or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation         
is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing         
for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its         
monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that     
the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the         
brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place     
also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your       
rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid,       
thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping         
dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame-"               
  "Stop!" faltered Dorian Gray, "stop! you bewilder me. I don't know       
what to say. There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it.             
Don't speak. Let me think. Or, rather, let me try not to think."           
  For nearly ten minutes he stood there, motionless, with parted lips,     
and eyes strangely bright. He was dimly conscious that entirely             
fresh influences were at work within him. Yet they seemed to him to         
have come really from himself. The few words that Basil's friend had       
said to him- words spoken by chance, no doubt, and with wilful paradox     
in them- 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           
rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words! Mere words! How         
terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel. One could not         
escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them.           
They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things,           
and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of             
lute. Mere words! 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 had become               
fiery-coloured to him. It seemed to him that he had been walking in         
fire. Why had he not known it?                                             
  With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precise       
psychological moment when to say nothing. He felt intensely                 
interested. He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words           
had produced, 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, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a               
similar experience. He had merely shot an arrow into the air. Had it       
hit the mark? How fascinating the lad was!                                 
  Hallward painted away with that marvellous bold touch of his, that       
had the true refinement and perfect delicacy that in art, at any rate,     
comes only from strength. He was unconscious of the silence.               
  "Basil, I am tired of standing," cried Dorian Gray, suddenly. "I         
must go 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 of     
anything else. But you never sat better. You were perfectly still. And     
I have caught the effect I wanted- the half-parted lips and the bright     
look in the eyes. I don't know what Harry has been saying to you,           
but he has certainly made you have the most wonderful expression. I         
suppose he has been paying you compliments. You mustn't believe a word     
that he says."                                                             
  "He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is         
the reason that I don't believe anything he has told me."                   
  "You know you believe it all," said Lord Henry, looking at him           
with his dreamy, languorous eyes. "I will go out to the garden with         
you. It is horribly hot in the studio. Basil, let us have something         
iced to drink, something with strawberries in it."                         
  "Certainly, Harry. Just touch the bell, and when Parker comes I will     
tell him what you want. I have got to work up this background, so I         
will join you later on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never           
been in better form for painting than I am to-day. This is going to be     
my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece as it stands."                         
  Lord Henry went out to the garden, and found Dorian Gray burying his     
face in the great cool lilac-blossoms, feverishly drinking in their         
perfume as if it had been wine. He came close to him, and put his hand     
upon his shoulder. "You are quite right to do that," he murmured.           
"Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure         
the senses but the soul."                                                   
  The lad started and drew back. He was bare-headed, and the leaves         
had tossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded               
threads. There was a look of fear in his eyes, such as people have         
when they are suddenly awakened. His finely-chiselled nostrils             
quivered, and some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left     
them trembling.                                                             
  "Yes," continued Lord Henry, "that is one of the great secrets of         
life- to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means     
of the soul. You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you           
think you know, just as you know less than you want to know."               
  Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help           
liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His           
romantic olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There     
was something in his low, languid voice that was absolutely                 
fascinating. His cool, white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious       
charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a           
language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being     
afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal him to               
himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months, but the friendship         
between them had never altered him. Suddenly there had come some one       
across his life who seemed to have disclosed to him life's mystery.         
And, yet, what was there to be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or         
a girl. It was absurd to be frightened.                                     
  "Let us go and sit in the shade," said Lord Henry. "Parker has           
brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer in this glare you       
will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never paint you again. You           
really must not allow yourself to become sunburnt. It would be             
unbecoming."                                                               
  "What can it matter?" cried Dorian Gray, laughing, as he sat down on     
the 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         
thing worth having."                                                       
  "I don't feel that, Lord Henry."                                         
  "No, you don't feel it now. Some day, when you are old and               
wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its           
lines, and passion branded your lips with its hideous fires, you           
will feel it, you will 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- is higher, indeed, than Genius, as it needs no             
explanation. It is of the great facts of the world, like sunlight,         
or spring-time, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver             
shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has its divine         
right of sovereignty. It makes princes of those who have it. You           
smile? Ah! when you have lost it you won't smile.... People say             
sometimes that Beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at           
least it is not so superficial as Thought is. To me, Beauty is the         
wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by           
appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the         
invisible.... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But           
what the gods give they quickly take away. 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 then you will suddenly discover           
that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself       
with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more       
bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to           
something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your           
lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and     
dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize your youth while       
you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days, 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! Live the wonderful life that     
is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new       
sensations. Be afraid of nothing.... A new Hedonism- that is what           
our century wants. You might be its visible symbol. With your               
personality there is nothing you could not do. The world belongs to         
you for a season.... The moment I met you I saw that you were quite         
unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There     
was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you             
something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were     
wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last-         
such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom       
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 after           
year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But         
we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at           
twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We               
degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions     
of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that       
we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is                 
absolutely nothing in the world but youth!"                                 
  Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac         
fell from his hand upon the gravel. A furry bee came and buzzed             
round it for a moment. Then it began to scramble all over the oval         
stellated globe of its tiny blossoms. He watched it with that               
strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when             
things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some       
new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some               
thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls         
on us to yield. After a time the bee flew away. He saw it creeping         
into the stained trumpet of a Tyrian convolvulus. The flower seemed to     
quiver, and then swayed gently to and fro.                                 
  Suddenly the painter appeared at the door of the studio, and made         
staccato signs for them to come in. They turned to each other, and         
smiled.                                                                     
  "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-white butterflies fluttered past them, and in the                 
pear-tree at the corner of the garden a thrush began to sing.               
  "You are glad you have met me, Mr. Gray," said Lord Henry, looking       
at him.                                                                     
  "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 to make it last forever. It is a meaningless word, too. The         
only difference between a caprice and a life-long passion is that           
the caprice lasts a little longer."                                         
  As they entered the studio, Dorian Gray put his hand upon Lord           
Henry's arm. "In that case, let our friendship be a caprice," he           
murmured, flushing at his own boldness, then stepped up on the             
platform and resumed 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     
that broke the stillness, except when, now and then, Hallward               
stepped back to look at his work from a distance. In the slanting           
beams that streamed through the open doorway the dust danced and was       
golden. The heavy scent of the roses seemed to brood over everything.       
  After about a quarter of an hour Hallward stopped painting, looked       
for a 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 quite finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote       
his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the           
canvas.                                                                     
  Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly a         
wonderful work of art, and a wonderful likeness as well.                   
  "My dear fellow, I congratulate you most warmly," he said. "It is         
the finest portrait of modern times. Mr. Gray, come over and look at       
yourself."                                                                 
  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 splendidly         
to-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 picture     
and turned towards it. When he saw it he drew back, and his cheeks         
flushed 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         
there motionless and in wonder, dimly conscious that Hallward was           
speaking to him, but not catching the meaning of his words. The             
sense of his own beauty came on him like a revelation. He had never         
felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments had seemed to him to be       
merely the charming exaggerations of friendship. He had listened to         
them, laughed at them, forgotten them. They had not influenced his         
nature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric         
on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity. That had stirred him at     
the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own             
loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him.         
Yes, there would be a day when his face would be wrinkled and wizened,     
his eyes dim and colourless, the grace of his figure broken and             
deformed. The scarlet would pass away from his lips, and the gold           
steal from his hair. The life that was to make his soul would mar           
his body. He would become dreadful, hideous, and uncouth.                   
  As he thought of it, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like         
a knife, and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes       
deepened into amethyst, and across them came a mist of tears. He           
felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart.                     
  "Don't you like it?" cried Hallward at last, stung a little by the       
lad's silence, not understanding what it meant.                             
  "Of course he likes it," said Lord Henry. "Who wouldn't like it?         
It is one of the greatest things in modern art. I will give you             
anything you 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         
upon his own portrait. "How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible,     
and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never     
be older than this particular day of June.... If it were only the           
other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture         
that was to grow old! For that- for that- I would give everything!         
Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would         
give my soul for that!"                                                     
  "You would hardly care for such an arrangement, Basil," cried Lord       
Henry, 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 a     
green bronze figure. Hardly as much, I dare say."                           
  The painter stared in amazement. It was so unlike Dorian to speak         
like that. What had happened? He seemed quite angry. His face was           
flushed and his cheeks burning.                                             
  "Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or         
your silver 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         
one loses 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 growing old, 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 I shall 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 of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep         
what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me,         
and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the       
picture could change. and I could be always what I am now! Why did you     
paint it? It will mock me some day- mock me horribly!" The hot tears       
welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself         
on the divan, 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- that     
is 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             
between you both you have made me hate the finest piece of work I have     
ever done, and I will destroy it. What is it but canvas and colour?         
I will not let it come across our three lives and mar them."               
  Dorian Gray lifted his golden head from the pillow, and with             
pallid face and tear-stained eyes looked at him, as he walked over         
to the deal painting-table that was set beneath the high curtained         
window. What was he doing there? His fingers were straying about among     
the litter of tin tubes and dry brushes, seeking for something. Yes,       
it was for the long palette-knife, with its thin blade of lithe steel.     
He had found it at last. He was going to rip up the canvas.                 
  With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing           
over to Hallward, tore the knife out of his hand, and flung it to           
the end of the studio. "Don't, Basil, don't!" he cried. "It would be       
murder!"                                                                   
  "I am glad you appreciate my work at last, Dorian," said the             
painter, coldly, when he had recovered from his surprise. "I never         
thought you would."                                                         
  "Appreciate it? I am in love with it, Basil. It is part of myself. I     
feel that."                                                                 
  "Well, as soon as you are dry, you shall be varnished, and framed,       
and sent home. Then you can do what you like with yourself." And he         
walked across the room and rang the bell for tea. "You will have           
tea, of course, Dorian? And so will you, Harry? Or do you object to         
such simple pleasures?"                                                     
  "I adore simple pleasures," said Lord Henry. "They are the last           
refuge of the complex. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage.       
What absurd fellows you are, both of you! I wonder who it was               
defined man as 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, after all: though I wish you chaps would not squabble over the     
picture. You had much better let me have it, Basil. This silly boy         
doesn't really want 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 it       
existed."                                                                   
  "And you know you have been a little silly, Mr. Gray, and that you       
don'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             
laden tea-tray, and set it down upon a small Japanese table. There was     
a rattle of cups and saucers and the hissing of a fluted Georgian urn.     
Two globe-shaped china dishes were brought in by a page. Dorian Gray       
went over and poured out the tea. The two men sauntered languidly to       
the table, and examined what was under the covers.                         
  "Let us go to the theatre to-night," said Lord Henry. "There is sure     
to be something on, somewhere. I have promised to dine at White's, but     
it is only with an old friend, so I can send him a wire to say that         
I am ill, or that I am prevented from coming in consequence of a           
subsequent engagement. I think that would be a rather nice excuse:         
it would 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 nineteenth     
century is detestable. It is so sombre, so depressing. Sin is the only     
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           
the one in the picture?"                                                   
  "Before either."                                                         
  "I should like to come to the theatre with you, Lord Henry," said         
the lad.                                                                   
  "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, 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,             
strolling across 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 of physiology. It has           
nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and         
are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot: that is all one can     
say."                                                                       
  "Don't go to the theatre to-night, Dorian," said Hallward. "Stop and     
dine with me."                                                             
  "I can't, Basil."                                                         
  "Why?"                                                                   
  "Because I have promised Lord Henry Wotton to go with him."               
  "He won't like you any better for keeping your promises. He always       
breaks 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       
them from 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       
on the tray. "It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had         
better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see       
me 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         
a sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.                             
                                                                           
                                                                           
                             CHAPTER III                                   
-                                                                           
  At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from             
Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor,         
a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside         
world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from         
him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people       
who amused him. His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when           
Isabella was young, and Prim unthought of, but had retired from the         
Diplomatic Service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being         
offered the Embassy at Paris, a post to which he considered that he         
was fully entitled by reason of his birth, his indolence, the good         
English of his despatches, and his inordinate passion for pleasure.         
The son, who had been his father's secretary, had resigned along           
with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and         
on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the       
serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely             
nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in             
chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his         
club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in         
the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on       
the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a     
gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth.         
In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office,           
during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of             
Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to     
most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could         
have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to         
the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal       
to be said for his prejudices.                                             
  When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a         
rough shooting coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times.       
"Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so             
early? I thought you dandies never got up until two, and were not           
visible until five."                                                       
  "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get         
something out of you."                                                     
  "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well,           
sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine         
that money is everything."                                                 
  "Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his buttonhole in his coat;         
"and when they grow older they know it. But I don't want money. It         
is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and         
I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one           
lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor's           
tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is           
information; not useful 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 in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let         
them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir,         
are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he         
knows quite enough, 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,"           
said Lord Henry, languidly.                                                 
  "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his             
bushy white eyebrows.                                                       
  "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I           
know who, he is. He is the last Lord Kelso's grandson. His mother           
was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about         
his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known           
nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am           
very much interested 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 her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl,         
Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a     
penniless young fellow, a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot           
regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole       
thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a           
duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story       
about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian       
brute, to insult his son-in-law in public, paid him, sir, to do it,         
paid him, and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a           
pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone       
at the club for some time 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. The girl died too, died within a year. So she left     
a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of a boy is he? If         
he is like his mother he must 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.           
"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the             
right thing by him. His mother had money too. All the Selby property       
came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso,         
thought him a 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 noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about         
their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn't dare show my face     
at Court for a month. 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 be       
well 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 could       
understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was       
mad after her. She was romantic though. All the women of that family       
were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful.         
Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed       
at him, and there wasn't a girl in London at the time who wasn't after     
him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is         
this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an         
American? 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 a               
steeplechase. They take things flying. I don't think Dartmoor has a         
chance."                                                                   
  "Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?"     
  Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at               
concealing their 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 that             
pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after             
politics."                                                                 
  "Is she pretty?"                                                         
  "She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It         
is the secret of their charm."                                             
  "Why can't these American women stay in their own country? They           
are always telling us that it is the Paradise for women."                   
  "It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively         
anxious 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 me         
the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my         
new 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           
latest protege."                                                           
  "Humph! Tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me with any more     
of her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman             
thinks that I have nothing to do but 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 their       
distinguishing characteristic."                                             
  The old gentleman growled approvingly, and rang the bell for his         
servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street,       
and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square.                   
  So that was the story of Dorian Gray's parentage. Crudely as it           
had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a         
strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything       
for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a             
hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a           
child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to     
solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an         
interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect as         
it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was               
something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower     
might blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night             
before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure       
he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades               
staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking         
to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every     
touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly               
enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like       
it. To project one's soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry         
there for a moment; to hear one's own intellectual views echoed back       
to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey             
one's temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a       
strange perfume: there was a real joy in that- perhaps the most             
satisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our           
own, an age grossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly 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 be fashioned into a           
marvellous type, at any rate. Grace was his, and the white purity of       
boyhood, and beauty such as old Greek marbles have kept for us.             
There was nothing that one could not do with him. He could be made a       
Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty was destined to         
fade!... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, how                 
interesting he was! The new manner in art, the fresh mode of looking       
at life, suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of           
one who was unconscious of it all; the silent spirit that dwelt in dim     
woodland, and walked unseen in open field, suddenly showing herself,       
Dryad-like and not afraid, because in his soul who sought for her           
there had been awakened that wonderful vision to which alone are           
wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes and patterns of things           
becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind of symbolical value,     
as though they were themselves patterns of some other and more perfect     
form whose shadow they made real: how strange it all was! He               
remembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist     
in thought, who had first analyzed it? Was it not Buonarotti who had       
carved it in the coloured marbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own     
country it was strange.... Yes; he would try to be to Dorian Gray           
what, without knowing it, the lad was to the painter who had fashioned     
the 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 had passed his aunt's some distance, and smiling to himself, turned     
back. When he entered the somewhat sombre hall the butler told him         
that they had gone in to lunch. He gave one of the footmen his hat and     
stick and passed 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       
to her, looked round to see who was there. Dorian bowed to him shyly       
from the end of the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his           
cheek. Opposite was the Duchess of Harley, a lady of admirable             
good-nature and good temper, much liked by every one who knew her, and     
of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not         
Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness.           
Next to her sat, on her right, Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member         
of Parliament, who followed his leader in public life and in private       
life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories, and thinking         
with the Liberals, in accordance with a wise and well-known rule.           
The post on her left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old       
gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen,               
however, into bad habits of silence, having, as he explained once to       
Lady Agatha, said everything that he had 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 so dreadfully dowdy that       
she reminded one of a badly bound hymn book. Fortunately for him she       
had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged           
mediocrity, as bad as a Ministerial statement in the House of Commons,     
with whom she was conversing in that intensely earnest manner which is     
the one unpardonable error, as he remarked once himself, that all           
really good people fall into, and from which none of them 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 will           
really 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 should           
interfere."                                                                 
  "I am told, on excellent authority, that her father keeps an

It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like     
one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys           
seem to 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 was         
animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality.       
The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could         
say 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 various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin?     
Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The         
separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of           
spirit with matter was a mystery also.                                     
   He began to wonder whether we could ever make psychology so             
absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed       
to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely             
understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely       
the name men gave to their mistakes. Moralists had, as a rule,             
regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain ethical     
efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something         
that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there       
was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause     
as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our         
future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done         
once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.             
  It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method     
by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the                 
passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand,         
and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love       
for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest.         
There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity         
and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather     
a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous         
instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the             
imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself         
to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more         
dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived               
ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives       
were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that       
when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really             
experimenting on ourselves.                                                 
  While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the       
door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress for     
dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had           
smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite.         
The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a     
faded rose. He thought of his friend's young fiery-coloured life,           
and wondered how it was all going to end.                                   
  When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o'clock, he saw a           
telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it, and found it was           
from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married     
to Sibyl Vane.                                                             
                                                                           
                                                                           
                              CHAPTER V                                     
-                                                                           
  "Mother, mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her         
face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back           
turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair     
that their dingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she               
repeated, "and you must be happy too!"                                     
  Mrs. Vane winced, and put her thin bismuth-whitened hands on her         
daughter's head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when         
I see 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         
does money matter? Love is more than money."                               
  "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts, and       
to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl.         
Fifty pounds 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 elder       
woman, 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. A         
rose shook in her blood, and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breaths parted     
the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion       
swept over her, and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love         
him," she said, simply,.                                                   
  "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in           
answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave                 
grotesqueness to the words.                                                 
  The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice.         
Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance: then closed           
for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the         
mist of a dream had passed across them.                                     
  Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at           
prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the         
name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison       
of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had             
called on Memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for         
him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her           
mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath.                               
  Then Wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery.         
This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of.         
Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The       
arrows 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           
why I 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, I cannot tell- though I feel so much beneath him, I don't feel         
humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father       
as I love Prince Charming?"                                                 
  The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed           
her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sibyl           
rushed to 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           
only pains you because you loved him so much. Don't look so sad. I         
am as happy 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. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James         
is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say     
that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said           
before, if he is rich..."                                                   
  "Ah! mother, mother, let me be happy!"                                   
  Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical         
gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a                 
stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment the door opened,     
and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was           
thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large, and somewhat       
clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would     
hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between             
them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him, and intensified her smile.           
She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She           
felt sure that the tableau was interesting.                                 
  "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said         
the lad, with a good-natured grumble.                                       
  "Ah! but you don't like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a         
dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him.             
  James Vane looked into his sister's face with tenderness. "I want         
you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don't suppose I shall         
ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don't want to."             
  "My son, don't say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking     
up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch           
it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group.       
It would have 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 a         
position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in         
the Colonies, nothing that I would call society; so when you have made     
your fortune you must come back and assert yourself in London."             
  "Society!" muttered the lad. "I don't want to know anything about         
that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the       
stage. I hate it."                                                         
  "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you         
really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you       
were going to say good-bye to some of your friends- to Tom Hardy,           
who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you       
for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last           
afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the Park."                       
  "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to       
the Park."                                                                 
  "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat.         
  He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but             
don't be to long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear     
her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead.         
  He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to     
the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he           
asked.                                                                     
  "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work.         
For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone           
with this rough, stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was           
troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected           
anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became             
intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves         
by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I     
hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she         
said. "You must remember that it is your own choice. You might have         
entered a solicitor's office. Solicitors are a very respectable class,     
and in the country often dine with the best families."                     
  "I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are             
quite right. 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 to talk to her. Is that right? What about that?"                     
  "You are speaking about things you don't understand, James. In the       
profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most               
gratifying attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one         
time. That was when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do       
not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not. But           
there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect               
gentleman. He is always most polite to me. Besides, he has the             
appearance of being rich, 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. "He     
has not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of         
him. He is probably a member of the aristocracy."                           
  James Vane bit his lip. "Watch over Sibyl, mother," he cried, "watch     
over her."                                                                 
  "My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special     
care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason           
why she could not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one         
of the aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It         
might be a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a             
charming couple. His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody     
notices them."                                                             
  The lad muttered something to himself, and drummed on the windowpane     
with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something,         
when 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 is     
packed, 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, and       
there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid.             
  "Kiss me, mother," said the girl. Her flower-like lips touched the       
withered cheek, and warmed its frost.                                       
  "My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling         
in search of an imaginary gallery.                                         
  "Come, Sibyl," said her brother, impatiently. He hated his               
mother's affectations.                                                     
  They went out into the flickering wind-blown sunlight, and               
strolled down the dreary Euston Road. The passers-by glanced in wonder     
at the sullen, heavy youth, who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was       
in the company of such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like a     
common gardener walking with a rose.                                       
  Jim frowned from time to time when he caught the inquisitive             
glance of some stranger. He had that dislike of being stared at             
which comes on geniuses late in life, and never leaves the                 
commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quite unconscious of the effect she       
was producing. Her love was trembling in laughter on her lips. She was     
thinking of Prince Charming, and, that she might think of him all           
the more, she did not talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in       
which Jim was going to sail, about the gold he was certain to find,         
about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked,     
red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a           
super-cargo, or whatever he was going to be. Oh, no! A sailor's             
existence was dreadful. Fancy being cooped up in a horrid ship, with       
the hoarse, hump-backed waves trying to get in, and a black wind           
blowing the masts down, and tearing the sails into long screaming           
ribands! He was to leave 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 to come across a large nugget of pure gold, the     
largest nugget that had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the     
coast in a waggon guarded by six mounted policemen. The bushrangers         
were to attack them three times, and be defeated with immense               
slaughter. Or, no. He was not to go to the gold-fields at all. They         
were horrid places, where men got intoxicated, and shot each other         
in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nice sheep-farmer,     
and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see the beautiful         
heiress being carried off by a robber 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 get married, and come home, and live       
in an immense house in London. Yes, there were delightful things in         
store for him. But he must be very good, and not lose his temper, or       
spend his money foolishly. She was only a year older than he was,           
but she knew so much more of life. He must be sure, also, to write         
to her by every mail, and to say his prayers each night before he went     
to sleep. God was very good, and would watch over him. She would           
pray for him too, and in a few years he would come back quite rich and     
happy.                                                                     
  The lad listened sulkily to her, and made no answer. He was               
heart-sick at 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 danger     
of Sibyl's position. This young dandy who was making love to her could     
mean her no good. He was a gentleman, and he hated him for that, hated     
him through some curious race-instinct for which he could not account,     
and which for that reason was all the more dominant within him. He was     
conscious 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             
judge them; sometimes they forgive them.                                   
  His mother! He had something on his mind to ask her, something           
that he had brooded on for many months of silence. A chance phrase         
that he had heard at the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached       
his ears one night as he waited at the stage-door, had set loose a         
train of horrible thoughts. He remembered it as if it had been the         
lash of a hunting-crop across his face. His brows knit together into a     
wedge-like furrow, and with a twitch of pain he bit his under-lip.         
  "You are not listening to a word I am saying, Jim," cried Sibyl,         
"and I am 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     
am to 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         
me about him? He means you no good."                                       
  "Stop, Jim!" she exclaimed. "You must not say anything against           
him. I love him."                                                           
  "Why, you don't even know his name," answered the lad. "Who is he? I     
have a right to know."                                                     
  "He is called Prince Charming. Don't you like the name? Oh! you           
silly boy,! you should never forget it. If you only saw him, you would     
think him the most wonderful person in the world. Some day you will         
meet him: 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     
the theatre 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 may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in     
love is to surpass 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 he will announce me as a revelation. I feel it. And it     
is all his, his only, Prince Charming, my wonderful lover, my god of       
graces. But I am poor beside him. Poor? What does that matter? When         
poverty creeps in at the door, love flies in through the window. Our       
proverbs want re-writing. They were made in winter, and it is summer       
now; spring-time for 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 you     
were a hundred. Some day you will be in love yourself. Then you will       
know what it is. Don't look so sulky. Surely you should be glad to         
think that, though you are going away, you leave me happier than I         
have ever been before. Life has been hard for us both, terribly hard       
and difficult. But it will be different now. You are going to a new         
world, and I have found one. Here are two chairs; let us sit down           
and see the smart people go by."                                           
  They took their seats amidst a crowd if watchers. The tulip-beds         
across the road flamed like throbbing rings of fire. A white dust,         
tremulous cloud of orris-root it seemed, hung in the panting air.           
