Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Lord Henry Wotton, a dandy in London society with nothing left to hide, happened to visit the painter Basil Hallward, who years earlier had suddenly vanished amid certain excitements and become the subject of much speculation. And he marveled at the incomparably beautiful countenance of the nearly completed portrait of a young man—propped at the center of that elaborately contrived Oriental studio. “An Adonis wrought from ivory and rose petals…” declared Lord Henry. “True beauty perishes with knowledge’s first sprouting.” “Intellect proves itself a dreadful exaggeration, shattering all harmony of feature.” “But this mysterious young friend of yours in the painting—he’s utterly magnificent.” “He remains wholly untouched.” “Does he not resemble some exquisite unthinking creature?” “…Dorian Gray, I presume? Pray make us acquainted.”

“Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” said the painter anxiously. “Moreover, he possesses an incomparably pure and elegant disposition.” “Do not corrupt his honest nature with your pernicious influence—the world is wide, and there must be plenty of splendid people in it.” “I beseech you, do not wrest from me the sole being who grants my art all the charm it possesses—nay, he upon whom my entire life as an artist is solely devoted.” “You do understand, Harry—I trust you.”

2

Dorian Gray climbed onto the modeling stand and, maintaining the pose of a young Greek martyr, listened intently to Lord Henry’s eloquence. Lord Henry's voice held a strangely captivating resonance. Lord Henry lamented the young man’s truly splendid beauty. And he taught him a new perspective on life and happiness. Unintentionally, it resonated with the secret heartstrings deep within Dorian’s soul that had never been touched before.

“—The only way to conquer temptation is to yield to it. Because the desire for forbidden things merely oppresses the human soul in vain. What heals the soul is none other than the senses, and what heals the senses is none other than the soul. This is life’s great secret. Ah, your marvelous beauty! It is your radiant youth that could enchant the entire world like sunlight, like a spring day, like the moon. But youth never comes again. In time, our bodies will decay, and our senses will grow dull. And we will begin to regret not having had the courage to yield to the splendid temptations of days gone by. Ah, youth! Youth! In this world, there is absolutely nothing but youth.” Lord Henry’s words were truly akin to the most cunning magic. How clearly, vividly, and cruelly must Dorian’s childlike innocence have been lashed. Dorian suddenly felt life flaring up toward him like fire.

3

“There, it’s completely finished,” said Basil Hallward, laying down his paintbrush. “Dorian, you’ve been unusually still for me today. Thank you.” The painter had been so utterly absorbed in his work that he had not noticed in the slightest what conversation had passed between Dorian and Lord Henry. “That’s thanks to me.” “Now, Mr. Gray,” said Lord Henry. Dorian stood silently before the portrait. Exquisitely carved lips, eyes as deep and clear as the azure sky, voluminous golden curls—Dorian savored his own beauty for the first time. But the more beautiful the portrait became, the more Dorian noticed an indescribable shadow of sorrow rising from the depths of his heart.

I envy beauty that will never perish! I envy my own portrait. Why must it retain what I am destined to lose? If only the portrait would change instead—if only I could remain forever as I am now! Before long, that painting will mock me—how dreadful that would be!

Dorian Gray shed tears and sank into the chair as though in prayer. "This is all your doing," said the painter painfully. Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders.

“This is the real Dorian Gray.”

4

Dorian was now seized by a desire to experience all of life. Whether he wandered aimlessly through the park or strolled along Piccadilly, he would gaze with maddened curiosity at each passing face, wondering what manner of lives they led. Some among them drew him in with magnetic fascination, while others filled him with visceral dread. The very air hung thick with a subtle poison that seeped into his lungs. He ached for something extraordinary—anything that might rupture the suffocating monotony.

One evening, Dorian Gray, on a sudden impulse, set out to explore the lower districts of London—a gray monster teeming with hideous criminals and resplendent sins. Danger was rather a pleasure to Dorian. As Dorian wandered aimlessly eastward, he soon strayed into a gloomy, dimly lit district and eventually came upon a small dilapidated theater. And Dorian came to a halt before the flickering gaslight and garish playbills. At the entrance stood a shabby-looking Jew in a strange doublet, smoldering a cheap cigar, but upon seeing Dorian, he said, “Your Lordship, please come in,” and respectfully removed Dorian’s hat to usher him inside.

