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psalm_onethirtyoneFeaturing slash, het, fictional boundaries, copious amounts of Latin, innocence, corruption, blood, tears, freakish and strange paintings and a few artistic liberties, Basil Hallward, Dorian Gray, Lord Henry Wotton, Sibyl Vane, and the mysterious R, we present for your entertainment and delight:
Five Things That Never Happened to Dorian Gray
Quinae Picturae
Comoedia
Dorian left the theatre. Its very presence irritated and upset him. In that theatre, the most unspeakable tragedy had occurred. He had been disillusioned. Disillusionment was unfair. It had taken from him something he thought he loved and turned it into a repulsive, unfortunate disappointment.
He looked up at the sky through the buildings, and thought for a moment that he might walk. Then he dropped his head and his beautiful blue eyes picked out the cracks in the street. He would go home. He had no desire to wander. Rather, he would hide within his house where the things were what he had chosen, and perfect. There was nothing to disappoint him at home.
He was wrong. As soon as he entered his bedroom he saw Basil's picture. It had changed. There was something wrong with it that hurt him. The face had changed.
With a deep feeling of worry, he approached it. It was a beautiful picture, a picture of him, and something had taken away a part of its beauty. Very carefully, he put his slim, pretty fingers to the mouth of the painting. It had changed. It had changed terribly.
The face he had grown so fond of looking at was smiling at him cruelly, with the expression hardened and the eyes no longer innocently lovely. Dorian shuddered. He remembered, suddenly, that he'd wished the painting would grow old instead of him, and he put a hand to his stomach as he began to feel ill. But if it was so, and the painting was changing instead, what had he done? Why had the face gone like that?
Sibyl? Of course it must--but how could it be? She had disappointed him, she had hurt him. It should not be him whose face had changed! She had caused him to suffer.
He was afraid, in the back of his mind that this was not strictly true. Perhaps he had caused her more sorrow than she had him.
He closed his eyes, and then looked at the painting again. It was dreadful now, with that expression. He wanted nothing more than to take it away. He wanted the cruelty to vanish.
And he suddenly saw a solution. Perhaps he had hurt Sibyl more. Perhaps that was the truth. He could take back what he had done. He could restore the portrait. Perhaps he could even make it more beautiful than before with this truly good act. He hesitated, and shook his head. That was absurd-- but his vanity won. He would marry Sibyl in spite of the tragedy, and give his painting back its loveliness. Sibyl had said she could become a fine actress again, and he told himself it was quite possible. Without a doubt he could love her again.
He looked at the clock. It was a quarter past twelve.
He turned on his heel, caught up his cape off the table, and rushed out bareheaded, with the air rushing through his hair by his own speed. There was still time to change things.
He knew the location of the theatre by heart, and rushed inside, pushing past anyone in his way, panting for breath. He had never run like this before, and it made his throat burn and feel as though he must have somehow torn it open. He nearly fell into Sibyl's dressing room.
"Sibyl!"
She turned around and saw him, trying to catch his balance and his breath, with his golden hair blown standing up and his cape on sideways, pink in the face and utterly dishevelled.
"Dorian?" she faltered.
"Sibyl, you must know I'm sorry! I can hardly believe I was so hideous as to say those things to you!" He took both her little curled-up hands in his, still half-gasping as he spoke. "You must please believe me, Sibyl! We shall get out of here, we shall live in the country! I shall make you the happiest bride that ever lived! My love, you must please forgive me!"
She was still staring at him in amazement, her beautiful dark eyes wide, and she dropped something on the floor. "Dorian," she whispered, and it seemed to him she might die right before him if he didn't stop her. He stroked her hair awkwardly, telling her in the softest, gentlest voice possible how happy he would make her.
At the wedding, her mother saw it as the suitable end to the play. The girl is loved, forsaken over a misunderstanding, nearly commits suicide--for her mother was sure of that--and is saved at the last moment by her prince. Yes, it was an excellent ending for the little comedy.
