All Art is Quite Useless
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
Ciel strode into the artist's studio, his black-clad butler in tow. He tried in vain to hide his grimace upon entering; he didn't want to be here at all. He and Sebastian had had many a strong word on the subject – Sebastian insisting that a self-portrait was representative of high society and station, with Ciel insisting it was representative of vain stupidity.
He was surprised to find that he was not the only client in the room.
A young man – no more than twenty – sat primly on a stool opposite the easel, his immaculately styled blonde hair just brushing his broad shoulders. Upon noticing them, his sparkling blue eyes slid curiously in their direction, the orbs set in a handsome aristocratic face that rivaled even the finest chiseling of Michelangelo. The slightly older, rather harried painter sat unaware in front of him, deeply engrossed in his skillful rendering.
"I do believe you have guests, my dear Basil," came a deep voice from the corner. Ciel regarded the third man in the room who seemed to be older still than the others. He was stretched on the divan, his contemplative mustached face slightly obscured by the thin curlicues of sweet-smelling smoke wafting from his pipe. He grinned lazily around the stem as he watched them. The painter spun around, looking startled.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Hallward. Perhaps we are early?" Ciel spoke, his confident stance trying to impress where his stature could not. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice; he knew very well that they were on time exactly, for Ciel had long since been convinced that there was no such timepiece, short of the sun itself, more accurate than Sebastian's ever-present pocket watch.
The painter – Basil Hallward – hurriedly got off his stool and approached them, a gleam in his eye that somehow managed to be both manic and tired at the same time. He quickly brushed his hand on his smock before outstretching it in greeting.
"Mr. Phantomhive, I presume?" Basil said, shaking Ciel's hand briskly, "It is I who should apologize for keeping you waiting. I have the embarrassing habit of getting rather lost in my work, I'm afraid."
"That is the trouble with you artists: so enamoured with your own secret world of paint and brushstroke that you forget such courteous commonalities – terribly dull but regrettably necessary – as manners. Might we re-educate ourselves on that particular front with some introductions, Basil?" came the languid voice of the man in the corner, getting to his feet from the divan and walking over to them.
"Yes, of course!" the painter titters. "This is my dear friend, Lord Henry Wotton," he began, gesturing to the mustached man beside him, "and my muse, Dorian Gray," now with a flourishing gesticulation to the young man still seated on his perch.
The man – Dorian – evidently sensing the permission to break his pose at long last, stood and stepped forward. "Basil, you flatter me entirely too much – my ego soon won't be able to fit through the studio door, and then where would you be?" he joked lightly.
"Lost, I'm sure," Basil rejoined with a grin. The look on the painter's face was nothing short of reverent, whereas Dorian's looked too practiced – a slightly vapid, inexperienced aura surrounding him that tended to permeate the air of the young and beautiful. "Gentlemen, Earl Ciel Phantomhive," Basil finished, managing to draw his attention away from Dorian.
"Pleasure," Ciel replied, trying not to let his clipped tone convey the opposite. Sebastian gave a small and silent bow at his side.
Lord Henry regarded Ciel curiously. "Phantomhive… Not the head of the Funtom Company, surely?"
"Yes, I am," Ciel replied, already bracing for the inevitable. He didn't have to wait long.
"I'll admit, I was not expecting someone so young. Terrible shame, that."
Ciel visibly bristled, but managed to keep his voice somewhat level. "On the contrary, our numbers have never been higher. Though, I suppose it would depend on your definition of what constitutes a shame."
Lord Henry, evidently sharp enough not to miss the icy tone and challenging eyes, raised his hands a little in amused surrender. He reached up to remove the pipe from his mouth. "No, no, my boy, you misunderstand me. It is certainly a great feat you have accomplished in such a short time. I only meant that youth, in all its innocent beauty, is so terribly fleeting. And as I was telling Basil earlier today, beauty ends where an intellectual expression begins. Your multitudes of facts and figures will find their place amongst the curvature of a boyish complexion, making themselves known in the furrowing of your concerned brow, the lines of your frowning mouth. That they should mark you so young, that they should cruelly snatch your ivory boyhood in its prime and inevitably mar the manhood just beginning… That, my lad, and only that, is the shame of which I speak."
