Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 Lord Henry Wotton, the undisputed dandy of London’s high society, happened to visit Basil Hallward, the painter who had suddenly vanished years earlier following a certain excitement and become the subject of much speculation. And in the center of that Eastern-inspired studio, with its elaborately crafted design, stood a nearly completed portrait of a young man—its countenance so incomparably beautiful that it seemed beyond mortal measure—at which he marveled.

“An Adonis wrought in ivory and rose leaves…” said Lord Henry. “The true beauty of comeliness perishes with the dawn of knowledge.” “Intellect is itself a dreadful exaggeration that destroys all harmony of countenance.” “But your mysterious young friend in this painting—he is utterly magnificent.” “He is perfectly guileless.” “Does he not seem like some ignorant yet beautiful creature?” “...Dorian Gray, I believe?—You must introduce me.”

“Dorian Gray is my dearest friend,” said the painter with a troubled air. “Moreover, he possesses a nature of utmost purity and grace.” “Do not corrupt his innocent nature with your pernicious influence; the world is vast, so there must be plenty of splendid people in it.” “Please—do not take him from me, he who is the sole being that grants all the charm my art possesses, or rather, he upon whom my entire life as an artist is solely devoted.” “You understand, don’t you, Harry? I trust you.”

2 Dorian Gray stepped onto the model platform and, maintaining a posture like that of a young Greek martyr, listened to Lord Henry’s eloquence. Lord Henry’s voice held a curiously captivating resonance. Lord Henry felt a pang of regret for this young man’s exquisite, otherworldly beauty. And he imparted a new perspective on life and happiness. Unwittingly, it resonated with secret chords in the depths of Dorian’s heart—chords that had never before been touched.

“The only way to overcome temptation is to yield to it.” “For the desire for forbidden things only needlessly torments the human soul.” “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 astonishing beauty!” “Your radiant youth—like sunlight, like spring days, like the moon—could enchant the entire world.” “But youth never returns.” “In time, our bodies will decay and our senses wither.” “And you will begin to regret not having had the courage to yield to glorious temptations in days past.” “Ah, youth!” “Youth!” “There is nothing in the world but youth.” Lord Henry’s words held the quality of truly insidious magic. How clearly, vividly—and yet how cruelly—must Dorian’s childlike heart have been lashed. Dorian suddenly felt life burning toward him like fire.

3

“There, it’s completely finished,” said Basil Hallward, laying down his brush.

“Dorian, you’ve stayed unusually still today. My thanks.” The painter had been so absorbed in his work that he had not noticed at all what conversation had passed between Dorian and Lord Henry.

“That’s thanks to me.” “Now, Grey-kun,” said Lord Henry. Dorian stood silently before the portrait. Exquisitely carved lips, eyes as deep and clear as a blue sky, luxuriant 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 am envious of beauty that will never perish.” “I am jealous of my portrait.” “Why can it preserve what I must lose forever?” “If only the portrait would change, and I myself were allowed to remain forever as I am now!” “The portrait will surely mock me before long—what a dreadful thing that would be!”

Dorian Gray shed tears and sank into the chair as if 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 know all of life.

Whether Dorian Gray was strolling aimlessly in the park or taking a walk along Piccadilly, he gazed with a maddened curiosity at each and every face of the people passing by, wondering what kind of lives they were leading. Some of these people attracted him, and others terrified him. The air felt suffused with a subtle poison. He longed for some sort of extraordinary event.

And then, one evening, Dorian suddenly decided to venture out to explore the lower districts of London—a gray monstrosity teeming with hideous criminals and resplendent sins. Danger was rather a pleasure to Dorian. Dorian, choosing to head east without aim, soon found himself wandering into a gloomy, dimly lit street 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 Jewish man in a strange doublet, smoking a cheap cigar. When he saw 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 low-class spectators who did nothing but scatter peanuts and the dreadful orchestra were unbearable even to Dorian. But when the curtain rose and the youthful Juliet appeared on stage, Dorian inadvertently let out a cry of delight.

5 The actress, who appeared barely seventeen or eighteen and was as lovely as a flower, surpassed in charm anything Dorian Gray had ever seen. Her small Greek-shaped head with dark brown hair parted and braided, eyes like a wellspring of passion in violet hues, and lips like rose petals—Dorian was so moved that his tears made it difficult to discern the girl’s face. And her voice was gentle and clear, like the sound of a soft flute or the song of a nightingale before dawn.

Dorian was, for the first time in his life, thrown into tumultuous turmoil by a love that consumed both body and soul. Her name was Sibyl Vane.