~~~
Fines
On Sunday, Dorian was bored. He couldn't think of anything to do that didn't seem bothersome, and so went walking. He often walked, as it charmed and amused him. There were ever so many things to see when walking, some disgusting and some lovely, and all of them intriguing. He could always entertain himself that way.
Some while into his walk, he caught sight of a man pacing the street unhappily. On a whim, he stopped him.
"Hello, sir."
"Er, hello. Who are you?"
Dorian was surprised. "Dorian Gray. And you?"
"R. Just R."
"What, if I may ask, is upsetting you?" Dorian was quite sure he'd get an answer--people who had never met him before trusted him for his sweet, boyish face. And if he didn't get an answer, it didn't matter to him.
"I doubt you could quite understand. A dear friend of mine," R tripped a little over the words, "is in prison. I am very worried for him."
"Of course," said Dorian.
"I have the scrap of a letter from him, and he has written something which worries me."
"Are you afraid he'll try to take his life?"
"No--perhaps. But this is different." R shrugged uncomfortably. "It's a coincidence, isn't it? That your name is Dorian Gray? Still, he did rather say that Life imitates Art."
"I beg your pardon, what?"
"Nothing. I'm agitated. I must go. Please excuse me." R tipped his hat and hurried off.
Dorian nearly called him back for the bit of paper he'd dropped, but thought it would prove more entertaining to read it.
--The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.
And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword.
"Of all the curious things," murmured Dorian Gray, but he did not think it particularly memorable.
~~~
Precari
Dorian looked over at Basil, sitting by the table, staring mesmerised by the painting, and suddenly he hated him. Basil had painted the picture, and now Basil was looking upon it, and Basil was repulsed by his own work. Dorian ached.
He stared about him with a kind of hunted expression and snatched a knife off the chest near him. He'd left it up here by mistake. A lucky mistake! Right now, he was so full of hate that it would split him in a moment, and he would do anything to see Basil Hallward dead.
He spun around with a small clatter, knocking something over, and broke Basil from his horrified trance. Dorian saw this, and quickly, he began to drive the knife down, but Basil caught both his wrists and held him tightly.
"My God."
"Pray, Dorian! Pray!"
Suddenly he realised Basil's eyes were filled with tears, and he shuddered. "You're hurting me, Basil," he said with forced calm.
"Dorian, you must pray. We will pray together. If you think it a shame, it is a shame we'll both undertake. You must pray!"
"Basil, let go of me. You're hurting me."
Basil trembled. "Dorian, we have both sinned, but God will help us if we pray. He will take away my love and your evil. Please, Dorian."
"God doesn't help me any longer," whispered Dorian, and once again he started to sob. The knife fell from his hand.
Instantly Basil let go of his wrists, and instead wrapped his arms about Dorian. "Hush. He will. He will help us both together. Pray, Dorian, with me? Pray?"
"I don't know any prayers."
"I do. Speak along with me." He whispered the Pater Noster into Dorian's golden hair, and Dorian's shaking hands knotted in his shirt.
~~~
Casu
The hare leapt with a beautiful grace and its coat flashed in the sunlight. Dorian smiled for a moment. It was then he realised Sir Geoffrey had raised his gun.
"Oh, Geoffrey, don't! It's beautiful! Let it live!"
Sir Geoffrey laughed. "You're mad, Dorian. Of course I shall shoot it."
"Don't." Dorian looked at him with an extraordinarily beautiful sulkiness. "I like it. Let it live."
With an amused expression, Sir Geoffrey lowered the gun. "You are a funny one, Dorian. All right, if you demand that I not shoot it, I won't, but I really don't think it all that beautiful."
"I do. Thank you, Geoffrey."
"The next one, though, you won't stop me from."
Dorian sighed. "I suppose not. Well, it is--" They both heard the crack of the shot, and Dorian stared down at his waistcoat front, which was already beginning to turn red and damp. Sir Geoffrey blanched.