The performance was *Romeo and Juliet*. The lower-class audience, who were doing nothing but scattering peanuts, and the dreadful orchestra—even Dorian found it unbearable.

But then, as the curtain rose and the blooming young Juliet appeared onstage, Dorian involuntarily let out a cheer.

5 The delicate, flower-like actress, who appeared barely seventeen or eighteen, surpassed in loveliness anything Dorian Gray had ever seen. A small Grecian-shaped head with dark brown hair parted and braided, violet eyes like a wellspring of passion, lips like rose petals—Dorian grew so moved that his tears blurred the girl’s face before him. And her voice remained gentle and clear, like a soft flute’s note or a nightingale’s song before dawn.

Dorian felt his heart thrown into turmoil by a love so reckless it consumed both body and soul—the first such passion of his life. Her name was Sibyl Vane. Dorian could scarcely forget Sibyl Vane, and from then on he began frequenting that dubious theater every night. On the third night, Dorian threw flowers to her as she stood dressed as Rosalind. When the curtain fell, he was led by the Jew to the dressing room. Sibyl Vane remained an innocent, shy girl. She stared wide-eyed in wonder as Dorian praised her artistry, her demeanor showing not the slightest awareness of her own ability. Timidly she said to Dorian:

“You are like a prince. I shall call you Prince Charming from now on.” Though she belonged to such a profession and lived such a life, she remained no more than a child utterly ignorant of life itself.

6

Sibyl was walking along Euston Road in the bright sunlight with her brother James, who was about to set sail for Melbourne.

“He’s called Prince Charming.” “Oh Jim, don’t you think it’s the most wonderful name?” “If you saw him even once, you’d know he’s the most splendid man in all the world.” “Everyone adores him, and I...I love him.” “To play Juliet while being in love—what happiness!” “Beware of men,” said James, “particularly those who style themselves ‘gentlemen’.”

“Jim, I’m so tired of hearing that! You’ll understand soon enough—when you fall in love yourself.” It was then... She unexpectedly spotted Dorian Gray’s blond hair and smiling lips as he drove past in a carriage with two noblewomen.

“Ah! There’s Prince Charming!”

And she leaped up.

“Where?” Jim exclaimed in surprise. “Come on—which one is he? I need to get a good look at him.” But the carriage had already vanished into the bustling crowd. “A damn shame—if that bastard lays a finger on my sister, I’ll make sure he doesn’t live to see tomorrow.” “I’ll hunt that bastard down no matter what and stab him like a dog!” Jim declared, thrusting an imaginary dagger repeatedly into empty air.

7

Lord Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward were not a little surprised when Dorian Gray confessed to them his love for Sibyl Vane.

Thus, one evening, the two men were guided by Dorian and ventured out to that squalid back-alley theater. For some reason, the theater was packed that night; in the sweltering heat, audience members who had stripped off their coats and waistcoats shouted back and forth as they milled about the venue. From the bar came the constant pop of corks being pulled.

“The goddess is tolerable, but my word—what an appalling place this is!” said Lord Henry. “But the moment she appears on stage, you will forget everything,” said Dorian. “No matter how ill-mannered the spectators may be, they all fall silent and gaze at her in rapt attention. “And at her will, she makes the spectators weep and laugh.” Fifteen minutes later, Sibyl Vane finally appeared onstage to thunderous applause.

She was indeed more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen—Lord Henry thought—and yet, what clumsy artistry this was! Could there truly be such a cold Juliet? She did not seem the least bit pleased even when seeing Romeo. Her voice was undoubtedly good but completely out of tune. Dorian's complexion turned deathly pale.

Ah, what on earth could have caused this shocking disgrace? She might be ill.

The audience rose to their feet, stamped the floor, and blew piercing whistles.