Dorian, unable to forget Sibyl Vane, then began visiting that eerie playhouse every night. On the third evening, Dorian threw flowers to her, who was then dressed as Rosalind. And after the curtain fell, he was led by the Jewish man to the dressing room. Sibyl Vane was still an innocent and shy girl. She merely listened with wide-eyed wonder as Dorian praised her artistry. In her demeanor, there was not the slightest sign that she was conscious of her own ability. She timidly said to Dorian.

“You are like a prince, aren’t you? From now on, I shall call you Prince Charming.” Though she too occupied such a profession and lifestyle, she remained but a child utterly ignorant of life.

6

Sibyl was walking with her brother James, who was about to set sail for Melbourne, toward Euston Road in the bright sunlight. “He’s called Prince Charming.” “Oh, don’t you think it’s such a wonderful name?” “If you were to see him even once, you’d surely think he’s the most splendid person in the world.” “Everyone likes him, and I… I love him.” “Oh, Jim, how happy it is to play Juliet while being in love!”

“You must be careful around men, especially so-called gentlemen,” said James. “Jim, I’m already tired of that sort of talk. You’ll only understand when you’ve fallen in love yourself—and soon enough that will happen.” At that moment she unexpectedly spotted Dorian Gray’s blond hair and smiling lips as he drove past in a carriage with two noblewomen.

“Oh, there’s Prince Charming over there!”

And she sprang up.

“Where?” Jim asked in surprise. “Which one is he?” “I must remember him.” But the carriage had already dashed away into the bustling crowd. “That was unfortunate—if that man dares do anything wrong to you, Sis, I swear I won’t let him live.” “I’ll track him down no matter what and stab him to death like a dog!” Jim declared, repeatedly thrusting an imaginary dagger into the air.

7 Lord Henry and Basil were not a little astonished when Dorian Gray confided in them about his love affair with Sibyl Vane. Thus one night, guided by Dorian, they went to see the shabby theater in the backstreets. That evening found the theater inexplicably packed to capacity, the sweltering heat driving audience members to shed coats and waistcoats as they shouted across the aisles. From the bar came the ceaseless popping of corks being drawn.

“The goddess is all very well, but what an appalling place this is!” said Lord Henry. “But once she takes the stage, you will forget everything else,” said Dorian. “No matter how ill-mannered the spectators may be, they all fall silent and gaze at her in quiet admiration.” “And she makes them weep and laugh at her very whim.” Fifteen minutes later, Sibyl Vane finally appeared on stage to thunderous applause.

Indeed, she was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen—so thought Lord Henry. But even so—what a clumsy performance this was! Could there truly be such an unfeeling Juliet? She showed not the slightest look of joy upon seeing Romeo. Her voice was undoubtedly good, but it was completely off-key. Dorian’s complexion turned deathly pale.

Oh, what on earth could have caused this astonishing blunder? She might be ill. The audience rose to their feet, stamping the floor and whistling.

Lord Henry and Basil, unable to endure any longer, left ahead, leaving Dorian behind.

8

Dorian's heart was cruelly torn asunder. He rushed into the dressing room the moment the final curtain fell.

The girl was waiting for him. "Oh, I was truly dreadful tonight, wasn't I?" "Dorian." "Horrible!" "Abominably clumsy." "Completely devoid of art." "You weren't ill?" "How can you stand there so unaffected?" "The agony I endured..." "Oh Dorian, you do understand?" said the girl with a smile. "I shall never act well again." "For until I met you, acting alone constituted my real existence." "Beatrice's joys became mine; Cordelia's sorrows flowed through my veins." "My universe resided within painted canvases." "But then you appeared—you in your perfection—revealing true substance where shadows once dwelled."

Dorian turned his face away and sighed. "You have killed my love. I loved you because you awakened my illusions. Because you gave form and substance to the shadows of art by recreating great poets' dreams. And you have utterly destroyed that." What a shallow, foolish creature! "I shall never think of you again—nor even recall your name."

With those final words, Dorian turned and left, abandoning Sibyl where she lay collapsed in tears.

