Lord Henry Wotton sauntered into the grand studio, his eyes passing listlessly over the canvases that spilled across the room. He spied Basil Hallward stood awkwardly at his easel, his face creased and contorted with grooves of meditation and concern. The painter bit his lip pensively, and his dark eyes seemed to momentarily fill with a strange resentment as the black orbs danced across the canvas before him. As the young Lord approached his brooding companion, the painter's head jerked up from the engrossing canvas and a subtle flash of irritation crossed his rugged face. Basil had always resented being disturbed whilst painting and Lord Henry had always considered this to be petty, even childlike of the man. Through art, the painter found shelter, some means of escape from the hardships of reality. Henry knew this. Basil would have been happy enough to confine himself in the majestic studio for weeks on end, if to leave merely with the prospect of visiting his dear friend Mr Gray and to be filled with fiery inspiration once again, thus returning almost immediately to his art. Basil lived for his art and through living for his craft, the artist lived for his enchanting muse.
"Basil, my dear fellow!" the Lord cried heartedly as he crossed the room, "I hope you don't mind me intruding like this. Your servant let me in."
"Oh," Basil replied quietly and the corner of his lips twitched peculiarly, "not at all, Harry."
The Lord gazed into the canvas resting upon the easel, and a faint smile of amusement played upon his pursed lips. There on the canvas was a figure, clad in proud Roman uniform, of mingled crimson and gold, stood pompously amongst the ruins of some conquered city left in bitter fragments. The sharp contrast between the dreary crumbling stone, left cold with defeat, and the astounding beauty of the fair boy was truly remarkable. The Lord's eager eyes were instantaneously drawn to the soft features of the warrior and traced the dancing locks of golden hair that framed his delicate face and splayed charmingly upon his broad shoulders. The blue eyes stared out at him from the textured canvas, captivating and brimming with youthful passion found only in the eyes of a young lover, courting for the first time. His pale parted lips were tender and almost effeminate. He was a picture of beauty.
"Ah," Henry observed as he peered over the painter's shoulder, "another marvellous painting of our dear Mr Gray, I see."
"It would appear so." Basil murmured almost to himself and the lord detected a tinge of sadness in his hushed voice.
"Well," Lord Henry replied, "it really is a truly fantastic piece of work, my boy. Perhaps you would let me purchase this painting, after you so cruelly rejected my offer for your astounding portrait of Mr Gray."
"No," Basil exhaled wearily and, rubbed his eyes with a trembling thumb and fore finger, "I have found I am no longer able part with my art. My works are not to leave the security this studio, I'm sorry Harry. I am too fearful to have them displayed to the rest of the world."
"Basil," Lord Henry Wotton shook his head incredulously, "I'll never understand these romantic attachments you form towards your art. I hope you're not too in love with your works, my dear fellow! It is dangerous for one to grow infatuated with one's own creation."
"I'm afraid I'll never be quite able to explain it, Harry." Hallward sighed and began to clean his brushes absent-mindedly, "But please, have a seat, I shouldn't be too long."
"Anyway," the young Lord flung himself down onto the velvet divan and basked in the warming rays of the pale sun that pierced the large window panes, "I understand you have heard the news of Miss Vane's passing?"
"Yes," Basil grew attentive and glanced up from the clogged bristles, "such tragic and alarming news. She was so young, too young."
"Indeed," Lord Henry Wotton replied, as he hungrily reached for his opium tinted cigarettes, "Yet beauty is a curse. The beautiful are intrinsically bound to tragedy."
"Why," Basil forced his thin lips into a nervous grimace, "that is a drastic outlook on life's beauty, Harry. One should not be so game to jump to such controversial conclusions; it results in nothing but trouble. "
"Ah, but it is all truth, my boy." blue clouds of smoke curled from the Lord's flared nostrils, "Young Sibyl Vane was a beautiful creature, thus her fate was sealed from birth. She was to die in the prime of her youthful splendour, to die for her first experience in love. I mean, think about it Basil, have you ever heard of the more unsightly members of our society recklessly throwing their lives away for a slither love? No, it is those who are delicate in nature and contemplate too deeply over the true beauty behind our fleeting time in this world, who find themselves falling upon their own swords for romance."