Lord Henry Wotton and Basil Hallward, unable to endure any longer, left first, leaving Dorian behind.

8

Dorian's heart was mercilessly torn. As soon as the final curtain fell, he rushed into the dressing room.

The girl was waiting for him. "Oh, I was quite dreadful tonight, wasn't I, Dorian?" "Horrible! "You were horrendously clumsy. "It bears no resemblance to proper acting. "Were you not ill? "You can maintain such composure. "I endured such agony..." "Oh Dorian, you must understand," the girl said with a smile. "I shall never act well again. "Because until meeting you, acting constituted my sole reality. "And Beatrice's joy became my own joy; Cordelia's sorrow none other than my sorrow. "The painted flats formed my entire world. "But then you—radiant you—appeared and revealed to me for the first time true substance beyond shadows."

Dorian turned his face away and sighed. “You have killed my love.” “I loved you because you awakened my illusions.” “Because you recreated great poets’ dreams and gave form to art’s shadows.” “You have utterly destroyed that.” “What a shallow, foolish girl you are!” “I shall never think of you again—no, not even your name.”

Having said that, Dorian left Sibyl behind as she sank into tears and walked away.

9

――Could it be true? Could such a phenomenon exist in this world—that the portrait had changed? Or was it merely some fleeting illusion making what should have been a radiant countenance appear loathsome? ……Yet it had been all too vivid. First in faint twilight, then in brilliant dawn light, Dorian had seen that cruel shadow hovering near the distorted lips of Basil Hallward’s painted portrait. Though terrified, he resolved to confirm it anew. Stealing into his room, he stood before the portrait. With trembling hands, he drew back the resplendent Spanish leather covering and confronted his own image. No illusion—the portrait had undeniably changed! Shuddering, he collapsed onto the divan and stared at the painting with nameless dread. The memory of his merciless cruelty toward Sibyl Vane gnawed at his conscience like a beast. He found himself wishing to marry her again. When Lord Henry Wotton soon arrived for a visit, Dorian immediately confessed this resolve. At this, Henry darkened his brow and spoke:

“Your wife?! Dorian! Then you haven’t seen my letter yet?”

“A letter?” “Ah, right! Forgive me.” “I had not yet seen it.” “Sibyl is dead,” said Lord Henry. “According to this morning’s newspaper, around half past twelve last night, she apparently drank poison by accident—cyanide or something like that.”

10

Basil Hallward, having also learned of Sibyl’s death, came to visit Dorian. And having been told from Dorian’s own lips that her death was a suicide, he was appalled by his protégé’s callous demeanor. “But Dorian,” he said with a mournful smile, “let us never speak of this dreadful affair again. I only pray your name remains untainted by it.” “There’s no cause for concern,” Dorian replied. “It was merely my baptismal name she knew—and even that Sibyl surely kept secret.” “She always called me Prince Charming.” “Rather quaint, isn’t it?… Now then Basil—as a keepsake of her fleeting kisses and girlish adoration, you might paint her likeness?” “I could attempt it,” said the painter, “provided you sit for me again.” “Out of the question!” Dorian snapped. “Do you despise my work?” “What became of that portrait?” “Why keep it shrouded so?” “Unveil it.”

Dorian let out a horrifying scream and stood in the painter’s way. “You mustn’t!” “Absolutely not!” “If you insist on seeing it, then our relationship is over!”

“Dorian!”

“Hold your tongue!” Dorian obstinately refused. And that very day, he stealthily moved the portrait to a disused study upstairs. 11

Several years slithered by. Yet the radiance of Dorian Gray’s complexion showed no further signs of fading. And even those who had heard the most disgraceful and dubious rumors concerning him in the social circles and clubs throughout London, upon seeing him even once, ceased to believe the slander. For he seemed always to remain untainted by any impurity of this world. His figure made people recall the innocence they themselves had once held in their hearts. Dorian would often vanish from sight.

