The Picture of Dorian Gray

by

Oscar Wilde

JTABLE 4 21 0

CHAPTER 0

THE PREFACE

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art andconceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translateinto another manner or a new material his impression of beautifulthings. 

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt withoutbeing charming. This is a fault. 

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are thecultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whombeautiful things mean only beauty. 

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are wellwritten, or badly written. That is all. 

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeinghis own face in a glass. 

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Calibannot seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms partof the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consistsin the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to proveanything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist hasethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is anunpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artistcan express everything. Thought and language are to the artistinstruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials foran art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts isthe art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, theactor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who readthe symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of artshows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for makinga useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse formaking a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. 

 All art is quite useless. 

 OSCAR WILDE

CHAPTER 1

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the lightsummer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came throughthe open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicateperfume of the pink-flowering thorn. 

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he waslying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord HenryWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colouredblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able tobear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and thenthe fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the longtussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think ofthose pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium ofan art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense ofswiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering theirway through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonousinsistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of Londonwas like the bourdon note of a distant organ. 

In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood thefull-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artisthimself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years agocaused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so manystrange conjectures. 

As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had soskilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across hisface, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though hesought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which hefeared he might awake. 

"It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done, " saidLord Henry languidly. "You must certainly send it next year to theGrosvenor. The Academy is too large and too vulgar. Whenever I havegone there, there have been either so many people that I have not beenable to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures thatI have not been able to see the people, which was worse. The Grosvenoris really the only place. "

"I don't think I shall send it anywhere, " he answered, tossing his headback in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him atOxford. "No, I won't send it anywhere. "

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement throughthe thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorlsfrom his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? Mydear fellow, why? Have you any reason? What odd chaps you paintersare! You do anything in the world to gain a reputation. As soon asyou have one, you seem to want to throw it away. It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. A portrait like this would set youfar above all the young men in England, and make the old men quitejealous, if old men are ever capable of any emotion. "

"I know you will laugh at me, " he replied, "but I really can't exhibitit. I have put too much of myself into it. "

Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed. 

"Yes, I knew you would; but it is quite true, all the same. "

"Too much of yourself in it! Upon my word, Basil, I didn't know youwere so vain; and I really can't see any resemblance between you, withyour rugged strong face and your coal-black hair, and this youngAdonis, who looks as if he was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have anintellectual expression and all that. But beauty, real beauty, endswhere an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a modeof exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. The moment onesits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or somethinghorrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. Butthen in the Church they don't think. A bishop keeps on saying at theage of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Your mysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, butwhose picture really fascinates me, never thinks. I feel quite sure ofthat. He is some brainless beautiful creature who should be alwayshere in winter when we have no flowers to look at, and always here insummer when we want something to chill our intelligence. Don't flatteryourself, Basil: you are not in the least like him. "

"You don't understand me, Harry, " answered the artist. "Of course I amnot like him. I know that perfectly well. Indeed, I should be sorryto look like him. You shrug your shoulders? I am telling you thetruth. There is a fatality about all physical and intellectualdistinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history thefaltering steps of kings. It is better not to be different from one'sfellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothingof victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. Theylive as we all should live--undisturbed, indifferent, and withoutdisquiet. They neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive itfrom alien hands. Your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as theyare--my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray's good looks--weshall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly. "

"Dorian Gray? Is that his name?" asked Lord Henry, walking across thestudio towards Basil Hallward. 

"Yes, that is his name. I didn't intend to tell it to you. "

"But why not?"

"Oh, I can't explain. When I like people immensely, I never tell theirnames to any one. It is like surrendering a part of them. I havegrown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can makemodern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing isdelightful if one only hides it. When I leave town now I never tell mypeople where I am going. If I did, I would lose all my pleasure. Itis a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a greatdeal of romance into one's life. I suppose you think me awfullyfoolish about it?"

"Not at all, " answered Lord Henry, "not at all, my dear Basil. Youseem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is thatit makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. Inever know where my wife is, and my wife never knows what I am doing. When we meet--we do meet occasionally, when we dine out together, or godown to the Duke's--we tell each other the most absurd stories with themost serious faces. My wife is very good at it--much better, in fact, than I am. She never gets confused over her dates, and I always do. But when she does find me out, she makes no row at all. I sometimeswish she would; but she merely laughs at me. "

"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry, " said BasilHallward, strolling towards the door that led into the garden. "Ibelieve that you are really a very good husband, but that you arethoroughly ashamed of your own virtues. You are an extraordinaryfellow. You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing. Your cynicism is simply a pose. "

"Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know, "cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into thegarden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat thatstood in the shade of a tall laurel bush. The sunlight slipped overthe polished leaves. In the grass, white daisies were tremulous. 

After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch. "I am afraid I must begoing, Basil, " he murmured, "and before I go, I insist on youranswering a question I put to you some time ago. "

"What is that?" said the painter, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. 

"You know quite well. "

"I do not, Harry. "

"Well, I will tell you what it is. I want you to explain to me why youwon't exhibit Dorian Gray's picture. I want the real reason. "

"I told you the real reason. "

"No, you did not. You said it was because there was too much ofyourself in it. Now, that is childish. "

"Harry, " said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "everyportrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, notof the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It isnot he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, onthe coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibitthis picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret ofmy own soul. "

Lord Henry laughed. "And what is that?" he asked. 

"I will tell you, " said Hallward; but an expression of perplexity cameover his face. 

"I am all expectation, Basil, " continued his companion, glancing at him. 

"Oh, there is really very little to tell, Harry, " answered the painter;"and I am afraid you will hardly understand it. Perhaps you willhardly believe it. "

Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy fromthe grass and examined it. "I am quite sure I shall understand it, " hereplied, gazing intently at the little golden, white-feathered disk, "and as for believing things, I can believe anything, provided that itis quite incredible. "

The wind shook some blossoms from the trees, and the heavylilac-blooms, with their clustering stars, moved to and fro in thelanguid air. A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like ablue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauzewings. Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heartbeating, and wondered what was coming. 

"The story is simply this, " said the painter after some time. "Twomonths ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poorartists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just toremind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and awhite tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gaina reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the roomabout ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tediousacademicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking atme. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensationof terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it todo so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very artitself. I did not want any external influence in my life. You knowyourself, Harry, how independent I am by nature. I have always been myown master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then--but I don't know how to explain it to you. Something seemed totell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I hada strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys andexquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It wasnot conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I takeno credit to myself for trying to escape. "

"Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all. "

"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I usedto be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door. There, of course, I stumbled against Lady Brandon. 'You are not going to run away sosoon, Mr. Hallward?' she screamed out. You know her curiously shrillvoice?"

"Yes; she is a peacock in everything but beauty, " said Lord Henry, pulling the daisy to bits with his long nervous fingers. 

"I could not get rid of her. She brought me up to royalties, andpeople with stars and garters, and elderly ladies with gigantic tiarasand parrot noses. She spoke of me as her dearest friend. I had onlymet her once before, but she took it into her head to lionize me. Ibelieve some picture of mine had made a great success at the time, atleast had been chattered about in the penny newspapers, which is thenineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I found myselfface to face with the young man whose personality had so strangelystirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without any introduction. I am sureof that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we weredestined to know each other. "

"And how did Lady Brandon describe this wonderful young man?" asked hiscompanion. "I know she goes in for giving a rapid precis of all herguests. I remember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced oldgentleman covered all over with orders and ribbons, and hissing into myear, in a tragic whisper which must have been perfectly audible toeverybody in the room, the most astounding details. I simply fled. Ilike to find out people for myself. But Lady Brandon treats her guestsexactly as an auctioneer treats his goods. She either explains thementirely away, or tells one everything about them except what one wantsto know. "

"Poor Lady Brandon! You are hard on her, Harry!" said Hallwardlistlessly. 

"My dear fellow, she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded inopening a restaurant. How could I admire her? But tell me, what didshe say about Mr. Dorian Gray?"

"Oh, something like, 'Charming boy--poor dear mother and I absolutelyinseparable. Quite forget what he does--afraid he--doesn't doanything--oh, yes, plays the piano--or is it the violin, dear Mr. Gray?' Neither of us could help laughing, and we became friends atonce. "

"Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is farthe best ending for one, " said the young lord, plucking another daisy. 

Hallward shook his head. "You don't understand what friendship is, Harry, " he murmured--"or what enmity is, for that matter. You likeevery one; that is to say, you are indifferent to every one. "

"How horribly unjust of you!" cried Lord Henry, tilting his hat backand looking up at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeins ofglossy white silk, were drifting across the hollowed turquoise of thesummer sky. "Yes; horribly unjust of you. I make a great differencebetween people. I choose my friends for their good looks, myacquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their goodintellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of someintellectual power, and consequently they all appreciate me. Is thatvery vain of me? I think it is rather vain. "

"I should think it was, Harry. But according to your category I mustbe merely an acquaintance. "

"My dear old Basil, you are much more than an acquaintance. "

"And much less than a friend. A sort of brother, I suppose?"

"Oh, brothers! I don't care for brothers. My elder brother won't die, and my younger brothers seem never to do anything else. "

"Harry!" exclaimed Hallward, frowning. 

"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting myrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can standother people having the same faults as ourselves. I quite sympathizewith the rage of the English democracy against what they call the vicesof the upper orders. The masses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, andimmorality should be their own special property, and that if any one ofus makes an ass of himself, he is poaching on their preserves. Whenpoor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quitemagnificent. And yet I don't suppose that ten per cent of theproletariat live correctly. "

"I don't agree with a single word that you have said, and, what ismore, Harry, I feel sure you don't either. "

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of hispatent-leather boot with a tasselled ebony cane. "How English you areBasil! That is the second time you have made that observation. If oneputs forward an idea to a true Englishman--always a rash thing todo--he never dreams of considering whether the idea is right or wrong. The only thing he considers of any importance is whether one believesit oneself. Now, the value of an idea has nothing whatsoever to dowith the sincerity of the man who expresses it. Indeed, theprobabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the more purelyintellectual will the idea be, as in that case it will not be colouredby either his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don'tpropose to discuss politics, sociology, or metaphysics with you. Ilike persons better than principles, and I like persons with noprinciples better than anything else in the world. Tell me more aboutMr. Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?"

"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He isabsolutely necessary to me. "

"How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything butyour art. "

"He is all my art to me now, " said the painter gravely. "I sometimesthink, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in theworld's history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face ofAntinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray willsome day be to me. It is not merely that I paint from him, draw fromhim, sketch from him. Of course, I have done all that. But he is muchmore to me than a model or a sitter. I won't tell you that I amdissatisfied with what I have done of him, or that his beauty is suchthat art cannot express it. There is nothing that art cannot express, and I know that the work I have done, since I met Dorian Gray, is goodwork, is the best work of my life. But in some curious way--I wonderwill you understand me?--his personality has suggested to me anentirely new manner in art, an entirely new mode of style. I seethings differently, I think of them differently. I can now recreatelife in a way that was hidden from me before. 'A dream of form in daysof thought'--who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what DorianGray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad--for heseems to me little more than a lad, though he is really overtwenty--his merely visible presence--ah! I wonder can you realize allthat that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a freshschool, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romanticspirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony ofsoul and body--how much that is! We in our madness have separated thetwo, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that isvoid. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You rememberthat landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge pricebut which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I haveever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, DorianGray sat beside me. Some subtle influence passed from him to me, andfor the first time in my life I saw in the plain woodland the wonder Ihad always looked for and always missed. "

"Basil, this is extraordinary! I must see Dorian Gray. "

Hallward got up from the seat and walked up and down the garden. Aftersome time he came back. "Harry, " he said, "Dorian Gray is to me simplya motive in art. You might see nothing in him. I see everything inhim. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him isthere. He is a suggestion, as I have said, of a new manner. I findhim in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties ofcertain colours. That is all. "

"Then why won't you exhibit his portrait?" asked Lord Henry. 

"Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression ofall this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have nevercared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never knowanything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not baremy soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be putunder their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry--too much of myself!"

"Poets are not so scrupulous as you are. They know how useful passionis for publication. Nowadays a broken heart will run to many editions. "

"I hate them for it, " cried Hallward. "An artist should createbeautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. Welive in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form ofautobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Some day Iwill show the world what it is; and for that reason the world shallnever see my portrait of Dorian Gray. "

"I think you are wrong, Basil, but I won't argue with you. It is onlythe intellectually lost who ever argue. Tell me, is Dorian Gray veryfond of you?"

The painter considered for a few moments. "He likes me, " he answeredafter a pause; "I know he likes me. Of course I flatter himdreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that Iknow I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming tome, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now andthen, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a realdelight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given awaymy whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to putin his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for asummer's day. "

"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger, " murmured Lord Henry. "Perhaps you will tire sooner than he will. It is a sad thing to thinkof, but there is no doubt that genius lasts longer than beauty. Thataccounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educateourselves. In the wild struggle for existence, we want to havesomething that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish andfacts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. The thoroughlywell-informed man--that is the modern ideal. And the mind of thethoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like abric-a-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced aboveits proper value. I think you will tire first, all the same. Some dayyou will look at your friend, and he will seem to you to be a littleout of drawing, or you won't like his tone of colour, or something. You will bitterly reproach him in your own heart, and seriously thinkthat he has behaved very badly to you. The next time he calls, youwill be perfectly cold and indifferent. It will be a great pity, forit will alter you. What you have told me is quite a romance, a romanceof art one might call it, and the worst of having a romance of any kindis that it leaves one so unromantic. "

"Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality ofDorian Gray will dominate me. You can't feel what I feel. You changetoo often. "

"Ah, my dear Basil, that is exactly why I can feel it. Those who arefaithful know only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless whoknow love's tragedies. " And Lord Henry struck a light on a daintysilver case and began to smoke a cigarette with a self-conscious andsatisfied air, as if he had summed up the world in a phrase. There wasa rustle of chirruping sparrows in the green lacquer leaves of the ivy, and the blue cloud-shadows chased themselves across the grass likeswallows. How pleasant it was in the garden! And how delightful otherpeople's emotions were!--much more delightful than their ideas, itseemed to him. One's own soul, and the passions of one'sfriends--those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured tohimself with silent amusement the tedious luncheon that he had missedby staying so long with Basil Hallward. Had he gone to his aunt's, hewould have been sure to have met Lord Goodbody there, and the wholeconversation would have been about the feeding of the poor and thenecessity for model lodging-houses. Each class would have preached theimportance of those virtues, for whose exercise there was no necessityin their own lives. The rich would have spoken on the value of thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It wascharming to have escaped all that! As he thought of his aunt, an ideaseemed to strike him. He turned to Hallward and said, "My dear fellow, I have just remembered. "

"Remembered what, Harry?"

"Where I heard the name of Dorian Gray. "

"Where was it?" asked Hallward, with a slight frown. 

"Don't look so angry, Basil. It was at my aunt, Lady Agatha's. Shetold me she had discovered a wonderful young man who was going to helpher in the East End, and that his name was Dorian Gray. I am bound tostate that she never told me he was good-looking. Women have noappreciation of good looks; at least, good women have not. She saidthat he was very earnest and had a beautiful nature. I at oncepictured to myself a creature with spectacles and lank hair, horriblyfreckled, and tramping about on huge feet. I wish I had known it wasyour friend. "

"I am very glad you didn't, Harry. "

"Why?"

"I don't want you to meet him. "

"You don't want me to meet him?"

"No. "

"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir, " said the butler, coming intothe garden. 

"You must introduce me now, " cried Lord Henry, laughing. 

The painter turned to his servant, who stood blinking in the sunlight. "Ask Mr. Gray to wait, Parker: I shall be in in a few moments. " Theman bowed and went up the walk. 

Then he looked at Lord Henry. "Dorian Gray is my dearest friend, " hesaid. "He has a simple and a beautiful nature. Your aunt was quiteright in what she said of him. Don't spoil him. Don't try toinfluence him. Your influence would be bad. The world is wide, andhas many marvellous people in it. Don't take away from me the oneperson who gives to my art whatever charm it possesses: my life as anartist depends on him. Mind, Harry, I trust you. " He spoke veryslowly, and the words seemed wrung out of him almost against his will. 

"What nonsense you talk!" said Lord Henry, smiling, and taking Hallwardby the arm, he almost led him into the house. 

CHAPTER 2

As they entered they saw Dorian Gray. He was seated at the piano, withhis back to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's"Forest Scenes. " "You must lend me these, Basil, " he cried. "I wantto learn them. They are perfectly charming. "

"That entirely depends on how you sit to-day, Dorian. "

"Oh, I am tired of sitting, and I don't want a life-sized portrait ofmyself, " answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in awilful, petulant manner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faintblush coloured his cheeks for a moment, and he started up. "I beg yourpardon, Basil, but I didn't know you had any one with you. "

"This is Lord Henry Wotton, Dorian, an old Oxford friend of mine. Ihave just been telling him what a capital sitter you were, and now youhave spoiled everything. "

"You have not spoiled my pleasure in meeting you, Mr. Gray, " said LordHenry, stepping forward and extending his hand. "My aunt has oftenspoken to me about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I amafraid, one of her victims also. "

"I am in Lady Agatha's black books at present, " answered Dorian with afunny look of penitence. "I promised to go to a club in Whitechapelwith her last Tuesday, and I really forgot all about it. We were tohave played a duet together--three duets, I believe. I don't know whatshe will say to me. I am far too frightened to call. "

"Oh, I will make your peace with my aunt. She is quite devoted to you. And I don't think it really matters about your not being there. Theaudience probably thought it was a duet. When Aunt Agatha sits down tothe piano, she makes quite enough noise for two people. "

"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice to me, " answered Dorian, laughing. 

Lord Henry looked at him. Yes, he was certainly wonderfully handsome, with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crispgold hair. There was something in his face that made one trust him atonce. All the candour of youth was there, as well as all youth'spassionate purity. One felt that he had kept himself unspotted fromthe world. No wonder Basil Hallward worshipped him. 

"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray--far toocharming. " And Lord Henry flung himself down on the divan and openedhis cigarette-case. 

The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushesready. He was looking worried, and when he heard Lord Henry's lastremark, he glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Harry, I want to finish this picture to-day. Would you think itawfully rude of me if I asked you to go away?"

Lord Henry smiled and looked at Dorian Gray. "Am I to go, Mr. Gray?"he asked. 

"Oh, please don't, Lord Henry. I see that Basil is in one of his sulkymoods, and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tellme why I should not go in for philanthropy. "

"I don't know that I shall tell you that, Mr. Gray. It is so tedious asubject that one would have to talk seriously about it. But Icertainly shall not run away, now that you have asked me to stop. Youdon't really mind, Basil, do you? You have often told me that youliked your sitters to have some one to chat to. "

Hallward bit his lip. "If Dorian wishes it, of course you must stay. Dorian's whims are laws to everybody, except himself. "

Lord Henry took up his hat and gloves. "You are very pressing, Basil, but I am afraid I must go. I have promised to meet a man at theOrleans. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Come and see me some afternoon in CurzonStreet. I am nearly always at home at five o'clock. Write to me whenyou are coming. I should be sorry to miss you. "

"Basil, " cried Dorian Gray, "if Lord Henry Wotton goes, I shall go, too. You never open your lips while you are painting, and it ishorribly dull standing on a platform and trying to look pleasant. Askhim to stay. I insist upon it. "

"Stay, Harry, to oblige Dorian, and to oblige me, " said Hallward, gazing intently at his picture. "It is quite true, I never talk when Iam working, and never listen either, and it must be dreadfully tediousfor my unfortunate sitters. I beg you to stay. "

"But what about my man at the Orleans?"

The painter laughed. "I don't think there will be any difficulty aboutthat. Sit down again, Harry. And now, Dorian, get up on the platform, and don't move about too much, or pay any attention to what Lord Henrysays. He has a very bad influence over all his friends, with thesingle exception of myself. "

Dorian Gray stepped up on the dais with the air of a young Greekmartyr, and made a little moue of discontent to Lord Henry, to whom hehad rather taken a fancy. He was so unlike Basil. They made adelightful contrast. And he had such a beautiful voice. After a fewmoments he said to him, "Have you really a very bad influence, LordHenry? As bad as Basil says?"

"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influenceis immoral--immoral from the scientific point of view. "

"Why?"

"Because to influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He doesnot think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. Hisvirtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things assins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else's music, anactor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life isself-development. To realize one's nature perfectly--that is what eachof us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. Theyhave forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes toone's self. Of course, they are charitable. They feed the hungry andclothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Couragehas gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it. The terrorof society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which isthe secret of religion--these are the two things that govern us. Andyet--"

"Just turn your head a little more to the right, Dorian, like a goodboy, " said the painter, deep in his work and conscious only that a lookhad come into the lad's face that he had never seen there before. 

"And yet, " continued Lord Henry, in his low, musical voice, and withthat graceful wave of the hand that was always so characteristic ofhim, and that he had even in his Eton days, "I believe that if one manwere to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form toevery feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream--Ibelieve that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that wewould forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to theHellenic ideal--to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, itmay be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. Themutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denialthat mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulsethat we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The bodysins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode ofpurification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation isto yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing forthe things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what itsmonstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said thatthe great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in thebrain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take placealso. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and yourrose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleepingdreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame--"

"Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't knowwhat to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it. Don'tspeak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think. "

For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips andeyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely freshinfluences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to havecome really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had saidto him--words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox inthem--had touched some secret chord that had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating and throbbing to curious pulses. 

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but ratheranother chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! Howterrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could notescape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! Theyseemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and tohave a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Merewords! Was there anything so real as words?

Yes; there had been things in his boyhood that he had not understood. He understood them now. Life suddenly became fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in fire. Why had he notknown it?

With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precisepsychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intenselyinterested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words hadproduced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, hewondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it hit the mark? Howfascinating the lad was!

Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that hadthe true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate comesonly from strength. He was unconscious of the silence. 

"Basil, I am tired of standing, " cried Dorian Gray suddenly. "I mustgo out and sit in the garden. The air is stifling here. "

"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think ofanything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And I have caught the effect I wanted--the half-parted lips and thebright look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been saying toyou, but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe aword that he says. "

"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is thereason that I don't believe anything he has told me. "

"You know you believe it all, " said Lord Henry, looking at him with hisdreamy languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with you. It ishorribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something iced todrink, something with strawberries in it. "

"Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I willtell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so Iwill join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never beenin better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be mymasterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands. "

Lord Henry went out to the garden and found Dorian Gray burying hisface in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in theirperfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him and put his handupon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that, " he murmured. "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure thesenses but the soul. "

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves hadtossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they aresuddenly awakened. His finely chiselled nostrils quivered, and somehidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling. 

"Yes, " continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets oflife--to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by meansof the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than youthink you know, just as you know less than you want to know. "

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help likingthe tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There wassomething in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. Theymoved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of theirown. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid. Why hadit been left for a stranger to reveal him to himself? He had knownBasil Hallward for months, but the friendship between them had neveraltered him. Suddenly there had come some one across his life whoseemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery. And, yet, what wasthere to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It wasabsurd to be frightened. 

"Let us go and sit in the shade, " said Lord Henry. "Parker has broughtout the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare, you will bequite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You really mustnot allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be unbecoming. "

"What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down onthe seat at the end of the garden. 

"It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray. "

"Why?"