"Stop shooting! Stop shooting! A man's been hit!"
Transfixed, Dorian put a hand to his chest and felt it become wet. He fainted.
When he came around, he saw half a dozen people and a doctor all looking at him anxiously. Lord Henry was carelessly pushing everyone around to get closer to the couch on which Dorian was lying.
"Dorian? Dorian, are you all right? You've given everyone the most ghastly fright. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm--I'm all right. It only hurts a bit, Harry."
"A bit! I should say so. You were nearly killed."
"Was I?" asked Dorian vaguely, wishing all the people would go away.
"We found the man, too, and it wasn't an accident, apparently. He's been dragged off. He was a sailor. A murderous sailor. I must find a way to talk to him; I'm sure murderers, or would-be murderers are very interesting."
"Harry, you're only saying such dreadful things because you were worried," said the Duchess, frowning. "Don't listen to him, Dorian. He's being horrid. The doctor says you will be all right. It was only a near miss."
Dorian nodded tiredly.
They let him go home soon, for the wound healed strangely quickly and vanished without a scar. As soon as he stepped from the carriage in front of his house, he hurried to his portrait. From the centre of its heart a long, dark stream of blood had poured down, staining its clothes. Dorian nearly wept. James Vane could not hurt him.
~~~
Immotus
Dorian Gray looked with curious innocence at the man standing beside Basil.
"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you are, and now you have spoiled everything."
At once Dorian saw that he was very good-looking, that he had soft white hands like a girl's, that his face was laughing and good-humoured and handsome, and at once Dorian felt shy. He shook Lord Henry's hand, trying not to blush.
"Hallo, Lord Henry."
"Hello, Mr. Gray. I had learned of you from my aunt, but it is by Basil and his wondrous kindness that I have seen you at last," said Lord Henry languidly.
Dorian smiled guiltily. "Basil is always kind, unless he's trying to make me sit for my painting." He felt uncomfortable with Lord Henry looking so intently at him, and his eyes widened a little, innocently.
"And then he is a tyrant, the evil overlord of the painting world. Mm-hmm."
Lord Henry stayed the rest of the afternoon, talking to them while Dorian shyly sat for his portrait after all. He had a lovely way of talking, luxurious and full, but he didn't say anything particularly interesting or of value, and Dorian thought more than he listened.
At last Lord Henry got up to go, and said good-bye to Dorian politely, then went out into the hall with Basil to leave. Dorian looked around the door quietly, hoping not to be seen.
"He's pretty, Basil, but I'm not at all interested in him. He's timid, and you may find it charming, but I find it off-putting. I doubt I could do a thing with him, and I am very afraid he didn't listen to me." Lord Henry smiled. "There you are, Basil; your little Dorian is quite safe from me. I don't want him as my protege. He was very pretty, however. Perhaps in a few years, when you've developed his character, I'll get to know him better. At any rate, good evening, Basil."
Basil said good evening with a great deal of relief, and Dorian ducked back into the room as he came in.
"He didn't like me, Basil."
"No, he wasn't interested in you. It's a terribly good thing, Dorian, and I'm glad of it." Basil kissed Dorian's cheek. "Come now, and we'll finish your portrait. I shall try to talk to you for once, so you won't be bored."
"I didn't like him anyway," said Dorian, with false airiness, as he stepped up on the dais again.
~~~
I think I need a Dorian Gray icon...
Five Things That Never Happened to Dorian Gray
Quinae Picturae
Comoedia
Dorian left the theatre. Its very presence irritated and upset him. In that theatre, the most unspeakable tragedy had occurred. He had been disillusioned. Disillusionment was unfair. It had taken from him something he thought he loved and turned it into a repulsive, unfortunate disappointment.
He looked up at the sky through the buildings, and thought for a moment that he might walk. Then he dropped his head and his beautiful blue eyes picked out the cracks in the street. He would go home. He had no desire to wander. Rather, he would hide within his house where the things were what he had chosen, and perfect. There was nothing to disappoint him at home.