The brightly-coloured parasols danced and dipped like monstrous             
butterflies.                                                               
  She made her brother talk of himself, his hopes, his prospects. He       
spoke slowly and with effort. They passed words to each other as           
players at a game pass counters. Sibyl felt pressed. She could not         
communicate her joy. A faint smile curving that sullen mouth was all       
the echo she could win. After some time she became silent. Suddenly         
she caught a glimpse of golden hair and laughing lips, and in an           
open carriage 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 at that     
moment the Duke of Berwick's four-in-hand came between, and when it         
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       
does you any wrong, I shall kill him."                                     
  She looked at him in horror. He repeated his words. They cut the air     
like a dagger. The people round began to gape. A lady standing close       
to her tittered.                                                           
  "Come away, Jim; come away," she whispered. He followed her doggedly     
as she passed through the crowd. He felt glad at what he had said.         
  When they reached the Achilles Statue she turned round. There was         
pity in her eyes that became laughter on her lips. She shook her           
head at him. "You are foolish, Jim, utterly foolish; a bad-tempered         
boy, that is all. How can you say such horrible things? You don't know     
what you are talking about. You are simply jealous and unkind. Ah! I       
wish you would fall in love. Love makes people good, and what you said     
was wicked."                                                               
  "I am sixteen," he answered, "and I know what I am about. Mother         
is no help to you. She doesn't understand how to look after you. I         
wish now that I was not going to Australia at all. I have a great mind     
to chuck the 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         
those silly melodramas mother used to be so fond of acting in. I am         
not going to quarrel with you. I have seen him, and oh! to see him         
is perfect happiness. We won't quarrel. I know you would never harm         
any one 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.       
He was merely a boy.                                                       
  At the Marble Arch they hailed an omnibus, which left them close         
to their shabby home in the Euston Road. It was after five o'clock,         
and Sibyl had to lie down for a couple of hours before acting. Jim         
insisted that she should do so. He said that he would sooner part with     
her when their mother was not present. She would be sure to make a         
scene, and he detested scenes of every kind.                               
  In Sibyl's own room they parted. There was jealousy in the lad's         
heart, and a fierce, murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it           
seemed to him, had come between them. Yet, when her arms were flung         
around his neck, and her fingers strayed through his hair, he               
softened, and kissed her with real affection. There were tears in           
his eyes as he went downstairs.                                             
  His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his                 
unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his       
meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table, and crawled over the         
stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of         
street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute         
that was left to him.                                                       
  After some time, he thrust away his plate, and put his head in his       
hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told       
to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother     
watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace     
handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he         
got up, and went to the door. When he turned back, and looked at           
her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It             
enraged him.                                                               
  "Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered         
vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have     
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 measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness         
of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been     
gradually led up 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         
very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don't     
speak 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 love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose."         
  For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her     
head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a           
mother," she murmured; "I had none."                                       
  The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down he           
kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my             
father," he said, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye.       
Don't forget that you will have only one child now to look after,           
and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out           
who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it."           
  The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that         
accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more             
vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed           
more freely, and for the first time in many months she really               
admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on       
the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be           
carried down, and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge             
bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cab-man. The         
moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of         
disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from           
the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great           
opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how     
desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child       
to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the       
threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed.         
She felt that they would all laugh at it some day.                         
                                                                           
                                                                           
                              CHAPTER VI                                   
-                                                                           
  "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that         
evening, as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the           
Bristol where dinner had been laid for three.                               
  "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the         
bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope? They don't     
interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons       
worth painting; though many of them would be the better for a little       
whitewashing."                                                             
  "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching         
him as he spoke.                                                           
  Hallward started, and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be                 
married!" he cried. "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         
dear Basil."                                                               
  "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry."         
  "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry, languidly. "But I didn't       
say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a         
great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married,           
but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to       
think that I never was engaged."                                           
  "But think of Dorian's birth, and position, and wealth. It would         
be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him."                           
  "If you want to make him marry this girl tell him that, Basil. He is     
sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it     
is always from the noblest motives."                                       
  "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don't want to see Dorian tied         
to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his           
intellect."                                                                 
  "Oh, she is better than good- she is beautiful," murmured Lord           
Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says         
she is beautiful; and he is not often wrong about things of that kind.     
Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal         
appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect,               
amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn't forget     
his appointment."                                                           
  "Are you serious?"                                                       
  "Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should       
ever be more serious than I am at the present moment."                     
  "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and     
down 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 absurd         
attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air       
our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people         
say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a               
personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that                 
personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray             
falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to       
marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina he would be none the less       
interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real             
drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish         
people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are           
certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain         
their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to           
have more than one life. They become highly organized, and to be           
highly organized is, I should fancy, the object of man's existence.         
Besides, every experience is of value, and, whatever one may say           
against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian         
Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six           
months, and then suddenly become fascinated 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         
than yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be."                 
  Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of           
others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of               
optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we         
credit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are         
likely to be a benefit 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 spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have           
said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled           
life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want     
to mar a nature, you have merely 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 being fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He         
will tell you more than I can."                                             
  "My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!"           
said the lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined           
wings, and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have         
never been so happy. Of course it is sudden: all really delightful         
things are. And yet it seems to me to be the one thing I have been         
looking for all my life." He was flushed with excitement and pleasure,     
and looked extraordinarily handsome.                                       
  "I hope you will always be very happy, Dorian," said Hallward,           
"but I don'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 Lord       
Henry, 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 then you will tell us how it all came about."                     
  "There is really not much to tell," cried Dorian, as they took their     
seats at the small round table. "What happened was simply this.             
After I left you yesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some             
dinner at that little Italian restaurant in Rupert Street, you             
introduced me to, and went 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 she was perfectly wonderful. She wore a             
moss-coloured velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim brown               
cross-gartered hose, a dainty little green cap with a hawk's feather       
caught in a jewel, and a hooded cloak lined with dull red. She had         
never seemed to me more exquisite. She had all the delicate grace of       
that Tanagra figurine that you have in your studio, Basil. Her hair         
clustered round her face like dark leaves round a pale rose. As for         
her acting- well, you shall see her to-night. She is simply a born         
artist. I sat in the dingy box absolutely enthralled. I forgot that         
I was in London and in the nineteenth century. I was away with my love     
in a forest that no man had ever seen. After the performance was           
over I went behind, and spoke to her. As we were sitting together,         
suddenly there came into her eyes a look that I had never seen there       
before. My lips moved toward hers. We kissed each other. I can't           
describe to you what I felt at that moment. It seemed to me that all       
my life had been narrowed to one perfect point of rose-coloured joy.       
She trembled all over, and shook like a white narcissus. Then she           
flung herself on her knees and kissed my hands. I feel that I should       
not tell you all this, but I can't help it. Of course our engagement       
is a dead secret. She has not even told her own mother. I don't know       
what my guardian will say. Lord Radley is sure to be furious. I             
don't care. I shall be of age in less than a year, and then I can do       
what I like. I have been right, Basil, haven't I, to take my love           
out of poetry, and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays? Lips that       
Shakespeare taught to speak have whispered their secret in my ear. I       
have had the arms of Rosalind around me, and kissed 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, I         
shall find her in an orchard in Verona."                                   
  Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At what         
particular point did you mention the word marriage, Dorian? And what       
did she say in answer? Perhaps you forgot all about it."                   
  "My dear Harry, I did not treat it as a business transaction, and         
I did not make any formal proposal. I told her that I loved her, and       
she said she was not worthy to be my wife. Not worthy! Why, the             
whole world is nothing to me compared with her."                           
  "Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry, "much more       
practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to       
say anything about marriage, and they always remind us."                   
  Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyed     
Dorian. He is not like other men. He would never bring misery upon any     
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, for the only reason, indeed, that excuses one for asking any     
question- simply curiosity. I have a theory that it is always the           
women who propose to us, and not we who propose to the women.               
Except, of course, in the middle-class life. But then the middle           
classes are not modern."                                                   
  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. When you see Sibyl Vane you will feel that the man who could     
wrong her would be a beast, a beast without a heart. I cannot               
understand how any one can wish to shame the thing he loves. I love         
Sibyl Vane. I want to place her on a pedestal of gold, and to see           
the world worship the woman who is mine. What is marriage? An               
irrevocable vow. You mock at it for that. Ah! don't mock. It is an         
irrevocable vow that I want to take. Her trust makes me faithful,           
her belief makes me good. When I am with her, I regret all that you         
have taught me. I become different from what you have known me to           
be. I am changed, and the mere touch of Sibyl 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             
theories about pleasure. All your theories, in fact, Harry."               
  "Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about," he             
answered, in his slow, melodious voice. "But I am afraid I cannot           
claim my theory as my own. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure       
is Nature's test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we are           
always good, but when 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 Lord     
Henry over the heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in         
the centre of the table, "what do you mean by good, Harry?"                 
  "To be good is to be in harmony with one's self," he replied,             
touching the thin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed             
fingers. "Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others.             
One's own life- that is the important thing. As for the lives of one's     
neighbors, if one wishes to be a prig or a Puritan, one can flaunt         
one's moral views about them, but they are not one's concern. Besides,     
Individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in       
accepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man of         
culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest         
immorality."                                                               
  "But, surely, if one lives merely for one's self, Harry, one pays         
a terrible price for doing so?" suggested the painter.                     
  "Yes, we are overcharged for everything nowadays. I should fancy         
that the real tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing           
but self-denial. Beautiful sins, like beautiful things, are the             
privilege of 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 the         
consciousness of degradation."                                             
  Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediaeval art is     
charming, but mediaeval emotions are out of date. One can use them         
in fiction, of course. But then the only things that one can use in         
fiction are the things that one has ceased to use in fact. Believe me,     
no civilized man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilized man           
ever knows what a pleasure is."                                             
  "I know what pleasure is," cried Dorian Gray. "It is to adore some       
one."                                                                       
  "That is certainly better than being adored," he answered, toying         
with some fruits. "Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just         
as Humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering     
us to do something for them."                                               
  "I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first             
given to us," murmured the lad, gravely. "They create Love in our           
natures. They have 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         
give to men the very gold of their lives."                                 
  "Possibly," he sighed, "but they invariably want it back in such         
very small change. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman       
once put it, inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces, and always     
prevent 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 some       
coffee, you fellows? Waiter, bring coffee, and fine-champagne, and         
some cigarettes. No; don't mind the cigarettes; I have some. Basil,         
I can't allow you to smoke cigars. You must have a cigarette. A             
cigarette 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     
you have never had the courage to commit."                                 
  "What nonsense you talk, Harry!" cried the lad, taking a light           
from a fire-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 will have a new ideal of life. She will represent                 
something to you that you have never known."                               
  "I have known everything," said Lord Henry, with a tired look in his     
eyes, "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,         
your wonderful girl may thrill me. I love acting. It is so much more       
real than 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     
follow us in a hansom."                                                     
  They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing.

anything as marvellous."                                                   
  "Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that     
you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do."           
  "But suppose, Harry, I became haggard, and old, and wrinkled? What       
then?"                                                                     
  "Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go, "then, my dear Dorian,         
you would have to fight for your victories. As it is, they are brought     
to you. No, you must keep your good looks. We live in an age that           
reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful.       
We cannot spare you. And now you had better dress, and drive down to       
the club. We are rather late, as it is."                                   
  "I think I shall join you at the Opera, Harry. I feel too tired to       
eat anything. What is the number of your sister's box?"                     
  "Twenty-seven, I believe. It is on the grand tier. You will see           
her name 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               
awfully obliged to you for all that you have said to me. You are           
certainly my best friend. No one has ever understood me as you have."       
  "We are only at the beginning of our friendship, Dorian," answered       
Lord Henry, shaking him by the hand. "Good-bye. I shall see you before     
nine-thirty, I hope. Remember, Patti is singing."                           