"Because you have the most marvellous youth, and youth is the one thingworth having. "

"I don't feel that, Lord Henry. "

"No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and wrinkledand ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, andpassion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, youwill feel it terribly. Now, wherever you go, you charm the world. Will it always be so? ... You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don't frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius--ishigher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of thegreat facts of the world, like sunlight, or spring-time, or thereflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. Itcannot be questioned. It has its divine right of sovereignty. Itmakes princes of those who have it. You smile? Ah! when you have lostit you won't smile.... People say sometimes that beauty is onlysuperficial. That may be so, but at least it is not so superficial asthought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is onlyshallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery ofthe world is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, thegods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly takeaway. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and thenyou will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, orhave to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory ofyour past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanesbrings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, andwars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, andhollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah!realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of yourdays, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Livethe wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Bealways searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A newHedonism--that is what our century wants. You might be its visiblesymbol. With your personality there is nothing you could not do. Theworld belongs to you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw thatyou were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you reallymight be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I musttell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be ifyou were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth willlast--such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but theyblossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year afteryear the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But wenever get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twentybecomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate intohideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we weretoo much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not thecourage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing inthe world but youth!"

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fellfrom his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed round itfor a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval stellatedglobe of the tiny blossoms. He watched it with that strange interestin trivial things that we try to develop when things of high importmake us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which wecannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us layssudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield. After a time thebee flew away. He saw it creeping into the stained trumpet of a Tyrianconvolvulus. The flower seemed to quiver, and then swayed gently toand fro. 

Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio and madestaccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other andsmiled. 

"I am waiting, " he cried. "Do come in. The light is quite perfect, and you can bring your drinks. "

They rose up and sauntered down the walk together. Two green-and-whitebutterflies fluttered past them, and in the pear-tree at the corner ofthe garden a thrush began to sing. 

"You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray, " said Lord Henry, looking athim. 

"Yes, I am glad now. I wonder shall I always be glad?"

"Always! That is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying tomake it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The onlydifference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the capricelasts a little longer. "

As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord Henry'sarm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice, " he murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the platform andresumed his pose. 

Lord Henry flung himself into a large wicker arm-chair and watched him. The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound thatbroke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward stepped backto look at his work from a distance. In the slanting beams thatstreamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was golden. Theheavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything. 

After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked fora long time at Dorian Gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "It is quitefinished, " he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name inlong vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas. 

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly awonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well. 

"My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly, " he said. "It is thefinest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look atyourself. "

The lad started, as if awakened from some dream. 

"Is it really finished?" he murmured, stepping down from the platform. 

"Quite finished, " said the painter. "And you have sat splendidlyto-day. I am awfully obliged to you. "

"That is entirely due to me, " broke in Lord Henry. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?"

Dorian made no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his pictureand turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeksflushed for a moment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he had recognized himself for the first time. He stood theremotionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking tohim, but not catching the meaning of his words. The sense of his ownbeauty came on him like a revelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be merely thecharming exaggeration of friendship. He had listened to them, laughedat them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his nature. Then hadcome Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, histerrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at the time, andnow, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the fullreality of the description flashed across him. Yes, there would be aday when his face would be wrinkled and wizen, his eyes dim andcolourless, the grace of his figure broken and deformed. The scarletwould pass away from his lips and the gold steal from his hair. Thelife that was to make his soul would mar his body. He would becomedreadful, hideous, and uncouth. 

As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like aknife and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyesdeepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He feltas if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart. 

"Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by thelad's silence, not understanding what it meant. 

"Of course he likes it, " said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it? Itis one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you anythingyou like to ask for it. I must have it. "

"It is not my property, Harry. "

"Whose property is it?"

"Dorian's, of course, " answered the painter. 

"He is a very lucky fellow. "

"How sad it is!" murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed uponhis own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, anddreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never beolder than this particular day of June.... If it were only the otherway! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that wasto grow old! For that--for that--I would give everything! Yes, thereis nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soulfor that!"

"You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil, " cried LordHenry, laughing. "It would be rather hard lines on your work. "

"I should object very strongly, Harry, " said Hallward. 

Dorian Gray turned and looked at him. "I believe you would, Basil. You like your art better than your friends. I am no more to you than agreen bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say. "

The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak likethat. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was flushedand his cheeks burning. 

"Yes, " he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or yoursilver Faun. You will like them always. How long will you like me?Till I have my first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when oneloses one's good looks, whatever they may be, one loses everything. Your picture has taught me that. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worth having. When I find that I am growingold, I shall kill myself. "

Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried, "don't talk like that. I have never had such a friend as you, and Ishall never have such another. You are not jealous of material things, are you?--you who are finer than any of them!"

"I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous ofthe portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I mustlose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and givessomething to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picturecould change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paintit? It will mock me some day--mock me horribly!" The hot tears welledinto his eyes; he tore his hand away and, flinging himself on thedivan, he buried his face in the cushions, as though he was praying. 

"This is your doing, Harry, " said the painter bitterly. 

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real Dorian Gray--thatis all. "

"It is not. "

"If it is not, what have I to do with it?"

"You should have gone away when I asked you, " he muttered. 

"I stayed when you asked me, " was Lord Henry's answer. 

"Harry, I can't quarrel with my two best friends at once, but betweenyou both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have everdone, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour? I willnot let it come across our three lives and mar them. "

Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with pallidface and tear-stained eyes, looked at him as he walked over to the dealpainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window. Whatwas he doing there? His fingers were straying about among the litterof tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes, it was forthe long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel. He hadfound it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas. 

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over toHallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to the end ofthe studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be murder!"

"I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian, " said the paintercoldly when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never thought youwould. "

"Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. Ifeel that. "

"Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed, andsent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself. " And he walkedacross the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have tea, ofcourse, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to suchsimple pleasures?"

"I adore simple pleasures, " said Lord Henry. "They are the last refugeof the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage. Whatabsurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was defined manas a rational animal. It was the most premature definition ever given. Man is many things, but he is not rational. I am glad he is not, afterall--though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the picture. Youhad much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy doesn't reallywant it, and I really do. "

"If you let any one have it but me, Basil, I shall never forgive you!"cried Dorian Gray; "and I don't allow people to call me a silly boy. "

"You know the picture is yours, Dorian. I gave it to you before itexisted. "

"And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that youdon't really object to being reminded that you are extremely young. "

"I should have objected very strongly this morning, Lord Henry. "

"Ah! this morning! You have lived since then. "

There came a knock at the door, and the butler entered with a ladentea-tray and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was arattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn. Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Graywent over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly tothe table and examined what was under the covers. 

"Let us go to the theatre to-night, " said Lord Henry. "There is sureto be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, butit is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that Iam ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of asubsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse: itwould have all the surprise of candour. "

"It is such a bore putting on one's dress-clothes, " muttered Hallward. "And, when one has them on, they are so horrid. "

"Yes, " answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenthcentury is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is theonly real colour-element left in modern life. "

"You really must not say things like that before Dorian, Harry. "

"Before which Dorian? The one who is pouring out tea for us, or theone in the picture?"

"Before either. "

"I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry, " said thelad. 

"Then you shall come; and you will come, too, Basil, won't you?"

"I can't, really. I would sooner not. I have a lot of work to do. "

"Well, then, you and I will go alone, Mr. Gray. "

"I should like that awfully. "

The painter bit his lip and walked over, cup in hand, to the picture. "I shall stay with the real Dorian, " he said, sadly. 

"Is it the real Dorian?" cried the original of the portrait, strollingacross to him. "Am I really like that?"

"Yes; you are just like that. "

"How wonderful, Basil!"

"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter, "sighed Hallward. "That is something. "

"What a fuss people make about fidelity!" exclaimed Lord Henry. "Why, even in love it is purely a question for physiology. It has nothing todo with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not; oldmen want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can say. "

"Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian, " said Hallward. "Stop anddine with me. "

"I can't, Basil. "

"Why?"

"Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him. "

"He won't like you the better for keeping your promises. He alwaysbreaks his own. I beg you not to go. "

Dorian Gray laughed and shook his head. 

"I entreat you. "

The lad hesitated, and looked over at Lord Henry, who was watching themfrom the tea-table with an amused smile. 

"I must go, Basil, " he answered. 

"Very well, " said Hallward, and he went over and laid down his cup onthe tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you hadbetter lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and seeme soon. Come to-morrow. "

"Certainly. "

"You won't forget?"

"No, of course not, " cried Dorian. 

"And ... Harry!"

"Yes, Basil?"

"Remember what I asked you, when we were in the garden this morning. "

"I have forgotten it. "

"I trust you. "

"I wish I could trust myself, " said Lord Henry, laughing. "Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon. "

As the door closed behind them, the painter flung himself down on asofa, and a look of pain came into his face. 

CHAPTER 3

At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from CurzonStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genialif somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world calledselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who wasconsidered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was youngand Prim unthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in acapricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy atParis, a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled byreason of his birth, his indolence, the good English of his dispatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure. The son, who had been hisfather's secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhatfoolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some monthslater to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the greataristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large townhouses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, andtook most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to themanagement of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himselffor this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage ofhaving coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency ofburning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except whenthe Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused themfor being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bulliedhim, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that thecountry was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, butthere was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. 

When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a roughshooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. "Well, Harry, " said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? Ithought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible tillfive. "

"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to getsomething out of you. "

"Money, I suppose, " said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sitdown and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine thatmoney is everything. "

"Yes, " murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "andwhen they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It is onlypeople who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never paymine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charminglyupon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's tradesmen, andconsequently they never bother me. What I want is information: notuseful information, of course; useless information. "

"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was inthe Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them innow by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are purehumbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quiteenough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him. "

"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George, " saidLord Henry languidly. 

"Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushywhite eyebrows. 

"That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I knowwho he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother was aDevereux, Lady Margaret Devereaux. I want you to tell me about hismother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearlyeverybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very muchinterested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him. "

"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso's grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at herchristening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, MargaretDevereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a pennilessyoung fellow--a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, orsomething of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as ifit happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a fewmonths after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. Theysaid Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insulthis son-in-law in public--paid him, sir, to do it, paid him--and thatthe fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing washushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for sometime afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. Thegirl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I hadforgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, hemust be a good-looking chap. "

"He is very good-looking, " assented Lord Henry. 

"I hope he will fall into proper hands, " continued the old man. "Heshould have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thingby him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came toher, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought hima mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noblewho was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. Theymade quite a story of it. I didn't dare show my face at Court for amonth. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies. "

"I don't know, " answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will bewell off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... His mother was very beautiful?"

"Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never couldunderstand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington wasmad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that familywere. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughedat him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't afterhim. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what isthis humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry anAmerican? Ain't English girls good enough for him?"

"It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George. "

"I'll back English women against the world, Harry, " said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. 

"The betting is on the Americans. "

"They don't last, I am told, " muttered his uncle. 

"A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at asteeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has achance. "

"Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?"

Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealingtheir parents, as English women are at concealing their past, " he said, rising to go. 

"They are pork-packers, I suppose?"

"I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor's sake. I am told thatpork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, afterpolitics. "

"Is she pretty?"

"She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It isthe secret of their charm. "

"Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They arealways telling us that it is the paradise for women. "

"It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessivelyanxious to get out of it, " said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving methe information I wanted. I always like to know everything about mynew friends, and nothing about my old ones. "

"Where are you lunching, Harry?"

"At Aunt Agatha's. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latestprotege. "

"Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more withher charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinksthat I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads. "

"All right, Uncle George, I'll tell her, but it won't have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is theirdistinguishing characteristic. "

The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for hisservant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Streetand turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. 

So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it hadbeen told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of astrange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everythingfor a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by ahideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then achild born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left tosolitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was aninteresting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as itwere. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was somethingtragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower mightblow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, aswith startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had satopposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richerrose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playingupon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of thebow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise ofinfluence. No other activity was like it. To project one's soul intosome gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one'sown intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music ofpassion and youth; to convey one's temperament into another as thoughit were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy inthat--perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an age so limitedand vulgar as our own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, andgrossly common in its aims.... He was a marvellous type, too, this lad, whom by so curious a chance he had met in Basil's studio, or could befashioned into a marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and thewhite purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles kept forus. There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could bemade a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty wasdestined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode oflooking at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presenceof one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt indim woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showingherself, Dryadlike and not afraid, because in his soul who sought forher there had been wakened that wonderful vision to which alone arewonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of thingsbecoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value, as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfectform whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! Heremembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artistin thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who hadcarved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our owncentury it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Graywhat, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashionedthe wonderful portrait. He would seek to dominate him--had already, indeed, half done so. He would make that wonderful spirit his own. There was something fascinating in this son of love and death. 

Suddenly he stopped and glanced up at the houses. He found that he hadpassed his aunt's some distance, and, smiling to himself, turned back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall, the butler told him that theyhad gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and stick andpassed into the dining-room. 

"Late as usual, Harry, " cried his aunt, shaking her head at him. 

He invented a facile excuse, and having taken the vacant seat next toher, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly fromthe end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable good-nature andgood temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and of those amplearchitectural proportions that in women who are not duchesses aredescribed by contemporary historians as stoutness. Next to her sat, onher right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament, whofollowed his leader in public life and in private life followed thebest cooks, dining with the Tories and thinking with the Liberals, inaccordance with a wise and well-known rule. The post on her left wasoccupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerablecharm and culture, who had fallen, however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to Lady Agatha, said everything that hehad to say before he was thirty. His own neighbour was Mrs. Vandeleur, one of his aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but sodreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. Fortunately for him she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a mostintelligent middle-aged mediocrity, as bald as a ministerial statementin the House of Commons, with whom she was conversing in that intenselyearnest manner which is the one unpardonable error, as he remarked oncehimself, that all really good people fall into, and from which none ofthem ever quite escape. 

"We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry, " cried the duchess, nodding pleasantly to him across the table. "Do you think he willreally marry this fascinating young person?"

"I believe she has made up her mind to propose to him, Duchess. "

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Agatha. "Really, some one shouldinterfere. "

"I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an Americandry-goods store, " said Sir Thomas Burdon, looking supercilious. 

"My uncle has already suggested pork-packing Sir Thomas. "

"Dry-goods! What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raisingher large hands in wonder and accentuating the verb. 

"American novels, " answered Lord Henry, helping himself to some quail. 

The duchess looked puzzled. 

"Don't mind him, my dear, " whispered Lady Agatha. "He never meansanything that he says. "

"When America was discovered, " said the Radical member--and he began togive some wearisome facts. Like all people who try to exhaust asubject, he exhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercisedher privilege of interruption. "I wish to goodness it never had beendiscovered at all!" she exclaimed. "Really, our girls have no chancenowadays. It is most unfair. "

"Perhaps, after all, America never has been discovered, " said Mr. Erskine; "I myself would say that it had merely been detected. "

"Oh! but I have seen specimens of the inhabitants, " answered theduchess vaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremelypretty. And they dress well, too. They get all their dresses inParis. I wish I could afford to do the same. "

"They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris, " chuckled SirThomas, who had a large wardrobe of Humour's cast-off clothes. 

"Really! And where do bad Americans go to when they die?" inquired theduchess. 

"They go to America, " murmured Lord Henry. 

Sir Thomas frowned. "I am afraid that your nephew is prejudicedagainst that great country, " he said to Lady Agatha. "I have travelledall over it in cars provided by the directors, who, in such matters, are extremely civil. I assure you that it is an education to visit it. "

"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr. Erskine plaintively. "I don't feel up to the journey. "

Sir Thomas waved his hand. "Mr. Erskine of Treadley has the world onhis shelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read aboutthem. The Americans are an extremely interesting people. They areabsolutely reasonable. I think that is their distinguishingcharacteristic. Yes, Mr. Erskine, an absolutely reasonable people. Iassure you there is no nonsense about the Americans. "

"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brutereason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect. "

"I do not understand you, " said Sir Thomas, growing rather red. 

"I do, Lord Henry, " murmured Mr. Erskine, with a smile. 

"Paradoxes are all very well in their way.... " rejoined the baronet. 

"Was that a paradox?" asked Mr. Erskine. "I did not think so. Perhapsit was. Well, the way of paradoxes is the way of truth. To testreality we must see it on the tight rope. When the verities becomeacrobats, we can judge them. "

"Dear me!" said Lady Agatha, "how you men argue! I am sure I never canmake out what you are talking about. Oh! Harry, I am quite vexed withyou. Why do you try to persuade our nice Mr. Dorian Gray to give upthe East End? I assure you he would be quite invaluable. They wouldlove his playing. "

"I want him to play to me, " cried Lord Henry, smiling, and he lookeddown the table and caught a bright answering glance. 

"But they are so unhappy in Whitechapel, " continued Lady Agatha. 

"I can sympathize with everything except suffering, " said Lord Henry, shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is toougly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terriblymorbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathize withthe colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life'ssores, the better. "

"Still, the East End is a very important problem, " remarked Sir Thomaswith a grave shake of the head. 

"Quite so, " answered the young lord. "It is the problem of slavery, and we try to solve it by amusing the slaves. "

The politician looked at him keenly. "What change do you propose, then?" he asked. 

Lord Henry laughed. "I don't desire to change anything in Englandexcept the weather, " he answered. "I am quite content with philosophiccontemplation. But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankruptthrough an over-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we shouldappeal to science to put us straight. The advantage of the emotions isthat they lead us astray, and the advantage of science is that it isnot emotional. "

"But we have such grave responsibilities, " ventured Mrs. Vandeleurtimidly. 

"Terribly grave, " echoed Lady Agatha. 

Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity takes itself tooseriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had knownhow to laugh, history would have been different. "

"You are really very comforting, " warbled the duchess. "I have alwaysfelt rather guilty when I came to see your dear aunt, for I take nointerest at all in the East End. For the future I shall be able tolook her in the face without a blush. "

"A blush is very becoming, Duchess, " remarked Lord Henry. 

"Only when one is young, " she answered. "When an old woman like myselfblushes, it is a very bad sign. Ah! Lord Henry, I wish you would tellme how to become young again. "

He thought for a moment. "Can you remember any great error that youcommitted in your early days, Duchess?" he asked, looking at her acrossthe table. 

"A great many, I fear, " she cried. 

"Then commit them over again, " he said gravely. "To get back one'syouth, one has merely to repeat one's follies. "

"A delightful theory!" she exclaimed. "I must put it into practice. "

"A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agathashook her head, but could not help being amused. Mr. Erskine listened. 

"Yes, " he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, anddiscover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets areone's mistakes. "

A laugh ran round the table. 

He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air andtransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescentwith fancy and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he wenton, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, andcatching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, herwine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over thehills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fledbefore her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the hugepress at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape-juice rose roundher bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam overthe vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinaryimprovisation. He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whosetemperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness andto lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and theyfollowed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lipsand wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. 

At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the roomin the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage waswaiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. "How annoying!" shecried. "I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to takehim to some absurd meeting at Willis's Rooms, where he is going to bein the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn'thave a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh wordwould ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, youare quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don'tknow what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us somenight. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?"

"For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess, " said Lord Henry with abow. 

"Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you, " she cried; "so mind youcome"; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and theother ladies. 

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and takinga chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm. 

"You talk books away, " he said; "why don't you write one?"

"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. Ishould like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovelyas a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public inEngland for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of thebeauty of literature. "

"I fear you are right, " answered Mr. Erskine. "I myself used to haveliterary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dearyoung friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if youreally meant all that you said to us at lunch?"

"I quite forget what I said, " smiled Lord Henry. "Was it all very bad?"

"Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and ifanything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as beingprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when youare tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me yourphilosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunateenough to possess. "

"I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host, and a perfect library. "

"You will complete it, " answered the old gentleman with a courteousbow. "And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due atthe Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there. "

"All of you, Mr. Erskine?"

"Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an EnglishAcademy of Letters. "

Lord Henry laughed and rose. "I am going to the park, " he cried. 

As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. "Let me come with you, " he murmured. 

"But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him, "answered Lord Henry. 

"I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Dolet me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talksso wonderfully as you do. "

"Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day, " said Lord Henry, smiling. "All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it withme, if you care to. "

CHAPTER 4

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxuriousarm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry's house in Mayfair. Itwas, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelledwainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-coloured frieze and ceilingof raised plasterwork, and its brickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuetteby Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of Les Cent Nouvelles, bound forMargaret of Valois by Clovis Eve and powdered with the gilt daisiesthat Queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars andparrot-tulips were ranged on the mantelshelf, and through the smallleaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of asummer day in London. 

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, hisprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad waslooking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pagesof an elaborately illustrated edition of Manon Lescaut that he hadfound in one of the book-cases. The formal monotonous ticking of theLouis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of goingaway. 

At last he heard a step outside, and the door opened. "How late youare, Harry!" he murmured. 

"I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray, " answered a shrill voice. 

He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. "I beg your pardon. Ithought--"

"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let meintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I thinkmy husband has got seventeen of them. "

"Not seventeen, Lady Henry?"

"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at theopera. " She laughed nervously as she spoke, and watched him with hervague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dressesalways looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in atempest. She was usually in love with somebody, and, as her passionwas never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to lookpicturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name wasVictoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church. 

"That was at Lohengrin, Lady Henry, I think?"

"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better thananybody's. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time without otherpeople hearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't youthink so, Mr. Gray?"

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and herfingers began to play with a long tortoise-shell paper-knife. 

Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, LadyHenry. I never talk during music--at least, during good music. If onehears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation. "

"Ah! that is one of Harry's views, isn't it, Mr. Gray? I always hearHarry's views from his friends. It is the only way I get to know ofthem. But you must not think I don't like good music. I adore it, butI am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshippedpianists--two at a time, sometimes, Harry tells me. I don't know whatit is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They allare, ain't they? Even those that are born in England become foreignersafter a time, don't they? It is so clever of them, and such acompliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it? You havenever been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. Ican't afford orchids, but I share no expense in foreigners. They makeone's rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry! Harry, I came into look for you, to ask you something--I forget what it was--and Ifound Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. Wehave quite the same ideas. No; I think our ideas are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I've seen him. "

"I am charmed, my love, quite charmed, " said Lord Henry, elevating hisdark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amusedsmile. "So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece ofold brocade in Wardour Street and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. "

"I am afraid I must be going, " exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking anawkward silence with her silly sudden laugh. "I have promised to drivewith the duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You aredining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at LadyThornbury's. "

"I dare say, my dear, " said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind heras, looking like a bird of paradise that had been out all night in therain, she flitted out of the room, leaving a faint odour offrangipanni. Then he lit a cigarette and flung himself down on thesofa. 

"Never marry a woman with straw-coloured hair, Dorian, " he said after afew puffs. 

"Why, Harry?"

"Because they are so sentimental. "

"But I like sentimental people. "

"Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed. "

"I don't think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I doeverything that you say. "

"Who are you in love with?" asked Lord Henry after a pause. 

"With an actress, " said Dorian Gray, blushing. 

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "That is a rather commonplacedebut. "

"You would not say so if you saw her, Harry. "

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Sibyl Vane. "

"Never heard of her. "

"No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius. "

"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. Theynever have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Womenrepresent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent thetriumph of mind over morals. "

"Harry, how can you?"

"My dear Dorian, it is quite true. I am analysing women at present, soI ought to know. The subject is not so abstruse as I thought it was. I find that, ultimately, there are only two kinds of women, the plainand the coloured. The plain women are very useful. If you want togain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them downto supper. The other women are very charming. They commit onemistake, however. They paint in order to try and look young. Ourgrandmothers painted in order to try and talk brilliantly. Rouge andesprit used to go together. That is all over now. As long as a womancan look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectlysatisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in Londonworth talking to, and two of these can't be admitted into decentsociety. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you knownher?"