9

—Could it be true? That a portrait could change—could such a thing truly exist in this world? Or was it merely some idle fantasy that had made what should have been a radiant countenance appear instead as something loathsome? …Yet it had been all too vivid. First in uncertain twilight, then in the brilliant light of dawn, Dorian had seen that cruel shadow hovering about the twisted lips of the portrait Basil Hallward had painted. He was terrified, yet felt compelled to verify it once more. Stealing away to 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! He sank shuddering onto the divan and stared at it with unutterable dread. The memory of how mercilessly cruel he had been to Sibyl Vane ate at his heart with gnawing shame. Once more he resolved to marry her. When shortly thereafter he saw Lord Henry’s face at his door, he at once declared this intention. Then Henry knit his brows and said:

“Your wife?! Dorian! Then you haven’t seen my letter yet?” “Letter?” “Ah yes, forgive me.” “I had not seen it yet.”

“Sibyl is dead,” said Lord Henry.

“Last night around half-past twelve, she apparently accidentally drank poison—cyanide or something—according to this morning’s newspaper.”

10

Basil Hallward, having also learned of Sibyl’s death, visited Dorian. Then, having heard from Dorian’s own lips that her death was a suicide, he was deeply taken aback by his excessively cold-hearted demeanor. “But, Dorian,” he said with a sorrowful smile. “Let us never speak of this dreadful matter again.” “I only hope your name does not become entangled with it.” “It’s fine,” Dorian replied. “It’s merely my baptismal name—Sibyl surely told no one of that.” “She always called me Prince Charming.” “Rather charming, isn’t it?… So Basil, as a memento of her fleeting kisses and courtship, would you paint her likeness for me?” “If you wish it, I shall paint it.” “However, you yourself must serve as the model.” “That’s impossible!” The painter was astonished. “Do you mean to say you dislike my paintings?” “What have you done with that portrait?” “Why do you keep it covered so?” “Show it to me, I implore you.”

Dorian let out a terrifying scream and blocked the painter’s path. “Don’t!” “Never!” “If you dare look at it, everything between us ends here!” “Dorian!”

“Silence!” Dorian obstinately refused. And that very day, he stealthily relocated the portrait to the disused study chamber upstairs.

11

Several years passed. Yet Dorian Gray’s countenance showed no diminishment of its luminous brilliance. Even those who had heard the most ignoble and dubious rumors about him throughout London’s society and clubs would relinquish belief in such calumnies upon beholding him. For he appeared perpetually unsullied by any taint of this world. His visage reminded people of that innocence they themselves had once harbored within their hearts. Dorian would often vanish from public view. From such absences arose manifold conjectures. When returning after prolonged disappearances, he would invariably climb the stairs leading to the secret chamber. The room’s key never left his person. There Dorian would face the portrait of himself painted by Basil Hallward, scrutinizing it alongside his true reflection mirrored before him. This extraordinary contrast afforded his senses supreme delight. Gazing upon his own beauty would only deepen his fascination with his soul’s corruption. Meticulously studying it, he sometimes relished an uncanny thrill from the vicious furrows etched across that desiccated brow and the lurid lines creeping about its sullen mouth—at other times pondering whether these marks of sin or time’s ravages inspired greater dread.

Dorian Gray’s mysterious life continued—amid lavish banquets where perfection was pursued, fragrant nocturnal chambers, adventures in disguise, and a shadowy dockside inn’s single room.

12

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

Dorian Gray had been invited to Lord Henry’s dinner party and chanced upon Basil Hallward at a fog-laden street corner while returning home. The painter had been waiting at Dorian’s residence for his return until then. The painter stated he was to depart for Paris on the midnight train for his work commitments but needed to discuss something imperative with him beforehand. Thereupon, Dorian reluctantly brought the painter home with him. It was already late—the servants having retired—but Dorian unfastened the latch himself and entered.

“What I have to say concerns you yourself,” said Basil Hallward. “I believe you must certainly be aware by now of your reputation throughout London…” Dorian sighed. “I don’t think I want to know.” “As for others’ affairs, I cannot say, but there can’t be many who love their own scandals.”

“Every sin must inevitably imprint itself upon the perpetrator’s countenance.” “It can never be wholly hidden.” “Yet you retain a pure, luminous complexion—crystalline and ever-youthful.” “How could I credit such vile rumors about you?” “But then how explain the Duke of Berwick and other gentlemen of rank shunning your company? Nay, severing all ties? …And I know full well that every young lord and lady who shared your intimacy met ruin most pitiful…”

13

“...I cannot grasp your truth.” “I want to see your soul,” said the painter. “See my soul?!” Dorian groaned. “Yes.” “However, that is something only God can do,” said the painter sorrowfully. A sharp, scornful laugh escaped Dorian’s lips. “You can see it tonight.” “I will show you my soul.” “Dorian, what a dreadful thing to say!” cried the painter, aghast. “Enough—follow me upstairs.” “My diary, which records everything about me up to now, is stored there.” The two then quietly ascended the pitch-dark stairs. The dim lamplight cast grotesque shadows across the walls and staircase. The windows moaned in the night wind. “Now, shut the door behind you,” Dorian said, shuddering in the cold night air of the old room.