He was wrong. As soon as he entered his bedroom he saw Basil's picture. It had changed. There was something wrong with it that hurt him. The face had changed.
With a deep feeling of worry, he approached it. It was a beautiful picture, a picture of him, and something had taken away a part of its beauty. Very carefully, he put his slim, pretty fingers to the mouth of the painting. It had changed. It had changed terribly.
The face he had grown so fond of looking at was smiling at him cruelly, with the expression hardened and the eyes no longer innocently lovely. Dorian shuddered. He remembered, suddenly, that he'd wished the painting would grow old instead of him, and he put a hand to his stomach as he began to feel ill. But if it was so, and the painting was changing instead, what had he done? Why had the face gone like that?
Sibyl? Of course it must--but how could it be? She had disappointed him, she had hurt him. It should not be him whose face had changed! She had caused him to suffer.
He was afraid, in the back of his mind that this was not strictly true. Perhaps he had caused her more sorrow than she had him.
He closed his eyes, and then looked at the painting again. It was dreadful now, with that expression. He wanted nothing more than to take it away. He wanted the cruelty to vanish.
And he suddenly saw a solution. Perhaps he had hurt Sibyl more. Perhaps that was the truth. He could take back what he had done. He could restore the portrait. Perhaps he could even make it more beautiful than before with this truly good act. He hesitated, and shook his head. That was absurd-- but his vanity won. He would marry Sibyl in spite of the tragedy, and give his painting back its loveliness. Sibyl had said she could become a fine actress again, and he told himself it was quite possible. Without a doubt he could love her again.
He looked at the clock. It was a quarter past twelve.
He turned on his heel, caught up his cape off the table, and rushed out bareheaded, with the air rushing through his hair by his own speed. There was still time to change things.
He knew the location of the theatre by heart, and rushed inside, pushing past anyone in his way, panting for breath. He had never run like this before, and it made his throat burn and feel as though he must have somehow torn it open. He nearly fell into Sibyl's dressing room.
"Sibyl!"
She turned around and saw him, trying to catch his balance and his breath, with his golden hair blown standing up and his cape on sideways, pink in the face and utterly dishevelled.
"Dorian?" she faltered.
"Sibyl, you must know I'm sorry! I can hardly believe I was so hideous as to say those things to you!" He took both her little curled-up hands in his, still half-gasping as he spoke. "You must please believe me, Sibyl! We shall get out of here, we shall live in the country! I shall make you the happiest bride that ever lived! My love, you must please forgive me!"
She was still staring at him in amazement, her beautiful dark eyes wide, and she dropped something on the floor. "Dorian," she whispered, and it seemed to him she might die right before him if he didn't stop her. He stroked her hair awkwardly, telling her in the softest, gentlest voice possible how happy he would make her.
At the wedding, her mother saw it as the suitable end to the play. The girl is loved, forsaken over a misunderstanding, nearly commits suicide--for her mother was sure of that--and is saved at the last moment by her prince. Yes, it was an excellent ending for the little comedy.
~~~
Fines
On Sunday, Dorian was bored. He couldn't think of anything to do that didn't seem bothersome, and so went walking. He often walked, as it charmed and amused him. There were ever so many things to see when walking, some disgusting and some lovely, and all of them intriguing. He could always entertain himself that way.
Some while into his walk, he caught sight of a man pacing the street unhappily. On a whim, he stopped him.
"Hello, sir."
"Er, hello. Who are you?"
Dorian was surprised. "Dorian Gray. And you?"
"R. Just R."
"What, if I may ask, is upsetting you?" Dorian was quite sure he'd get an answer--people who had never met him before trusted him for his sweet, boyish face. And if he didn't get an answer, it didn't matter to him.
"I doubt you could quite understand. A dear friend of mine," R tripped a little over the words, "is in prison. I am very worried for him."