"Ah! Harry, your views terrify me. "

"Never mind that. How long have you known her?"

"About three weeks. "

"And where did you come across her?"

"I will tell you, Harry, but you mustn't be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. Youfilled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For daysafter I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I loungedin the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every onewho passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives theyled. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. Therewas an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.... Well, one evening about seven o'clock, I determined to go out in searchof some adventure. I felt that this grey monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancieda thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. Iremembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when wefirst dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secretof life. I don't know what I expected, but I went out and wanderedeastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and blackgrassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by an absurd littletheatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideousJew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, wasstanding at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasyringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiledshirt. 'Have a box, my Lord?' he said, when he saw me, and he took offhis hat with an air of gorgeous servility. There was something abouthim, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh atme, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for thestage-box. To the present day I can't make out why I did so; and yet ifI hadn't--my dear Harry, if I hadn't--I should have missed the greatestromance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!"

"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But youshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say thefirst romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you willalways be in love with love. A grande passion is the privilege ofpeople who have nothing to do. That is the one use of the idle classesof a country. Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in storefor you. This is merely the beginning. "

"Do you think my nature so shallow?" cried Dorian Gray angrily. 

"No; I think your nature so deep. "

"How do you mean?"

"My dear boy, the people who love only once in their lives are reallythe shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the lifeof the intellect--simply a confession of failure. Faithfulness! Imust analyse it some day. The passion for property is in it. Thereare many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid thatothers might pick them up. But I don't want to interrupt you. Go onwith your story. "

"Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with avulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out from behind thecurtain and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids andcornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit werefairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, andthere was hardly a person in what I suppose they called thedress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and therewas a terrible consumption of nuts going on. "

"It must have been just like the palmy days of the British drama. "

"Just like, I should fancy, and very depressing. I began to wonderwhat on earth I should do when I caught sight of the play-bill. Whatdo you think the play was, Harry?"

"I should think 'The Idiot Boy', or 'Dumb but Innocent'. Our fathersused to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers isnot good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grandperes onttoujours tort. "

"This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was Romeo and Juliet. Imust admit that I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespearedone in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, ina sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Hebrew who satat a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last thedrop-scene was drawn up and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderlygentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figurelike a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by thelow-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on mostfriendly terms with the pit. They were both as grotesque as thescenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a country-booth. ButJuliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with alittle, flowerlike face, a small Greek head with plaited coils ofdark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that werelike the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seenin my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but thatbeauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that cameacross me. And her voice--I never heard such a voice. It was very lowat first, with deep mellow notes that seemed to fall singly upon one'sear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or adistant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasythat one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. Therewere moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. Youknow how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vaneare two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hearthem, and each of them says something different. I don't know which tofollow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She iseverything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. Oneevening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I haveseen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison fromher lover's lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest ofArden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, andgiven him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of. She has beeninnocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlikethroat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinarywomen never appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to theircentury. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds aseasily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There isno mystery in any of them. They ride in the park in the morning andchatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotypedsmile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But anactress! How different an actress is! Harry! why didn't you tell methat the only thing worth loving is an actress?"

"Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian. "

"Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces. "

"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinarycharm in them, sometimes, " said Lord Henry. 

"I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane. "

"You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your lifeyou will tell me everything you do. "

"Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I wouldcome and confess it to you. You would understand me. "

"People like you--the wilful sunbeams of life--don't commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. Andnow tell me--reach me the matches, like a good boy--thanks--what areyour actual relations with Sibyl Vane?"

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. "Harry! Sibyl Vane is sacred!"

"It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian, " saidLord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. "But whyshould you be annoyed? I suppose she will belong to you some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and onealways ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls aromance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?"

"Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, thehorrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over andoffered to take me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I wasfurious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundredsof years and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. Ithink, from his blank look of amazement, that he was under theimpression that I had taken too much champagne, or something. "

"I am not surprised. "

"Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him Inever even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, andconfided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracyagainst him, and that they were every one of them to be bought. "

"I should not wonder if he was quite right there. But, on the otherhand, judging from their appearance, most of them cannot be at allexpensive. "

"Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means, " laughed Dorian. "By this time, however, the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he stronglyrecommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at theplace again. When he saw me, he made me a low bow and assured me thatI was a munificent patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told meonce, with an air of pride, that his five bankruptcies were entirelydue to 'The Bard, ' as he insisted on calling him. He seemed to thinkit a distinction. "

"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian--a great distinction. Mostpeople become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the proseof life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour. But whendid you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?"

"The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not helpgoing round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked atme--at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. Heseemed determined to take me behind, so I consented. It was curious mynot wanting to know her, wasn't it?"

"No; I don't think so. "

"My dear Harry, why?"

"I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl. "

"Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy and so gentle. There is something of achild about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I toldher what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconsciousof her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stoodgrinning at the doorway of the dusty greenroom, making elaboratespeeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other likechildren. He would insist on calling me 'My Lord, ' so I had to assureSibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply tome, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you Prince Charming. '"

"Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments. "

"You don't understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a personin a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, afaded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magentadressing-wrapper on the first night, and looks as if she had seenbetter days. "

"I know that look. It depresses me, " murmured Lord Henry, examininghis rings. 

"The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interestme. "

"You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean aboutother people's tragedies. "

"Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she camefrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely andentirely divine. Every night of my life I go to see her act, and everynight she is more marvellous. "

"That is the reason, I suppose, that you never dine with me now. Ithought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but itis not quite what I expected. "

"My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I havebeen to the opera with you several times, " said Dorian, opening hisblue eyes in wonder. 

"You always come dreadfully late. "

"Well, I can't help going to see Sibyl play, " he cried, "even if it isonly for a single act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I thinkof the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, Iam filled with awe. "

"You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can't you?"

He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen, " he answered, "andto-morrow night she will be Juliet. "

"When is she Sibyl Vane?"

"Never. "

"I congratulate you. "

"How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world inone. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you shehas genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who knowall the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! Iwant to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world tohear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stirtheir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!" He was walking up and down the room as hespoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terriblyexcited. 

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How differenthe was now from the shy frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward'sstudio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms ofscarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his soul, anddesire had come to meet it on the way. 

"And what do you propose to do?" said Lord Henry at last. 

"I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. Ihave not the slightest fear of the result. You are certain toacknowledge her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew's hands. She is bound to him for three years--at least for two years and eightmonths--from the present time. I shall have to pay him something, ofcourse. When all that is settled, I shall take a West End theatre andbring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has mademe. "

"That would be impossible, my dear boy. "

"Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, inher, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that itis personalities, not principles, that move the age. "

"Well, what night shall we go?"

"Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She playsJuliet to-morrow. "

"All right. The Bristol at eight o'clock; and I will get Basil. "

"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before thecurtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meetsRomeo. "

"Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea, orreading an English novel. It must be seven. No gentleman dines beforeseven. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write tohim?"

"Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is ratherhorrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderfulframe, specially designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealousof the picture for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admitthat I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don'twant to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me goodadvice. "

Lord Henry smiled. "People are very fond of giving away what they needmost themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity. "

"Oh, Basil is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bitof a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discoveredthat. "

"Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into hiswork. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but hisprejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists Ihave ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Goodartists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectlyuninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, isthe most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets areabsolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the morepicturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book ofsecond-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives thepoetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that theydare not realize. "

"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting someperfume on his handkerchief out of a large, gold-topped bottle thatstood on the table. "It must be, if you say it. And now I am off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don't forget about to-morrow. Good-bye. "

As he left the room, Lord Henry's heavy eyelids drooped, and he beganto think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much asDorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else causedhim not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased byit. It made him a more interesting study. He had been alwaysenthralled by the methods of natural science, but the ordinarysubject-matter of that science had seemed to him trivial and of noimport. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended byvivisecting others. Human life--that appeared to him the one thingworth investigating. Compared to it there was nothing else of anyvalue. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible ofpain and pleasure, one could not wear over one's face a mask of glass, nor keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making theimagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. Therewere poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sickenof them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass throughthem if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a greatreward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! Tonote the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional coloured lifeof the intellect--to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they were in unison, and at what point they were atdiscord--there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was?One could never pay too high a price for any sensation. 

He was conscious--and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into hisbrown agate eyes--that it was through certain words of his, musicalwords said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray's soul had turnedto this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extentthe lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That wassomething. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them itssecrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life wererevealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effectof art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediatelywith the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complexpersonality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its way, a real work of art, life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting. 

Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it wasyet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he wasbecoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With hisbeautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was likeone of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seemto be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one's sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses. 

Soul and body, body and soul--how mysterious they were! There wasanimalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who couldsay where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began?How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists!And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the variousschools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was thebody really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation ofspirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matterwas a mystery also. 

He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so absolute ascience that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As itwas, we always misunderstood ourselves and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave totheir mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode ofwarning, had claimed for it a certain ethical efficacy in the formationof character, had praised it as something that taught us what to followand showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power inexperience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the sameas our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, wewould do many times, and with joy. 

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method bywhich one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; andcertainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed topromise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vanewas a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was nodoubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desirefor new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complexpassion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct ofboyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote fromsense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was thepassions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized moststrongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature wewere conscious. It often happened that when we thought we wereexperimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. 

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to thedoor, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress fordinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset hadsmitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like afaded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life andwondered how it was all going to end. 

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a telegramlying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from DorianGray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to SibylVane. 

CHAPTER 5

"Mother, Mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her facein the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned tothe shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that theirdingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and youmust be happy, too!"

Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on herdaughter's head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when Isee you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money. "

The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what doesmoney matter? Love is more than money. "

"Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and toget a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fiftypounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate. "

"He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me, "said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. 

"I don't know how we could manage without him, " answered the elderwoman querulously. 

Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don't want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now. " Then she paused. Arose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath partedthe petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passionswept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I lovehim, " she said simply. 

"Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to thewords. 

The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Hereyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for amoment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist ofa dream had passed across them. 

Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted atprudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the nameof common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison ofpassion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called onmemory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and ithad brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Hereyelids were warm with his breath. 

Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. Thisyoung man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. Thearrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. 

Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother, " she cried, "why does he love me so much? I know whyI love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet--why, Icannot tell--though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel humble. Ifeel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I lovePrince Charming?"

The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed hercheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushedto her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it onlypains you because you loved him so much. Don't look so sad. I am ashappy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy forever!"

"My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don't even know his name. Thewhole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going awayto Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that youshould have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if heis rich ... "

"Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!"

Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatricalgestures that so often become a mode of second nature to astage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door openedand a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He wasthick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhatclumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. Onewould hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed betweenthem. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. Shementally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt surethat the tableau was interesting. 

"You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think, " said thelad with a good-natured grumble. 

"Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim, " she cried. "You are adreadful old bear. " And she ran across the room and hugged him. 

James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "I want youto come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall eversee this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to. "

"My son, don't say such dreadful things, " murmured Mrs. Vane, taking upa tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. Shefelt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It wouldhave increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. 

"Why not, Mother? I mean it. "

"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in aposition of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind inthe Colonies--nothing that I would call society--so when you have madeyour fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London. "

"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don't want to know anything aboutthat. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off thestage. I hate it. "

"Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are youreally going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid youwere going to say good-bye to some of your friends--to Tom Hardy, whogave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you forsmoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your lastafternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park. "

"I am too shabby, " he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to thepark. "

"Nonsense, Jim, " she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. 

He hesitated for a moment. "Very well, " he said at last, "but don't betoo long dressing. " She danced out of the door. One could hear hersinging as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. 

He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned tothe still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. 

"Quite ready, James, " she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. Forsome months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with thisrough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled whentheir eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. Thesilence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just asthey attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will becontented, James, with your sea-faring life, " she said. "You mustremember that it is your own choice. You might have entered asolicitor's office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and inthe country often dine with the best families. "

"I hate offices, and I hate clerks, " he replied. "But you are quiteright. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don't let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her. "

"James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl. "

"I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind totalk to her. Is that right? What about that?"

"You are speaking about things you don't understand, James. In theprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifyingattention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. Thatwas when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know atpresent whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is nodoubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He isalways most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of beingrich, and the flowers he sends are lovely. "

"You don't know his name, though, " said the lad harshly. 

"No, " answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. "Hehas not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic ofhim. He is probably a member of the aristocracy. "

James Vane bit his lip. "Watch over Sibyl, Mother, " he cried, "watchover her. "

"My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my specialcare. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason whyshe should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of thearistocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might bea most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charmingcouple. His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody noticesthem. "

The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-panewith his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say somethingwhen the door opened and Sibyl ran in. 

"How serious you both are!" she cried. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing, " he answered. "I suppose one must be serious sometimes. Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o'clock. Everything ispacked, except my shirts, so you need not trouble. "

"Good-bye, my son, " she answered with a bow of strained stateliness. 

She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, andthere was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. 

"Kiss me, Mother, " said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched thewithered cheek and warmed its frost. 

"My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling insearch of an imaginary gallery. 

"Come, Sibyl, " said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother'saffectations. 

They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight and strolleddown the dreary Euston Road. The passersby glanced in wonder at thesullen heavy youth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in thecompany of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a commongardener walking with a rose. 

Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive glance ofsome stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at, which comes ongeniuses late in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect she was producing. Herlove was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was thinking of PrinceCharming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did nottalk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going tosail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderfulheiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirtedbushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, orwhatever he was going to be. Oh, no! A sailor's existence wasdreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind blowing the mastsdown and tearing the sails into long screaming ribands! He was toleave the vessel at Melbourne, bid a polite good-bye to the captain, and go off at once to the gold-fields. Before a week was over he was tocome across a large nugget of pure gold, the largest nugget that hadever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggonguarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers were to attack themthree times, and be defeated with immense slaughter. Or, no. He wasnot to go to the gold-fields at all. They were horrid places, wheremen got intoxicated, and shot each other in bar-rooms, and used badlanguage. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer, and one evening, as he wasriding home, he was to see the beautiful heiress being carried off by arobber on a black horse, and give chase, and rescue her. Of course, she would fall in love with him, and he with her, and they would getmarried, and come home, and live in an immense house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in store for him. But he must be verygood, and not lose his temper, or spend his money foolishly. She wasonly a year older than he was, but she knew so much more of life. Hemust be sure, also, to write to her by every mail, and to say hisprayers each night before he went to sleep. God was very good, andwould watch over him. She would pray for him, too, and in a few yearshe would come back quite rich and happy. 

The lad listened sulkily to her and made no answer. He was heart-sickat leaving home. 

Yet it was not this alone that made him gloomy and morose. Inexperienced though he was, he had still a strong sense of the dangerof Sibyl's position. This young dandy who was making love to her couldmean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hatedhim through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account, and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He wasconscious also of the shallowness and vanity of his mother's nature, and in that saw infinite peril for Sibyl and Sibyl's happiness. Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judgethem; sometimes they forgive them. 

His mother! He had something on his mind to ask of her, something thathe had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase that hehad heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his earsone night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a train ofhorrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the lash of ahunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a wedgelikefurrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his underlip. 

"You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim, " cried Sibyl, "and Iam making the most delightful plans for your future. Do say something. "

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh! that you will be a good boy and not forget us, " she answered, smiling at him. 

He shrugged his shoulders. "You are more likely to forget me than I amto forget you, Sibyl. "

She flushed. "What do you mean, Jim?" she asked. 

"You have a new friend, I hear. Who is he? Why have you not told meabout him? He means you no good. "

"Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against him. Ilove him. "

"Why, you don't even know his name, " answered the lad. "Who is he? Ihave a right to know. "

"He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name. Oh! you sillyboy! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would thinkhim the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will meethim--when you come back from Australia. You will like him so much. Everybody likes him, and I ... Love him. I wish you could come to thetheatre to-night. He is going to be there, and I am to play Juliet. Oh! how I shall play it! Fancy, Jim, to be in love and play Juliet!To have him sitting there! To play for his delight! I am afraid I mayfrighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is tosurpass one's self. Poor dreadful Mr. Isaacs will be shouting 'genius'to his loafers at the bar. He has preached me as a dogma; to-night hewill announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it is all his, hisonly, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of graces. But I ampoor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When poverty creeps inat the door, love flies in through the window. Our proverbs wantrewriting. They were made in winter, and it is summer now; spring-timefor me, I think, a very dance of blossoms in blue skies. "

"He is a gentleman, " said the lad sullenly. 

"A prince!" she cried musically. "What more do you want?"

"He wants to enslave you. "

"I shudder at the thought of being free. "

"I want you to beware of him. "

"To see him is to worship him; to know him is to trust him. "

"Sibyl, you are mad about him. "

She laughed and took his arm. "You dear old Jim, you talk as if youwere a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you willknow what it is. Don't look so sulky. Surely you should be glad tothink that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I haveever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard anddifficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a newworld, and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down andsee the smart people go by. "

They took their seats amidst a crowd of watchers. The tulip-bedsacross the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A whitedust--tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed--hung in the panting air. The brightly coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrousbutterflies. 

She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. Hespoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other asplayers at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could notcommunicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was allthe echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenlyshe caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an opencarriage with two ladies Dorian Gray drove past. 

She started to her feet. "There he is!" she cried. 

"Who?" said Jim Vane. 

"Prince Charming, " she answered, looking after the victoria. 

He jumped up and seized her roughly by the arm. "Show him to me. Which is he? Point him out. I must see him!" he exclaimed; but atthat moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and whenit had left the space clear, the carriage had swept out of the park. 

"He is gone, " murmured Sibyl sadly. "I wish you had seen him. "

"I wish I had, for as sure as there is a God in heaven, if he ever doesyou any wrong, I shall kill him. "

She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the airlike a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing closeto her tittered. 

"Come away, Jim; come away, " she whispered. He followed her doggedlyas she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said. 

When they reached the Achilles Statue, she turned round. There waspity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her headat him. "You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered boy, that is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don't knowwhat you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! Iwish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you saidwas wicked. "

"I am sixteen, " he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother is nohelp to you. She doesn't understand how to look after you. I wish nowthat I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind to chuckthe whole thing up. I would, if my articles hadn't been signed. "

"Oh, don't be so serious, Jim. You are like one of the heroes of thosesilly melodramas Mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am notgoing to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him isperfect happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm anyone I love, would you?"

"Not as long as you love him, I suppose, " was the sullen answer. 

"I shall love him for ever!" she cried. 

"And he?"

"For ever, too!"

"He had better. "

She shrank from him. Then she laughed and put her hand on his arm. Hewas merely a boy. 

At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close totheir shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock, andSibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jiminsisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part withher when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make ascene, and he detested scenes of every kind. 

In Sybil's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad'sheart, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemedto him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung round hisneck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he softened and kissedher with real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he wentdownstairs. 

His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at hisunpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to hismeagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over thestained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter ofstreet-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute thatwas left to him. 

After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in hishands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been toldto him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his motherwatched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tatteredlace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enragedhim. 

"Mother, I have something to ask you, " he said. Her eyes wanderedvaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. Ihave a right to know. Were you married to my father?"

She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measureit was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the questioncalled for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually ledup to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. 

"No, " she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. 

"My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. 

She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other verymuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don'tspeak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected. "

An oath broke from his lips. "I don't care for myself, " he exclaimed, "but don't let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn't it, who is in lovewith her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose. "

For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Herhead drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has amother, " she murmured; "I had none. "

The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissedher. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father, " hesaid, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don't forgetthat you will have only one child now to look after, and believe methat if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track himdown, and kill him like a dog. I swear it. "

The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture thataccompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vividto her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed morefreely, and for the first time for many months she really admired herson. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the sameemotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried downand mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost invulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment thatshe waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her sondrove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had beenwasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felther life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. Sheremembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she saidnothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt thatthey would all laugh at it some day. 

CHAPTER 6

"I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry thatevening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristolwhere dinner had been laid for three. 

"No, Harry, " answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowingwaiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don'tinterest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commonsworth painting, though many of them would be the better for a littlewhitewashing. "

"Dorian Gray is engaged to be married, " said Lord Henry, watching himas he spoke. 

Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!" hecried. "Impossible!"

"It is perfectly true. "

"To whom?"

"To some little actress or other. "

"I can't believe it. Dorian is far too sensible. "

"Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dearBasil. "

"Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry. "

"Except in America, " rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn't sayhe was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a greatdifference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I haveno recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that Inever was engaged. "

"But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would beabsurd for him to marry so much beneath him. "

"If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He issure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, itis always from the noblest motives. "

"I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied tosome vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin hisintellect. "

"Oh, she is better than good--she is beautiful, " murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she isbeautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Yourportrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personalappearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongstothers. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget hisappointment. "

"Are you serious?"

"Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I shouldever be more serious than I am at the present moment. "

"But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up anddown the room and biting his lip. "You can't approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation. "

"I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurdattitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to airour moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common peoplesay, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If apersonality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personalityselects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love witha beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not?If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. Youknow I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage isthat it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments thatmarriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to itmany other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. Theybecome more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I shouldfancy, the object of man's existence. Besides, every experience is ofvalue, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly anexperience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly becomefascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study. "

"You don't mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don't. If Dorian Gray's life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier thanyourself. You are much better than you pretend to be. "

Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of othersis that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism issheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit ourneighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be abenefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spareour pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatestcontempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled butone whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you havemerely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of beingfashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than Ican. "

"My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said thelad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings andshaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been sohappy. Of course, it is sudden--all really delightful things are. Andyet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been looking for all mylife. " He was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and lookedextraordinarily handsome. 

"I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian, " said Hallward, "but Idon't quite forgive you for not having let me know of your engagement. You let Harry know. "

"And I don't forgive you for being late for dinner, " broke in LordHenry, putting his hand on the lad's shoulder and smiling as he spoke. "Come, let us sit down and try what the new chef here is like, and thenyou will tell us how it all came about. "

"There is really not much to tell, " cried Dorian as they took theirseats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this. AfterI left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at thatlittle Italian restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, andwent down at eight o'clock to the theatre. Sibyl was playing Rosalind. Of course, the scenery was dreadful and the Orlando absurd. But Sibyl!You should have seen her! When she came on in her boy's clothes, shewas perfectly wonderful. She wore a moss-coloured velvet jerkin withcinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-gartered hose, a dainty littlegreen cap with a hawk's feather caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloaklined with dull red. She had never seemed to me more exquisite. Shehad all the delicate grace of that Tanagra figurine that you have inyour studio, Basil. Her hair clustered round her face like dark leavesround a pale rose. As for her acting--well, you shall see herto-night. She is simply a born artist. I sat in the dingy boxabsolutely enthralled. I forgot that I was in London and in thenineteenth century. I was away with my love in a forest that no manhad ever seen. After the performance was over, I went behind and spoketo her. As we were sitting together, suddenly there came into her eyesa look that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. We kissed each other. I can't describe to you what I felt at thatmoment. It seemed to me that all my life had been narrowed to oneperfect point of rose-coloured joy. She trembled all over and shooklike a white narcissus. Then she flung herself on her knees and kissedmy hands. I feel that I should not tell you all this, but I can't helpit. Of course, our engagement is a dead secret. She has not even toldher own mother. I don't know what my guardians will say. Lord Radleyis sure to be furious. I don't care. I shall be of age in less than ayear, and then I can do what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven'tI, to take my love out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare'splays? Lips that Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered theirsecret in my ear. I have had the arms of Rosalind around me, andkissed Juliet on the mouth. "

"Yes, Dorian, I suppose you were right, " said Hallward slowly. 