"You speak so candidly of love and death," Basil commented disapprovingly, "and I grow afraid your indifference towards the deceased has influenced young Dorian."
"Why?" Lord Henry almost bellowed with wicked amusement, "Whatever has our dear Mr Gray stated to have caused you such concern? You look pale just thinking about it, my dear boy! Was it truly that upsetting?"
"Well," Basil hovered anxiously beside his easel as he recollected the conversation, "I had planned to visit Mr Gray immediately upon hearing of his fiancée's passing. However, after much consideration, I decided it was best to leave the poor boy in peace until he was fully able to come to terms with his loss. It was not until the third day following Sibyl's death, that I believed it would now be acceptable for me to approach Mr Gray and offer him my condolence. Upon arriving at the boy's home, I was utterly stunned to find him reclining peacefully upon the divan like a cherub, as though the whole ordeal had been little more than a distant night terror. Why Harry, his face with flushed with such childish glee and his eyes glinted so boisterously, it was near impossible to imagine they had ever been stung by bitter tears or that his face had ever grown ruddy with despair. Upon questioning Dorian of his mood since the passing of his love, he merely brushed the subject away nonchalantly as though we were casually conversing over dinner. I am certain I must have been gawping like a fool."
"You should be pleased that the lad hasn't taken to shutting himself off from the world," the Lord replied listlessly, "that would be terribly unsociable and I would dearly miss his company."
"He confided in me that he viewed Sibyl's death as little more than an 'experience'." Basil lowered his voice as though fearing the very portraits themselves were listening to his report.
"He is quite right, Basil." the young Lord replied, "Death is the key to fulfilling one's experience in life. This death may seem horrific in its nature, yet it can be considered a gift that has aided in drastically shaping and maturing our young Mr Gray."
"I find myself quite unable to comprehend your rationale, Harry." Basil shook his head gloomily.
"Death is really nothing out of the ordinary," Lord Henry continued, "It happens every minute. Those living in poverty experience death repeatedly in their life. All those they hold dear to them are lost in an instance to disease or fatal accidents, yet they do not brood and moan. They learn to deal with death as nothing more than an inconvenience and continue their wretched lives without a second thought over what has come to pass. After all, the past is the past, Basil."
"I cannot agree with you, Harry." Basil stated sombrely, "Now, I insist we end this morbid conversation. Talking about such dreadful topics always leaves a pungent taste in one's mouth. "
"You will understand my logic in time, my dear Basil." Henry smiled as he hoisted himself up from the comfort of the divan, "Well, it has been pleasant meeting with you again, but now I must take my leave."
"Already?" Basil cried, "Why, I've only just finished clearing my equipment! Are you sure you cannot stay for just a little while longer?"
"I'm awfully sorry," Lord Henry replied, examining his pocket watch intently, "but I am already running far too late as it is. I was scheduled to meet Mr Gray at the Opera house half an hour ago! He'll be terribly distressed by now and I don't wish to elongate his fretting."
"You're attending the Opera with Dorian again?" Basil queried and his firm brow furrowed with a hurt scowl.
"Indeed," the Lord answered hastily as he advanced to exit the studio, "we were considering inviting you along, my dear fellow, but I can see you are far too absorbed in your work."
"Oh," Basil's dismayed voice faltered, "well, erm, yes I'm afraid I am rather busy at the present. Anyway, I hope you both have a splendid evening."
"I intend to!" Lord Henry smirked roguishly before swiftly vanishing behind the heavy oak door and disappearing into the cobbled street outside.
Basil sighed miserably to himself and threw himself down on the divan in a fit of sudden envy. From across the darkening studio, the painter was aware of the eyes of his exquisite warrior, following his every motion. Yet now, as Hallward gazed into the blue eyes that had once been filled with passion and love, he saw only cruel mockery and disinterest flickering in the two piercing spheres.