"Of course," said Dorian.
"I have the scrap of a letter from him, and he has written something which worries me."
"Are you afraid he'll try to take his life?"
"No--perhaps. But this is different." R shrugged uncomfortably. "It's a coincidence, isn't it? That your name is Dorian Gray? Still, he did rather say that Life imitates Art."
"I beg your pardon, what?"
"Nothing. I'm agitated. I must go. Please excuse me." R tipped his hat and hurried off.
Dorian nearly called him back for the bit of paper he'd dropped, but thought it would prove more entertaining to read it.
And so he had to die.
And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword.
"Of all the curious things," murmured Dorian Gray, but he did not think it particularly memorable.
~~~
Precari
Dorian looked over at Basil, sitting by the table, staring mesmerised by the painting, and suddenly he hated him. Basil had painted the picture, and now Basil was looking upon it, and Basil was repulsed by his own work. Dorian ached.
He stared about him with a kind of hunted expression and snatched a knife off the chest near him. He'd left it up here by mistake. A lucky mistake! Right now, he was so full of hate that it would split him in a moment, and he would do anything to see Basil Hallward dead.
He spun around with a small clatter, knocking something over, and broke Basil from his horrified trance. Dorian saw this, and quickly, he began to drive the knife down, but Basil caught both his wrists and held him tightly.
"My God."
"Pray, Dorian! Pray!"
Suddenly he realised Basil's eyes were filled with tears, and he shuddered. "You're hurting me, Basil," he said with forced calm.
"Dorian, you must pray. We will pray together. If you think it a shame, it is a shame we'll both undertake. You must pray!"
"Basil, let go of me. You're hurting me."
Basil trembled. "Dorian, we have both sinned, but God will help us if we pray. He will take away my love and your evil. Please, Dorian."
"God doesn't help me any longer," whispered Dorian, and once again he started to sob. The knife fell from his hand.
Instantly Basil let go of his wrists, and instead wrapped his arms about Dorian. "Hush. He will. He will help us both together. Pray, Dorian, with me? Pray?"
"I don't know any prayers."
"I do. Speak along with me." He whispered the Pater Noster into Dorian's golden hair, and Dorian's shaking hands knotted in his shirt.
~~~
Casu
The hare leapt with a beautiful grace and its coat flashed in the sunlight. Dorian smiled for a moment. It was then he realised Sir Geoffrey had raised his gun.
"Oh, Geoffrey, don't! It's beautiful! Let it live!"
Sir Geoffrey laughed. "You're mad, Dorian. Of course I shall shoot it."
"Don't." Dorian looked at him with an extraordinarily beautiful sulkiness. "I like it. Let it live."
With an amused expression, Sir Geoffrey lowered the gun. "You are a funny one, Dorian. All right, if you demand that I not shoot it, I won't, but I really don't think it all that beautiful."
"I do. Thank you, Geoffrey."
"The next one, though, you won't stop me from."
Dorian sighed. "I suppose not. Well, it is--" They both heard the crack of the shot, and Dorian stared down at his waistcoat front, which was already beginning to turn red and damp. Sir Geoffrey blanched.
"Stop shooting! Stop shooting! A man's been hit!"
Transfixed, Dorian put a hand to his chest and felt it become wet. He fainted.
When he came around, he saw half a dozen people and a doctor all looking at him anxiously. Lord Henry was carelessly pushing everyone around to get closer to the couch on which Dorian was lying.
"Dorian? Dorian, are you all right? You've given everyone the most ghastly fright. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"I'm--I'm all right. It only hurts a bit, Harry."
"A bit! I should say so. You were nearly killed."
"Was I?" asked Dorian vaguely, wishing all the people would go away.
"We found the man, too, and it wasn't an accident, apparently. He's been dragged off. He was a sailor. A murderous sailor. I must find a way to talk to him; I'm sure murderers, or would-be murderers are very interesting."