Such disappearances naturally gave rise to a host of conjectures. When returning from a long absence, Dorian would invariably climb the stairs leading to the secret room. The key to the room was never parted from his person. There Dorian stood, confronting the painted likeness of himself that Basil Hallward had created while mirroring his true visage to compare them. The truly astonishing contrast between these images delighted his senses beyond measure. As he gazed in fascination at his own beauty, he felt an ever-deepening interest in his soul's corruption. He would examine it meticulously—at times savoring an unholy delight in the sinister wrinkles etched across its withered brow and the raw lines creeping about its sullen mouth; at others, shuddering as he wondered whether the marks of sin or the traces of time manifested there proved more dreadful to behold.

Dorian Gray’s strange life continued—amid lavish banquets where perfection was pursued, fragrant nocturnal chambers, adventures in disguise, and shadowy dockside inns.

12

It was on the night of September 9th—Dorian’s thirty-eighth birthday.

Dorian, having been invited to Lord Henry’s dinner party, encountered Basil Hallward quite unexpectedly at a fog-laden street corner on his way home. The painter had been waiting at Dorian’s residence all this time for his return. The painter said that although he was departing for Paris on the midnight train for his work, there was something he absolutely had to discuss with him beforehand. So Dorian reluctantly brought the painter back with him. As it was already late and the servants were asleep, Dorian unfastened the lock himself and entered.

“The matter concerns you yourself,” said Basil. “By now, I believe you must of course be aware of your own reputation throughout London...” Dorian sighed. “I don’t care to know.” “When it comes to others’ affairs—who can say? But few would cherish their own scandals.” “All sin inevitably reveals itself upon the countenance of its perpetrator. “It can never be fully concealed. “And yet you maintain this complexion—radiant and crystalline—as though untouched by time itself. “How could I credit such vile rumors about you? “But then why is it that the Duke of Barwick and so many distinguished gentlemen not only refuse your company but sever all association? …Moreover, I know for a fact that every young gentleman and noble lady who once befriended you has met with ruin most wretched…”

13 “...I cannot grasp your truth.” “I want to see your soul,” said the painter. “See my soul?!” Dorian groaned. “Yes. But only God could do such a thing,” the painter added mournfully. A bitter laugh escaped Dorian’s lips. “You shall see it tonight. I’ll show you my soul.” “Dorian, this is monstrous!” The painter recoiled in horror. “Enough—follow me upstairs. My diary lies there—a record of my every deed.” They stole up shadowed stairs, footsteps hushed. The lamplight wavered, casting grotesque shapes upon walls. Wind howled through rattling panes. “Close the door behind you,” Dorian commanded, shivering in the chamber’s icy draught.

The painter gazed quizzically around the room. Amidst dust-covered chairs and desks, emptied bookcases, and faded Flemish-style tapestries among other things, a single hanging painting caught his eye. "That is my soul—the one only God can see." "Basil, draw back the curtain!" Obeying Dorian’s command, the painter opened the drape—and released an involuntary scream of terror. It was unmistakably the likeness of Dorian he himself had painted. Ah, but what a violent metamorphosis! The painter discerned in Dorian’s hideous countenance the shudder-inducing, pitiless visage of a demon. But having learned the secret of Dorian’s soul, the painter in that next moment felt Dorian’s keen blade strike his neck from behind and collapsed where he stood.

14

The next morning, the sun shone brilliantly clear, and the September sky was bright. Dorian wrote two letters after drinking his morning coffee. Then he put one in his pocket and called a servant to hand over the other. “Deliver this to Mr. Campbell at No. 152 Hartford Street.” Dorian then paced around the room, glancing at the clock time and again. His chest was clawed apart by unbearable anxiety and agitation. At last, the young scientist Mr. Alan Campbell arrived. “Alan! “Kind Alan!” “You came,” said Dorian, who had been waiting impatiently. “I had firmly resolved never to cross your threshold again...” replied Alan.

“This is a matter of my life and death. “Don’t speak of that—just grant this request...” Thereupon Dorian confessed that he had committed murder the previous night, that the corpse lay hidden in a secret room upstairs, and entreated Alan to dispose of it through chemical means with expert precision.

