"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages."
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages."
Verily, I did remark to the esteemed Lady Agatha, quoting the Bard himself, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.” For she did exclaim, with a mixture of wonder and perplexity, “Dorian, despite the passage of seven years, you appear unchanged, yet you have undergone a most profound transformation. Each time we meet, it is as if I am making the acquaintance of a new and entirely different individual, a brand-new persona, if you will.” I did respond with a certain je ne sais quoi, 'Why, pray tell, Lady Agatha, should one be content with but a single character? Why not assume the roles of two or three people in the course of a single day? After all, we doff our night attire in the morning, donning instead our morning finery. We then change once more for afternoon tea, and yet again for dinner, perhaps even for supper. At the dinner table, we wear many masks, do we not? We often find ourselves in the company of those we secretly despise, lavishing them with pleasantries and false flattery. We do this, in part, to amuse ourselves, but also to maintain our standing in society. And sometimes, I dare say, it is done to gather intelligence on another, that we might, at some future juncture, find it expedient to...press our advantage, shall we say."
There ensued a most awkward and protracted silence, one that hung in the air like a palpable mist. Lady Agatha, ever eager to pry into the affairs of others, sought to prolong the conversation, yet my enigmatic demeanor seemed to thwart her efforts, causing her considerable distress. I confess, I find her curiosity a trifle irksome and have no inclination to indulge in such impertinent discourse.
My dear lady's countenance fell, resembling that of a forlorn puppy, attired in a pink ballet skirt, drenched to the bone on a dismal day. Her gaze bespoke a poignant sorrow, as if to say, 'I am left in the cold, bereft of understanding regarding your mysterious nature, and you have shut me out from your life.' I am ever wary of those who evince an interest in my private affairs. What prompted her to make such a remark? Does she suspect the truth about my...altered portrait? Her piercing stare seems to whisper, 'You remain youthful, while we mortals grow old. What is the secret to your beauty and eternal youth?'
Lady Agatha's eyes locked onto mine, her gaze piercing with a mixture of curiosity and longing. I could sense her yearning to understand the enigma that I had become. The silence between us grew thicker, like a London fog, until I finally broke it. "Tell me, Lady Agatha," I said, my voice low and smooth, "what is it about me that fascinates you so? Is it the fact that I seem to defy the passage of time, or is it something more?" Lady Agatha's face lit up with a faint smile, and she leaned in closer. "Oh, Dorian, it's both," she whispered. "You're like a puzzle, and I'm determined to unravel the mystery that surrounds you."
I chuckled, the sound low and husky. "I'm afraid I'm not a puzzle to be solved, my dear Lady Agatha. I'm simply a man who's learned to appreciate the beauty of life." As I spoke, I couldn't help but notice the way Lady Agatha's eyes sparkled with intrigue. She was a woman who thrived on gossip and secrets, and I was a puzzle she was determined to crack. But I was not about to let her in on my secrets. Not yet at least.
It was my conviction that, in due time, she would assume the position of my lady's maid, provided she was sufficiently youthful. In her salad days, she had a vision of loveliness on the stage. As a leading hostess in Society, Lady Agatha held a prominent place amongst London's elite, and her luncheons served as a backdrop for certain satirical commentary on the social mores of our time. Whilst I found her philanthropic efforts inspiring, Lord Henry did not share my enthusiasm, deeming such pursuits tiresome. Lady Agatha was deeply invested in charitable works amongst the London poor, frequently endeavoring to persuade me to lend my support to a benefit concert, to which invitations I would often, regrettably, fail to respond. The sole charitable deed I was willing to bestow upon the poor was the occasional indulgence of their desires at the doss houses, supplemented by a stray shilling to ensure their discretion.
Her regard for me was akin to the comforting warmth of a heavy woolen shawl on a winter's eve, as we sat ensconced before the crackling fire. She would oft extol my virtues, styling me a 'most excellent young gentleman' due to my pleasing countenance and supposed predilection for lending aid to her philanthropic endeavors. This was prior to Lord Henry's pernicious influence taking hold of me, much like the sudden, choking sensation of cigar smoke.
Alas, poor Lady Agatha finds herself the perpetual target of Lord Henry's rapier-like wit, her noble nature affording him ample opportunity for clever repartee and cynical remark. Upon my mentioning that I had vexed Lady Agatha by declining a duet, Henry quipped that she hardly required a partner to produce a duet-like effect, her solo performance being sufficient unto itself. His wit, though biting, did provoke a chuckle. Lady Agatha's charitable endeavors, however, struck him as an exercise in futility, a shallow display of societal obligation rather than genuine compassion. “Lady Agatha and her do-gaudery,” he would mutter, “are emblematic of the cant that pervades our polite circles. She dabbles in philanthropy yet fails to truly confront the depths of human suffering."
He would proceed to remark, “I regard it as a frivolous, tiresome, and utterly futile expenditure of one's hours. Lady Agatha's charitable pursuits are a paragon of the hypocrisy and misguided sentimentality that pervades our rarefied social circle. When I inquired as to why I should eschew such philanthropic endeavors, Lord Henry would not deign to favor me with a response, instead waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal, as if to brush the topic aside like so much dust.
Lord Henry declares, "I can sympathize with everything, except suffering" because it is "too ugly, too horrible, too distressing". This explicitly selfish view provides philosophical justification for his and my own eventual callousness towards the suffering of others.
Henry appears to be the sole individual in society unencumbered by the need for pretense. His words flow forth unbridled, like the unrelenting torrent of the Dale Dyke Dam, which met its catastrophic demise shortly after completion. According to his scathing critique, Lady Agatha ensconces herself behind the gilded battlements of her social standing, tossing a paltry sum to the poor and downtrodden as a token gesture of benevolence. Meanwhile, I remain an enigma, inscrutable to all who would seek to unravel my true nature. Indeed, I don many masks, playing diverse roles upon the world's stage. Yet, there exists one secret, known only to myself: the portrait sequestered in the attic, a reflection of my true self, hidden from prying eyes.