"Have you seen her to-day?" asked Lord Henry. 

Dorian Gray shook his head. "I left her in the forest of Arden; Ishall find her in an orchard in Verona. "

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At whatparticular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And whatdid she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it. "

"My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and I didnot make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and shesaid she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the wholeworld is nothing to me compared with her. "

"Women are wonderfully practical, " murmured Lord Henry, "much morepractical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget tosay anything about marriage, and they always remind us. "

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyedDorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery uponany one. His nature is too fine for that. "

Lord Henry looked across the table. "Dorian is never annoyed with me, "he answered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, forthe only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking anyquestion--simple curiosity. I have a theory that it is always thewomen who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women. Except, of course, in middle-class life. But then the middle classes are notmodern. "

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible, Harry; but I don't mind. It is impossible to be angry with you. Whenyou see Sibyl Vane, you will feel that the man who could wrong herwould be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot understand how anyone can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love Sibyl Vane. I wantto place her on a pedestal of gold and to see the world worship thewoman who is mine. What is marriage? An irrevocable vow. You mock atit for that. Ah! don't mock. It is an irrevocable vow that I want totake. Her trust makes me faithful, her belief makes me good. When Iam with her, I regret all that you have taught me. I become differentfrom what you have known me to be. I am changed, and the mere touch ofSibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories. "

"And those are ... ?" asked Lord Henry, helping himself to some salad. 

"Oh, your theories about life, your theories about love, your theoriesabout pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry. "

"Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about, " he answeredin his slow melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot claim my theoryas my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature'stest, her sign of approval. When we are happy, we are always good, butwhen we are good, we are not always happy. "

"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" cried Basil Hallward. 

"Yes, " echoed Dorian, leaning back in his chair and looking at LordHenry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in thecentre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"

"To be good is to be in harmony with one's self, " he replied, touchingthe thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. "Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's ownlife--that is the important thing. As for the lives of one'sneighbours, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flauntone's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern. Besides, individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists inaccepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man ofculture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossestimmorality. "

"But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays aterrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter. 

"Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy thatthe real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing butself-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the privilegeof the rich. "

"One has to pay in other ways but money. "

"What sort of ways, Basil?"

"Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... Well, in theconsciousness of degradation. "

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediaeval art ischarming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them infiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use infiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me, no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man everknows what a pleasure is. "

"I know what pleasure is, " cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore someone. "

"That is certainly better than being adored, " he answered, toying withsome fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just ashumanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering usto do something for them. "

"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given tous, " murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. Theyhave a right to demand it back. "

"That is quite true, Dorian, " cried Hallward. 

"Nothing is ever quite true, " said Lord Henry. 

"This is, " interrupted Dorian. "You must admit, Harry, that women giveto men the very gold of their lives. "

"Possibly, " he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such verysmall change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman onceput it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and alwaysprevent us from carrying them out. "

"Harry, you are dreadful! I don't know why I like you so much. "

"You will always like me, Dorian, " he replied. "Will you have somecoffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, andsome cigarettes. No, don't mind the cigarettes--I have some. Basil, Ican't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. Acigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins youhave never had the courage to commit. "

"What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light from afire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us go down to the theatre. When Sibyl comes on the stage you willhave a new ideal of life. She will represent something to you that youhave never known. "

"I have known everything, " said Lord Henry, with a tired look in hiseyes, "but I am always ready for a new emotion. I am afraid, however, that, for me at any rate, there is no such thing. Still, yourwonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more realthan life. Let us go. Dorian, you will come with me. I am so sorry, Basil, but there is only room for two in the brougham. You must followus in a hansom. "

They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. Thepainter was silent and preoccupied. There was a gloom over him. Hecould not bear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be betterthan many other things that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passed downstairs. He drove off by himself, as had beenarranged, and watched the flashing lights of the little brougham infront of him. A strange sense of loss came over him. He felt thatDorian Gray would never again be to him all that he had been in thepast. Life had come between them.... His eyes darkened, and thecrowded flaring streets became blurred to his eyes. When the cab drewup at the theatre, it seemed to him that he had grown years older. 

CHAPTER 7

For some reason or other, the house was crowded that night, and the fatJew manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear withan oily tremulous smile. He escorted them to their box with a sort ofpompous humility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the topof his voice. Dorian Gray loathed him more than ever. He felt as ifhe had come to look for Miranda and had been met by Caliban. LordHenry, upon the other hand, rather liked him. At least he declared hedid, and insisted on shaking him by the hand and assuring him that hewas proud to meet a man who had discovered a real genius and gonebankrupt over a poet. Hallward amused himself with watching the facesin the pit. The heat was terribly oppressive, and the huge sunlightflamed like a monstrous dahlia with petals of yellow fire. The youthsin the gallery had taken off their coats and waistcoats and hung themover the side. They talked to each other across the theatre and sharedtheir oranges with the tawdry girls who sat beside them. Some womenwere laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill anddiscordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar. 

"What a place to find one's divinity in!" said Lord Henry. 

"Yes!" answered Dorian Gray. "It was here I found her, and she isdivine beyond all living things. When she acts, you will forgeteverything. These common rough people, with their coarse faces andbrutal gestures, become quite different when she is on the stage. Theysit silently and watch her. They weep and laugh as she wills them todo. She makes them as responsive as a violin. She spiritualizes them, and one feels that they are of the same flesh and blood as one's self. "

"The same flesh and blood as one's self! Oh, I hope not!" exclaimedLord Henry, who was scanning the occupants of the gallery through hisopera-glass. 

"Don't pay any attention to him, Dorian, " said the painter. "Iunderstand what you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you lovemust be marvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describe mustbe fine and noble. To spiritualize one's age--that is something worthdoing. If this girl can give a soul to those who have lived withoutone, if she can create the sense of beauty in people whose lives havebeen sordid and ugly, if she can strip them of their selfishness andlend them tears for sorrows that are not their own, she is worthy ofall your adoration, worthy of the adoration of the world. Thismarriage is quite right. I did not think so at first, but I admit itnow. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would havebeen incomplete. "

"Thanks, Basil, " answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew thatyou would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. Buthere is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts forabout five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girlto whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everythingthat is good in me. "

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil ofapplause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainlylovely to look at--one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shygrace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in amirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowdedenthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemedto tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!"

The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim'sdress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, suchas it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Throughthe crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like acreature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as aplant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves ofa white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. 

Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when hereyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak--

 Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss--

with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughlyartificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of viewof tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took awayall the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. 

Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed tothem to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. 

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene ofthe second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there wasnothing in her. 

She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could notbe denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grewworse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. Sheoveremphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage--

 Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night--

was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has beentaught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When sheleaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines--

 Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, "It lightens. " Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer's ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet--

she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It wasnot nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutelyself-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. 

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost theirinterest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly andto whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of thedress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved wasthe girl herself. 

When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and LordHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quitebeautiful, Dorian, " he said, "but she can't act. Let us go. "

"I am going to see the play through, " answered the lad, in a hardbitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste anevening, Harry. I apologize to you both. "

"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill, " interruptedHallward. "We will come some other night. "

"I wish she were ill, " he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simplycallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was agreat artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocreactress. "

"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a morewonderful thing than art. "

"They are both simply forms of imitation, " remarked Lord Henry. "Butdo let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is notgood for one's morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don't suppose youwill want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Julietlike a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as littleabout life as she does about acting, she will be a delightfulexperience. There are only two kinds of people who are reallyfascinating--people who know absolutely everything, and people who knowabsolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic!The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that isunbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smokecigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?"

"Go away, Harry, " cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you mustgo. Ah! can't you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears cameto his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, heleaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. 

"Let us go, Basil, " said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in hisvoice, and the two young men passed out together. 

A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain roseon the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemedinterminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy bootsand laughing. The whole thing was a fiasco. The last act was playedto almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and somegroans. 

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into thegreenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumphon her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was aradiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret oftheir own. 

When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joycame over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried. 

"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! Itwas dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have noidea what I suffered. "

The girl smiled. "Dorian, " she answered, lingering over his name withlong-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey tothe red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. Butyou understand now, don't you?"

"Understand what?" he asked, angrily. 

"Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shallnever act well again. "

He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are illyou shouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends werebored. I was bored. "

She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. Anecstasy of happiness dominated her. 

"Dorian, Dorian, " she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the onereality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. Ithought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia theother. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordeliawere mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who actedwith me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, mybeautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me whatreality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I sawthrough the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant inwhich I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I becameconscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that themoonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, andthat the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were notwhat I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, somethingof which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand whatlove really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life!I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can everbe. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came onto-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gonefrom me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that Icould do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian--takeme away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. Imight mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one thatburns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what itsignifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me toplay at being in love. You have made me see that. "

He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You havekilled my love, " he muttered. 

She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She cameacross to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She kneltdown and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and ashudder ran through him. 

Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes, " he cried, "you havekilled my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't evenstir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you becauseyou were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because yourealized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to theshadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow andstupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been!You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will neverthink of you. I will never mention your name. You don't know what youwere to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can't bear to think of it! Iwish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance ofmy life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art!Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and youwould have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress witha pretty face. "

The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting. "

"Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well, " he answeredbitterly. 

She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in herface, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm andlooked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don't touch me!" he cried. 

A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and laythere like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don't leave me!" shewhispered. "I am so sorry I didn't act well. I was thinking of youall the time. But I will try--indeed, I will try. It came so suddenlyacross me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it ifyou had not kissed me--if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don't go away from me. I couldn't bear it. Oh! don't goaway from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn't mean it. Hewas in jest.... But you, oh! can't you forgive me for to-night? I willwork so hard and try to improve. Don't be cruel to me, because I loveyou better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once thatI have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I shouldhave shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet Icouldn't help it. Oh, don't leave me, don't leave me. " A fit ofpassionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like awounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down ather, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There isalways something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one hasceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. 

"I am going, " he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don't wishto be unkind, but I can't see you again. You have disappointed me. "

She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her littlehands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. Heturned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out ofthe theatre. 

Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimlylit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-lookinghouses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called afterhim. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselveslike monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upondoor-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. 

As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky holloweditself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding liliesrumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy withthe perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him ananodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the menunloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him somecherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any moneyfor them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked atmidnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A longline of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and redroses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swingingdoors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slippedand stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-neckedand pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. 

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a fewmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silentsquare, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened likesilver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smokewas rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. 

In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, thathung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petalsof flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the librarytowards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on theground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just haddecorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestriesthat had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. Ashe was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portraitBasil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After hehad taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. Inthe dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silkblinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. Theexpression looked different. One would have said that there was atouch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange. 

He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. Thebright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into duskycorners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that hehad noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to bemore intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him thelines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been lookinginto a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. 

He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivoryCupids, one of Lord Henry's many presents to him, glanced hurriedlyinto its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. Whatdid it mean?

He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined itagain. There were no signs of any change when he looked into theactual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expressionhad altered. It was not a mere fancy of his own. The thing washorribly apparent. 

He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly thereflashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio theday the picture had been finished. Yes, he remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and theportrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and theface on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; thatthe painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering andthought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and lovelinessof his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not beenfulfilled? Such things were impossible. It seemed monstrous even tothink of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with thetouch of cruelty in the mouth. 

Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He haddreamed of her as a great artist, had given his love to her because hehad thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had beenshallow and unworthy. And, yet, a feeling of infinite regret came overhim, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a littlechild. He remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Whyhad he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to him?But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that theplay had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain, aeon upon aeon oftorture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for amoment, if he had wounded her for an age. Besides, women were bettersuited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. Theyonly thought of their emotions. When they took lovers, it was merelyto have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had toldhim that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he troubleabout Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now. 

But the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret ofhis life, and told his story. It had taught him to love his ownbeauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever lookat it again?

No; it was merely an illusion wrought on the troubled senses. Thehorrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck thatmakes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so. 

Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruelsmile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early sunlight. Its blue eyesmet his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for thepainted image of himself, came over him. It had altered already, andwould alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and whiteroses would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleckand wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The picture, changed orunchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He wouldresist temptation. He would not see Lord Henry any more--would not, atany rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in BasilHallward's garden had first stirred within him the passion forimpossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends, marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. Shemust have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He had been selfishand cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over himwould return. They would be happy together. His life with her wouldbe beautiful and pure. 

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of theportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmuredto himself, and he walked across to the window and opened it. When hestepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morningair seemed to drive away all his sombre passions. He thought only ofSibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated hername over and over again. The birds that were singing in thedew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her. 

CHAPTER 8

It was long past noon when he awoke. His valet had crept several timeson tiptoe into the room to see if he was stirring, and had wonderedwhat made his young master sleep so late. Finally his bell sounded, and Victor came in softly with a cup of tea, and a pile of letters, ona small tray of old Sevres china, and drew back the olive-satincurtains, with their shimmering blue lining, that hung in front of thethree tall windows. 

"Monsieur has well slept this morning, " he said, smiling. 

"What o'clock is it, Victor?" asked Dorian Gray drowsily. 

"One hour and a quarter, Monsieur. "

How late it was! He sat up, and having sipped some tea, turned overhis letters. One of them was from Lord Henry, and had been brought byhand that morning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he opened listlessly. They contained the usual collectionof cards, invitations to dinner, tickets for private views, programmesof charity concerts, and the like that are showered on fashionableyoung men every morning during the season. There was a rather heavybill for a chased silver Louis-Quinze toilet-set that he had not yethad the courage to send on to his guardians, who were extremelyold-fashioned people and did not realize that we live in an age whenunnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were severalvery courteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lendersoffering to advance any sum of money at a moment's notice and at themost reasonable rates of interest. 

After about ten minutes he got up, and throwing on an elaboratedressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into theonyx-paved bathroom. The cool water refreshed him after his longsleep. He seemed to have forgotten all that he had gone through. Adim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him onceor twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it. 

As soon as he was dressed, he went into the library and sat down to alight French breakfast that had been laid out for him on a small roundtable close to the open window. It was an exquisite day. The warm airseemed laden with spices. A bee flew in and buzzed round theblue-dragon bowl that, filled with sulphur-yellow roses, stood beforehim. He felt perfectly happy. 

Suddenly his eye fell on the screen that he had placed in front of theportrait, and he started. 

"Too cold for Monsieur?" asked his valet, putting an omelette on thetable. "I shut the window?"

Dorian shook his head. "I am not cold, " he murmured. 

Was it all true? Had the portrait really changed? Or had it beensimply his own imagination that had made him see a look of evil wherethere had been a look of joy? Surely a painted canvas could not alter?The thing was absurd. It would serve as a tale to tell Basil some day. It would make him smile. 

And, yet, how vivid was his recollection of the whole thing! First inthe dim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch ofcruelty round the warped lips. He almost dreaded his valet leaving theroom. He knew that when he was alone he would have to examine theportrait. He was afraid of certainty. When the coffee and cigaretteshad been brought and the man turned to go, he felt a wild desire totell him to remain. As the door was closing behind him, he called himback. The man stood waiting for his orders. Dorian looked at him fora moment. "I am not at home to any one, Victor, " he said with a sigh. The man bowed and retired. 

Then he rose from the table, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down ona luxuriously cushioned couch that stood facing the screen. The screenwas an old one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with arather florid Louis-Quatorze pattern. He scanned it curiously, wondering if ever before it had concealed the secret of a man's life. 

Should he move it aside, after all? Why not let it stay there? Whatwas the use of knowing? If the thing was true, it was terrible. If itwas not true, why trouble about it? But what if, by some fate ordeadlier chance, eyes other than his spied behind and saw the horriblechange? What should he do if Basil Hallward came and asked to look athis own picture? Basil would be sure to do that. No; the thing had tobe examined, and at once. Anything would be better than this dreadfulstate of doubt. 

He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when helooked upon the mask of his shame. Then he drew the screen aside andsaw himself face to face. It was perfectly true. The portrait hadaltered. 

As he often remembered afterwards, and always with no small wonder, hefound himself at first gazing at the portrait with a feeling of almostscientific interest. That such a change should have taken place wasincredible to him. And yet it was a fact. Was there some subtleaffinity between the chemical atoms that shaped themselves into formand colour on the canvas and the soul that was within him? Could it bethat what that soul thought, they realized?--that what it dreamed, theymade true? Or was there some other, more terrible reason? Heshuddered, and felt afraid, and, going back to the couch, lay there, gazing at the picture in sickened horror. 

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made himconscious how unjust, how cruel, he had been to Sibyl Vane. It was nottoo late to make reparation for that. She could still be his wife. His unreal and selfish love would yield to some higher influence, wouldbe transformed into some nobler passion, and the portrait that BasilHallward had painted of him would be a guide to him through life, wouldbe to him what holiness is to some, and conscience to others, and thefear of God to us all. There were opiates for remorse, drugs thatcould lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol ofthe degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin menbrought upon their souls. 

Three o'clock struck, and four, and the half-hour rang its doublechime, but Dorian Gray did not stir. He was trying to gather up thescarlet threads of life and to weave them into a pattern; to find hisway through the sanguine labyrinth of passion through which he waswandering. He did not know what to do, or what to think. Finally, hewent over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he hadloved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness. Hecovered page after page with wild words of sorrow and wilder words ofpain. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, wefeel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. When Dorian had finished theletter, he felt that he had been forgiven. 

Suddenly there came a knock to the door, and he heard Lord Henry'svoice outside. "My dear boy, I must see you. Let me in at once. Ican't bear your shutting yourself up like this. "

He made no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knockingstill continued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henryin, and to explain to him the new life he was going to lead, to quarrelwith him if it became necessary to quarrel, to part if parting wasinevitable. He jumped up, drew the screen hastily across the picture, and unlocked the door. 

"I am so sorry for it all, Dorian, " said Lord Henry as he entered. "But you must not think too much about it. "

"Do you mean about Sibyl Vane?" asked the lad. 

"Yes, of course, " answered Lord Henry, sinking into a chair and slowlypulling off his yellow gloves. "It is dreadful, from one point ofview, but it was not your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and seeher, after the play was over?"

"Yes. "

"I felt sure you had. Did you make a scene with her?"

"I was brutal, Harry--perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I amnot sorry for anything that has happened. It has taught me to knowmyself better. "

"Ah, Dorian, I am so glad you take it in that way! I was afraid Iwould find you plunged in remorse and tearing that nice curly hair ofyours. "

"I have got through all that, " said Dorian, shaking his head andsmiling. "I am perfectly happy now. I know what conscience is, tobegin with. It is not what you told me it was. It is the divinestthing in us. Don't sneer at it, Harry, any more--at least not beforeme. I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul beinghideous. "

"A very charming artistic basis for ethics, Dorian! I congratulate youon it. But how are you going to begin?"

"By marrying Sibyl Vane. "

"Marrying Sibyl Vane!" cried Lord Henry, standing up and looking at himin perplexed amazement. "But, my dear Dorian--"

"Yes, Harry, I know what you are going to say. Something dreadfulabout marriage. Don't say it. Don't ever say things of that kind tome again. Two days ago I asked Sibyl to marry me. I am not going tobreak my word to her. She is to be my wife. "

"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you thismorning, and sent the note down by my own man. "

"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. Iwas afraid there might be something in it that I wouldn't like. Youcut life to pieces with your epigrams. "

"You know nothing then?"

"What do you mean?"

Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray, took both his hands in his own and held them tightly. "Dorian, " hesaid, "my letter--don't be frightened--was to tell you that Sibyl Vaneis dead. "

A cry of pain broke from the lad's lips, and he leaped to his feet, tearing his hands away from Lord Henry's grasp. "Dead! Sibyl dead!It is not true! It is a horrible lie! How dare you say it?"

"It is quite true, Dorian, " said Lord Henry, gravely. "It is in allthe morning papers. I wrote down to you to ask you not to see any onetill I came. There will have to be an inquest, of course, and you mustnot be mixed up in it. Things like that make a man fashionable inParis. But in London people are so prejudiced. Here, one should nevermake one's debut with a scandal. One should reserve that to give aninterest to one's old age. I suppose they don't know your name at thetheatre? If they don't, it is all right. Did any one see you goinground to her room? That is an important point. "

Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror. Finally he stammered, in a stifled voice, "Harry, did you say aninquest? What did you mean by that? Did Sibyl--? Oh, Harry, I can'tbear it! But be quick. Tell me everything at once. "

"I have no doubt it was not an accident, Dorian, though it must be putin that way to the public. It seems that as she was leaving thetheatre with her mother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she hadforgotten something upstairs. They waited some time for her, but shedid not come down again. They ultimately found her lying dead on thefloor of her dressing-room. She had swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use at theatres. I don't know what it was, but it had either prussic acid or white lead in it. I should fancy itwas prussic acid, as she seems to have died instantaneously. "

"Harry, Harry, it is terrible!" cried the lad. 

"Yes; it is very tragic, of course, but you must not get yourself mixedup in it. I see by The Standard that she was seventeen. I should havethought she was almost younger than that. She looked such a child, andseemed to know so little about acting. Dorian, you mustn't let thisthing get on your nerves. You must come and dine with me, andafterwards we will look in at the opera. It is a Patti night, andeverybody will be there. You can come to my sister's box. She has gotsome smart women with her. "

"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane, " said Dorian Gray, half to himself, "murdered her as surely as if I had cut her little throat with a knife. Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just ashappily in my garden. And to-night I am to dine with you, and then goon to the opera, and sup somewhere, I suppose, afterwards. Howextraordinarily dramatic life is! If I had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it. Somehow, now that it hashappened actually, and to me, it seems far too wonderful for tears. Here is the first passionate love-letter I have ever written in mylife. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have beenaddressed to a dead girl. Can they feel, I wonder, those white silentpeople we call the dead? Sibyl! Can she feel, or know, or listen?Oh, Harry, how I loved her once! It seems years ago to me now. Shewas everything to me. Then came that dreadful night--was it reallyonly last night?--when she played so badly, and my heart almost broke. She explained it all to me. It was terribly pathetic. But I was notmoved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly something happened thatmade me afraid. I can't tell you what it was, but it was terrible. Isaid I would go back to her. I felt I had done wrong. And now she isdead. My God! My God! Harry, what shall I do? You don't know thedanger I am in, and there is nothing to keep me straight. She wouldhave done that for me. She had no right to kill herself. It wasselfish of her. "

"My dear Dorian, " answered Lord Henry, taking a cigarette from his caseand producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can everreform a man is by boring him so completely that he loses all possibleinterest in life. If you had married this girl, you would have beenwretched. Of course, you would have treated her kindly. One canalways be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. But she wouldhave soon found out that you were absolutely indifferent to her. Andwhen a woman finds that out about her husband, she either becomesdreadfully dowdy, or wears very smart bonnets that some other woman'shusband has to pay for. I say nothing about the social mistake, whichwould have been abject--which, of course, I would not have allowed--butI assure you that in any case the whole thing would have been anabsolute failure. "

"I suppose it would, " muttered the lad, walking up and down the roomand looking horribly pale. "But I thought it was my duty. It is notmy fault that this terrible tragedy has prevented my doing what wasright. I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about goodresolutions--that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were. "

"Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientificlaws. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotionsthat have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be saidfor them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where theyhave no account. "

"Harry, " cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him, "why is it that I cannot feel this tragedy as much as I want to? Idon't think I am heartless. Do you?"

"You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to beentitled to give yourself that name, Dorian, " answered Lord Henry withhis sweet melancholy smile. 