  As he closed the door behind him, Dorian Gray touched the bell,           
and in a few minutes Victor appeared with the lamps and drew the           
blinds down. He waited impatiently for him to go. The man seemed to         
take an interminable 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         
news of Sibyl Vane's death before he had known of it himself. It was       
conscious of the events of life as they occurred. The vicious               
cruelty that marred the fine lines of the mouth had, no doubt,             
appeared at the very moment that the girl had drunk the poison,             
whatever it was. Or was it indifferent to results? Did it merely           
take cognizance of what passed within the soul? He wondered, and hoped     
that some day he would see the change taking place before his very         
eyes, shuddering as he hoped it.                                           
  Poor Sibyl! what a romance it had all been! She had often mimicked       
death on the stage. Then Death himself had touched her, and taken           
her with him. How had she played that dreadful last scene, Had she         
cursed him, as she died? No; she had died for love of him, and love         
would always be a sacrament to him now. She had atoned for everything,     
by the sacrifice she had made of her life. He would not think any more     
of what she had made him go through, on that horrible night at the         
theatre. When he thought of her, it would be as a wonderful tragic         
figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supreme reality of         
Love. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he               
remembered her childlike look and winsome fanciful ways and shy             
tremulous grace. He brushed them away hastily, and looked again at the     
picture.                                                                   
  He felt that the time had really come for making his choice. Or           
had his choice already been made? Yes, life had decided that for           
him- life, and his own infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth,       
infinite passion, pleasure subtle and secret, wild joys and wilder         
sins- he was to have all these things. The portrait was to bear the         
burden of his shame: that was all.                                         
  A feeling of pain crept over him as he thought of the desecration         
that was in store for the fair face on the canvas. Once, in boyish         
mockery of Narcissus, he had kissed, or feigned to kiss, those painted     
lips that now smiled so cruelly at him. Morning after morning he had       
sat before the portrait wondering at its beauty, almost enamoured of       
it, as it seemed to him at times. Was it to alter now with every           
mood to which he yielded? Was it to become a monstrous and loathsome       
thing, to be hidden away in a locked room, to be shut out from the         
sunlight that had 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 that       
existed between him and the picture might cease. It had changed in         
answer to a prayer; perhaps in answer to a prayer it might remain           
unchanged. And, yet, who, that knew anything about Life, would             
surrender the chance of remaining always young, however fantastic that     
chance might be, or with what fateful consequences it might be             
fraught? Besides, was it really under his control? Had it indeed           
been prayer that had produced the substitution? Might there not be         
some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise       
its influence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an         
influence upon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or           
conscious desire, might not things external to ourselves vibrate in         
unison with our moods and passions, atom calling to atom in secret         
love or strange affinity? But the reason was of no importance. He           
would never again tempt by a prayer any terrible power. If the picture     
was to alter, it was to alter. That was all. Why inquire too closely       
into it?                                                                   
  For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be           
able to follow his mind into its secret places. This portrait would be     
to him the 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     
of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a           
pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of         
boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one         
pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he       
would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what             
happened to the coloured 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 was already waiting for him. An hour later he was at the         
Opera, and Lord Henry was leaning over his chair.                           
                                                                           
                                                                           
                              CHAPTER IX                                   
-                                                                           
  As he was sitting at breakfast next morning, Basil Hallward was           
shown into the room.                                                       
  "I am glad I have found you, Dorian," he said gravely. "I called         
last night, and they told me you were at the Opera. Of course I knew       
that was impossible. But I wish you hid left word where you had really     
gone to. I passed a dreadful evening, half afraid that one tragedy         
might be followed by another. I think you might have telegraphed for       
me when you heard of it first. I read of it quite by chance in a           
late edition of The Globe, that I picked up at the club. I came here       
at once, and was miserable at not finding you. I can't tell you how         
heartbroken 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 a       
moment I thought of following you there. They gave the address in           
the paper. Somewhere in the Euston Road, isn't it? But I was afraid of     
intruding upon a sorrow that I could not lighten. Poor woman! What a       
state she must be in! And her only child, too! What did she say             
about it all?"                                                             
  "My dear Basil, how do I know?" murmured Dorian Gray, sipping some       
pale-yellow wine from a delicate gold-beaded bubble of Venetian glass,     
and looking dreadfully bored. "I was at the Opera. You should have         
come on there. met Lady Gwendolyn, Harry's sister, for the first time.     
We were in her box. She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang               
divinely. Don't talk about horrid subjects. If one doesn't talk             
about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression, as           
Harry says, that gives reality to things. I may mention that she was       
not the woman's only child. There is a son, a charming fellow, I           
believe. But he is not on the stage. He is a sailor, or something. And     
now, tell me about yourself and what you are painting."                     
  "You went to the Opera?" said Hallward, speaking very slowly, and         
with a strained touch of pain in his voice. "You went to the Opera         
while Sibyl Vane was lying dead in some sordid lodging? You can talk       
to me of other women being charming, and of Patti singing divinely,         
before the 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 is past     
is past."                                                                   
  "You call yesterday the past?"                                           
  "What has the actual lapse of time got to do with it? It is only         
shallow people who require years to get rid of an emotion. A man who       
is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a         
pleasure. I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to         
use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them."                             
  "Dorian, this is horrible! Something has changed you completely. You     
look exactly like the same wonderful boy who, day after day, used to       
come down to my studio to sit for his picture. But you were simple,         
natural, and affectionate then. You were the most unspoiled creature       
in the whole world. Now, I don't know what has come over you. You talk     
as if you had no heart, no pity in you. It is all Harry's influence. I     
see that."                                                                 
  The lad flushed up, and, going to the window, looked out for a few       
moments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great         
deal to Harry, Basil," he said, at last, "more than I owe to you.           
You only 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. "I     
don'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         
his shoulder, "you have come too late. Yesterday when I heard that         
Sibyl Vane had killed herself--"                                           
  "Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?"             
cried Hallward, looking up at him with an expression of horror.             
  "My dear Basil! Surely you don't think it was a vulgar accident?         
Of course she killed herself."                                             
  The elder man buried his face in his hands. "How fearful," he             
muttered, and a shudder ran through him.                                   
  "No," said Dorian Gray, "there is nothing fearful about it. It is         
one of the great romantic tragedies of the age. As a rule, people           
who act lead the most commonplace lives. They are good husbands, or         
faithful wives, or something tedious. You know what I mean-                 
middle-class virtue, and all that kind of thing. How different Sibyl       
was! She lived her finest tragedy. She was always a heroine. The           
last night she played- the night you saw her- she acted badly               
because she had known, the reality of love. When she knew its               
unreality, she died, as Juliet might have died. She passed again           
into the sphere of art. There is something of the martyr about her.         
Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its           
wasted beauty. But as I was saying, you must not think I have not           
suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment- about       
half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six- you would have found         
me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in         
fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered 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 find me consoled, and           
you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You remind me of a         
story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist who spent twenty         
years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, or some       
unjust law altered- I forget exactly what it was. Finally he               
succeeded, and nothing could exceed his disappointment. He had             
absolutely nothing to do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed     
misanthrope. And besides, my dear old Basil, if you really want to         
console me, teach me rather to forget what has happened, or to see         
it from a proper artistic point of view. Was it not Gautier who used       
to write about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little     
vellum-covered book in our studio one day and chancing on that             
delightful phrase. Well, I am not like that young man you told me of       
when we were down at Marlow together, the young man who used to say         
that yellow satin could console one for all the miseries of life. I         
love beautiful things that one can touch and handle. Old brocades,         
green bronzes, lacquerwork, carved ivories, exquisite surroundings,         
luxury, pomp, there is much to be got from all these. But the artistic     
temperament that they create, or at any rate reveal, is still more         
to me. To become the spectator of one's own life, as Harry says, is to     
escape the suffering of life. I know you are surprised at my talking       
to you like this. You have not realized how I have developed. I was         
a schoolboy when you knew me. I am a man now. I have new passions, new     
thoughts, new ideas. I am different, but you must not like me less.         
I am changed, but you must always be my friend. Of course I am very         
fond of Harry. But I know that you are better than he is. You are           
not stronger- you are too much afraid of life- but you are better. And     
how happy we used to be together! Don't leave me, Basil, and don't         
quarrel with 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. He could not bear the idea of reproaching him any more. After         
all, his indifference was probably merely a mood that would pass away.     
There was 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     
to you again about this horrible thing, after to-day. I only trust         
your name won't be mentioned in connection with it. The inquest is         
to take place this afternoon. Have they summoned you?"                     
  Dorian shook his head, and a look of annoyance passed over his           
face at the mention of the word "inquest." There was something so           
crude and vulgar about everything of the kind. "They don't know my         
name," he answered.                                                         
  "But surely she did?"                                                     
  "Only my Christian name, and that I am quite sure she never               
mentioned to any one. She told me once that they were all rather           
curious to learn who I was, and that she invariably told them my           
name was Prince Charming. 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 of a few kisses and some broken pathetic words."           
  "I will try and do something, Dorian, if it would please you. But         
you must 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 for you? Where is it?         
Why, have you pulled the screen in front of it? Let me look at it?         
It is 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. I felt the room looked different as I came in."                 
  "My servant has nothing to do with it, Basil. You don't imagine I         
let him arrange my room for me? He settles my flowers for me               
sometimes- that is all. No; I did it myself. The light was too             
strong on the portrait."                                                   
  "Too strong! Surely not, my dear fellow? It is an admirable place         
for it. Let me see it." And Hallward walked towards the corner of           
the room.                                                                   
  A cry of terror broke from Dorian Gray's lips, and he rushed between     
the painter and the screen. "Basil," he said, looking very pale,           
"you must not look at it. I don't wish you to."                             
  "Not look at my own work! you are not serious. Why shouldn't I           
look at it?" exclaimed Hallward, laughing.                                 
  "If you try to look at it, Basil, on my word of honour I will             
never speak to you again as long as I live. I am quite serious. I           
don't offer 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 absolute         
amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was             
actually pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils         
of his 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't       
want me to," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel, and going         
over towards the window. "But, really, it seems rather absurd that I       
shouldn't see my own work. especially as I am going to exhibit it in       
Paris in the autumn. I shall probably have to give it another coat         
of varnish 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, a         
strange sense of terror creeping over him. Was the world going to be       
shown his secret? Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That     
was impossible. Something- he did not know what- had to be done at         
once.                                                                       
  "Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is           
going to collect all my best pictures for a special exhibition in           
the Rue de Seze, which will open the first week in October. The             
portrait will only be away a month. I should think you could easily         
spare it for that time. In fact, you are sure to be out of town. And       
if you keep it always behind a screen, you can't care much about it."       
  Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads of       
perspiration there. He felt that he was on the brink of a horrible         
danger. "You told me a month ago that you would never exhibit it,"         
he cried. "Why have you changed your mind? You people who go in for         
being consistent have just as many moods as others have. The only           
difference is that your moods are rather meaningless. You can't have       
forgotten that you assured me most solemnly that nothing in the             
world would induce you to send it to any exhibition. You told Harry         
exactly the same thing." He stopped suddenly, and a gleam of light         
came into his eyes. He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him           
once, half seriously, and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange     
quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your         
picture. He told me why he wouldn't, and it was a revelation to me."       
Yes, perhaps, Basil, too, had his secret. He would ask him and try.         
  "Basil," he said, coming over quite close, and looking him               
straight in the face, "we have each of us a secret. Let me know yours,     
and I shall tell you mine. What was your reason for refusing to             
exhibit my picture?"                                                       
  The painter shuddered in spite of himself. "Dorian, if I told you,       
you might like me less than you do, and you would certainly laugh at       
me. I could not bear your doing either of those two things. If you         
wish me never to look at your picture again, I am content. I have           
always you to look at. If you wish the best work I have ever done to       
be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Your friendship is dearer to     
me than any fame or reputation."                                           
  "No, Basil, you must tell me," insisted Dorian Gray. "I think I have     
a right to know." His feeling of terror had passed away, and curiosity     
had taken its place. He was determined to find out Basil Hallward's         
mystery.                                                                   
  "Let us sit down, Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled.           
"Let us sit down. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in     
the picture something curious?- something that probably at first did       
not strike you, but that revealed itself to you suddenly?"                 
  "Basil!" cried the lad, clutching the arms of his chair with             
trembling hands, 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           
most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain,         
and power by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that         
unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I     
worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I           
wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with         
you. 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 have been     
impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardly understood it       
myself. I only, knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that     
the world had become wonderful to my eyes- too wonderful, perhaps, for     
in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less     
than the peril of keeping them.... Weeks and weeks went on, and I grew     
more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had           
drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman's         
cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you       
had sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, gazing across the green             
turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek               
woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the marvel of your own     
face. And it had all been what art should be, unconscious, ideal,           
and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined 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 own time.           