“No! I must beg to decline,” Alan exclaimed, his face changing color. “Do you absolutely refuse?” “Absolutely!” “Very well…” Dorian, wearing a sardonic smile, silently wrote something on a slip of paper and handed it to Alan. Alan read the slip of paper and was flustered. “If you persist in refusing, that would be most regrettable. I have another letter here already written… You’ll comply, won’t you?” “On the second floor, there is both a gas fire and asbestos.” “As for any necessary chemicals and such, I can simply have a servant buy them all.” “An eternal secret between the two of us…”

15

That night, Dorian Gray attended a soirée at the Narpoole household, but his heart sank like lead, heavy and utterly devoid of buoyancy. Finally unable to endure it any longer, he brushed aside Lord Henry and the others’ attempts to detain him and excused himself from the gathering. After hailing a two-wheeled carriage in Bond Street, he had it race through the late-night streets.

The moon hung low, appearing precisely like a yellow skull. From time to time, massive black clouds swelled forth long arms to envelop it. Gradually the street lamps grew sparse, the streets narrowing into dilapidation as the gloom thickened. "The soul finds solace through the senses, and the senses through the soul—" Dorian Gray abandoned his carriage by the docks. He entered a grimy little house wedged between derelict factories. It was an opium den.

Reeling from the stifling stench of opium as he tried to enter a dim little room, Dorian encountered an acquaintance crouched over a lamp, attempting to light his pipe. Dorian wanted to be completely alone where no one knew him, so he immediately tried to flee the scene. Then, a destitute woman who happened to be at the bar called out to Dorian. “Prince Charming!” Hearing this voice, a sailor who had been slumped over a table in the corner of the room suddenly raised his face. He swept his gaze around with eyes blazing with fury, but upon hearing the sound of the door closing, he instantly leapt up and bolted outside as if in pursuit.

16

Dorian Gray hurried along the docks through the drenching rain that pattered down relentlessly. He found himself wondering whether the wretched fate of that young acquaintance from the opium den might indeed be tied to him, just as Basil had suggested. He clicked his tongue sharply. His eyes clouded with transient sorrow for but an instant. Yet in the end, what did it matter... He quickened his pace further and slipped into a dim archway seeking shorter passage. At that precise moment, unseen hands seized him from behind—before he could struggle, a brutish arm locked about his throat and slammed him bodily against the wall. He thrashed wildly until at last breaking free from those crushing fingers, only to hear the lethal snick of a pistol's mechanism and find himself eye-to-barrel with a grime-streaked revolver clutched in a stocky assailant's fist.

“What are you doing?” Dorian gasped. “Silence!” growled the man. “You killed Sibyl Vane. I am her brother. Eighteen years I’ve hunted you—eighteen years sworn to vengeance.” “Eighteen years?” Triumph flickered across Dorian’s bloodless face. “Eighteen years! Now look at me—properly—under this light.” The sailor dragged him from the archway’s shadows into the swaying lamplight. What met his eyes was a youth of no more than twenty, cheeks flushed with roseate beauty. The sailor recoiled. “Sir...forgive me. I’ve made...a dreadful error...”

17

“Conceal your pistol and return home. Should you refuse, it shall not go well for you.” With these words, Dorian turned on his heel and withdrew from the spot in measured silence.

James Vane stood frozen on the cobblestones, overcome with terror. He trembled from his toes to the crown of his head; after a while, a black shadow that had clung to the wet wall emerged into the light and stealthily approached him. It was one of the women from the opium den’s bar. “Why didn’t you kill him?” she whispered. “I knew you were tailin’ him.” “What a fool you are.” “You should’ve killed him—the bastard’s loaded with money and rotten to the core.” “Wrong man,” he answered. “I don’t want money.” “What I want’s a man’s life.” “That man must be near forty by now.” “He ain’t some brat like that.” “But not spillin’ blood was all God’s mercy.” The woman cackled shrilly. “A brat?” “Don’t josh me.” “Prince Charming did this to me nigh eighteen years back.” “You’re lyin’!” James roared. “By God!” “You swear it?” “I swear!” With a feral snarl, he charged toward the street corner. But Dorian had long since melted into the shadows. And when he looked back, the woman too had vanished.