The lad frowned. "I don't like that explanation, Harry, " he rejoined, "but I am glad you don't think I am heartless. I am nothing of thekind. I know I am not. And yet I must admit that this thing that hashappened does not affect me as it should. It seems to me to be simplylike a wonderful ending to a wonderful play. It has all the terriblebeauty of a Greek tragedy, a tragedy in which I took a great part, butby which I have not been wounded. "

"It is an interesting question, " said Lord Henry, who found anexquisite pleasure in playing on the lad's unconscious egotism, "anextremely interesting question. I fancy that the true explanation isthis: It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in suchan inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, theirabsolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lackof style. They affect us just as vulgarity affects us. They give usan impression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes, however, a tragedy that possesses artistic elements ofbeauty crosses our lives. If these elements of beauty are real, thewhole thing simply appeals to our sense of dramatic effect. Suddenlywe find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of theplay. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonderof the spectacle enthralls us. In the present case, what is it thathas really happened? Some one has killed herself for love of you. Iwish that I had ever had such an experience. It would have made me inlove with love for the rest of my life. The people who have adoredme--there have not been very many, but there have been some--havealways insisted on living on, long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care for me. They have become stout and tedious, and when Imeet them, they go in at once for reminiscences. That awful memory ofwoman! What a fearful thing it is! And what an utter intellectualstagnation it reveals! One should absorb the colour of life, but oneshould never remember its details. Details are always vulgar. "

"I must sow poppies in my garden, " sighed Dorian. 

"There is no necessity, " rejoined his companion. "Life has alwayspoppies in her hands. Of course, now and then things linger. I oncewore nothing but violets all through one season, as a form of artisticmourning for a romance that would not die. Ultimately, however, it diddie. I forget what killed it. I think it was her proposing tosacrifice the whole world for me. That is always a dreadful moment. It fills one with the terror of eternity. Well--would you believeit?--a week ago, at Lady Hampshire's, I found myself seated at dinnernext the lady in question, and she insisted on going over the wholething again, and digging up the past, and raking up the future. I hadburied my romance in a bed of asphodel. She dragged it out again andassured me that I had spoiled her life. I am bound to state that sheate an enormous dinner, so I did not feel any anxiety. But what a lackof taste she showed! The one charm of the past is that it is the past. But women never know when the curtain has fallen. They always want asixth act, and as soon as the interest of the play is entirely over, they propose to continue it. If they were allowed their own way, everycomedy would have a tragic ending, and every tragedy would culminate ina farce. They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense ofart. You are more fortunate than I am. I assure you, Dorian, that notone of the women I have known would have done for me what Sibyl Vanedid for you. Ordinary women always console themselves. Some of themdo it by going in for sentimental colours. Never trust a woman whowears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five whois fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history. Others find a great consolation in suddenly discovering the goodqualities of their husbands. They flaunt their conjugal felicity inone's face, as if it were the most fascinating of sins. Religionconsoles some. Its mysteries have all the charm of a flirtation, awoman once told me, and I can quite understand it. Besides, nothingmakes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makesegotists of us all. Yes; there is really no end to the consolationsthat women find in modern life. Indeed, I have not mentioned the mostimportant one. "

"What is that, Harry?" said the lad listlessly. 

"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirer when oneloses one's own. In good society that always whitewashes a woman. Butreally, Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all thewomen one meets! There is something to me quite beautiful about herdeath. I am glad I am living in a century when such wonders happen. They make one believe in the reality of the things we all play with, such as romance, passion, and love. "

"I was terribly cruel to her. You forget that. "

"I am afraid that women appreciate cruelty, downright cruelty, morethan anything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. Wehave emancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for theirmasters, all the same. They love being dominated. I am sure you weresplendid. I have never seen you really and absolutely angry, but I canfancy how delightful you looked. And, after all, you said something tome the day before yesterday that seemed to me at the time to be merelyfanciful, but that I see now was absolutely true, and it holds the keyto everything. "

"What was that, Harry?"

"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines ofromance--that she was Desdemona one night, and Ophelia the other; thatif she died as Juliet, she came to life as Imogen. "

"She will never come to life again now, " muttered the lad, burying hisface in his hands. 

"No, she will never come to life. She has played her last part. Butyou must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simplyas a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderfulscene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur. The girl never reallylived, and so she has never really died. To you at least she wasalways a dream, a phantom that flitted through Shakespeare's plays andleft them lovelier for its presence, a reed through which Shakespeare'smusic sounded richer and more full of joy. The moment she touchedactual life, she marred it, and it marred her, and so she passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your head becauseCordelia was strangled. Cry out against Heaven because the daughter ofBrabantio died. But don't waste your tears over Sibyl Vane. She wasless real than they are. "

There was a silence. The evening darkened in the room. Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. Thecolours faded wearily out of things. 

After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me tomyself, Harry, " he murmured with something of a sigh of relief. "Ifelt all that you have said, but somehow I was afraid of it, and Icould not express it to myself. How well you know me! But we will nottalk again of what has happened. It has been a marvellous experience. That is all. I wonder if life has still in store for me anything asmarvellous. "

"Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing thatyou, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do. "

"But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? Whatthen?"

"Ah, then, " said Lord Henry, rising to go, "then, my dear Dorian, youwould have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought toyou. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that readstoo much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful. Wecannot spare you. And now you had better dress and drive down to theclub. We are rather late, as it is. "

"I think I shall join you at the opera, Harry. I feel too tired to eatanything. What is the number of your sister's box?"

"Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see hername on the door. But I am sorry you won't come and dine. "

"I don't feel up to it, " said Dorian listlessly. "But I am awfullyobliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are certainly mybest friend. No one has ever understood me as you have. "

"We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian, " answered LordHenry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you beforenine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing. "

As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell, and ina few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to take aninterminable time over everything. 

As soon as he had left, he rushed to the screen and drew it back. No;there was no further change in the picture. It had received the newsof Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It wasconscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious crueltythat marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt, appeared at thevery moment that the girl had drunk the poison, whatever it was. Orwas it indifferent to results? Did it merely take cognizance of whatpassed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped that some day he wouldsee the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as hehoped it. 

Poor Sibyl! What a romance it had all been! She had often mimickeddeath on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her and taken herwith him. How had she played that dreadful last scene? Had she cursedhim, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love wouldalways be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything by thesacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more ofwhat she had made him go through, on that horrible night at thetheatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragicfigure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality oflove. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as heremembered her childlike look, and winsome fanciful ways, and shytremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily and looked again at thepicture. 

He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or hadhis choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that forhim--life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasures subtle and secret, wild joys and wildersins--he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear theburden of his shame: that was all. 

A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration thatwas in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish mockeryof Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted lipsthat now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had satbefore the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of it, asit seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every mood towhich he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome thing, tobe hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the sunlight thathad so often touched to brighter gold the waving wonder of its hair?The pity of it! the pity of it!

For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy thatexisted between him and the picture might cease. It had changed inanswer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remainunchanged. And yet, who, that knew anything about life, wouldsurrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic thatchance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be fraught?Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed been prayerthat had produced the substitution? Might there not be some curiousscientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise its influenceupon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influence upondead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in unison with our moodsand passions, atom calling to atom in secret love or strange affinity?But the reason was of no importance. He would never again tempt by aprayer any terrible power. If the picture was to alter, it was toalter. That was all. Why inquire too closely into it?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able tofollow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be to himthe most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge ofsummer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallidmask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse ofhis life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would bestrong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to thecoloured image on the canvas? He would be safe. That was everything. 

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture, smiling as he did so, and passed into his bedroom, where his valet wasalready waiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and LordHenry was leaning over his chair. 

CHAPTER 9

As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was showninto the room. 

"I am so glad I have found you, Dorian, " he said gravely. "I calledlast night, and they told me you were at the opera. Of course, I knewthat was impossible. But I wish you had left word where you had reallygone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedymight be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed forme when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a lateedition of The Globe that I picked up at the club. I came here at onceand was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you howheart-broken I am about the whole thing. I know what you must suffer. But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For amoment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in thepaper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid ofintruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What astate she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say aboutit all?"

"My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping somepale-yellow wine from a delicate, gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glassand looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the opera. You should havecome on there. I met Lady Gwendolen, Harry's sister, for the firsttime. We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sangdivinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk abouta thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as Harrysays, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was not thewoman's only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I believe. Buthe is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And now, tellme about yourself and what you are painting. "

"You went to the opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly and with astrained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the opera whileSibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk to meof other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely, beforethe girl you loved has even the quiet of a grave to sleep in? Why, man, there are horrors in store for that little white body of hers!"

"Stop, Basil! I won't hear it!" cried Dorian, leaping to his feet. "You must not tell me about things. What is done is done. What ispast is past. "

"You call yesterday the past?"

"What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is onlyshallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man whois master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent apleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want touse them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them. "

"Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. Youlook exactly the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to comedown to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creaturein the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. Youtalk as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry'sinfluence. I see that. "

The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a fewmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a greatdeal to Harry, Basil, " he said at last, "more than I owe to you. Youonly taught me to be vain. "

"Well, I am punished for that, Dorian--or shall be some day. "

"I don't know what you mean, Basil, " he exclaimed, turning round. "Idon't know what you want. What do you want?"

"I want the Dorian Gray I used to paint, " said the artist sadly. 

"Basil, " said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on hisshoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday, when I heard that SibylVane had killed herself--"

"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" criedHallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror. 

"My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident? Ofcourse she killed herself. "

The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful, " hemuttered, and a shudder ran through him. 

"No, " said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is oneof the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people who actlead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or faithfulwives, or something tedious. You know what I mean--middle-class virtueand all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl was! She lived herfinest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The last night sheplayed--the night you saw her--she acted badly because she had knownthe reality of love. When she knew its unreality, she died, as Julietmight have died. She passed again into the sphere of art. There issomething of the martyr about her. Her death has all the patheticuselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterdayat a particular moment--about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter tosix--you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, whobrought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. Isuffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You findme consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! Youremind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist whospent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievanceredressed, or some unjust law altered--I forget exactly what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. Hehad absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became aconfirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you reallywant to console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or tosee it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier whoused to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up alittle vellum-covered book in your studio one day and chancing on thatdelightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me ofwhen we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to saythat yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. Ilove beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades, green bronzes, lacquer-work, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury, pomp--there is much to be got from all these. But the artistictemperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more tome. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is toescape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talkingto you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was aschoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, newthoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less. Iam changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course, I am veryfond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are notstronger--you are too much afraid of life--but you are better. And howhappy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't quarrelwith me. I am what I am. There is nothing more to be said. "

The painter felt strangely moved. The lad was infinitely dear to him, and his personality had been the great turning point in his art. Hecould not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After all, hisindifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away. Therewas so much in him that was good, so much in him that was noble. 

"Well, Dorian, " he said at length, with a sad smile, "I won't speak toyou again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust yourname won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is to takeplace this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"

Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his face atthe mention of the word "inquest. " There was something so crude andvulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my name, " heanswered. 

"But surely she did?"

"Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never mentionedto any one. She told me once that they were all rather curious tolearn who I was, and that she invariably told them my name was PrinceCharming. It was pretty of her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to have something more of her than the memory ofa few kisses and some broken pathetic words. "

"I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But youmust come and sit to me yourself again. I can't get on without you. "

"I can never sit to you again, Basil. It is impossible!" he exclaimed, starting back. 

The painter stared at him. "My dear boy, what nonsense!" he cried. "Do you mean to say you don't like what I did of you? Where is it?Why have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it. Itis the best thing I have ever done. Do take the screen away, Dorian. It is simply disgraceful of your servant hiding my work like that. Ifelt the room looked different as I came in. "

"My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don't imagine I lethim arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for mesometimes--that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too strongon the portrait. "

"Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place forit. Let me see it. " And Hallward walked towards the corner of theroom. 

A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed betweenthe painter and the screen. "Basil, " he said, looking very pale, "youmust not look at it. I don't wish you to. "

"Not look at my own work! You are not serious. Why shouldn't I lookat it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing. 

"If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will neverspeak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I don'toffer any explanation, and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen, everything is over between us. "

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absoluteamazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad wasactually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils ofhis eyes were like disks of blue fire. He was trembling all over. 

"Dorian!"

"Don't speak!"

"But what is the matter? Of course I won't look at it if you don'twant me to, " he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going overtowards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that Ishouldn't see my own work, especially as I am going to exhibit it inParis in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat ofvarnish before that, so I must see it some day, and why not to-day?"

"To exhibit it! You want to exhibit it?" exclaimed Dorian Gray, astrange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to beshown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life?That was impossible. Something--he did not know what--had to be doneat once. 

"Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is goingto collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in the Rue deSeze, which will open the first week in October. The portrait willonly be away a month. I should think you could easily spare it forthat time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And if you keepit always behind a screen, you can't care much about it. "

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads ofperspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horribledanger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it, " hecried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in forbeing consistent have just as many moods as others have. The onlydifference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't haveforgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the worldwould induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry exactlythe same thing. " He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light came intohis eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, halfseriously and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange quarter ofan hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture. Hetold me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me. " Yes, perhapsBasil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try. 

"Basil, " he said, coming over quite close and looking him straight inthe face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours, and I shalltell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to exhibit mypicture?"

The painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you, youmight like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at me. Icould not bear your doing either of those two things. If you wish menever to look at your picture again, I am content. I have always youto look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to be hiddenfrom the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to me thanany fame or reputation. "

"No, Basil, you must tell me, " insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have aright to know. " His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosityhad taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward'smystery. 

"Let us sit down, Dorian, " said the painter, looking troubled. "Let ussit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in thepicture something curious?--something that probably at first did notstrike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?"

"Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with tremblinghands and gazing at him with wild startled eyes. 

"I see you did. Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. Dorian, from the moment I met you, your personality had the mostextraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, andpower, by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseenideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. Iworshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. Iwanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was withyou. When you were away from me, you were still present in my art.... Of course, I never let you know anything about this. It would havebeen impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardlyunderstood it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face toface, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--toowonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the perilof losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks andweeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came anew development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and asAdonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned withheavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazingacross the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool ofsome Greek woodland and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel ofyour own face. And it had all been what art should be--unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, Idetermined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your owntime. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder ofyour own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist orveil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flakeand film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraidthat others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had toldtoo much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was thatI resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were alittle annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mindthat. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I feltthat I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of itspresence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that Ihad seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-lookingand that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is amistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever reallyshown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than wefancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour--that is all. Itoften seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely thanit ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, Idetermined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you wereright. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you aremade to be worshipped. "

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safefor the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for thepainter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wonderedif he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of afriend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But thatwas all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strangeidolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?

"It is extraordinary to me, Dorian, " said Hallward, "that you shouldhave seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?"

"I saw something in it, " he answered, "something that seemed to me verycurious. "

"Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?"

Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could notpossibly let you stand in front of that picture. "

"You will some day, surely?"

"Never. "

"Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have beenthe one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever Ihave done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don't know what it costme to tell you all that I have told you. "

"My dear Basil, " said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that youfelt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment. "

"It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that Ihave made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps oneshould never put one's worship into words. "

"It was a very disappointing confession. "

"Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in thepicture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"

"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn'ttalk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, andwe must always remain so. "

"You have got Harry, " said the painter sadly. 

"Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spendshis days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what isimprobable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still Idon't think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would soonergo to you, Basil. "

"You will sit to me again?"

"Impossible!"

"You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comesacross two ideal things. Few come across one. "

"I can't explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant. "

"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid, " murmured Hallward regretfully. "Andnow good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture onceagain. But that can't be helped. I quite understand what you feelabout it. "

As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! Howlittle he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he hadsucceeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! Howmuch that strange confession explained to him! The painter's absurdfits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, hiscurious reticences--he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so colouredby romance. 

He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away atall costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It hadbeen mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. 

CHAPTER 10

When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered ifhe had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quiteimpassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walkedover to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection ofVictor's face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to beon his guard. 

Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that hewanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him tosend two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the manleft the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or wasthat merely his own fancy?

After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned threadmittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. Heasked her for the key of the schoolroom. 

"The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full ofdust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed. "

"I don't want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key. "

"Well, sir, you'll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, ithasn't been opened for nearly five years--not since his lordship died. "

He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memoriesof him. "That does not matter, " he answered. "I simply want to seethe place--that is all. Give me the key. "

"And here is the key, sir, " said the old lady, going over the contentsof her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I'llhave it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of living upthere, sir, and you so comfortable here?"

"No, no, " he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do. "

She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail ofthe household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thoughtbest. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. 

As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked roundthe room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavilyembroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-centuryVenetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhapsserved often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something thathad a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption of deathitself--something that would breed horrors and yet would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to the painted imageon the canvas. They would mar its beauty and eat away its grace. Theywould defile it and make it shameful. And yet the thing would stilllive on. It would be always alive. 

He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told Basilthe true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away. Basilwould have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the stillmore poisonous influences that came from his own temperament. The lovethat he bore him--for it was really love--had nothing in it that wasnot noble and intellectual. It was not that mere physical admirationof beauty that is born of the senses and that dies when the sensestire. It was such love as Michelangelo had known, and Montaigne, andWinckelmann, and Shakespeare himself. Yes, Basil could have saved him. But it was too late now. The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future wasinevitable. There were passions in him that would find their terribleoutlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real. 

He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture thatcovered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. Was the face on the canvas viler than before? It seemed to him that itwas unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. It was simply theexpression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty. Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow Basil'sreproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!--how shallow, and of what littleaccount! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas andcalling him to judgement. A look of pain came across him, and he flungthe rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock came to thedoor. He passed out as his servant entered. 

"The persons are here, Monsieur. "

He felt that the man must be got rid of at once. He must not beallowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There wassomething sly about him, and he had thoughtful, treacherous eyes. Sitting down at the writing-table he scribbled a note to Lord Henry, asking him to send him round something to read and reminding him thatthey were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening. 

"Wait for an answer, " he said, handing it to him, "and show the men inhere. "

In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbardhimself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came inwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was aflorid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art wasconsiderably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of theartists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. Hewaited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception infavour of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmedeverybody. It was a pleasure even to see him. 

"What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckledhands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round inperson. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at asale. Old Florentine. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirablysuited for a religious subject, Mr. Gray. "

"I am so sorry you have given yourself the trouble of coming round, Mr. Hubbard. I shall certainly drop in and look at the frame--though Idon't go in much at present for religious art--but to-day I only want apicture carried to the top of the house for me. It is rather heavy, soI thought I would ask you to lend me a couple of your men. "

"No trouble at all, Mr. Gray. I am delighted to be of any service toyou. Which is the work of art, sir?"

"This, " replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it, covering and all, just as it is? I don't want it to get scratchedgoing upstairs. "

"There will be no difficulty, sir, " said the genial frame-maker, beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture fromthe long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, whereshall we carry it to, Mr. Gray?"

"I will show you the way, Mr. Hubbard, if you will kindly follow me. Or perhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at thetop of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it iswider. "

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall andbegan the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made thepicture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the obsequiousprotests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's spirited dislikeof seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian put his hand to itso as to help them. 

"Something of a load to carry, sir, " gasped the little man when theyreached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead. 

"I am afraid it is rather heavy, " murmured Dorian as he unlocked thedoor that opened into the room that was to keep for him the curioussecret of his life and hide his soul from the eyes of men. 

He had not entered the place for more than four years--not, indeed, since he had used it first as a play-room when he was a child, and thenas a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last LordKelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likenessto his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated anddesired to keep at a distance. It appeared to Dorian to have butlittle changed. There was the huge Italian cassone, with itsfantastically painted panels and its tarnished gilt mouldings, in whichhe had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the satinwood book-casefilled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it washanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queenwere playing chess in a garden, while a company of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. How well heremembered it all! Every moment of his lonely childhood came back tohim as he looked round. He recalled the stainless purity of his boyishlife, and it seemed horrible to him that it was here the fatal portraitwas to be hidden away. How little he had thought, in those dead days, of all that was in store for him!

But there was no other place in the house so secure from prying eyes asthis. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath itspurple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial, sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He himselfwould not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption of hissoul? He kept his youth--that was enough. And, besides, might nothis nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the futureshould be so full of shame. Some love might come across his life, andpurify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be alreadystirring in spirit and in flesh--those curious unpictured sins whosevery mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm. Perhaps, someday, the cruel look would have passed away from the scarlet sensitivemouth, and he might show to the world Basil Hallward's masterpiece. 

No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thingupon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness ofsin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks wouldbecome hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's feet would creep round thefading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose itsbrightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled throat, thecold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he remembered in thegrandfather who had been so stern to him in his boyhood. The picturehad to be concealed. There was no help for it. 

"Bring it in, Mr. Hubbard, please, " he said, wearily, turning round. "I am sorry I kept you so long. I was thinking of something else. "

"Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray, " answered the frame-maker, whowas still gasping for breath. "Where shall we put it, sir?"

"Oh, anywhere. Here: this will do. I don't want to have it hung up. Just lean it against the wall. Thanks. "

"Might one look at the work of art, sir?"

Dorian started. "It would not interest you, Mr. Hubbard, " he said, keeping his eye on the man. He felt ready to leap upon him and flinghim to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging thatconcealed the secret of his life. "I shan't trouble you any more now. I am much obliged for your kindness in coming round. "

"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Gray. Ever ready to do anything for you, sir. " And Mr. Hubbard tramped downstairs, followed by the assistant, who glanced back at Dorian with a look of shy wonder in his roughuncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous. 

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the doorand put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would everlook upon the horrible thing. No eye but his would ever see his shame. 

On reaching the library, he found that it was just after five o'clockand that the tea had been already brought up. On a little table ofdark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from LadyRadley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who hadspent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly tornand the edges soiled. A copy of the third edition of The St. James'sGazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It was evident that Victor hadreturned. He wondered if he had met the men in the hall as they wereleaving the house and had wormed out of them what they had been doing. He would be sure to miss the picture--had no doubt missed it already, while he had been laying the tea-things. The screen had not been setback, and a blank space was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night hemight find him creeping upstairs and trying to force the door of theroom. It was a horrible thing to have a spy in one's house. He hadheard of rich men who had been blackmailed all their lives by someservant who had read a letter, or overheard a conversation, or pickedup a card with an address, or found beneath a pillow a withered floweror a shred of crumpled lace. 

He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry'snote. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club ateight-fifteen. He opened The St. James's languidly, and looked throughit. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drewattention to the following paragraph:

INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS. --An inquest was held this morning at the BellTavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body ofSibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, whowas greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that ofDr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. 

He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room andflung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly realugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry forhaving sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to havemarked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knewmore than enough English for that. 

Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane'sdeath? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. 

His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What wasit, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonalstand that had always looked to him like the work of some strangeEgyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flunghimself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After afew minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he hadever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to thedelicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumbshow before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenlymade real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were graduallyrevealed. 

It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian whospent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all thepassions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except hisown, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods throughwhich the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mereartificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. Thestyle in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vividand obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of technicalexpressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the workof some of the finest artists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle incolour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mysticalphilosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading thespiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the morbid confessionsof a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour ofincense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. Themere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, sofull as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious ofthe falling day and creeping shadows. 

Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamedthrough the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read nomore. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of thelateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placedthe book on the little Florentine table that always stood at hisbedside and began to dress for dinner. 

It was almost nine o'clock before he reached the club, where he foundLord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. 

"I am so sorry, Harry, " he cried, "but really it is entirely yourfault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how thetime was going. "

"Yes, I thought you would like it, " replied his host, rising from hischair. 