Whether it was the Realism of the method or the mere wonder of your         
own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I     
cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film       
of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that             
others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told           
too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was           
that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a     
little 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         
mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I       
felt that 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     
its presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that     
I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely               
good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling         
that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation       
is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more           
abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour-         
that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far         
more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer     
from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in       
my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see         
now that you were right. 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 are made 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 safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for     
the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and           
wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality       
of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But         
that was 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 strange         
idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store?               
  "It is extraordinary, to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you           
should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?"             
  "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me       
very curious."                                                             
  "Well, you don't mind my looking at the thing now?"                       
  Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not     
possibly 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         
been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art.           
Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don't know         
what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you."                     
  "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that         
you felt 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 I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps       
one should never put one's worship into words."                             
  "It was a disappointing confession."                                     
  "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn't see anything else in       
the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"                       
  "No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you               
mustn't talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends,           
Basil, and we must always remain so."                                       
  "You have got Harry," said the painter, sadly.                           
  "Oh, Harry,?" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry           
spends his days in saying what is incredible, and his evenings in           
doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to             
lead. But still I don't think I would go to Harry if I were in             
trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil."                                 
  "You will sit to me again?"                                               
  "Impossible!"                                                             
  "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man came         
across 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.       
"And now good-bye. I am sorry you won't let me look at the picture         
once again. But that can't be helped. I quite understand what you feel     
about it."                                                                 
  As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil!           
how little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that,         
instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had             
succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How     
much that strange confession explained to him! The painter's absurd         
fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his       
curious reticences- he understood them all now, and he felt sorry.         
There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured     
by romance.                                                                 
  He sighed and touched a bell. The portrait must be hidden away at         
all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had         
been 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 X                                     
-                                                                           
  When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly, and wondered     
if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite           
impassive, and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette, and           
walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the             
reflection of Victor'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 be on his guard.                                                   
  Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the housekeeper that he         
wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to         
send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man         
left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was     
that merely his own fancy?                                                 
  After a few moments, in her black silk dress with old-fashioned           
thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the           
library. He asked for the key of the schoolroom.                           
  "The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian," she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of     
dust. I must get it arranged, and put it 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,       
it hasn't been opened for nearly five years, not since his lordship         
died."                                                                     
  He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories     
of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the     
place- that is all. Give me the key."                                       
  "And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the             
contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the       
key. I'll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don't think of         
living up there, 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       
of the household. He sighed, and told her to manage things as she           
thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles.                       
  As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket, and looked         
round the room. His eye fell on a large purple satin coverlet               
heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late                     
seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found it         
a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful         
thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it       
was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the     
corruption of death itself- something that would breed horrors and yet     
would never die. What the worm was to the corpse, his sins would be to     
the painted image on the canvas. They would mar its beauty, and eat         
its grace. They would defile it, and make it shameful. And yet the         
thing would still live on. It would be always alive.                       
  He shuddered, and for a moment he regretted that he had not told         
Basil the true reason why he had wished to hide the picture away.           
Basil would have helped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and           
the still more poisonous influences that came from his own                 
temperament. The love that he bore him- for it was really love- had         
nothing in it that was not noble and intellectual. It was not that         
mere physical admiration of beauty that is born of the senses, and         
that dies when the senses tire. It was such love as Michael Angelo had     
known, and Montaigne, and Winckelmann, 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 was inevitable. There were passions in him that would       
find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their     
evil real.                                                                 
  He took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that         
covered 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 it     
was unchanged; and yet his loathing of it was intensified. Gold             
hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips- they all were there. It was simply     
the expression that had altered. That was horrible in its cruelty.         
Compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow             
Basil's reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!- how shallow, and of         
what little account! His own soul was looking out at him from the           
canvas and calling him to judgment. A look of pain came across him,         
and he flung the rich pall over the picture. As he did so, a knock         
came to the door. 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 be           
allowed to know where the picture was being taken to. There was             
something 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 that they were to meet at eight-fifteen that evening.                   
  "Wait for an answer," he said, handing it to him, "and show the           
men in here."                                                               
  In two or three minutes there was another knock, and Mr. Hubbard         
himself, the celebrated frame-maker of South Audley Street, came in         
with a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr. Hubbard was a           
florid, red-whiskered little man, whose admiration for art was             
considerably tempered by the inveterate impecuniosity of most of the       
artists who dealt with him. As a rule, he never left his shop. He           
waited for people to come to him. But he always made an exception in       
favor of Dorian Gray. There was something about Dorian that charmed         
everybody. It was a pleasure even to see him.                               
  "What can I do for you, Mr. Gray?" he said, rubbing his fat freckled     
hands. "I thought I would do myself the honour of coming round in           
person. I have just got a beauty of a frame, sir. Picked it up at a         
sale. Came from Fonthill, I believe. Admirably suited 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 I don't go in much at present for religious art- but to-day,         
I only want a picture carried to the top of the house for me. It is         
rather heavy, so I 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 to     
you. 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 scratched           
going upstairs."                                                           
  "There will be no difficulty, sir," said the genial frame-maker,         
beginning, with the aid of his assistant, to unhook the picture from       
the long brass chains by which it was suspended. "And, now, where           
shall 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           
the top of the house. We will go up by the front staircase, as it is       
wider."                                                                     
  He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall         
and began the ascent. The elaborate character of the frame had made         
the picture extremely bulky, and now and then, in spite of the             
obsequious protests of Mr. Hubbard, who had the true tradesman's           
spirited dislike of seeing a gentleman doing anything useful, Dorian       
put his hand to it so as to help them.                                     
  "Something of a load to carry, sir," gasped the little man, when         
they reached the top landing. And he wiped his shiny forehead.             
  "I am afraid it is rather heavy," murmured Dorian, as he unlocked         
the door that opened into the room that was to keep for him the             
curious secret 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 playroom when he was a             
child, and then as a study when he grew somewhat older. It was a           
large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the       
last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his           
strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had         
always hated and desired to keep at a distance. It appeared to             
Dorian to have but little changed. There was the huge Italian cassone,     
with its fantastically-painted panels and its tarnished gilt               
mouldings, in which he had so often hidden himself as a boy. There the     
satinwood bookcase filled with his dog-eared schoolbooks. On the           
wall behind it was hanging the same ragged Flemish tapestry where a         
faded king and queen were playing chess in a garden, while a company       
of hawkers rode by, carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted               
wrists. How well he remembered it all! Every moment of his lonely           
childhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the             
stainless purity of his boyish life, and it seemed horrible to him         
that it was here the fatal portrait was 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     
as this. He had the key, and no one else could enter it. Beneath its       
purple pall, the face painted on the canvas could grow bestial,             
sodden, and unclean. What did it matter? No one could see it. He           
himself would not see it. Why should he watch the hideous corruption       
of his soul? He kept his youth- that was enough. And, besides, might       
not his nature grow finer, after all? There was no reason that the         
future should be so full of shame. Some love might come across his         
life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be     
already stirring in spirit and in flesh- those curious unpictured sins     
whose very mystery lent them their subtlety and their charm.               
Perhaps, some day, the cruel look would have passed away from the           
scarlet sensitive mouth, and he might show to the world Basil               
Hallward's masterpiece.                                                     
  No; that was impossible. Hour by hour, and week by week, the thing       
upon the canvas was growing old. It might escape the hideousness of         
sin, but the hideousness of age was in store for it. The cheeks             
would become hollow or flaccid. Yellow crow's-feet would creep round       
the fading eyes and make them horrible. The hair would lose its             
brightness, the mouth would gape or droop, would be foolish or             
gross, as the mouths of old men are. There would be the wrinkled           
throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that he             
remembered in the grandfather who had been so stern to him in his           
boyhood. The picture had 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 waiting so long. I was thinking of something         
else."                                                                     
  "Always glad to have a rest, Mr. Gray," answered the frame-maker,         
who was 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 fling       
him to the ground if he dared to lift the gorgeous hanging that             
concealed 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     
rough, uncomely face. He had never seen any one so marvellous.             
  When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Dorian locked the       
door, and put the key in his pocket. He felt safe now. No one would         
ever look 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'clock, and that the tea had been already brought up. On a little         
table of dark perfumed wood thickly encrusted with nacre, a present         
from Lady Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional               
invalid, who had spent 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 torn and the edges soiled. A copy of the third               
edition of The St. James Gazette had been placed on the tea-tray. It       
was evident that Victor had returned. He wondered if he had met the         
men in the hall as they were leaving 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 set back, and a blank space         
was visible on the wall. Perhaps some night he might find him creeping     
upstairs and trying to force the door of the room. It was a horrible       
thing to have a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who had       
been blackmailed all their lives by some servant who had read a             
letter, or overheard a conversation, or picked up a card with an           
address, or found beneath a pillow a withered flower or a shred of         
crumpled lace.                                                             
  He sighed, and, having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord           
Henry's note. It was simply to say, that he sent him round the evening     
paper, and book that might interest him, and that he would be at the       
club at eight-fifteen. He opened The St. James languidly, and looked       
through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It         
drew attention to the following paragraph:                                 
  "INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS.- An inquest was held this morning at the         
Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the       
body of Sibyl 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,         
who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence and         
that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the postmortem examination of the         
deceased."                                                                 
  He frowned, and, tearing the paper in two went across the room and       
flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real           
ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for         
having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have     
marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew         
more 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's death? 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       
was it, he wondered. He went towards the little pearl-coloured             
octagonal stand, that had always looked to him like the work of some       
strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the             
volume, flung himself into an armchair, and began to turn over the         
leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest       
book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite             
raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world         
were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed     
of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never             
dreamed were gradually revealed.                                           
  It was a novel without a plot, and with only one character, being         
indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian,           
who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the     
passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except         
his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods           
through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their           
mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called       
virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call       
sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled           
style, vivid and obscure at once, full of argot and of archaisms, of       
technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes     
the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of             
Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids, and       
as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms     
of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was           
reading the spiritual ecstasies of some mediaeval saint or the             
morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The

see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and         
when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that           
people are whispering about you, I don't know what to say. Why is           
it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a       
club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London         
will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? You used to be     
a friend of Lord Staveley. I met him at dinner last week. Your name         
happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures     
you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Staveley curled his         
lip, and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that       
you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and     
whom no chaste woman would sit in the same room with. I reminded him       
that I was a friend of yours, and asked him 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? There was that wretched boy in the       
Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir     
Henry Ashton, who had to leave England, with a tarnished name. You and     
he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton, and his dreadful         
end? What about Lord Kent's only son, and his career? I met his father     
yesterday in St. James's Street. He seemed broken with shame and           
sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he       
got now? What gentleman would associate 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 contempt in 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 knows anything about mine. With such blood as         
he has in his veins, how could his 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's silly son takes his wife from the           
streets, what is that to me? If Adrian Singleton writes his friend's       
name across a bill, am I his keeper? I know how people chatter in           
England. The middle classes air their moral prejudices over their           
gross dinner-tables, and whisper about what they call the profligacies     
of their betters in order to try and pretend that they are in smart         
society, and on intimate terms with the people they slander. In this       
country it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for           
every common tongue to wag against him. And what sort of lives do           
these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear             
fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite."       
  "Dorian," cried Hallward, "that is not the question. England is           
bad enough I know, and English society is all wrong. That is the           
reason why I want you to be fine. You have not been fine. One has a         
right to judge of a man by the effect he has over his friends. Yours       
seem to lose all sense of honour, of goodness, of purity. You have         
filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gone down into           
the depths. You led them there. Yes: you led them there, and yet you       
can smile, as you are smiling now. And there is worse behind. I,           
know you and Harry are inseparable. Surely for that reason, if for         
none other, you should not have made his sister's name a byword."           
  "Take care, Basil. You go too far."                                       
  "I must speak, and you must listen. You shall listen. When you met       
Lady Gwendolyn, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there     
a single decent woman in London now who would drive with her in the         
Park? Why, even her children are not allowed to live with her. Then         
there are other stories- stories that you have been seen creeping at       
dawn out of dreadful houses and slinking in disguise into the               
foulest dens in London. Are they true? Can they be true? When I             
first heard them, I laughed. I hear them now, and they make me             
shudder. What about your country house, and the life that is led           
there? Dorian, you don't know what is said about you. I won't tell you     
that I don't want to preach to you. I remember Harry saying once           
that every man who turned himself into an amateur curate for the           
moment always begin by saying that, and then proceeded to break his         
word. I do want to preach to you. I want you to lead such a life as         
will make the world respect you. I want you to have a clean name and a     
fair record. I want you to get rid of the dreadful people you               
associate with. Don't shrug your shoulders like that. Don't be so           
indifferent. You have a wonderful influence. Let it be for good, not       
for evil. They say that you corrupt every one with whom you become         
intimate, and that it is quite sufficient for you to enter a house,         
for shame of some kind to follow after. I don't know whether it is         
or not. How should I know? But it 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 me a letter that his wife had         
written to him when she was dying alone in her villa at Mentone.           
