was
the
strangest
book
that
he
had
ever
read
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
in
exquisite
raiment
,
and
to
the
delicate
sound
of
flutes
,
the
sins
of
the
world
were
passing
in
dumb
show
before
him
.
Things
that
he
had
dimly
dreamed
of
were
suddenly
made
real
to
him
.
Things
of
which
he
had
never
dreamed
were
gradually
revealed
.
It
was
a
novel
without
a
plot
,
and
with
only
one
character
,
being
,
indeed
,
simply
a
psychological
study
of
a
certain
young
Parisian
,
who
spent
his
life
trying
to
realise
in
the
nineteenth
century
all
the
passions
and
modes
of
thought
that
belonged
to
every
century
except
his
own
,
and
to
sum
up
,
as
it
were
,
in
himself
the
various
moods
through
which
the
world-spirit
had
ever
passed
,
loving
for
their
mere
artificiality
those
renunciations
that
men
have
unwisely
called
virtue
,
as
much
as
those
natural
rebellions
that
wise
men
still
call
sin
.
The
style
in
which
it
was
written
was
that
curious
jewelled
style
,
vivid
and
obscure
at
once
,
full
of
argot
and
of
archaisms
,
of
technical
expressions
and
of
elaborate
paraphrases
,
that
characterises
the
work
of
some
of
the
finest
artists
of
the
French
school
of
Symbolistes
.
There
were
in
it
metaphors
as
monstrous
as
orchids
,
and
as
subtle
in
colour
.
The
life
of
the
senses
was
described
in
the
terms
of
mystical
philosophy
.
One
hardly
knew
at
times
whether
one
was
reading
the
spiritual
ecstasies
of
some
mediæval
saint
or
the
morbid
confessions
of
a
modern
sinner
.
It
was
a
poisonous
book
.
The
heavy
odour
of
incense
seemed
to
cling
about
its
pages
and
to
trouble
the
brain
.
The
mere
cadence
of
the
sentences
,
the
subtle
monotony
of
their
music
,
so
full
as
it
was
of
complex
refrains
and
movements
elaborately
repeated
,
produced
in
the
mind
of
the
lad
,
as
he
passed
from
chapter
to
chapter
,
a
form
of
reverie
,
a
malady
of
dreaming
,
that
made
him
unconscious
of
the
falling
day
and
creeping
shadows
.
Cloudless
,
and
pierced
by
one
solitary
star
,
a
copper-green
sky
gleamed
through
the
windows
.
He
read
on
by
its
wan
light
till
he
could
read
no
more
.
Then
,
after
his
valet
had
reminded
him
several
times
of
the
lateness
of
the
hour
,
he
got
up
,
and
,
going
into
the
next
room
,
placed
the
book
on
the
little
Florentine
table
that
always
stood
at
his
bedside
,
and
began
to
dress
for
dinner
.
It
was
almost
nine
o'clock
o'clock
before
he
reached
the
club
,
where
he
found
Lord
Henry
sitting
alone
,
in
the
morning-room
,
looking
very
much
bored
.
"
I
am
so
sorry
,
Harry
,
"
he
cried
,
"
but
really
it
is
entirely
your
fault
.
That
book
you
sent
me
so
fascinated
me
that
I
forgot
how
the
time
was
going
.
"
"
Yes
:
I
thought
you
would
like
it
,
"
replied
his
host
,
rising
from
his
chair
.
"
I
did
n't
say
I
liked
it
,
Harry
.
I
said
it
fascinated
me
.
There
is
a
great
difference
.
"
"
Ah
,
you
have
discovered
that
?
"
murmured
Lord
Henry
.
And
they
passed
into
the
dining-room
.
For
years
,
Dorian
Gray
could
not
free
himself
from
the
influence
of
this
book
.
Or
perhaps
it
would
be
more
accurate
to
say
that
he
never
sought
to
free
himself
from
it
.
He
procured
from
Paris
no
less
than
nine
large-paper
copies
of
the
first
edition
,
and
had
them
bound
in
different
colours
,
so
that
they
might
suit
his
various
moods
and
the
changing
fancies
of
a
nature
over
which
he
seemed
,
at
times
,
to
have
almost
entirely
lost
control
.
The
hero
,
the
wonderful
young
Parisian
,
in
whom
the
romantic
and
the
scientific
temperaments
were
so
strangely
blended
,
became
to
him
a
kind
of
prefiguring
type
of
himself
.
And
,
indeed
,
the
whole
book
seemed
to
him
to
contain
the
story
of
his
own
life
,
written
before
he
had
lived
it
.
In
one
point
he
was
more
fortunate
than
the
novel
's
fantastic
hero
.
He
never
knew
--
never
,
indeed
,
had
any
cause
to
know
--
that
somewhat
grotesque
dread
of
mirrors
,
and
polished
metal
surfaces
,
and
still
water
,
which
came
upon
the
young
Parisian
so
early
in
his
life
,
and
was
occasioned
by
the
sudden
decay
of
a
beauty
that
had
once
,
apparently
,
been
so
remarkable
.
It
was
with
an
almost
cruel
joy
--
and
perhaps
in
nearly
every
joy
,
as
certainly
in
every
pleasure
,
cruelty
has
its
place
--
that
he
used
to
read
the
latter
part
of
the
book
,
with
its
really
tragic
,
if
somewhat
over-emphasised
,
account
of
the
sorrow
and
despair
of
one
who
had
himself
lost
what
in
others
,
and
in
the
world
,
he
had
most
dearly
valued
.