"I didn't say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is agreat difference. "

"Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passedinto the dining-room. 

CHAPTER 11

For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence ofthis book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he neversought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less thannine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound indifferent colours, so that they might suit his various moods and thechanging fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to havealmost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisianin whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangelyblended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his ownlife, written before he had lived it. 

In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. Henever knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhatgrotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and stillwater which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and wasoccasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps innearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has itsplace--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with itsreally tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow anddespair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, hehad most dearly valued. 

For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, andmany others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who hadheard the most evil things against him--and from time to time strangerumours about his mode of life crept through London and became thechatter of the clubs--could not believe anything to his dishonour whenthey saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himselfunspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent whenDorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of hisface that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them thememory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how oneso charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of anage that was at once sordid and sensual. 

Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolongedabsences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who werehis friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creepupstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never lefthim now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that BasilHallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face onthe canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at himfrom the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used toquicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of hisown beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous andterrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling foreheador crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes whichwere the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He wouldplace his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. 

There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his owndelicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the littleill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and indisguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin hehad brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignantbecause it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, asthey sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increasewith gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. Hehad mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. 

Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations tosociety. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on eachWednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to theworld his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of theday to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His littledinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, werenoted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, withits subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroideredcloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had oftendreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something ofthe real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction andperfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be ofthe company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to "makethemselves perfect by the worship of beauty. " Like Gautier, he was onefor whom "the visible world existed. "

And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of thearts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a momentuniversal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assertthe absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination forhim. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time totime he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites ofthe Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him ineverything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm ofhis graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. 

For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almostimmediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, asubtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to theLondon of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of theSatyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to besomething more than a mere arbiter elegantiarum, to be consulted on thewearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of acane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would haveits reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in thespiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. 

The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, beendecried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions andsensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they areconscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses hadnever been understood, and that they had remained savage and animalmerely because the world had sought to starve them into submission orto kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of anew spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be thedominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving throughhistory, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had beensurrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilfulrejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whoseorigin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely moreterrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving outthe anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving tothe hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. 

Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonismthat was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomelypuritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It wasto have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never toaccept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of anymode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experienceitself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they mightbe. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgarprofligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was toteach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that isitself but a moment. 

There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, eitherafter one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured ofdeath, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when throughthe chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than realityitself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, onemight fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubledwith the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through thecurtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumbshadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of mengoing forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming downfrom the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though itfeared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep fromher purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and bydegrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and wewatch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wanmirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where wehad left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had beenstudying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or theletter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the nightcomes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it wherewe had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of thenecessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round ofstereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelidsmight open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew inthe darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have freshshapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world inwhich the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even ofjoy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain. 

It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Grayto be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in hissearch for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, andpossess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, hewould often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be reallyalien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, andthen, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied hisintellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference thatis not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that, indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a conditionof it. 

It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the RomanCatholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a greatattraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than allthe sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superbrejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicityof its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that itsought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marblepavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowlyand with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, orraising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallidwafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "paniscaelestis, " the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of thePassion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting hisbreast for his sins. The fuming censers that the grave boys, in theirlace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had theirsubtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look withwonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow ofone of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worngrating the true story of their lives. 

But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectualdevelopment by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or ofmistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitablefor the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in whichthere are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with itsmarvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtleantinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for aseason; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines ofthe Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure intracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in thebrain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception ofthe absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of himbefore, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importancecompared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren allintellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritualmysteries to reveal. 

And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of theirmanufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gumsfrom the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had notits counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover theirtrue relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made onemystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violetsthat woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled thebrain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking oftento elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the severalinfluences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers;of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, thatsickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said tobe able to expel melancholy from the soul. 

At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a longlatticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls ofolive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which madgipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawledTunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, whilegrinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouchingupon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes ofreed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes andhorrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords ofbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin'sbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fellunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the worldthe strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs ofdead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contactwith Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He hadthe mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are notallowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have beensubjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of thePeruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of humanbones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous greenjaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singularsweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled whenthey were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which theperformer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; theharsh ture of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels whosit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at adistance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that has two vibratingtongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with anelastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the yotl-bells ofthe Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a hugecylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like theone that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexicantemple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid adescription. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinatedhim, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, likeNature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideousvoices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in hisbox at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in raptpleasure to "Tannhauser" and seeing in the prelude to that great workof art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. 

On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at acostume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress coveredwith five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him foryears, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would oftenspend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the variousstones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl thatturns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-redcinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with theiralternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of thesunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbowof the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds ofextraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise de lavieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. 

He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso'sClericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of realjacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror ofEmathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes "withcollars of real emeralds growing on their backs. " There was a gem inthe brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and "by the exhibitionof golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown intoa magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre deBoniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of Indiamade him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinthprovoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. Thegarnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of hercolour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of anewly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. Thebezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charmthat could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was theaspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from anydanger by fire. 

The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John thePriest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snakeinwrought, so that no man might bring poison within. " Over the gablewere "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles, " so that thegold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge'sstrange romance 'A Margarite of America', it was stated that in thechamber of the queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of theworld, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours ofchrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults. " Marco Polohad seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in themouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl thatthe diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mournedfor seven moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into thegreat pit, he flung it away--Procopius tells the story--nor was it everfound again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weightof gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certainVenetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every godthat he worshipped. 

When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII ofFrance, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred andtwenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousandmarks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII, on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "ajacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and otherrich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses. "The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in goldfiligrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armourstudded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set withturquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parseme with pearls. Henry II worejewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn withtwelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charlesthe Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung withpear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires. 

How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp anddecoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. 

Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries thatperformed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northernnations of Europe. As he investigated the subject--and he always hadan extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the momentin whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of theruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at anyrate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellowjonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated thestory of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his faceor stained his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with materialthings! Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-colouredrobe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been workedby brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velariumthat Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sailof purple on which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving achariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see thecurious table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which weredisplayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast;the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred goldenbees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop ofPontus and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature"; andthe coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of whichwere embroidered the verses of a song beginning "Madame, je suis toutjoyeux, " the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in goldthread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with fourpearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheimsfor the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with "thirteenhundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with theking's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wingswere similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole workedin gold. " Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her ofblack velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were ofdamask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silverground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and itstood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut blackvelvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatidesfifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King ofPoland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises withverses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifullychased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. Ithad been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard ofMohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. 

And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisitespecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, gettingthe dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates andstitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauzes, thatfrom their transparency are known in the East as "woven air, " and"running water, " and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java;elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fairblue silks and wrought with fleurs-de-lis, birds and images; veils oflacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanishvelvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas, with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds. 

He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeedhe had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In thelong cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he hadstored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really theraiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels andfine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn bythe suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set insix-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was thepine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were dividedinto panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and thecoronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was ofgreen velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of whichwere picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morsebore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys werewoven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred withmedallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and goldbrocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured withrepresentations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, andembroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics ofwhite satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphinsand fleurs-de-lis; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; andmany corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices towhich such things were put, there was something that quickened hisimagination. 

For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovelyhouse, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which hecould escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at timesto be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonelylocked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung withhis own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed himthe real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped thepurple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down todreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of theher times, with that pride of individualism that is half thefascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapenshadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. 

After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, andgave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, aswell as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had morethan once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picturethat was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during hisabsence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of theelaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. 

He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was truethat the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and uglinessof the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learnfrom that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He hadnot painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame itlooked? Even if he told them, would they believe it?

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house inNottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rankwho were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wantonluxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenlyleave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had notbeen tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if itshould be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surelythe world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world alreadysuspected it. 

For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birthand social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it wassaid that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into thesmoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and anothergentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious storiesbecame current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. Itwas rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in alow den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted withthieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. Hisextraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappearagain in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or passhim with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as thoughthey were determined to discover his secret. 

Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, hischarming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youththat seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answerto the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated abouthim. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been mostintimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who hadwildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure andset convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame orhorror if Dorian Gray entered the room. 

Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many hisstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element ofsecurity. Society--civilized society, at least--is never very ready tobelieve anything to the detriment of those who are both rich andfascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of moreimportance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectabilityis of much less value than the possession of a good chef. And, afterall, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who hasgiven one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his privatelife. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrees, asLord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there ispossibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of goodsociety are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form isabsolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character ofa romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightfulto us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It ismerely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. 

Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at theshallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thingsimple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was abeing with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiformcreature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought andpassion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladiesof the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-galleryof his country house and look at the various portraits of those whoseblood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described byFrancis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth andKing James, as one who was "caressed by the Court for his handsomeface, which kept him not long company. " Was it young Herbert's lifethat he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from bodyto body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of thatruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that hadso changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelledsurcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had thisman's legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed himsome inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely thedreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from thefading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearlstomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. Ona table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were largegreen rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, andthe strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he somethingof her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed tolook curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powderedhair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face wassaturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted withdisdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands thatwere so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenthcentury, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of thesecond Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in hiswildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curlsand insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world hadlooked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung theportrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! And his motherwith her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knewwhat he had got from her. He had got from her his beauty, and hispassion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in her looseBacchante dress. There were vine leaves in her hair. The purplespilled from the cup she was holding. The carnations of the paintinghad withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth andbrilliancy of colour. They seemed to follow him wherever he went. 

Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainlywith an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. Therewere times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of historywas merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in actand circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as ithad been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had knownthem all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across thestage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full ofsubtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives hadbeen his own. 

The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life hadhimself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, asTiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books ofElephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and theflute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, hadcaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped inan ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, hadwandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking roundwith haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end hisdays, and sick with that ennui, that terrible taedium vitae, that comeson those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clearemerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter ofpearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through theStreet of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on NeroCaesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face withcolours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moonfrom Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun. 

Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and thetwo chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curioustapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful andbeautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had mademonstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife andpainted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck deathfrom the dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known asPaul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title ofFormosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, wasbought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who usedhounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered withroses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him and his mantle stained with the bloodof Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by hisdebauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of whiteand crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boythat he might serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whosemelancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had apassion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of theFiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice whengambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockerytook the name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood ofthree lads was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, thelover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Romeas the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, andgave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of ashameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; CharlesVI, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warnedhim of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain hadsickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen cardspainted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in histrimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, GrifonettoBaglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellowpiazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. 

There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew ofstrange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lightedtorch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomanderand by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. Therewere moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which hecould realize his conception of the beautiful. 

CHAPTER 12

It was on the ninth of November, the eve of his own thirty-eighthbirthday, as he often remembered afterwards. 

He was walking home about eleven o'clock from Lord Henry's, where hehad been dining, and was wrapped in heavy furs, as the night was coldand foggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a man passed him in the mist, walking very fast and with the collar ofhis grey ulster turned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorianrecognized him. It was Basil Hallward. A strange sense of fear, forwhich he could not account, came over him. He made no sign ofrecognition and went on quickly in the direction of his own house. 

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on thepavement and then hurrying after him. In a few moments, his hand wason his arm. 

"Dorian! What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting foryou in your library ever since nine o'clock. Finally I took pity onyour tired servant and told him to go to bed, as he let me out. I amoff to Paris by the midnight train, and I particularly wanted to seeyou before I left. I thought it was you, or rather your fur coat, asyou passed me. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't you recognize me?"

"In this fog, my dear Basil? Why, I can't even recognize GrosvenorSquare. I believe my house is somewhere about here, but I don't feelat all certain about it. I am sorry you are going away, as I have notseen you for ages. But I suppose you will be back soon?"

"No: I am going to be out of England for six months. I intend to takea studio in Paris and shut myself up till I have finished a greatpicture I have in my head. However, it wasn't about myself I wanted totalk. Here we are at your door. Let me come in for a moment. I havesomething to say to you. "

"I shall be charmed. But won't you miss your train?" said Dorian Graylanguidly as he passed up the steps and opened the door with hislatch-key. 

The lamplight struggled out through the fog, and Hallward looked at hiswatch. "I have heaps of time, " he answered. "The train doesn't gotill twelve-fifteen, and it is only just eleven. In fact, I was on myway to the club to look for you, when I met you. You see, I shan'thave any delay about luggage, as I have sent on my heavy things. All Ihave with me is in this bag, and I can easily get to Victoria in twentyminutes. "

Dorian looked at him and smiled. "What a way for a fashionable painterto travel! A Gladstone bag and an ulster! Come in, or the fog willget into the house. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. Nothing is serious nowadays. At least nothing should be. "

Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into thelibrary. There was a bright wood fire blazing in the large openhearth. The lamps were lit, and an open Dutch silver spirit-casestood, with some siphons of soda-water and large cut-glass tumblers, ona little marqueterie table. 

"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave meeverything I wanted, including your best gold-tipped cigarettes. He isa most hospitable creature. I like him much better than the Frenchmanyou used to have. What has become of the Frenchman, by the bye?"

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I believe he married Lady Radley'smaid, and has established her in Paris as an English dressmaker. Anglomania is very fashionable over there now, I hear. It seems sillyof the French, doesn't it? But--do you know?--he was not at all a badservant. I never liked him, but I had nothing to complain about. Oneoften imagines things that are quite absurd. He was really verydevoted to me and seemed quite sorry when he went away. Have anotherbrandy-and-soda? Or would you like hock-and-seltzer? I always takehock-and-seltzer myself. There is sure to be some in the next room. "

"Thanks, I won't have anything more, " said the painter, taking his capand coat off and throwing them on the bag that he had placed in thecorner. "And now, my dear fellow, I want to speak to you seriously. Don't frown like that. You make it so much more difficult for me. "

"What is it all about?" cried Dorian in his petulant way, flinginghimself down on the sofa. "I hope it is not about myself. I am tiredof myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else. "

"It is about yourself, " answered Hallward in his grave deep voice, "andI must say it to you. I shall only keep you half an hour. "

Dorian sighed and lit a cigarette. "Half an hour!" he murmured. 

"It is not much to ask of you, Dorian, and it is entirely for your ownsake that I am speaking. I think it right that you should know thatthe most dreadful things are being said against you in London. "

"I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about otherpeople, but scandals about myself don't interest me. They have not gotthe charm of novelty. "

"They must interest you, Dorian. Every gentleman is interested in hisgood name. You don't want people to talk of you as something vile anddegraded. Of course, you have your position, and your wealth, and allthat kind of thing. But position and wealth are not everything. Mindyou, I don't believe these rumours at all. At least, I can't believethem when I see you. Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man'sface. It cannot be concealed. People talk sometimes of secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretched man has a vice, it showsitself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, themoulding of his hands even. Somebody--I won't mention his name, butyou know him--came to me last year to have his portrait done. I hadnever seen him before, and had never heard anything about him at thetime, though I have heard a good deal since. He offered an extravagantprice. I refused him. There was something in the shape of his fingersthat I hated. I know now that I was quite right in what I fanciedabout him. His life is dreadful. But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth--I can'tbelieve anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and younever come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and Ihear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, Idon't know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke ofBerwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that somany gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you totheirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinnerlast week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, inconnection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at theDudley. Staveley curled his lip and said that you might have the mostartistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girlshould be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in thesame room with. I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and askedhim what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? Therewas that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You werehis great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave Englandwith a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about AdrianSingleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent's only son andhis career? I met his father yesterday in St. James's Street. Heseemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke ofPerth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman wouldassociate with him?"

"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things of which you know nothing, "said Dorian Gray, biting his lip, and with a note of infinite contemptin his voice. "You ask me why Berwick leaves a room when I enter it. It is because I know everything about his life, not because he knowsanything about mine. With such blood as he has in his veins, how couldhis record be clean? You ask me about Henry Ashton and young Perth. Did I teach the one his vices, and the other his debauchery? If Kent'ssilly son takes his wife from the streets, what is that to me? IfAdrian Singleton writes his friend's name across a bill, am I hiskeeper? I know how people chatter in England. The middle classes airtheir moral prejudices over their gross dinner-tables, and whisperabout what they call the profligacies of their betters in order to tryand pretend that they are in smart society and on intimate terms withthe people they slander. In this country, it is enough for a man tohave distinction and brains for every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, leadthemselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native landof the hypocrite. "

"Dorian, " cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is badenough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the reasonwhy I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a right tojudge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours seem tolose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have filled themwith a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into the depths. Youled them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you can smile, asyou are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I know you and Harryare inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for none other, you shouldnot have made his sister's name a by-word. "

"Take care, Basil. You go too far. "

"I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you metLady Gwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is therea single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in thepark? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Thenthere are other stories--stories that you have been seen creeping atdawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the foulestdens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I first heardthem, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me shudder. Whatabout your country-house and the life that is led there? Dorian, youdon't know what is said about you. I won't tell you that I don't wantto preach to you. I remember Harry saying once that every man whoturned himself into an amateur curate for the moment always began bysaying that, and then proceeded to break his word. I do want to preachto you. I want you to lead such a life as will make the world respectyou. I want you to have a clean name and a fair record. I want you toget rid of the dreadful people you associate with. Don't shrug yourshoulders like that. Don't be so indifferent. You have a wonderfulinfluence. Let it be for good, not for evil. They say that youcorrupt every one with whom you become intimate, and that it is quitesufficient for you to enter a house for shame of some kind to followafter. I don't know whether it is so or not. How should I know? Butit is said of you. I am told things that it seems impossible to doubt. Lord Gloucester was one of my greatest friends at Oxford. He showed mea letter that his wife had written to him when she was dying alone inher villa at Mentone. Your name was implicated in the most terribleconfession I ever read. I told him that it was absurd--that I knew youthoroughly and that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Knowyou? I wonder do I know you? Before I could answer that, I shouldhave to see your soul. "

"To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa andturning almost white from fear. 

"Yes, " answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in hisvoice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that. "

A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man. "Youshall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from thetable. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look atit? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they would like meall the better for it. I know the age better than you do, though youwill prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You havechattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it face toface. "

There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He stampedhis foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He felt aterrible joy at the thought that some one else was to share his secret, and that the man who had painted the portrait that was the origin ofall his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life with thehideous memory of what he had done. 

"Yes, " he continued, coming closer to him and looking steadfastly intohis stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the thingthat you fancy only God can see. "

Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "Youmust not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't meananything. "

"You think so?" He laughed again. 

"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for yourgood. You know I have been always a stanch friend to you. "

"Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say. "

A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused fora moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all, whatright had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done atithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have suffered!Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the fire-place, andstood there, looking at the burning logs with their frostlike ashes andtheir throbbing cores of flame. 

"I am waiting, Basil, " said the young man in a hard clear voice. 

He turned round. "What I have to say is this, " he cried. "You mustgive me some answer to these horrible charges that are made againstyou. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning toend, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you seewhat I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, andcorrupt, and shameful. "

Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Comeupstairs, Basil, " he said quietly. "I keep a diary of my life from dayto day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written. I shallshow it to you if you come with me. "

"I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed mytrain. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me toread anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question. "

"That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here. Youwill not have to read long. "

CHAPTER 13

He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallwardfollowing close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively atnight. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. Arising wind made some of the windows rattle. 

When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on thefloor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock. "You insist onknowing, Basil?" he asked in a low voice. 

"Yes. "

"I am delighted, " he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhatharshly, "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to knoweverything about me. You have had more to do with my life than youthink"; and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. Acold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment ina flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you, " hewhispered, as he placed the lamp on the table. 

Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression. The room lookedas if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish tapestry, acurtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost emptybook-case--that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a chair anda table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that wasstanding on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place was coveredwith dust and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran scufflingbehind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew. 

"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw thatcurtain back, and you will see mine. "

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, orplaying a part, " muttered Hallward, frowning. 

"You won't? Then I must do it myself, " said the young man, and he torethe curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground. 

An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in thedim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There wassomething in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at!The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled thatmarvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair andsome scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept somethingof the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yetcompletely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed torecognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. Theidea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. 

It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had neverdone that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt asif his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. Hisown picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned andlooked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his handacross his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. 

The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him withthat strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who areabsorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neitherreal sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of thespectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had takenthe flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. 

"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice soundedshrill and curious in his ears. 

"Years ago, when I was a boy, " said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower inhis hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of mygood looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, whoexplained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of methat revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, evennow, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps youwould call it a prayer.... "

"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing isimpossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. Thepaints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you thething is impossible. "

"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to thewindow and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. 

"You told me you had destroyed it. "

"I was wrong. It has destroyed me. "

"I don't believe it is my picture. "

"Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. 

"My ideal, as you call it... "

"As you called it. "

"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me suchan ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr. "

"It is the face of my soul. "

"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of adevil. "

"Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil, " cried Dorian with awild gesture of despair. 

Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If itis true, " he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy youto be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. Thesurface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It wasfrom within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin wereslowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a waterygrave was not so fearful. 

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor andlay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Thenhe flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the tableand buried his face in his hands. 

"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was noanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray, " he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say inone's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. ' Let us say that together. The prayer ofyour pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will beanswered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. Youworshipped yourself too much. We are both punished. "

Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmedeyes. "It is too late, Basil, " he faltered. 

"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannotremember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins beas scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow'?"

"Those words mean nothing to me now. "

"Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life. MyGod! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"

Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollablefeeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it hadbeen suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into hisear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animalstirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glancedwildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chestthat faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was aknife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seizedit and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was goingto rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein thatis behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table andstabbing again and again. 

There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one chokingwith blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed himtwice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle onthe floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Thenhe threw the knife on the table, and listened. 

He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. Heopened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutelyquiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over thebalustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself inas he did so. 

The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table withbowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not beenfor the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that wasslowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man wassimply asleep. 

How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walkingover to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The windhad blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock'stail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw thepoliceman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern onthe doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansomgleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawlwas creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now andthen she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarsevoice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. Shestumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. Thegas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook theirblack iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing thewindow behind him. 

Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did noteven glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the wholething was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted thefatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of hislife. That was enough. 

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorishworkmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnishedsteel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missedby his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for amoment, then he turned back and took it from the table. He could nothelp seeing the dead thing. How still it was! How horribly white thelong hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax image. 

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. Thewoodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stoppedseveral times and waited. No: everything was still. It was merelythe sound of his own footsteps. 

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press thatwas in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curiousdisguises, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two. 

He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--menwere strangled in England for what he had done. There had been amadness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to theearth.... And yet, what evidence was there against him? Basil Hallwardhad left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in again. Mostof the servants were at Selby Royal. His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that Basil had gone, and by the midnighttrain, as he had intended. With his curious reserved habits, it wouldbe months before any suspicions would be roused. Months! Everythingcould be destroyed long before then. 

A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat and wentout into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow heavy tread ofthe policeman on the pavement outside and seeing the flash of thebull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited and held his breath. 

After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out, shuttingthe door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. Inabout five minutes his valet appeared, half-dressed and looking verydrowsy. 

"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis, " he said, stepping in;"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"

"Ten minutes past two, sir, " answered the man, looking at the clock andblinking. 

"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nineto-morrow. I have some work to do. "

"All right, sir. "

"Did any one call this evening?"

"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went awayto catch his train. "

"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?"

"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris, if he did notfind you at the club. "

"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow. "

"No, sir. "

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers. 

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into thelibrary. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue Book from oneof the shelves and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair. " Yes; that was the man he wanted. 

CHAPTER 14

At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup ofchocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quitepeacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath hischeek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. 

The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and ashe opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though hehad been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. 

He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip hischocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. Thesky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It wasalmost like a morning in May. 

Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves therewith terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he hadsuffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing forBasil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair cameback to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was stillsitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was!Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. 

He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sickenor grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memorythan in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pridemore than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense ofjoy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to thesenses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven outof the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it mightstrangle one itself. 

When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, andthen got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usualcare, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie andscarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long timealso over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valetabout some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for theservants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some ofthe letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read severaltimes over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in hisface. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had oncesaid. 

After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowlywith a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to thetable, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, theother he handed to the valet. 

"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbellis out of town, get his address. "

As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon apiece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, andthen human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drewseemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, andgetting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about what had happened untilit became absolutely necessary that he should do so. 

When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-pageof the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier'sJapanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding wasof citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dottedpomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As heturned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand ofLacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavee, " withits downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune. " He glanced at his ownwhite taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, andpassed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice:

 Sur une gamme chromatique, Le sein de peries ruisselant, La Venus de l'Adriatique Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. 

 Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes Suivant la phrase au pur contour, S'enflent comme des gorges rondes Que souleve un soupir d'amour. 

 L'esquif aborde et me depose, Jetant son amarre au pilier, Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier. 

How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floatingdown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a blackgondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines lookedto him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one asone pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded himof the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round thetall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, throughthe dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, hekept saying over and over to himself:

 "Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier. "

The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumnthat he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him tomad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the trueromantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil hadbeen with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. PoorBasil! What a horrible way for a man to die!

He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He readof the swallows that fly in and out of the little cafe at Smyrna wherethe Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchantssmoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; heread of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears ofgranite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, andwhite vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyesthat crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over thoseverses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of thatcurious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstrecharmant" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after atime the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fitof terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out ofEngland? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps hemight refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was ofvital importance. 

They had been great friends once, five years before--almostinseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: AlanCampbell never did. 

He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no realappreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of thebeauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. Hisdominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he hadspent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had takena good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he wasstill devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of hisown in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to theannoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing forParliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made upprescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, andplayed both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. Infact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Graytogether--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed tobe able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised oftenwithout being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's thenight that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be alwaysseen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. Foreighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either atSelby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, DorianGray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating inlife. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no oneever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke whenthey met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from anyparty at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--wasstrangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearingmusic, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he wascalled upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no timeleft in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day heseemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared onceor twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certaincurious experiments. 

This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he keptglancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horriblyagitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously cold. 

The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling withfeet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards thejagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waitingfor him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank handshis burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sightand driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. Thebrain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, madegrotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through movingmasks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time beingdead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from itsgrave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror madehim stone. 

At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyesupon him. 

"Mr. Campbell, sir, " said the man. 

A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came backto his cheeks. 

"Ask him to come in at once, Francis. " He felt that he was himselfagain. His mood of cowardice had passed away. 

The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by hiscoal-black hair and dark eyebrows. 

"Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming. "

"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said itwas a matter of life and death. " His voice was hard and cold. Hespoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in thesteady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands inthe pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed thegesture with which he had been greeted. 

"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than oneperson. Sit down. "

Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knewthat what he was going to do was dreadful. 

After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, veryquietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him hehad sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a roomto which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me likethat. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that donot concern you. What you have to do is this--"

"Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what youhave told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirelydecline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets toyourself. They don't interest me any more. "

"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interestyou. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. Youare the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you intothe matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You knowabout chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--todestroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw thisperson come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he issupposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he ismissed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you mustchange him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashesthat I may scatter in the air. "

"You are mad, Dorian. "

"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian. "

"You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger tohelp you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothingto do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going toperil my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work youare up to?"

"It was suicide, Alan. "

"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy. "

"Do you still refuse to do this for me?"

"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. Idon't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should notbe sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you askme, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I shouldhave thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend LordHenry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever elsehe has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don'tcome to me. "

"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had mademe suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making orthe marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intendedit, the result was the same. "

"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall notinform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirringin the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits acrime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to dowith it. "

"You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen tome. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certainscientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and thehorrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideousdissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on aleaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flowthrough, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. Youwould not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doinganything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you werebenefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in theworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you areaccustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidenceagainst me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to bediscovered unless you help me. "

"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simplyindifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me. "

"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before youcame I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself someday. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from thescientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things onwhich you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told youtoo much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan. "

"Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead. "

"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He issitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan!Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they willhang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what Ihave done. "

"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to doanything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me. "

"You refuse?"

"Yes. "

"I entreat you, Alan. "

"It is useless. "

The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretchedout his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. Heread it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across thetable. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window. 

Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, andopened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fellback in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. Hefelt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. 

After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round andcame and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. 

"I am so sorry for you, Alan, " he murmured, "but you leave me noalternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You seethe address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't helpme, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you aregoing to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried tospare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treatme--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me todictate terms. "

Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. 

"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever. The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it. "

A groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. Theticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividingtime into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to beborne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round hisforehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had alreadycome upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him. 

"Come, Alan, you must decide at once. "

"I cannot do it, " he said, mechanically, as though words could alterthings. 

"You must. You have no choice. Don't delay. "

He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?"

"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos. "

"I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory. "

"No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet ofnotepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring thethings back to you. "

Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelopeto his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Thenhe rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return assoon as possible and to bring the things with him. 

As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got upfrom the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with akind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. Afly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock waslike the beat of a hammer. 

As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at DorianGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something inthe purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. 

"Hush, Alan. You have saved my life, " said Dorian. 

"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone fromcorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. Indoing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of yourlife that I am thinking. "

"Ah, Alan, " murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandthpart of the pity for me that I have for you. " He turned away as hespoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer. 

After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servantentered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coilof steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. 

"Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell. 

"Yes, " said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have anothererrand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who suppliesSelby with orchids?"

"Harden, sir. "

"Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Hardenpersonally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want anywhite ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very prettyplace--otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it. "

"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?"

Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?"he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person inthe room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. 

Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours, " heanswered. 

"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You canhave the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall notwant you. "

"Thank you, sir, " said the man, leaving the room. 

"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!I'll take it for you. You bring the other things. " He spoke rapidlyand in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. Theyleft the room together. 

When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turnedit in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into hiseyes. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in, Alan, " he murmured. 

"It is nothing to me. I don't require you, " said Campbell coldly. 

Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of hisportrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torncurtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he hadforgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. 

What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, onone of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horribleit was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than thesilent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thingwhose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him thatit had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. 

He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and withhalf-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined thathe would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down andtaking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over thepicture. 

There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixedthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heardCampbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the otherthings that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonderif he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they hadthought of each other. 

"Leave me now, " said a stern voice behind him. 

He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had beenthrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into aglistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the keybeing turned in the lock. 

It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. Hewas pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do, "he muttered "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again. "

"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that, " said Doriansimply. 

As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horriblesmell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sittingat the table was gone. 

CHAPTER 15

That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a largebutton-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into LadyNarborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead wasthrobbing with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but hismanner as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful asever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has toplay a part. Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night couldhave believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as anytragedy of our age. Those finely shaped fingers could never haveclutched a knife for sin, nor those smiling lips have cried out on Godand goodness. He himself could not help wondering at the calm of hisdemeanour, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of adouble life. 

It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, whowas a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe as theremains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellentwife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having buried herhusband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men, shedevoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and French esprit when she could get it. 

Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him thatshe was extremely glad she had not met him in early life. "I know, mydear, I should have fallen madly in love with you, " she used to say, "and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake. It is mostfortunate that you were not thought of at the time. As it was, ourbonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were so occupied in trying toraise the wind, that I never had even a flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough's fault. He was dreadfullyshort-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking in a husband whonever sees anything. "

Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was, as sheexplained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan, one of her marrieddaughters had come up quite suddenly to stay with her, and, to makematters worse, had actually brought her husband with her. "I think itis most unkind of her, my dear, " she whispered. "Of course I go andstay with them every summer after I come from Homburg, but then an oldwoman like me must have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wakethem up. You don't know what an existence they lead down there. It ispure unadulterated country life. They get up early, because they haveso much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little tothink about. There has not been a scandal in the neighbourhood sincethe time of Queen Elizabeth, and consequently they all fall asleepafter dinner. You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by meand amuse me. "

Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round the room. Yes:it was certainly a tedious party. Two of the people he had never seenbefore, and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of thosemiddle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton, anoverdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was alwaystrying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that toher great disappointment no one would ever believe anything againsther; Mrs. Erlynne, a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp andVenetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdydull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, onceseen, are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under theimpression that inordinate joviality can atone for an entire lack ofideas. 

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at thegreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on themauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of Henry Wotton to beso late! I sent round to him this morning on chance and he promisedfaithfully not to disappoint me. "

It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the dooropened and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to someinsincere apology, he ceased to feel bored. 

But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went awayuntasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she called "aninsult to poor Adolphe, who invented the menu specially for you, " andnow and then Lord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silenceand abstracted manner. From time to time the butler filled his glasswith champagne. He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase. 

"Dorian, " said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handedround, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out ofsorts. "

"I believe he is in love, " cried Lady Narborough, "and that he isafraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. Icertainly should. "

"Dear Lady Narborough, " murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been inlove for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town. "

"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady. "I really cannot understand it. "

"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl, Lady Narborough, " said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us andyour short frocks. "

"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But Iremember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago, and how decolleteeshe was then. "

"She is still decolletee, " he answered, taking an olive in his longfingers; "and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like anedition de luxe of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, andfull of surprises. Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband died, her hair turned quite gold from grief. "

"How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian. 

"It is a most romantic explanation, " laughed the hostess. "But herthird husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol is the fourth?"

"Certainly, Lady Narborough. "

"I don't believe a word of it. "

"Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends. "

"Is it true, Mr. Gray?"

"She assures me so, Lady Narborough, " said Dorian. "I asked herwhether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed andhung at her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them hadhad any hearts at all. "

"Four husbands! Upon my word that is trop de zele. "

"Trop d'audace, I tell her, " said Dorian. 

"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrollike? I don't know him. "

"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes, "said Lord Henry, sipping his wine. 

Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at allsurprised that the world says that you are extremely wicked. "

"But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows. "It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellentterms. "

"Everybody I know says you are very wicked, " cried the old lady, shaking her head. 

Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectlymonstrous, " he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays sayingthings against one behind one's back that are absolutely and entirelytrue. "

"Isn't he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair. 

"I hope so, " said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you allworship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marryagain so as to be in the fashion. "

"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough, " broke in Lord Henry. "You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because shedetested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because headored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs. "

"Narborough wasn't perfect, " cried the old lady. 

"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady, " was therejoinder. "Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our intellects. You will neverask me to dinner again after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is quite true. "

"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you foryour defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever bemarried. You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live likebachelors, and all the bachelors like married men. "

"Fin de siecle, " murmured Lord Henry. 

"Fin du globe, " answered his hostess. 

"I wish it were fin du globe, " said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is agreat disappointment. "

"Ah, my dear, " cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves, "don'ttell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that one knowsthat life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked, and Isometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--you lookso good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you thinkthat Mr. Gray should get married?"

"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough, " said Lord Henry with abow. 

"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him. I shall gothrough Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all theeligible young ladies. "

"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian. 

"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be donein a hurry. I want it to be what The Morning Post calls a suitablealliance, and I want you both to be happy. "

"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed LordHenry. "A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not loveher. "

"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chairand nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soonagain. You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what SirAndrew prescribes for me. You must tell me what people you would liketo meet, though. I want it to be a delightful gathering. "

"I like men who have a future and women who have a past, " he answered. "Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?"

"I fear so, " she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons, my dear Lady Ruxton, " she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished yourcigarette. "

"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much. I amgoing to limit myself, for the future. "

"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton, " said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatalthing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as afeast. "

Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain thatto me some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory, " shemurmured, as she swept out of the room. 

"Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal, "cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure tosquabble upstairs. "

The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly from the foot of thetable and came up to the top. Dorian Gray changed his seat and wentand sat by Lord Henry. Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice aboutthe situation in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The word doctrinaire--word full of terror to the Britishmind--reappeared from time to time between his explosions. Analliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory. He hoisted theUnion Jack on the pinnacles of thought. The inherited stupidity of therace--sound English common sense he jovially termed it--was shown to bethe proper bulwark for society. 

A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked atDorian. 

"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out ofsorts at dinner. "

"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all. "

"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted toyou. She tells me she is going down to Selby. "

"She has promised to come on the twentieth. "

"Is Monmouth to be there, too?"

"Oh, yes, Harry. "

"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is veryclever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm ofweakness. It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the imageprecious. Her feet are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet, if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy, it hardens. She has had experiences. "

"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian. 

"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it isten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity, with time thrown in. Who else is coming?"

"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, GeoffreyClouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian. "

"I like him, " said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I findhim charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed bybeing always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type. "

"I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go toMonte Carlo with his father. "

"Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come. Bythe way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night. You left beforeeleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go straight home?"

Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned. 

"No, Harry, " he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three. "

"Did you go to the club?"

"Yes, " he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don't mean that. Ididn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.... Howinquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what one has beendoing. I always want to forget what I have been doing. I came in athalf-past two, if you wish to know the exact time. I had left mylatch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in. If you want anycorroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask him. "

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared!Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman. Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You arenot yourself to-night. "

"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shallcome round and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to LadyNarborough. I shan't go upstairs. I shall go home. I must go home. "

"All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time. The duchess is coming. "

"I will try to be there, Harry, " he said, leaving the room. As hedrove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense of terrorhe thought he had strangled had come back to him. Lord Henry's casualquestioning had made him lose his nerves for the moment, and he wantedhis nerve still. Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. Hewinced. He hated the idea of even touching them. 

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had locked thedoor of his library, he opened the secret press into which he hadthrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag. A huge fire was blazing. Hepiled another log on it. The smell of the singeing clothes and burningleather was horrible. It took him three-quarters of an hour to consumeeverything. At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit someAlgerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands andforehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar. 

Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawednervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a largeFlorentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and bluelapis. He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinateand make afraid, as though it held something that he longed for and yetalmost loathed. His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He lit a cigarette and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped tillthe long fringed lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watchedthe cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa on which he had beenlying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hiddenspring. A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers movedinstinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was asmall Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung withround crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it. Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy andpersistent. 

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon hisface. Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terriblyhot, he drew himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twentyminutes to twelve. He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors ashe did so, and went into his bedroom. 

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray, dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat, creptquietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom with a goodhorse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver an address. 

The man shook his head. "It is too far for me, " he muttered. 

"Here is a sovereign for you, " said Dorian. "You shall have another ifyou drive fast. "

"All right, sir, " answered the man, "you will be there in an hour, " andafter his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove rapidlytowards the river. 

CHAPTER 16

A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastlyin the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim menand women were clustering in broken groups round their doors. Fromsome of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards brawled and screamed. 

Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead, DorianGray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the great city, andnow and then he repeated to himself the words that Lord Henry had saidto him on the first day they had met, "To cure the soul by means of thesenses, and the senses by means of the soul. " Yes, that was thesecret. He had often tried it, and would try it again now. There wereopium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where thememory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that werenew. 

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time ahuge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it. Thegas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once theman lost his way and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose fromthe horse as it splashed up the puddles. The sidewindows of the hansomwere clogged with a grey-flannel mist. 

"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means ofthe soul!" How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, wassick to death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocentblood had been spilled. What could atone for that? Ah! for that therewas no atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulnesswas possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thingout, to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Whohad made him a judge over others? He had said things that weredreadful, horrible, not to be endured. 

On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at eachstep. He thrust up the trap and called to the man to drive faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burnedand his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at thehorse madly with his stick. The driver laughed and whipped up. Helaughed in answer, and the man was silent. 

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of somesprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mistthickened, he felt afraid. 

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, andhe could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange, fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away inthe darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in arut, then swerved aside and broke into a gallop. 

After some time they left the clay road and rattled again overrough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and thenfantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind. Hewatched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes and madegestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in hisheart. As they turned a corner, a woman yelled something at them froman open door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundredyards. The driver beat at them with his whip. 

It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly withhideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray shaped and reshapedthose subtle words that dealt with soul and sense, till he had found inthem the full expression, as it were, of his mood, and justified, byintellectual approval, passions that without such justification wouldstill have dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain creptthe one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible of allman's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real, became dear to him now for that very reason. Ugliness was the onereality. The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence ofdisordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were morevivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the graciousshapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song. They were what he neededfor forgetfulness. In three days he would be free. 

Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane. Overthe low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the blackmasts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly sails to theyards. 

"Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through thetrap. 

Dorian started and peered round. "This will do, " he answered, andhaving got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he hadpromised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay. Here andthere a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman. Thelight shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from anoutward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked likea wet mackintosh. 

He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see if hewas being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached a smallshabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one ofthe top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a peculiar knock. 

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain beingunhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying aword to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into theshadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a tattered greencurtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind which had followed himin from the street. He dragged it aside and entered a long low roomwhich looked as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrillflaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors thatfaced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of ribbedtin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor wascovered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor. Some Malays werecrouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with bone counters andshowing their white teeth as they chattered. In one corner, with hishead buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over a table, and by thetawdrily painted bar that ran across one complete side stood twohaggard women, mocking an old man who was brushing the sleeves of hiscoat with an expression of disgust. "He thinks he's got red ants onhim, " laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. The man looked at herin terror and began to whimper. 

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to adarkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, theheavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and hisnostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man withsmooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a long thinpipe, looked up at him and nodded in a hesitating manner. 

"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian. 

"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chapswill speak to me now. "

"I thought you had left England. "

"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill atlast. George doesn't speak to me either.... I don't care, " he addedwith a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. I think I have had too many friends. "

Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that lay in suchfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, thegaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes, fascinated him. He knew inwhat strange heavens they were suffering, and what dull hells wereteaching them the secret of some new joy. They were better off than hewas. He was prisoned in thought. Memory, like a horrible malady, waseating his soul away. From time to time he seemed to see the eyes ofBasil Hallward looking at him. Yet he felt he could not stay. Thepresence of Adrian Singleton troubled him. He wanted to be where noone would know who he was. He wanted to escape from himself. 

"I am going on to the other place, " he said after a pause. 

"On the wharf?"

"Yes. "

"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this placenow. "

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff isbetter. "

"Much the same. "

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must havesomething. "

"I don't want anything, " murmured the young man. 

"Never mind. "

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar. Ahalf-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a hideousgreeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers in front ofthem. The women sidled up and began to chatter. Dorian turned hisback on them and said something in a low voice to Adrian Singleton. 

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one ofthe women. "We are very proud to-night, " she sneered. 

"For God's sake don't talk to me, " cried Dorian, stamping his foot onthe ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is. Don't ever talkto me again. "

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes, thenflickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed her head andraked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companionwatched her enviously. 

"It's no use, " sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back. What does it matter? I am quite happy here. "

"You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian, after a pause. 

"Perhaps. "

"Good night, then. "

"Good night, " answered the young man, passing up the steps and wipinghis parched mouth with a handkerchief. 

Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face. As he drewthe curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from the painted lips of thewoman who had taken his money. "There goes the devil's bargain!" shehiccoughed, in a hoarse voice. 

"Curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that. "

She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to becalled, ain't it?" she yelled after him. 

The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildlyround. The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. Herushed out as if in pursuit. 

Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain. Hismeeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wonderedif the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door, asBasil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult. He bit hislip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad. Yet, after all, what didit matter to him? One's days were too brief to take the burden ofanother's errors on one's shoulders. Each man lived his own life andpaid his own price for living it. The only pity was one had to pay sooften for a single fault. One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man, destiny never closed her accounts. 

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, orfor what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre ofthe body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearfulimpulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of theirwill. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice istaken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives atall, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience itscharm. For all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, aresins of disobedience. When that high spirit, that morning star ofevil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell. 

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry forrebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his step as he went, butas he darted aside into a dim archway, that had served him often as ashort cut to the ill-famed place where he was going, he felt himselfsuddenly seized from behind, and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back against the wall, with a brutal hand round histhroat. 

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched thetightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short, thick-set man facing him. 

"What do you want?" he gasped. 

"Keep quiet, " said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you. "

"You are mad. What have I done to you?"

"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane, " was the answer, "and Sibyl Vanewas my sister. She killed herself. I know it. Her death is at yourdoor. I swore I would kill you in return. For years I have soughtyou. I had no clue, no trace. The two people who could have describedyou were dead. I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to callyou. I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God, forto-night you are going to die. "

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her, " he stammered. "Inever heard of her. You are mad. "

"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane, youare going to die. " There was a horrible moment. Dorian did not knowwhat to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man. "I give youone minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board to-night forIndia, and I must do my job first. One minute. That's all. "

Dorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not knowwhat to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain. "Stop, " hecried. "How long ago is it since your sister died? Quick, tell me!"

"Eighteen years, " said the man. "Why do you ask me? What do yearsmatter?"

"Eighteen years, " laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in hisvoice. "Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!"

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant. Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway. 

Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show himthe hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen, for the faceof the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all theunstained purity of youth. He seemed little more than a lad of twentysummers, hardly older, if older indeed at all, than his sister had beenwhen they had parted so many years ago. It was obvious that this wasnot the man who had destroyed her life. 

He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!" he cried, "andI would have murdered you!"

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink ofcommitting a terrible crime, my man, " he said, looking at him sternly. "Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your ownhands. "

"Forgive me, sir, " muttered James Vane. "I was deceived. A chanceword I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track. "

"You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get intotrouble, " said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly down thestreet. 

James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling from headto foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creepingalong the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to himwith stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and lookedround with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking atthe bar. 

"Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quiteclose to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out fromDaly's. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad. "

"He is not the man I am looking for, " he answered, "and I want no man'smoney. I want a man's life. The man whose life I want must be nearlyforty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have notgot his blood upon my hands. "

The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. "Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made mewhat I am. "

"You lie!" cried James Vane. 

She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth, "she cried. 

"Before God?"

"Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nighon eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then. I have, though, " she added, with a sickly leer. 

"You swear this?"

"I swear it, " came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don't giveme away to him, " she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have somemoney for my night's lodging. "

He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman hadvanished also. 

CHAPTER 17

A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at SelbyRoyal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on thetable lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service atwhich the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintilyamong the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something thatDorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in asilk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divansat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke's description ofthe last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Threeyoung men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some ofthe women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there weremore expected to arrive on the next day. 

"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over tothe table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you aboutmy plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea. "

"But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry, " rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied withmy own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his. "

"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They areboth perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut anorchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, aseffective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I askedone of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a finespecimen of Robinsoniana, or something dreadful of that kind. It is asad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names tothings. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My onequarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism inliterature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelledto use one. It is the only thing he is fit for. "

"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. 

"His name is Prince Paradox, " said Dorian. 

"I recognize him in a flash, " exclaimed the duchess. 

"I won't hear of it, " laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "Froma label there is no escape! I refuse the title. "

"Royalties may not abdicate, " fell as a warning from pretty lips. 

"You wish me to defend my throne, then?"

"Yes. "

"I give the truths of to-morrow. "

"I prefer the mistakes of to-day, " she answered. 

"You disarm me, Gladys, " he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood. 

"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear. "

"I never tilt against beauty, " he said, with a wave of his hand. 

"That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much. "

"How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to bebeautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more readythan I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly. "

"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?"

"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a goodTory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadlyvirtues have made our England what she is. "

"You don't like your country, then?" she asked. 