Your name was implicated in the most terrible confession I ever             
read. I told him that it was absurd- that I knew you thoroughly, and       
that you were incapable of anything of the kind. Know you? I wonder do     
I know you? Before I could answer that, I should have to see your           
soul."                                                                     
  "To see my soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa         
and turning almost white from fear.                                         
  "Yes," answered Hallward, gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in his     
voice, "to see your soul. But only God can do that."                       
  A bitter laugh of mockery broke from the lips of the younger man.         
"You shall see it yourself, to-night!" he cried, seizing a lamp from       
the table. "Come: it is your own handiwork. Why shouldn't you look         
at it? You can tell the world all about it afterwards, if you               
choose. Nobody would believe you. If they did believe you, they             
would like me all the better for it. I know the age better than you         
do, though you will prate about it so tediously. Come, I tell you. You     
have chattered enough about corruption. Now you shall look on it           
face to face."                                                             
  There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered. He               
stamped his foot upon the ground in his boyish insolent manner. He         
felt a terrible 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 of all his shame was to be burdened for the rest of his life         
with the hideous memory of what he had done.                               
  "Yes," he continued, coming closer to him, and looking steadfastly       
into his stern eyes, "I shall show you my soul. You shall see the           
thing that you fancy only God can see."                                     
  Hallward started back. "This is blasphemy, Dorian!" he cried. "You       
must not say things like that. They are horrible, and they don't           
mean anything."                                                             
  "You think so?" he laughed again.                                         
  "I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your       
good. You know I have always been a staunch 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         
for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him. After all,         
what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had           
done a tithe of what was rumoured about him, how much he must have         
suffered! Then he straightened himself up, and walked over to the           
fireplace, and stood there, looking at the burning logs with their         
frost-like ashes and their 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 must       
give me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against         
you. If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning         
to end, I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you       
see what I am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad,       
and corrupt, and shameful."                                                 
  Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips.             
"Come upstairs, Basil," he said, quietly. "I keep a diary of my life       
from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is               
written. I shall show it to you if you come with me."                       
  "I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have             
missed my train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't       
ask me to read 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.           
You will not have to read long."                                           
                                                                           
                                                                           
                             CHAPTER XIII                                   
-                                                                           
  He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward           
following close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at     
night. The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A         
rising wind made some of the windows rattle.                               
  When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down on the       
floor and taking out the key turned it in the lock. "You insist on         
knowing, Basil?" he asked, in a low voice.                                 
  "Yes."                                                                   
  "I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added, somewhat           
harshly: "You are the one man in the world who is entitled to know         
everything about me. You have had more to do with my life than you         
think:" and, taking up the lamp, he opened the door and went in. A         
cold current of air passed them, and the light shot up for a moment in     
a flame of murky orange. He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you,"         
he whispered, as he placed the lamp on the table.                           
  Hallward glanced around him, with a puzzled expression. The room         
looked as if it had not been lived in for years. A faded Flemish           
tapestry, a curtained picture, an old Italian cassone, and an almost       
empty bookcase- that was all that it seemed to contain, besides a           
chair and a table. As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle         
that was standing on the mantelshelf he saw that the whole place was       
covered with dust, and that the carpet was in holes. A mouse ran           
scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour of mildew.         
  "So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw         
that curtain back, and you will see mine."                                 
  The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or         
playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.                               
  "You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man; and he         
tore the curtain from its rod, and flung it on the ground.                 
  An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw         
in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. There     
was something 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 that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the           
thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes       
had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves       
had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from         
plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He         
seemed to recognize his own brush-work, and the frame was his own           
design. The idea 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 never     
done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as       
if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His         
own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned, and           
looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched,     
and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand     
across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat.                         
  The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with     
that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are         
absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither     
real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the         
spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken     
the 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             
sounded shrill and curious in his ears.                                     
  "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower     
in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my     
good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who             
explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me     
that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment, that,           
even now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps     
you would call it a prayer...."                                             
  "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is             
impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The           
paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the     
thing is impossible."                                                       
  "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to           
the window, 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 such     
an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."         
  "Is it the face of my soul."                                             
  "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a       
devil."                                                                     
  "Each of us has Heaven and Hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian, with a     
wild gesture of despair.                                                   
  Hallward turned again to the portrait, and gazed at it. "My God!         
if it is 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 you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas, and             
examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed, and as he had     
left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and             
horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the         
leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a       
corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful.                               
  His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor,         
and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out.         
Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by           
the table and buried his face in his hands.                                 
  "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was       
no answer, 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 in one's boyhood? 'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us           
our sins. Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together. The         
prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your                 
repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am           
punished for it. You worshipped yourself too. We are both punished."       
  Dorian Gray turned slowly around, and looked at him with tear-dimmed     
eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered.                                 
  "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we           
cannot remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though           
your sins be as 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. My         
God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"                     
  Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable       
feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had       
been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his       
ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal             
stirred 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         
glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted       
chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It           
was a knife 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 seized it, and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair         
as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him, and dug the knife into       
the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man's head down on     
the table, and stabbing again and again.                                   
  There was a stifled groan, and the horrible sound of some one             
choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up               
convulsively, waving grotesque stiff-fingered hands in the air. He         
stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to       
trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the           
head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened.             
  He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare               
carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house           
was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood         
bending over the balustrade, and peering down into the black               
seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to         
the room, locking himself in as he did so.                                 
  The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table         
with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it           
not been for the red, jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black       
pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that       
the man was simply asleep.                                                 
  How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and,           
walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the               
balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a           
monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He           
looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the       
long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The             
crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then           
vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the         
railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she  stopped, and           
peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The                 
policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled             
away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the Square. The gas             
lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their       
black iron branches to and fro. He shivered, and went back, closing         
the window behind him.                                                     
  Having reached the door, he turned the key, and opened it. He did         
not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the         
whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had           
painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due, had       
gone out of his life. That was enough.                                     
  Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of               
Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of         
burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it             
might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He           
hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from the           
table. He could not help seeing the dead thing. How still it was!           
How horribly white the long hands looked! It was like a dreadful wax       
image.                                                                     
  Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs.           
The woodwork creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He               
stopped several times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was         
merely. the 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     
that was in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own               
curious disguises, 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- men     
were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been a           
madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close to           
the earth.... And yet what evidence was there against him? Basil           
Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen him come in         
again. Most of 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         
midnight train, as he had intended. With his curious reserved               
habits, it would be months before any suspicions would be aroused.         
Months! Everything could be destroyed long before then.                     
  A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat, and         
went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow, heavy tread     
of the policeman on the pavement outside, and seeing the flash of           
the bull's-eye reflected in the window. He waited, and held his             
breath.                                                                     
  After a few moments he drew back the latch, and slipped out,             
shutting the door very gently behind him. Then he began ringing, the       
bell. In about five minutes his valet appeared, half dressed, and           
looking very drowsy.                                                       
  "I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said,               
stepping in; "but I had forgotten my latchkey. What time is it?"           
  "Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the             
clock and blinking.                                                         
  "Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me at nine       
to-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         
away to 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         
not find 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       
the library. 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 one     
of the shelves, and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell,         
152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man he wanted.           
                                                                           
                                                                           
                             CHAPTER XIV                                   
-                                                                           
  At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of       
chocolate on a tray, and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping           
quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath         
his cheek. 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       
as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as             
though he had 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 his           
chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The       
sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was           
almost like a morning in May.                                               
  Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent             
bloodstained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there         
with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had     
suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for         
Basil Hallward, that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair,         
came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was           
still sitting 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           
sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in           
the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that                 
gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the                 
intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than a joy they brought,       
or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It       
was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with               
poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself.                 
  When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead,       
and then got up hastily, and dressed himself with even more than his       
usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his           
necktie and scarf-pin, and changing his rings more than once. He spent     
a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking       
to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting       
made for the servants at Selby, and going through his                       
correspondence. At some of the letters he smiled. Three of them             
bored him. One he read several times over, and then tore up with a         
slight look of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's         
memory!" as Lord Henry had once said.                                       
  After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly     
with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to           
the table sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket,         
the other he handed to the valet.                                           
  "Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr.             
Campbell is out of town, get his address."                                 
  As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette, and began sketching         
upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers, and bits of                   
architecture, and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every         
face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil             
Hallward. He frowned, and getting up, went over to the bookcase and         
took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think     
about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he       
should do so.                                                               
  When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the               
title-page of the book. It was Gautier's "Emaux et Camees,"                 
Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The     
binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt                 
trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by           
Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages his eye fell on the poem     
about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice             
encore mal lavee," with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune."     
He glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in           
spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely               
stanzas upon Venice;                                                       
-                                                                           
              "Sur une gamme chromatique,                                   
                Le sein de perles 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 floating     
down the green waterways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black     
gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines             
looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that             
follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour     
reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that         
flutter round the tall honey-combed Campanile, or stalk, with such         
stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back         
with half-closed eyes, he kept 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 autumn     
that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to     
mad, delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice,     
like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true         
romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had       
been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret.           
Poor Basil! what a horrible way for a man to die!                           
  He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He         
read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little cafe at             
Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the             
turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely       
to each other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that     
weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile, and longs to be         
back by the hot lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and           
rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles,     
with small beryl eyes, that crawl over the green steaming mud; he           
began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from                 
kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that Gautier compares     
to a contralto voice, the "monstre charmant" that couches in the           
porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book fell from his       
hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him.         
What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse           
before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could     
he do then? Every moment was of vital importance.                           
  They had been great friends once, five years before- almost               
inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end.         
When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled; Alan     
Campbell never did.                                                         
  He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real               
appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the         
beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian.           
His dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had     
spent a great deal of his time working in the Laboratory, and had           
taken a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year.               
Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a           
laboratory of his own, in which he used to shut himself up all day         
long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on     
his standing for parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was         
a person who made up prescriptions. He was an excellent musician,           
however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than     
most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had first brought him and         
Dorian Gray together- music and that indefinable attraction that           
Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished, and indeed         
exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady         
Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that         
used to be always seen together at the Opera, and wherever good             
music was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted.             
Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To       
him, as to many others, Dorian Dorian Gray was the type of                 
everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. Whether or not a     
quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. But suddenly         
people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met, and that           
Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian     
Gray was present. He had changed, too- was strangely melancholy at         
times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never           
himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he       
was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to             
practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become       
more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in         
some of the scientific reviews, in connection with certain curious         
experiments.                                                               
  This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept       
glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly           
agitated. 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         
with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards     
the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was         
waiting for him there; saw it indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with         
dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very         
brain of sight, and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was       
useless. The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the           
imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a           
living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand, and         
grinned through moving masks. Then, suddenly, Time stopped for him.         
Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible         
thoughts, Time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a         
hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. He stared at           
it. Its very horror made him stone.                                         
  At last the door opened, and his servant entered. He turned glazed       
eyes upon him.                                                             
  "Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man.                                       
  A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came         
back to his cheeks.                                                         
  "Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself       
again. 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 his coal-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 it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and             
cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in     
the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his             
hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have         
noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted.                         
  "Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one       
person. 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       
knew that what he was going to do was dreadful.                             
  After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said,           
very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of         
him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house,     
a room to 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 like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters     
that do not concern you. What you have to do is this-"                     
  "Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you     
have told me is true or not true, doesn't concern me. I entirely           
decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to         
yourself. They don't interest me any more."                                 
  "Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to             
interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help           
myself. You are the one mark who is able to save me. I am forced to         
bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific.     
You know about chemistry, and things of that kind. You have made           
experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is       
upstairs- to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left.           
Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present         
moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for             
months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here.       
You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him,         
into a handful of ashes that 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     
to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have             
nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am           
going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's         
work you are 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. I     
don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not       
be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask         
me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should     
have thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord     
Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever         
else he 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't come to me."                                                 
  "Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had           
made me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making     
or marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it,     
the result was he same."                                                   
  "Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall         
not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my             
stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever         
commits a crime without doing something stupid. But I will have             
nothing to do with it."                                                     
  "You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment;             
listen to me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a           
certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses,         
and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous     
dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a           
leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to           
flow through you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject.       