Ciel stood for a moment, surprised and unsure what to say to Lord Henry's speechifying, and getting the distinct impression he did that rather often. After a moment, though, Dorian's lilting voice saved him the decision.
"Youth is the only thing worth having," he said. His clearly parroted words – Lord Henry's, Ciel would bet – were spoken quietly with a dream-like air. Dorian's eyes flicked to his portrait, regarding it with an expression Ciel could have sworn was jealousy. Ciel strongly suspected he himself was not the day's only recipient of Lord Henry's monologues on youth and beauty.
"Quite right, Mr. Gray," Lord Henry said with no small amount of pride. Dorian looked at him, then, and Ciel had seen that worshipful look before, only from Basil's eyes.
Ciel's curious gaze slid from face to face, wondering at the odd dynamic of this unlikely threesome. The Lord's eyes gleamed with the thrill of knowledge imparted and the beginning of some kind of game he was bound and determined to win. Dorian's held an enraptured brightness, a willing sponge ready to soak up the experience he'd been so far denied. And lastly, Basil's, holding nothing more than thinly veiled alarm with an edge of desperation.
It was Ciel who broke the silence this time. "And here I was thinking that power was the only thing worth having."
Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he was unsure as to why he felt the urge to share them, but it was worth it if only to relish the slight surprise from the three men who'd obviously made the same mistake so many others had before them: underestimating him.
Lord Henry was the first to recover, regarding Ciel with a secret smile and a raised eyebrow. "Ah, and therein you show your age, I'm afraid, Mr. Phantomhive, for you make the common mistake of thinking the two ideas – beauty and power – are mutually exclusive."
Ciel chewed on that for a moment, and was just on the cusp of a reply when Basil spoke. "Harry, please, can't you be satisfied with the one pupil you've already stolen from me?"
Lord Henry let out a laugh. "Satisfied! Why, my dear Basil, you insult me with such a word. Only the dullards of our society know of satisfaction – those who have given up the inexorable hunt for experience, who have ceased to graze upon the world's many feasts for the senses!"
Basil's only response to this was to roll his eyes. Dorian, on the other hand, looked captivated, before throwing a slightly irritated gaze to Basil.
"I needn't be coddled like a child, Basil. It is not 'stealing' if I make the decision willingly," he huffed, rather petulantly for a man asking to be seen as an adult. Lord Henry gave a broad, smug smile, but Dorian directed his attention to him with a wary look. "Now, that being said, I have yet to make the decision whether or not I shall be your pupil, Lord Henry. It seems… Well, rather dangerous."
Lord Henry laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "My, how terrible English of you to say so, Mr. Gray! But I ask you, is that not the fun of it? Men refuse to live dangerously any more, to throw caution to London's mighty gales. Experience cannot always be found in safety, I assure you."
"And where, pray tell, might one find such experience?" Basil asked. If Lord Henry noticed the obvious sarcasm, he chose to ignore it as he strode over to the easel.
"Here would be a rather good start, Basil. It really is the finest work you've ever done – don't you agree, Mr. Gray?"
Dorian stepped up to view the rendering. He paused in front of it, his hands behind his back, and leant forward to examine it. Ciel wasn't sure what he was expecting – a vain self-satisfied smile perhaps – but not an outright frown. "It mocks me," he said simply. Basil's face paled at the words.
"How so? Do you not find it an accurate likeness?" Lord Henry asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
Dorian shook his head. "It isn't that. I only mean – why should it keep what I must lose?" Dorian suddenly straightened and began to pace, his movements agitated like a man possessed. "Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it! How unfair it is that I should grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young, never older than this particular day of June."
Dorian paused again, his raised voice turning eerily quiet as he stood still and regarded the painting as if he and his mirror image were the only two in the room, the only two in the world. "If only it were the other way… If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old. For that… Yes, for that, I would give anything. For that, I would give my soul."
Sebastian's head came up. Ciel looked at him, curious. Sebastian's lips curled into a small smile and his deep maroon eyes flashed crimson for the briefest of moments. Sebastian caught his questioning gaze and leaned over to whisper in his master's ear.
"It would appear that Mr. Dorian Gray has gotten his wish."