"I live in it. "

"That you may censure it the better. "

"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. 

"What do they say of us?"

"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop. "

"Is that yours, Harry?"

"I give it to you. "

"I could not use it. It is too true. "

"You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description. "

"They are practical. "

"They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy. "

"Still, we have done great things. "

"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys. "

"We have carried their burden. "

"Only as far as the Stock Exchange. "

She shook her head. "I believe in the race, " she cried. 

"It represents the survival of the pushing. "

"It has development. "

"Decay fascinates me more. "

"What of art?" she asked. 

"It is a malady. "

"Love?"

"An illusion. "

"Religion?"

"The fashionable substitute for belief. "

"You are a sceptic. "

"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith. "

"What are you?"

"To define is to limit. "

"Give me a clue. "

"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth. "

"You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else. "

"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened PrinceCharming. "

"Ah! don't remind me of that, " cried Dorian Gray. 

"Our host is rather horrid this evening, " answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purelyscientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modernbutterfly. "

"Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess, " laughed Dorian. 

"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me. "

"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?"

"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually becauseI come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed byhalf-past eight. "

"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning. "

"I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember theone I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is niceof you to pretend that you do. Well, she made if out of nothing. Allgood hats are made out of nothing. "

"Like all good reputations, Gladys, " interrupted Lord Henry. "Everyeffect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must bea mediocrity. "

"Not with women, " said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rulethe world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities. We women, as someone says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, ifyou ever love at all. "

"It seems to me that we never do anything else, " murmured Dorian. 

"Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray, " answered the duchess withmock sadness. 

"My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romancelives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merelyintensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often aspossible. "

"Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess aftera pause. 

"Especially when one has been wounded by it, " answered Lord Henry. 

The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expressionin her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. 

Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back andlaughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess. "

"Even when he is wrong?"

"Harry is never wrong, Duchess. "

"And does his philosophy make you happy?"

"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I havesearched for pleasure. "

"And found it, Mr. Gray?"

"Often. Too often. "

The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace, " she said, "and if Idon't go and dress, I shall have none this evening. "

"Let me get you some orchids, Duchess, " cried Dorian, starting to hisfeet and walking down the conservatory. 

"You are flirting disgracefully with him, " said Lord Henry to hiscousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating. "

"If he were not, there would be no battle. "

"Greek meets Greek, then?"

"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman. "

"They were defeated. "

"There are worse things than capture, " she answered. 

"You gallop with a loose rein. "

"Pace gives life, " was the riposte. 

"I shall write it in my diary to-night. "

"What?"

"That a burnt child loves the fire. "

"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. "

"You use them for everything, except flight. "

"Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us. "

"You have a rival. "

"Who?"

He laughed. "Lady Narborough, " he whispered. "She perfectly adoreshim. "

"You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal to uswho are romanticists. "

"Romanticists! You have all the methods of science. "

"Men have educated us. "

"But not explained you. "

"Describe us as a sex, " was her challenge. 

"Sphinxes without secrets. "

She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said. "Let usgo and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of my frock. "

"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys. "

"That would be a premature surrender. "

"Romantic art begins with its climax. "

"I must keep an opportunity for retreat. "

"In the Parthian manner?"

"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that. "

"Women are not always allowed a choice, " he answered, but hardly had hefinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory camea stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall. Everybodystarted up. The duchess stood motionless in horror. And with fear inhis eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms to find DorianGray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a deathlike swoon. 

He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid upon one ofthe sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked roundwith a dazed expression. 

"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?" He began to tremble. 

"My dear Dorian, " answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That wasall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come downto dinner. I will take your place. "

"No, I will come down, " he said, struggling to his feet. "I wouldrather come down. I must not be alone. "

He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness ofgaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill ofterror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against thewindow of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen theface of James Vane watching him. 

CHAPTER 18

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most of thetime in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yetindifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did buttremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown againstthe leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and wildregrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's facepeering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more tolay its hand upon his heart. 

But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out ofthe night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him. Actuallife was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in theimagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feetof sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapenbrood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, northe good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrustupon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowlinground the house, he would have been seen by the servants or thekeepers. Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, thegardeners would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy. Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed awayin his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, hewas safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who hewas. The mask of youth had saved him. 

And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to thinkthat conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give themvisible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life wouldhis be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him fromsilent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his earas he sat at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror, andthe air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder. Oh! in what awild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How ghastly the merememory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each hideous detail cameback to him with added horror. Out of the black cave of time, terribleand swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henrycame in at six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart willbreak. 

It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There wassomething in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning thatseemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for life. Butit was not merely the physical conditions of environment that hadcaused the change. His own nature had revolted against the excess ofanguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm. With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it is always so. Theirstrong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. Theloves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude. Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of aterror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears withsomething of pity and not a little of contempt. 

After breakfast, he walked with the duchess for an hour in the gardenand then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The crispfrost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted cup ofblue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat, reed-grown lake. 

At the corner of the pine-wood he caught sight of Sir GeoffreyClouston, the duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out ofhis gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to takethe mare home, made his way towards his guest through the witheredbracken and rough undergrowth. 

"Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked. 

"Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to theopen. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to newground. "

Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the brownand red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of thebeaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of the gunsthat followed, fascinated him and filled him with a sense of delightfulfreedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness, by thehigh indifference of joy. 

Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass some twenty yards in frontof them, with black-tipped ears erect and long hinder limbs throwing itforward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of alders. SirGeoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was something in theanimal's grace of movement that strangely charmed Dorian Gray, and hecried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey. Let it live. "

"What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare boundedinto the thicket, he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry of ahare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which isworse. 

"Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What anass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting there!" hecalled out at the top of his voice. "A man is hurt. "

The head-keeper came running up with a stick in his hand. 

"Where, sir? Where is he?" he shouted. At the same time, the firingceased along the line. 

"Here, " answered Sir Geoffrey angrily, hurrying towards the thicket. "Why on earth don't you keep your men back? Spoiled my shooting forthe day. "

Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing thelithe swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged, dragginga body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in horror. Itseemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He heard SirGeoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative answer ofthe keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly alive withfaces. There was the trampling of myriad feet and the low buzz ofvoices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating through theboughs overhead. 

After a few moments--that were to him, in his perturbed state, likeendless hours of pain--he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He startedand looked round. 

"Dorian, " said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting isstopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on. "

"I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry, " he answered bitterly. "Thewhole thing is hideous and cruel. Is the man ... ?"

He could not finish the sentence. 

"I am afraid so, " rejoined Lord Henry. "He got the whole charge ofshot in his chest. He must have died almost instantaneously. Come;let us go home. "

They walked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearlyfifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry andsaid, with a heavy sigh, "It is a bad omen, Harry, a very bad omen. "

"What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dearfellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did heget in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is ratherawkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper beaters. Itmakes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey is not; heshoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the matter. "

Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as ifsomething horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself, perhaps, " he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture ofpain. 

The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is ennui, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness. But weare not likely to suffer from it unless these fellows keep chatteringabout this thing at dinner. I must tell them that the subject is to betabooed. As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Destinydoes not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you, Dorian? You haveeverything in the world that a man can want. There is no one who wouldnot be delighted to change places with you. "

"There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don'tlaugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant whohas just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of death. Itis the coming of death that terrifies me. Its monstrous wings seem towheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't you see a manmoving behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for me?"

Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved handwas pointing. "Yes, " he said, smiling, "I see the gardener waiting foryou. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish to have onthe table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear fellow! Youmust come and see my doctor, when we get back to town. "

Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. Theman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitatingmanner, and then produced a letter, which he handed to his master. "Her Grace told me to wait for an answer, " he murmured. 

Dorian put the letter into his pocket. "Tell her Grace that I amcoming in, " he said, coldly. The man turned round and went rapidly inthe direction of the house. 

"How fond women are of doing dangerous things!" laughed Lord Henry. "It is one of the qualities in them that I admire most. A woman willflirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are looking on. "

"How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the presentinstance, you are quite astray. I like the duchess very much, but Idon't love her. "

"And the duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, so youare excellently matched. "

"You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis forscandal. "

"The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty, " said Lord Henry, lighting a cigarette. 

"You would sacrifice anybody, Harry, for the sake of an epigram. "

"The world goes to the altar of its own accord, " was the answer. 

"I wish I could love, " cried Dorian Gray with a deep note of pathos inhis voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion and forgotten thedesire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality hasbecome a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. Itwas silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a wireto Harvey to have the yacht got ready. On a yacht one is safe. "

"Safe from what, Dorian? You are in some trouble. Why not tell mewhat it is? You know I would help you. "

"I can't tell you, Harry, " he answered sadly. "And I dare say it isonly a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I havea horrible presentiment that something of the kind may happen to me. "

"What nonsense!"

"I hope it is, but I can't help feeling it. Ah! here is the duchess, looking like Artemis in a tailor-made gown. You see we have come back, Duchess. "

"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray, " she answered. "Poor Geoffrey isterribly upset. And it seems that you asked him not to shoot the hare. How curious!"

"Yes, it was very curious. I don't know what made me say it. Somewhim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But Iam sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject. "

"It is an annoying subject, " broke in Lord Henry. "It has nopsychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing onpurpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some onewho had committed a real murder. "

"How horrid of you, Harry!" cried the duchess. "Isn't it, Mr. Gray?Harry, Mr. Gray is ill again. He is going to faint. "

Dorian drew himself up with an effort and smiled. "It is nothing, Duchess, " he murmured; "my nerves are dreadfully out of order. That isall. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear whatHarry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. Ithink I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?"

They had reached the great flight of steps that led from theconservatory on to the terrace. As the glass door closed behindDorian, Lord Henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberouseyes. "Are you very much in love with him?" he asked. 

She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "I wish I knew, " she said at last. 

He shook his head. "Knowledge would be fatal. It is the uncertaintythat charms one. A mist makes things wonderful. "

"One may lose one's way. "

"All ways end at the same point, my dear Gladys. "

"What is that?"

"Disillusion. "

"It was my debut in life, " she sighed. 

"It came to you crowned. "

"I am tired of strawberry leaves. "

"They become you. "

"Only in public. "

"You would miss them, " said Lord Henry. 

"I will not part with a petal. "

"Monmouth has ears. "

"Old age is dull of hearing. "

"Has he never been jealous?"

"I wish he had been. "

He glanced about as if in search of something. "What are you lookingfor?" she inquired. 

"The button from your foil, " he answered. "You have dropped it. "

She laughed. "I have still the mask. "

"It makes your eyes lovelier, " was his reply. 

She laughed again. Her teeth showed like white seeds in a scarletfruit. 

Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with terrorin every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become toohideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the unluckybeater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him topre-figure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at what LordHenry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting. 

At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders topack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the broughamat the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to sleep anothernight at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place. Death walked therein the sunlight. The grass of the forest had been spotted with blood. 

Then he wrote a note to Lord Henry, telling him that he was going up totown to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests inhis absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock came tothe door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper wished to seehim. He frowned and bit his lip. "Send him in, " he muttered, aftersome moments' hesitation. 

As soon as the man entered, Dorian pulled his chequebook out of adrawer and spread it out before him. 

"I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of thismorning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen. 

"Yes, sir, " answered the gamekeeper. 

"Was the poor fellow married? Had he any people dependent on him?"asked Dorian, looking bored. "If so, I should not like them to be leftin want, and will send them any sum of money you may think necessary. "

"We don't know who he is, sir. That is what I took the liberty ofcoming to you about. "

"Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean?Wasn't he one of your men?"

"No, sir. Never saw him before. Seems like a sailor, sir. "

The pen dropped from Dorian Gray's hand, and he felt as if his hearthad suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you saya sailor?"

"Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed onboth arms, and that kind of thing. "

"Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward andlooking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell hisname?"

"Some money, sir--not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name of anykind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of sailor wethink. "

Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. Heclutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! Imust see it at once. "

"It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't liketo have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse bringsbad luck. "

"The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the groomsto bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stablesmyself. It will save time. "

In less than a quarter of an hour, Dorian Gray was galloping down thelong avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past himin spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across hispath. Once the mare swerved at a white gate-post and nearly threw him. He lashed her across the neck with his crop. She cleft the dusky airlike an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs. 

At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the yard. He leaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In thefarthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to tell himthat the body was there, and he hurried to the door and put his handupon the latch. 

There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of adiscovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust thedoor open and entered. 

On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of a mandressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spottedhandkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck ina bottle, sputtered beside it. 

Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to takethe handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants tocome to him. 

"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it, " he said, clutchingat the door-post for support. 

When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joybroke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket wasJames Vane. 

He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rodehome, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew he was safe. 

CHAPTER 19

"There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good, " criedLord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl filledwith rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray, don't change. "

Dorian Gray shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many dreadfulthings in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began my goodactions yesterday. "

"Where were you yesterday?"

"In the country, Harry. I was staying at a little inn by myself. "

"My dear boy, " said Lord Henry, smiling, "anybody can be good in thecountry. There are no temptations there. That is the reason whypeople who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There areonly two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, theother by being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of beingeither, so they stagnate. "

"Culture and corruption, " echoed Dorian. "I have known something ofboth. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be foundtogether. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. Ithink I have altered. "

"You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you sayyou had done more than one?" asked his companion as he spilled into hisplate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries and, through aperforated, shell-shaped spoon, snowed white sugar upon them. 

"I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any oneelse. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what Imean. She was quite beautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. Ithink it was that which first attracted me to her. You remember Sibyl, don't you? How long ago that seems! Well, Hetty was not one of ourown class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But Ireally loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during thiswonderful May that we have been having, I used to run down and see hertwo or three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she waslaughing. We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined to leave her as flowerlike as I had found her. "

"I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrillof real pleasure, Dorian, " interrupted Lord Henry. "But I can finishyour idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That was the beginning of your reformation. "

"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful things. Hetty's heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. Butthere is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in hergarden of mint and marigold. "

"And weep over a faithless Florizel, " said Lord Henry, laughing, as heleaned back in his chair. "My dear Dorian, you have the most curiouslyboyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content nowwith any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some dayto a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of havingmet you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and shewill be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that Ithink much of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it ispoor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't floating at thepresent moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-liliesround her, like Ophelia?"

"I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then suggestthe most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don't carewhat you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. PoorHetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face atthe window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let us talk about it anymore, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I havedone for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have everknown, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to bebetter. Tell me something about yourself. What is going on in town?I have not been to the club for days. "

"The people are still discussing poor Basil's disappearance. "

"I should have thought they had got tired of that by this time, " saidDorian, pouring himself out some wine and frowning slightly. 

"My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks, andthe British public are really not equal to the mental strain of havingmore than one topic every three months. They have been very fortunatelately, however. They have had my own divorce-case and Alan Campbell'ssuicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey ulster who leftfor Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of November was poorBasil, and the French police declare that Basil never arrived in Parisat all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall be told that he hasbeen seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one whodisappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It must be adelightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world. "

"What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding up hisBurgundy against the light and wondering how it was that he coulddiscuss the matter so calmly. 

"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, itis no business of mine. If he is dead, I don't want to think abouthim. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it. "

"Why?" said the younger man wearily. 

"Because, " said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilttrellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everythingnowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts inthe nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have ourcoffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The manwith whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor Victoria!I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without her. Ofcourse, married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then oneregrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets themthe most. They are such an essential part of one's personality. "

Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the nextroom, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray across the whiteand black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, hestopped, and looking over at Lord Henry, said, "Harry, did it everoccur to you that Basil was murdered?"

Lord Henry yawned. "Basil was very popular, and always wore aWaterbury watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not cleverenough to have enemies. Of course, he had a wonderful genius forpainting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull aspossible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once, and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild adorationfor you and that you were the dominant motive of his art. "

"I was very fond of Basil, " said Dorian with a note of sadness in hisvoice. "But don't people say that he was murdered?"

"Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at allprobable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was notthe sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was hischief defect. "

"What would you say, Harry, if I told you that I had murdered Basil?"said the younger man. He watched him intently after he had spoken. 

"I would say, my dear fellow, that you were posing for a character thatdoesn't suit you. All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. It is not in you, Dorian, to commit a murder. I am sorry if I hurtyour vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime belongsexclusively to the lower orders. I don't blame them in the smallestdegree. I should fancy that crime was to them what art is to us, simply a method of procuring extraordinary sensations. "

"A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man whohas once committed a murder could possibly do the same crime again?Don't tell me that. "

"Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often, " cried LordHenry, laughing. "That is one of the most important secrets of life. I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One shouldnever do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let uspass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had come to sucha really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fellinto the Seine off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up thescandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying nowon his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy bargesfloating over him and long weeds catching in his hair. Do you know, Idon't think he would have done much more good work. During the lastten years his painting had gone off very much. "

Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and beganto stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large, grey-plumagedbird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bambooperch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurfof crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway backwardsand forwards. 

"Yes, " he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out ofhis pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to havelost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to begreat friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separatedyou? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you. It's ahabit bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderfulportrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever seen it since hefinished it. Oh! I remember your telling me years ago that you hadsent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on theway. You never got it back? What a pity! it was really amasterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it. I wish I had now. Itbelonged to Basil's best period. Since then, his work was that curiousmixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a manto be called a representative British artist. Did you advertise forit? You should. "

"I forget, " said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really likedit. I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is hateful tome. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curiouslines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?--

 "Like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart. "

Yes: that is what it was like. "

Lord Henry laughed. "If a man treats life artistically, his brain ishis heart, " he answered, sinking into an arm-chair. 

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano. "'Like the painting of a sorrow, '" he repeated, "'a face without aheart. '"

The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "Bythe way, Dorian, " he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man ifhe gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run?--his ownsoul'?"

The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend. "Why do you ask me that, Harry?"

"My dear fellow, " said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, "I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer. That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close bythe Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking peoplelistening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard theman yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as beingrather dramatic. London is very rich in curious effects of that kind. A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sicklywhite faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderfulphrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really verygood in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophetthat art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, hewould not have understood me. "

"Don't, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, andsold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. Thereis a soul in each one of us. I know it. "

"Do you feel quite sure of that, Dorian?"

"Quite sure. "

"Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutelycertain about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and thelesson of romance. How grave you are! Don't be so serious. What haveyou or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have givenup our belief in the soul. Play me something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have keptyour youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older thanyou are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are reallywonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you doto-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rathercheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, ofcourse, but not in appearance. I wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except takeexercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothinglike it. It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The onlypeople to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people muchyounger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed tothem her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something thathappened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knewabsolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! Iwonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round thevilla and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is marvellouslyromantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us thatis not imitative! Don't stop. I want music to-night. It seems to methat you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. Thetragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. I amamazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are!What an exquisite life you have had! You have drunk deeply ofeverything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothinghas been hidden from you. And it has all been to you no more than thesound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same. "

"I am not the same, Harry. "

"Yes, you are the same. I wonder what the rest of your life will be. Don't spoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don't make yourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You neednot shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't deceiveyourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is aquestion of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in whichthought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancyyourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colourin a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had onceloved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgottenpoem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of musicthat you had ceased to play--I tell you, Dorian, that it is on thingslike these that our lives depend. Browning writes about thatsomewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us. There aremoments when the odour of lilas blanc passes suddenly across me, and Ihave to live the strangest month of my life over again. I wish I couldchange places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out against usboth, but it has always worshipped you. It always will worship you. You are the type of what the age is searching for, and what it isafraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or produced anythingoutside of yourself! Life has been your art. You have set yourself tomusic. Your days are your sonnets. "

Dorian rose up from the piano and passed his hand through his hair. "Yes, life has been exquisite, " he murmured, "but I am not going tohave the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagantthings to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if youdid, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh. "

"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me thenocturne over again. Look at that great, honey-coloured moon thathangs in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and ifyou play she will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go tothe club, then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end itcharmingly. There is some one at White's who wants immensely to knowyou--young Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son. He has already copiedyour neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quitedelightful and rather reminds me of you. "

"I hope not, " said Dorian with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am tiredto-night, Harry. I shan't go to the club. It is nearly eleven, and Iwant to go to bed early. "

"Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There wassomething in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expressionthan I had ever heard from it before. "

"It is because I am going to be good, " he answered, smiling. "I am alittle changed already. "

"You cannot change to me, Dorian, " said Lord Henry. "You and I willalways be friends. "

"Yet you poisoned me with a book once. I should not forgive that. Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one. Itdoes harm. "

"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon begoing about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning peopleagainst all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much toodelightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what weare, and will be what we will be. As for being poisoned by a book, there is no such thing as that. Art has no influence upon action. Itannihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books thatthe world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame. That is all. But we won't discuss literature. Come round to-morrow. Iam going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I will take youto lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, andwants to consult you about some tapestries she is thinking of buying. Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our little duchess? She saysshe never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired of Gladys? I thoughtyou would be. Her clever tongue gets on one's nerves. Well, in anycase, be here at eleven. "

"Must I really come, Harry?"

"Certainly. The park is quite lovely now. I don't think there havebeen such lilacs since the year I met you. "

"Very well. I shall be here at eleven, " said Dorian. "Good night, Harry. " As he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment, as if hehad something more to say. Then he sighed and went out. 

CHAPTER 20

It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm anddid not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. Heheard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray. " Heremembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or staredat, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Halfthe charm of the little village where he had been so often lately wasthat no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he hadlured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He hadtold her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him andanswered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What alaugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she hadbeen in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, butshe had everything that he had lost. 

When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He senthim to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, andbegan to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. 

Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longingfor the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, asLord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that hehad been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terriblejoy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it hadbeen the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought toshame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him?

Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed thatthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep theunsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due tothat. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sureswift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should bethe prayer of man to a most just God. 

The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so manyyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupidslaughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on thatnight of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatalpicture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polishedshield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him amad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "The world is changedbecause you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lipsrewrite history. " The phrases came back to his memory, and he repeatedthem over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, andflinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splintersbeneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beautyand the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, hislife might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but amask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, anunripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had heworn its livery? Youth had spoiled him. 

It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. Itwas of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. JamesVane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbellhad shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed thesecret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as itwas, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It wasalready waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it thedeath of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was theliving death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted theportrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. Itwas the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things tohim that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. Themurder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It wasnothing to him. 

A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waitingfor. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocentthing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would begood. 

As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait inthe locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as ithad been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expelevery sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evilhad already gone away. He would go and look. 

He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred thedoor, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking faceand lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, andthe hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terrorto him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. 

He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, anddragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain andindignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in theeyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle ofthe hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, ifpossible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemedbrighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had itbeen merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or thedesire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mockinglaugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do thingsfiner than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was thered stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like ahorrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on thepainted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the handthat had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was toconfess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He feltthat the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, whowould believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burnedwhat had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it washis duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make publicatonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins toearth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse himtill he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinkingof Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soulthat he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had therebeen nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had beensomething more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. Inhypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake hehad tried the denial of self. He recognized that now. 

But this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to beburdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There wasonly one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--thatwas evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Onceit had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Oflate he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyesshould look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been likeconscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. 

He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. Hehad cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. Itwas bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it wouldkill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill thepast, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill thismonstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be atpeace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. 

There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in itsagony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and lookedup at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman andbrought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there wasno answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house wasall dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining porticoand watched. 

"Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. 

"Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir, " answered the policeman. 

They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One ofthem was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. 

Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domesticswere talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was cryingand wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. 

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of thefootmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly tryingto force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to thebalcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old. 

When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portraitof their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of hisexquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, inevening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the ringsthat they recognized who it was.