You would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing       
anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were     
benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the       
world, 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           
are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of           
evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to     
be discovered unless you help me."                                         
  "I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply               
indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me."             
  "Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you     
came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some       
day. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from the           
scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on       
which you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you too     
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 is     
sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan!           
Alan! if you don't come to my assistance I am ruined. Why, they will       
hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have     
done."                                                                     
  "There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to       
do anything 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               
stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something         
on it. He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it           
across the table. Having done this, he got up, and went over to the         
window.                                                                     
  Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper,           
and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale, and he         
fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He     
felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow.     
  After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round,     
and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.         
  "I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no         
alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see           
the address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help       
me, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are           
going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to       
spare 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 treat me-     
no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate     
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. The         
ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece seemed to him to be               
dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too           
terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly           
tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was         
threatened had already come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder           
weighed like a band 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             
alter things.                                                               
  "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 of         
notepaper what you want, and my servant will take a cab and bring           
the things back to you."                                                   
  Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an             
envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it             
carefully. Then he rang the bell, and gave it to his valet, with           
orders to return as soon as possible, and to bring the things with         
him.                                                                       
  As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and, having got       
up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering         
with a kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men         
spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the         
clock was like the beat of a hammer.                                       
  As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and, looking at           
Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was           
something in the 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 from         
corruption to corruption, and you have culminated in crime. In doing       
what I am going to do, what you force me to do, it is not of your life     
that I am thinking."                                                       
  "Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian, with a sigh, "I wish you had a               
thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned         
away as he spoke, and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made       
no answer.                                                                 
  After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant         
entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long         
coil of 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 another       
errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies       
Selby with orchids?"                                                       
  "Harden, sir."                                                           
  "Yes- Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden           
personally, 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 any       
white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty     
place, 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 in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.         
  Campbell frowned, and bit his lip. "It will take about five               
hours," he answered.                                                       
  "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 can           
have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall           
not want 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             
rapidly, and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by         
him. They left the room together.                                           
  When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and           
turned it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came           
into his eyes. 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 his         
portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn     
curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had               
forgotten, 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, on     
one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible     
it was!- more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the           
silent thing he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose       
grotesque misshapen shadow, on the spotted carpet showed him that it       
had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it.                   
  He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with         
half-closed eyes and averted head walked quickly in, determined that       
he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down,         
and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over           
the picture.                                                               
  There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed

"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 adores       
him."                                                                       
  "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to Antiquity is fatal         
to us who 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       
us go 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     
he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory       
came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall.           
Everybody started up. The Duchess stood motionless in horror. And with     
fear in his eyes Lord Henry rushed through the flapping palms, to find     
Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a death-like         
swoon.                                                                     
  He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room, and laid upon one     
of the sofas. After a short time he came to himself, and looked             
round with 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 was     
all. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to     
dinner. I will take your place."                                           
  "No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would         
rather come down. I must not be alone."                                     
  He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness of         
gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then a thrill         
of terror ran through him when he remembered that, pressed against the     
window of the conservatory, like a white handkerchief, he had seen the     
face of James Vane watching him.                                           
                                                                           
                                                                           
                            CHAPTER XVIII                                   
-                                                                           
  The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most         
of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying, and yet     
indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared,     
tracked down, had begun to dominate him. If the tapestry did but           
tremble in the wind, he shook. The dead leaves that were blown against     
the leaded panes seemed to him like his own wasted resolutions and         
wild regrets. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's           
face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once         
more to lay its hand upon his heart.                                       
  But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out     
of the night, and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him.         
Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the     
imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet       
of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen     
brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor       
the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust         
upon the weak. That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling       
round the house he would have been seen by the servants or the             
keepers. Had any footmarks been found on the flower-beds, the               
gardeners would have reported it. Yes: it had been merely fancy. Sibyl     
Vane's brother had not come back to kill him. He had sailed away in         
his ship to founder in some winter sea. From him, at any rate, he           
was safe. Why, the man did not know who he was, could not know who         
he was. The mask of youth had saved him.                                   
  And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it was to         
think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms, and give them     
visible form, and make them move before one! What sort of life would       
his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him         
from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his     
ear as 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, and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder.           
Oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend! How           
ghastly the mere memory of the scene! He saw it all again. Each             
hideous detail came back to him with added horror. Out of the black         
cave of Time, terrible and swathed in scarlet, rose the image of his       
sin. When Lord Henry came in at six o'clock, he found him crying as         
one whose heart will break.                                                 
  It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out. There           
was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that winter morning         
that seemed to bring him back his joyousness and his ardour for             
life. But it was not merely the physical conditions of environment         
that had caused the change. His own nature had revolted against the         
excess of anguish that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of         
its calm. With subtle and finely-wrought temperaments it is always so.     
Their strong passions must either bruise or bend. They either slay the     
man, or themselves die. Shallow sorrows and shallow loves live on. The     
loves and sorrows that are great are destroyed by their own plenitude.     
Besides, he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a         
terror-stricken imagination, and looked back now on his fears with         
something of pity and not a little of contempt.                             
  After breakfast he walked with the Duchess for an hour in the             
garden, and then drove across the park to join the shooting-party. The     
crisp frost lay like salt upon the grass. The sky was an inverted           
cup of blue metal. A thin film of ice bordered the flat reed-grown         
lake.                                                                       
  At the corner of the pine wood he caught sight of Sir Geoffrey           
Clouston, the Duchess's brother, jerking two spent cartridges out of       
his gun. He jumped from the cart, and having told the groom to take         
the mare home, made his way towards his guest through the withered         
bracken and rough undergrowth.                                             
  "Have you had good sport, Geoffrey?" he asked.                           
  "Not very good, Dorian. I think most of the birds have gone to the       
open. I dare say it will be better after lunch, when we get to new         
ground."                                                                   
  Dorian strolled along by his side. The keen aromatic air, the             
brown and red lights that glimmered in the wood, the hoarse cries of       
the beaters ringing out from time to time, and the sharp snaps of           
the guns that followed, fascinated him, and filled him with a sense of     
delightful freedom. He was dominated by the carelessness of happiness,     
by the high indifference of joy.                                           
  Suddenly from a lumpy tussock of old grass, some twenty yards in         
front of them, with black-tipped ears erect, and long hinder limbs         
throwing it forward, started a hare. It bolted for a thicket of             
alders. Sir Geoffrey put his gun to his shoulder, but there was             
something in the animal's grace of movement that strangely charmed         
Dorian Gray, and he cried out at once, "Don't shoot it, Geoffrey.           
Let it live."                                                               
  "What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the hare           
bounded into the thicket he fired. There were two cries heard, the cry     
of a hare in pain, which is dreadful, the cry of a man in agony, which     
is worse.                                                                   
  "Good heavens! I have hit a beater!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. "What       
an ass the man was to get in front of the guns! Stop shooting               
there!" he called 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 firing       
ceased 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 for         
the day."                                                                   
  Dorian watched them as they plunged into the alder-clump, brushing       
the lithe, swinging branches aside. In a few moments they emerged,         
dragging a body after them into the sunlight. He turned away in             
horror. It seemed to him that misfortune followed wherever he went. He     
heard Sir Geoffrey ask if the man was really dead, and the affirmative     
answer of the keeper. The wood seemed to him to have become suddenly       
alive with faces. There was the trampling of myriad feet, and the           
low buzz of voices. A great copper-breasted pheasant came beating           
through the boughs overhead.                                               
  After few moments, that were to him, in his perturbed state, like         
endless hours of pain, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He             
started, and looked round.                                                 
  "Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting     
is stopped for to-day. It would not look well to go on."                   
  "I wish it were stopped for ever, Harry," he answered, bitterly.         
"The whole 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 of       
shot 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 nearly       
fifty yards without speaking. Then Dorian looked at Lord Henry, and         
said, 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           
dear fellow, it can't be helped. It was the man's own fault. Why did       
he get in front of the guns? Besides, it is nothing to us. It is           
rather awkward for Geoffrey, of course. It does not do to pepper           
beaters. It makes people think that one is a wild shot. And Geoffrey       
is not; he shoots very straight. But there is no use talking about the     
matter."                                                                   
  Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if             
something horrible were going to happen to some of us. To myself,           
perhaps," he added, passing his hand over his eyes, with a gesture         
of pain.                                                                   
  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 we are not likely to suffer from it, unless these         
fellows keep chattering about this thing at dinner. I must tell them       
that the subject is to be tabooed. As for omens, there is no such           
thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or     
too cruel for that. Besides, what on earth could happen to you,             
Dorian? You have everything in the world that a man can want. There is     
no one who would not be delighted to change places with you."               
  "There is no one with whom I would not change places, Harry. Don't       
laugh like that. I am telling you the truth. The wretched peasant           
who has just died is better off than I am. I have no terror of             
Death. It is the coming of Death that terrifies me. Its monstrous           
wings seem to wheel in the leaden air around me. Good heavens! don't       
you see a man moving, behind the trees there, watching me, waiting for     
me?"                                                                       
  Lord Henry looked in the direction in which the trembling gloved         
hand was pointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardener             
waiting for you. I suppose he wants to ask you what flowers you wish       
to have on the table to-night. How absurdly nervous you are, my dear       
fellow! You must come and see my doctor, when we get back to town."         
  Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching.       
The man touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a           
hesitating manner, 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 am         
coming in," he said, coldly. The man turned round, and went rapidly in     
the 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     
will flirt with anybody in the world as long as other people are           
looking on."                                                               
  "How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the               
present instance you are quite astray. I like the Duchess very much,       
but I don't love her."                                                     
  "And the Duchess loves you very much, but she likes you less, as you     
are so excellently matched."                                               
  "You are talking scandal, Harry, and there is never any basis for         
scandal."                                                                   
  "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     
in his voice. "But I seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten           
the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality       
has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget. It     
was silly of me to come down here at all. I think I shall send a           
wire to 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 me         
what it is? You know I would help you."                                     
  "I can't tell you, Harry," he answered, sadly. "And I dare say it is     
only a fancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a     
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 the 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 is terribly 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. Some         
whim, I suppose. It looked the loveliest of little live things. But         
I am sorry they told you about the man. It is a hideous subject."           
  "It is an annoying subject," broke in Lord Henry. "It has no             
psychological value at all. Now if Geoffrey had done the thing on           
purpose, how interesting he would be! I should like to know some one       
who 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 is     
all. I am afraid I walked too far this morning. I didn't hear what         
Harry said. Was it very bad? You must tell me some other time. I think     
I must go and lie down. You will excuse me, won't you?"                     
  They had reached the great flight of steps that led from the             
conservatory onto the terrace. As the glass door closed behind Dorian,     
Lord Henry turned and looked at the Duchess with his slumberous             
eyes. "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                   
uncertainty that 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 cars."                                                     
  "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 looking     
for?" she enquired.                                                         
  "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 scarlet         
fruit.                                                                     
  Upstairs, in his own room, Dorian Gray was lying on a sofa, with         
terror in every tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become       
too hideous a burden for him to bear. The dreadful death of the             
unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed         
to him to prefigure death for himself also. He had nearly swooned at       
what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.               
  At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant, and gave him           
orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have       
the brougham at the door by eight-thirty. He was determined not to         
sleep another night at Selby Royal. It was an ill-omened place.             
Death walked there in 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     
to town to consult his doctor, and asking him to entertain his             
guests in his absence. As he was putting it into the envelope, a knock     
came to the door, and his valet informed him that the head-keeper           
wished to see him. He frowned, and bit his lip. "Send him in," he           
muttered, after some moments' hesitation.                                   
  As soon as the man entered Dorian pulled his cheque-book out of a         
drawer, and spread it out before him.                                       
  "I suppose you have come about the unfortunate accident of this           
morning, Thornton?" he said, taking up a pen.                               
  "Yes, sir," answered the game-keeper.                                     
  "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 left     
in 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 of         
coming 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 heart     
had suddenly stopped beating. "A sailor?" he cried out. "Did you say a     
sailor?"                                                                   
  "Yes, sir. He looks as if he had been a sort of sailor; tattooed         
on both arms, and that kind of thing."                                     