The painter gazed around the room with a puzzled expression. Amid dust-covered chairs, desks, emptied bookcases, and faded Flemish-style tapestries, a single hanging painting caught his eye. “That is my soul—the one only God can see. Basil, draw back the curtain!” Compelled by Dorian’s command, the painter opened the drapery and let out an involuntary cry of terror. It was indeed the very image of Dorian he had painted. Ah, but what a violent transformation! The painter discerned the horrifyingly gruesome visage of a demon in Dorian’s ugly face. However, the painter who had discovered the secret of Dorian’s soul received Dorian’s sharp blade against his neck from behind the next moment and collapsed on the spot.

14

The next morning, the sun shone brightly, and the September sky was a clear blue. 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 152 Hartford Street.” Dorian then walked around the room, glancing at the clock repeatedly. His chest was being torn 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 was firmly resolved never to cross the threshold of your house again, but…” replied Alan.

“It’s a matter of my life and death. Don’t speak of such things—just grant this request…” Thereupon, Dorian confessed that he had committed murder the previous night, that the corpse was hidden in the secret room upstairs, and requested that Alan dispose of it through chemical means. “No! I must decline.” Alan turned pale and shouted. “You absolutely refuse?” “Absolutely!” “Very well…” Dorian wore a mocking smile as he silently wrote on a slip of paper and handed it to Alan. Alan read the note and paled. “If you persist in refusing, that’s unfortunate—I have another letter here already written… You’ll comply, won’t you? “Upstairs there’s a gas fire and asbestos. “As for necessary chemicals, have the servant procure them all. “This will be our eternal secret…”

15

That night, Dorian attended the Narboroughs’ soirée, but his heart sank like lead, not the least bit uplifted. Finally unable to endure it any longer, he brushed off Lord Henry and the others’ attempts to detain him and excused himself from the gathering. Then, upon securing a two-wheeled carriage on Bond Street, he had it race through the late-night streets. The moon hung low, appearing like a yellow skull. From time to time, large black clouds swelled and billowed out long arms to envelop it. Gradually, the streetlights dwindled in number as the streets grew increasingly narrow, dilapidated, and gloomy. “The soul is comforted by the senses,” Dorian murmured inwardly as he abandoned his carriage near the docks. And he entered a small grimy house wedged between derelict factories. It was an opium den.

As Dorian Gray staggered into the dim little room, reeling from the overpowering stench of opium, he encountered a friend crouching over a lamp attempting to light a pipe. Dorian wanted to be alone where no one knew him, so he immediately tried to flee the spot. Then a haggard woman who had been at the bar called out to Dorian. “Prince Charming!” At this voice, a sailor who had been hunched over a table in the corner of the room suddenly raised his face. With eyes ablaze with fury, he scanned his surroundings, but upon hearing the sound of the door closing, he immediately leapt up and dashed outside as if in pursuit.

16

Dorian Gray hurried along the wharf through the soaking rain that had begun to pour. He reflected on whether the tragic fate of the young friend he had met at the opium den was also connected to himself, just as Basil had said. He clicked his tongue. His eyes clouded with sadness for just a moment. But in the end, it amounted to nothing... He quickened his pace even more and entered a dimly lit archway to take a shortcut. Just then, someone suddenly grabbed him from behind. Before he could resist, a savage arm choked his neck and instantly pinned him against the wall. He struggled desperately and finally managed to wrench away those terrifying fingers, but now he heard the metallic click of a pistol and found himself staring into the gleaming barrel aimed straight at his head—and at the grimy, stocky face of a man.

“What are you doing?” Dorian gasped. “Be quiet!” said the man. “You killed Sibyl Vane.” “I am her brother.” “I swore revenge and have hunted you for eighteen long years.” “Eighteen years?” A triumphant hue rose to Dorian’s pallid face. “Eighteen years! Examine me under proper light.” With that, the sailor pulled Dorian from the archway and scrutinized his face beneath a wind-tossed streetlamp. Yet what met his gaze was a rosy-cheeked youth of striking beauty—not yet twenty. The sailor stood thunderstruck. “Forgive me, sir.” “I nearly made a dreadful error…”

17

“Hide your pistol and return home.” “Otherwise, it won’t do you any good.” With that, Dorian turned on his heel and quietly withdrew from the scene.