18

About a week later, Dorian Gray found himself in the conservatory at Selby Royal, where he discovered James Vane's face pressed against the glass window like a white handkerchief staring at him, and he fainted and collapsed. Ever since then, Dorian had been startled at every turn. He secluded himself in his room all day. He even fought against the shadows of wall hangings stirred by the wind. If he so much as closed his eyes, he saw the sailor's face peering through the fogged glass window. An indescribable terror clutched his heart. Moreover, the bloodstained sins he had committed ceaselessly called out to him from the corners of the dark room, mocked him, and shook him awake with ice-cold fingers. He turned pale and ended up weeping like a madman. Yet he fought against his heart that was beginning to falter. He wanted to despise the pangs of a worthless conscience. On a bright winter morning clear as crystal and heavy with pine fragrance, he joined a hunting party on horseback for the first time in ages. The air hung rich with scents, the forest glowed crimson and russet, while the beaters' clamor and sharp gunshots brimmed with fresh, joyous freedom. Dorian proceeded lightheartedly alongside Geoffrey, brother to the Duchess of Monmouth.

Suddenly, the grass about twenty yards ahead of them swayed, and a black-eared rabbit darted out. Geoffrey quickly shouldered his gun and took aim at it. “Stay your hand!” Dorian cried out involuntarily. But it was already too late. Two cries rang out. One was the rabbit’s cry; the other, a dreadful human scream.

19

The one shot dead by Mr. Geoffrey was none other than James Vane. Dorian shuddered through his entire being upon realizing this truth. Dorian left London and hid himself away in the tranquil countryside. Shutting himself within a room at a small inn there, he burned to take the first step into a new life. Dorian fell in love with a beautiful village girl named Hetty. She was as tender and lovely as Sibyl Vane had been. Dorian had loved Hetty truly.

At last, one day in the apple orchard, they even went so far as to promise to flee the village together at dawn the next day, hand in hand. However, Dorian, considering the maiden’s well-being, secretly returned to London, leaving her behind. “...I wanted to leave her forever as a flower-like maiden,” Dorian confessed to Lord Henry.

“It was merely a storybook motive that gave you pleasure,” laughed Lord Henry. “Your so-called reformation of life is most dubious indeed.” “She must have had her heart torn to shreds by your good advice.” “Such nonsense!” “Of course she cried.” “But she has not been tainted.” “She can live like Perdita in her garden, among mint and buttercups…” “Hmph, what a child you are.” “That girl will soon marry a carter or a peasant, and then—just as you taught her—she’ll deceive her husband and lead a splendid life without fail.” “By the way—do you know about Basil’s disappearance and that Mr. Campbell’s suicide incident?”

20

The past could not be undone. He had to think of himself and the future. James Vane lay buried nameless in Selby’s churchyard; Alan Campbell had destroyed himself in his laboratory with a pistol; Basil Hallward’s disappearance would before long be forgotten by the world as an eternal secret.

A new life! All Dorian desired was that alone. And Dorian had already taken that first step. When he considered his kindness toward Hetty, the village girl, he thought that perhaps some new alteration had taken place in that portrait. At the very least, it should have become less wicked than before. The demonic visage had likely vanished. Dorian hurriedly took up the lamp and ascended the stairs. He quickly entered inside, closed the door behind him as usual, then pulled off the purple drape covering the portrait. At that very moment, he let out a cry of pain and fury. Not only had the portrait remained utterly unchanged, but its eyes now gleamed with a newfound cunning hue, and its lips—carved with wrinkles of hypocrisy—were twisted into an even more hideous visage! Dorian Gray, in utter despair, stabbed through the portrait with the same dagger he had once used to stab Basil Hallward. At that very moment, Dorian collapsed with a terrible scream. When people who had heard the noise entered the room, they discovered the corpse of a man with an ugly and ghastly countenance—stabbed through the chest in evening dress—lying before the portrait of the beautiful youth.