  "Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward           
and looking at the man with startled eyes. "Anything that would tell       
his name?"                                                                 
  "Some money, sir- not much, and a six-shooter. There was no name         
of any kind. A decent-looking man, sir, but rough-like. A sort of           
sailor we think."                                                           
  Dorian started to his feet. A terrible hope fluttered past him. He       
clutched at it madly. "Where is the body?" he exclaimed. "Quick! I         
must see it at once."                                                       
  "It is in an empty stable in the Home Farm, sir. The folk don't like     
to have that sort of thing in their houses. They say a corpse brings       
bad luck."                                                                 
  "The Home Farm! Go there at once and meet me. Tell one of the grooms     
to bring my horse round. No. Never mind. I'll go to the stables             
myself. It will save time."                                                 
  In less than a quarter of an hour Dorian Gray was galloping down the     
long avenue as hard as he could go. The trees seemed to sweep past him     
in spectral procession, and wild shadows to fling themselves across         
his path. 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 air like an arrow. The stones flew from her hoofs.               
  At last he reached the Home Farm. Two men were loitering in the           
yard. He leapt from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them.         
In the farthest stable a light was glimmering. Something seemed to         
tell him that the body was there, and he hurried to the door, and           
put his hand upon the latch.                                               
  There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of         
a discovery that would either make or mar his life. Then he thrust the     
door open, and entered.                                                     
  On a heap of sacking in the far corner was lying the dead body of         
a man dressed in a coarse shirt and a pair of blue trousers. A spotted     
handkerchief had been placed over the face. A coarse candle, stuck         
in a bottle, sputtered beside it.                                           
  Dorian Gray shuddered. He felt that his could not be the hand to         
take the handkerchief away, and called out to one of the farm-servants     
to come to him.                                                             
  "Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching     
at the door-post for support.                                               
  When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of           
joy broke from his lips. The man who had been shot in the thicket           
was James Vane.                                                             
  He stood there for some minutes looking at the dead body. As he rode     
home, his eyes were full of tears, for he knew that he was safe.           
                                                                           
                                                                           
                             CHAPTER XIX                                   
-                                                                           
  "There is no use your telling me that you are going to be good,"         
cried Lord Henry, dipping his white fingers into a red copper bowl         
filled with rose-water. "You are quite perfect. Pray, don't change."       
  Dorian Gray shook his head. "No, Harry, I have done too many             
dreadful things in my life. I am not going to do any more. I began         
my good actions 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 the     
country. There are no temptations there. That is the reason why people     
who live out of town are so absolutely uncivilized. Civilization is         
not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways       
by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by           
being corrupt. Country people have no opportunity of being either,         
so they stagnate."                                                         
  "Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian. "I have known something         
of both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found         
together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I             
think I have altered."                                                     
  "You have not yet told me what your good action was. Or did you           
say you had done more than one?" asked his companion, as he spilt into     
his plate a little crimson pyramid of seeded strawberries, and through     
a perforated shell-shaped spoon snowed white sugar upon them.               
  "I can tell you, Harry. It is not a story I could tell to any one         
else. I spared somebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I         
mean. She was quite beautiful, and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I           
think 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 our own     
class, of course. She was simply a girl in a village. But I really         
loved her. I am quite sure that I loved her. All during this wonderful     
May that we have been having, I used to run down and see her two or         
three times a week. Yesterday she met me in a little orchard. The           
apple-blossoms kept tumbling down on her hair, and she was laughing.       
We were to have gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I         
determined to leave her as flower-like as I had found her."                 
  "I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a         
thrill of real pleasure, Dorian," interrupted Lord Henry. "But I can       
finish your 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. But         
there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her           
garden of mint and marigold."                                               
  "And weep over faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as he     
leant back in his chair. "My dear Dorian, you have the most                 
curiously boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really         
contented now with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be           
married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well,           
the fact of having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise       
her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moral point of view, I       
cannot say that I think much of your great renunciation. Even as a         
beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn't           
floating at the present moment in some star-lit mill-pond, with lovely     
water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?                                       
  "I can't bear this, Harry! You mock at everything, and then               
suggest the most serious tragedies. I am sorry I told you now. I don't     
care what you say to me. I know I was right in acting as I did. Poor       
Hetty! As I rode past the farm this morning, I saw her white face at       
the window, like a spray of jasmine. Don't let us talk about it any         
more, and don't try to persuade me that the first good action I have       
done for years, the first little bit of self-sacrifice I have ever         
known, is really a sort of sin. I want to be better. I am going to be       
better. 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,"         
said Dorian, pouring himself out some wine, and frowning slightly.         
  "My dear boy, they have only been talking about it for six weeks,         
and the British public are really not equal to the mental strain of         
having more than one topic every three months. They have been very         
fortunate lately, however. They have had my own divorce-case, and Alan     
Campbell's suicide. Now they have got the mysterious disappearance         
of an artist. Scotland Yard still insists that the man in the grey         
ulster who left for Paris by the midnight train on the ninth of             
November was poor Basil, and the French police declare that Basil           
never arrived in Paris at all. I suppose in about a fortnight we shall     
be told that he has been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing,         
but every one who disappears is said to be seen at San Francisco. It       
must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next     
world."                                                                     
  "What do you think has happened to Basil?" asked Dorian, holding         
up his Burgundy against the light, and wondering how it was he could       
discuss the matter so calmly.                                               
  "I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it     
is no business of mine. If he is dead, I don't want to think about         
him. Death is the only thing that ever terrifies me. I hate it."           
  "Why?" said the young man, wearily.                                       
  "Because," said Lord Henry, passing beneath his nostrils the gilt         
trellis of an open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything             
nowadays except that. Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in         
the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away. Let us have our       
coffee in the music-room, Dorian. You must play Chopin to me. The           
man with whom my wife ran away played Chopin exquisitely. Poor             
Victoria! I was very fond of her. The house is rather lonely without       
her. Of course married life is merely a habit, a bad habit. But then       
one regrets the loss even of one's worst habits. Perhaps one regrets       
them the most. They are such an essential part of one's personality."       
  Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and, passing into           
the next room, sat down to the piano and let his fingers stray             
across the white and black ivory of the keys. After the coffee had         
been brought in, he stopped, and, looking over at Lord Henry, said,         
"Harry, did it ever occur to you that Basil was murdered?"                 
  Lord Henry yawned. "Basil was very popular, and always wore a             
Waterbury watch. Why should he have been murdered? He was not clever       
enough to have enemies. Of course he had a wonderful genius for             
painting. But a man can paint like Velasquez and yet be as dull as         
possible. Basil was really rather dull. He only interested me once,         
and that was when he told me, years ago, that he had a wild                 
adoration for 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       
his voice. "But don't people say that he was murdered?"                     
  "Oh, some of the papers do. It does not seem to me to be at all           
probable. I know there are dreadful places in Paris, but Basil was not     
the sort of man to have gone to them. He had no curiosity. It was           
his chief 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       
that doesn'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       
hurt your vanity by saying so, but I assure you it is true. Crime           
belongs exclusively to the lower orders. I don't blame them in the         
smallest degree. 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         
who has 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         
Lord Henry, laughing. "That is one of the most important secrets of         
life. I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One         
should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.           
But let us pass from poor Basil. I wish I could believe that he had         
come to such a really romantic end as you suggest; but I can't. I dare     
say he fell into the Seine off an omnibus, and that the conductor           
hushed up the scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him     
now lying on his back under those dull-green waters with the heavy         
barges floating over him, and long weeds catching in his hair. Do           
you know, I don't think he would have done much more good work. During     
the last ten years his painting had gone off very much."                   
  Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and         
began to stroke the head of a curious Java parrot, a large                 
grey-plumaged bird, with pink crest and tail, that was balancing           
itself upon a bamboo perch. As his pointed fingers touched it, it           
dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black glass-like eyes,       
and began to sway backwards and forwards.                                   
  "Yes," he continued, turning round, and taking his handkerchief           
out of his pocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me       
to have lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased       
to be great friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it           
separated you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you.         
It's a habit bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful     
portrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever seen it since he         
finished it. Oh! I remember your telling me years ago that you had         
sent it down to Selby, and that it had got mislaid or stolen on the         
way. You never got it back? What a pity! It was really a                   
masterpiece. I remember I wanted to buy it. I wish I had now. It           
belonged to Basil's best period. Since then, his work was that curious     
mixture of bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man     
to be called a representative British artist. Did you advertise for         
it? You should."                                                           
  "I forget," said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really             
liked it. I am sorry I sat for it. The memory of the thing is               
hateful to me. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those         
curious lines 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 is     
his 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 a heart.'"                                                         
  The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.           
"By the way, Dorian," he said, after a pause, "'what does it profit         
a man if he gain the whole world and lose'- how does the quotation         
run?- 'his own soul?'"                                                     
  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 by the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of                 
shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I       
passed by, I heard the man yelling out that question to his                 
audience. It struck me as being rather dramatic. London is very rich       
in curious effects of that kind. A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in     
a mackintosh, a ring of sickly white faces under a broken roof of           
dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by           
shrill, hysterical lips- it was really very good in its way, quite a       
suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet that Art had a soul,           
but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he would not have               
understood me."                                                             
  "Don't, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and     
sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is     
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 absolutely         
certain about are never true. That is the fatality of Faith, and the       
lesson of Romance. How grave you are! Don't be so serious. What have       
you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up     
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 kept your           
youth. You must have some secret. I am only ten years older than you       
are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really               
wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do         
to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first. You were rather         
cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of       
course, 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 take         
exercise, get up early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing         
like it. It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only           
people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much     
younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life has revealed to         
them 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           
that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current       
in 1820, when people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and         
knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is! I       
wonder did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round           
the villa, and the salt spray dashing against the panes? It is             
marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art         
left to us that is not imitative! Don't stop. I want music to-night.       
It seems to me that 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. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but         
that one is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah,           
Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had! You         
have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against       
your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you. And it has all been         
to you no more than the sound 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 need       
not shake your head: you know you are. Besides, Dorian, don't               
deceive yourself. Life is not governed by will or intention. Life is a     
question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly built-up cells in which         
thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy             
yourself safe, and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of             
colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had       
once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a           
forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a             
piece of music that you had ceased to play- I tell you, Dorian, that       
it is on things like these that our lives depend. Browning writes           
about that somewhere; but our own senses will imagine them for us.         
There are moments when the odour of lilas blanc passes suddenly across     
me, and I have to live the strangest month of my life over again. I         
wish I could change places with you, Dorian. The world has cried out       
against us both, 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 is afraid it has found. I am so glad that you have never           
done anything, never carved a statue, or painted a picture, or             
produced anything outside yourself! Life has been your art. You have       
set yourself to music. 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 to         
have the same life, Harry. And you must not say these extravagant           
things to me. You don't know everything about me. I think that if           
you did, even you would turn from me. You laugh. Don't laugh."             
  "Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me the           
nocturne over again. Look at that great honey-coloured moon that hangs     
in the dusky air. She is waiting for you to charm her, and if you play     
she will come closer to the earth. You won't? Let us go to the club,       
then. It has been a charming evening, and we must end it charmingly.       
There is some one at White's who wants immensely to know you- young         
Lord Poole, Bournemouth's eldest son. He has already copied your           
neckties, and has begged me to introduce him to you. He is quite           
delightful, and rather reminds me of you."                                 
  "I hope not," said Dorian, with a sad look in his eyes. "But I am         
tired to-night, Harry. I sha'n't go to the club. It is nearly               
eleven, and I want to go to bed early."                                     
  "Do stay. You have never played so well as to-night. There was           
something in your touch that was wonderful. It had more expression         
than I had ever heard from it before."                                     
  "It is because I am going to be good," he answered, smiling. "I am a     
little changed already."                                                   
  "You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "You and I           
will always 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. It         
does harm."                                                                 
  "My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon be     
going about like the converted, and the revivalist, warning people         
against all the sins of which you have grown tired. You are much too       
delightful to do that. Besides, it is no use. You and I are what we         
are, 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. It       
annihilates the desire to act. It is superbly sterile. The books           
that the 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. I am going to ride at eleven. We might go together, and I       
will take you to lunch afterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a             
charming woman, and wants to consult you about some tapestries she         
is thinking of buying. Mind you come. Or shall we lunch with our           
little Duchess? She says she never sees you now. Perhaps you are tired     
of Gladys? I thought you would be. Her clever tongue gets on one's         
nerves. Well, in any case, be here at eleven."                             
  "Must I really come, Harry?"                                             
  "Certainly. The Park is quite lovely now. I don't think there have       
been 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 he had     
something more to say. Then he sighed and went out.                         
                                                                           
                                                                           
                              CHAPTER XX                                   
-                                                                           
  It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his           
arm, and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he           
strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress       
passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian     
Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed         
out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own         
name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so         
often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the         
girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had           
believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had         
laughed at him, and answered that wicked people were always very old       
and very ugly. What a laugh she had!- just like a thrush singing.           
And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large             
hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost.           
  When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He         
sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library,         
and began 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           
longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood- his rose-white