"Harry, you're only saying such dreadful things because you were worried," said the Duchess, frowning. "Don't listen to him, Dorian. He's being horrid. The doctor says you will be all right. It was only a near miss."
Dorian nodded tiredly.
They let him go home soon, for the wound healed strangely quickly and vanished without a scar. As soon as he stepped from the carriage in front of his house, he hurried to his portrait. From the centre of its heart a long, dark stream of blood had poured down, staining its clothes. Dorian nearly wept. James Vane could not hurt him.
~~~
Immotus
Dorian Gray looked with curious innocence at the man standing beside Basil.
"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. I have just been telling him what a capital sitter you are, and now you have spoiled everything."
At once Dorian saw that he was very good-looking, that he had soft white hands like a girl's, that his face was laughing and good-humoured and handsome, and at once Dorian felt shy. He shook Lord Henry's hand, trying not to blush.
"Hallo, Lord Henry."
"Hello, Mr. Gray. I had learned of you from my aunt, but it is by Basil and his wondrous kindness that I have seen you at last," said Lord Henry languidly.
Dorian smiled guiltily. "Basil is always kind, unless he's trying to make me sit for my painting." He felt uncomfortable with Lord Henry looking so intently at him, and his eyes widened a little, innocently.
"And then he is a tyrant, the evil overlord of the painting world. Mm-hmm."
Lord Henry stayed the rest of the afternoon, talking to them while Dorian shyly sat for his portrait after all. He had a lovely way of talking, luxurious and full, but he didn't say anything particularly interesting or of value, and Dorian thought more than he listened.
At last Lord Henry got up to go, and said good-bye to Dorian politely, then went out into the hall with Basil to leave. Dorian looked around the door quietly, hoping not to be seen.
"He's pretty, Basil, but I'm not at all interested in him. He's timid, and you may find it charming, but I find it off-putting. I doubt I could do a thing with him, and I am very afraid he didn't listen to me." Lord Henry smiled. "There you are, Basil; your little Dorian is quite safe from me. I don't want him as my protege. He was very pretty, however. Perhaps in a few years, when you've developed his character, I'll get to know him better. At any rate, good evening, Basil."
Basil said good evening with a great deal of relief, and Dorian ducked back into the room as he came in.
"He didn't like me, Basil."
"No, he wasn't interested in you. It's a terribly good thing, Dorian, and I'm glad of it." Basil kissed Dorian's cheek. "Come now, and we'll finish your portrait. I shall try to talk to you for once, so you won't be bored."
"I didn't like him anyway," said Dorian, with false airiness, as he stepped up on the dais again.
~~~
I think I need a Dorian Gray icon...
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Quick comment
Date: 2004-05-07 03:42 am (UTC)Re: Quick comment
Date: 2004-05-07 09:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-07 07:57 am (UTC)I especially like "Fines" and "Immotus".
I love it that you have put a part of The Ballad of Reading Gaol in "Fines". And that mysterious R... Hmmm... :-)
And then "Immotus". I dare say that The Picture of Dorian Gray would have been a much shorter book had it actually happened like that. But then again, Basil (and Dorian) might have lead a happier life...
I sort of like the character of Lord Henry in the book - he says a lot of interesting things - but he is the instigator of all things evil. Kind of.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-07 09:11 pm (UTC)I'm so squee that you know The Ballad of Reading Gaol. (That thing is obscenely long, I am afraid...) I was afraid no one would get it, so yay!
A much shorter book, but Dorian would have turned out lovable and lived happily ever after with Basil. I would have liked that. :)
Oh, I like him, but I do think he's responsible for everything.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-10 04:27 am (UTC)It's true that it's obscenely long but I still sometimes amuse myself by reading it out loud when nobody's home (that and the speeches from "Les miserables"). :-p So yes, I know it, partly even by heart.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-10 07:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-07 03:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-05-07 09:17 pm (UTC)