James Vane stood frozen on the cobblestones, paralyzed with fear. He trembled from his toes to his crown; after a moment, a black shadow clinging to the wet wall emerged into the light and crept toward 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 tailing him. What a fool you are! You should’ve done it—he’s rolling in money and rotten to the core.” “You’ve got the wrong man,” he answered. “I don’t want money. I want his life. That bastard must be near forty by now. No green boy.” “But God saw fit to spare bloodshed.” The woman let out a shrill laugh. “A green boy? Don’t talk rot! Prince Charming ruined me nigh eighteen years back.” “Liar!” James roared. “By God!” “Swear it?” “I swear!” With a feral snarl, he bolted toward the street corner. But Dorian had long melted into shadow. When James turned back, the woman too had vanished.

18

About a week later, Dorian discovered James Vane’s face pressed against the glass window of the Selby Royal conservatory like a white handkerchief, staring at him, and fainted dead away.

Ever since then, Dorian was startled by every little thing. He spent his days hiding in his room. He even battled the shadows cast by wind-stirred tapestries. Closing his eyes meant seeing the sailor’s face pressed against misted windowpanes. An unspeakable terror gripped his heart. Worse still, the bloodied sins he’d committed whispered from dark corners—mocking him, jolting him awake with icy fingers clawing at his sleep. He grew pallid and wept like a madman. Yet he wrestled against his faltering resolve. He longed to scorn his conscience’s feeble threats.

On a certain winter morning, bright and clear and filled with the scent of pine, he spurred his horse and joined the hunting party for the first time in ages. The air was fragrant, the forest glowed with red and russet light, and the clamor of beaters and sharp gunshots overflowed with the fresh joy of freedom. Dorian proceeded light-heartedly alongside Geoffrey, the brother of the Duchess of Monmouth.

Suddenly, the grass thicket about twenty yards ahead of them swayed, and a black-eared rabbit darted out. Geoffrey swiftly shouldered the gun and took aim. “Wait!” Dorian cried out involuntarily. But it was already too late. Two cries were heard. One was the rabbit’s cry, and the other was a dreadful human scream. 19

The one who had been shot and killed by Mr. Geoffrey was none other than James Vane. Dorian trembled from head to toe upon learning this.

Dorian left London and hid in a quiet countryside. He shut himself away in a room at a small inn there, longing to take the first step into a new life. Dorian fell in love with the beautiful village girl Hetty. She was as gentle and lovely as Sibyl Vane had been. Dorian truly loved Hetty. Eventually, one day in an apple orchard, they even made a promise to flee the village hand in hand at dawn the next day. However, Dorian—thinking of the girl’s happiness—secretly returned to London, abandoning her. “...I wanted to preserve her forever as a maiden like a flower,” Dorian confessed to Lord Henry.

“It was merely a novelistic motive that pleased you,” Lord Henry laughed. “Your so-called life improvement reeks of suspicion.” “She must have had her heart torn asunder by your good counsel.” “What nonsense!” “Of course she wept.” But she remains untainted. “She can live like Perdita in her garden among mint and buttercups...” “Hmph, how childish you remain.” “That girl will marry some carter or peasant soon enough—deceiving her husband as you taught her—no doubt living most respectably.” “Incidentally—have you heard about Basil’s disappearance and Mr. Campbell’s suicide?”

20

The past could not be undone. He had to think about himself and the future. James Vane had been buried namelessly in Selby cemetery, Alan Campbell had committed suicide with a pistol in his laboratory, and Basil Hallward’s disappearance would remain an eternal secret before eventually being forgotten by all. A new life! That was all Dorian desired. And Dorian had already taken that first step. When he considered his gesture toward the village girl Hetty, he thought that perhaps some new change might have occurred in that portrait. At the very least, it would no longer be as heinous as it had been until now. The demonic visage alone might have vanished by now. Dorian hurriedly took the lamp and went up the stairs. Then, quickly entering inside, he closed the door behind him as usual and drew back the purple drape covering the portrait. At that very moment, he let out a cry of pain and rage. Not only had the portrait not changed at all, but its eyes now held a newly cunning hue, and its lips were carved with hypocritical wrinkles, twisted even more hideously than before! Dorian Gray, overwhelmed by 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 cry. When people who had heard the noise entered the room, they found the corpse of an ugly, ghastly-faced man lying on the floor with a dagger through its evening-clad chest before the portrait of a beautiful youth.