ThePictureofDorianGray

By

OscarWilde

THEPREFACE

Theartist is thecreatorofbeautiful things.To revealartandconceal theartistisart'saim.Thecriticishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterialhisimpressionofbeautifulthings.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is amode of autobiography.Thosewho finduglymeanings inbeautiful things are corruptwithoutbeingcharming.Thisisafault.

Thosewho findbeautifulmeanings inbeautiful thingsare thecultivated.Forthesethereishope.Theyaretheelecttowhombeautifulthingsmeanonlybeauty.

There is no such thing as amoral or an immoral book. Books are wellwritten,orbadlywritten.Thatisall.

ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofrealismistherageofCalibanseeinghisownfaceinaglass.

Thenineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage ofCalibannotseeinghisownfaceinaglass.Themorallifeofmanformspartofthesubject-matter of the artist, but themorality of art consists in the perfect use of animperfectmedium.No artist desires to prove anything.Even things that aretruecanbeproved.Noartisthasethicalsympathies.Anethicalsympathy inanartistisanunpardonablemannerismofstyle.Noartistisevermorbid.Theartist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artistinstrumentsofanart.Viceandvirtuearetotheartistmaterialsforanart.Fromthepointofviewof form, the typeof all thearts is theartof themusician.Fromthepointofviewoffeeling,theactor'scraftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurface and symbol. Thosewho go beneath the surface do so at their peril.Thosewhoreadthesymboldosoattheirperil.Itisthespectator,andnotlife,thatartreallymirrors.Diversityofopinionaboutaworkofartshowsthattheworkisnew,complex,andvital.Whencriticsdisagree,theartistisinaccordwithhimself.Wecan forgiveaman formakingauseful thingas longashedoes not admire it. The only excuse formaking a useless thing is that oneadmiresitintensely.

Allartisquiteuseless.

OSCARWILDE

CHAPTER1

The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the lightsummerwind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through theopen door the heavy scent of the lilac, or themore delicate perfume of thepink-floweringthorn.

From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he waslying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord HenryWotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colouredblossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able tobear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then thefantasticshadowsofbirdsinflightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silkcurtainsthat were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind ofmomentaryJapaneseeffect,andmakinghimthinkofthosepallid,jade-facedpainters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarilyimmobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullenmurmurofthebeesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthelongunmowngrass,orcircling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of thestragglingwoodbine,seemedtomakethestillnessmoreoppressive.ThedimroarofLondonwaslikethebourdonnoteofadistantorgan.

Inthecentreoftheroom,clampedtoanuprighteasel,stoodthefull-lengthportrait of a youngmanof extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it,somelittledistanceaway,wassittingtheartisthimself,BasilHallward,whosesudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such publicexcitementandgaverisetosomanystrangeconjectures.

Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehadsoskilfullymirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemedabouttolingerthere.Buthesuddenlystartedup,andclosinghiseyes,placedhis fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brainsomecuriousdreamfromwhichhefearedhemightawake.

"Itisyourbestwork,Basil,thebestthingyouhaveeverdone,"saidLordHenrylanguidly."YoumustcertainlysenditnextyeartotheGrosvenor.TheAcademyistoolargeandtoovulgar.WheneverIhavegonethere,therehavebeeneithersomanypeoplethatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepictures,whichwasdreadful,orsomanypicturesthatIhavenotbeenabletoseethepeople,whichwasworse.TheGrosvenorisreallytheonlyplace."

"Idon'tthinkIshallsenditanywhere,"heanswered,tossinghisheadbackinthatoddwaythatusedtomakehisfriendslaughathimatOxford."No,Iwon'tsenditanywhere."

Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazementthroughthethinbluewreathsofsmokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorls

from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette. "Not send it anywhere? My dearfellow,why?Haveyouanyreason?Whatoddchapsyoupaintersare!Youdoanythingintheworldtogainareputation.Assoonasyouhaveone,youseemtowant to throwitaway.It issillyofyou,for there isonlyone thingin theworldworse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. Aportrait like thiswouldsetyoufaraboveall theyoungmeninEngland,andmaketheoldmenquitejealous,ifoldmenareevercapableofanyemotion."

"Iknowyouwill laughatme,"he replied,"but I reallycan'texhibit it. Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit."

LordHenrystretchedhimselfoutonthedivanandlaughed.

"Yes,Iknewyouwould;butitisquitetrue,allthesame."

"Toomuchofyourselfinit!Uponmyword,Basil,Ididn'tknowyouweresovain;andIreallycan'tseeanyresemblancebetweenyou,withyourruggedstrongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,andthisyoungAdonis,wholooksasifhe was made out of ivory and rose-leaves. Why, my dear Basil, he is aNarcissus,andyou—well,ofcourseyouhavean intellectualexpressionandallthat.Butbeauty,realbeauty,endswhereanintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration,anddestroystheharmonyofanyface. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or allforehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of thelearnedprofessions.Howperfectlyhideoustheyare!Except,ofcourse,intheChurch.ButthenintheChurchtheydon'tthink.Abishopkeepsonsayingattheageofeightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,andas a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful. Yourmysterious young friend, whose name you have never told me, but whosepicturereallyfascinatesme,neverthinks.Ifeelquitesureofthat.Heissomebrainless beautiful creature who should be always here in winter when wehave no flowers to look at, and always here in summer when we wantsomethingtochillourintelligence.Don'tflatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim."

"Youdon'tunderstandme,Harry,"answeredtheartist."OfcourseIamnotlikehim.Iknowthatperfectlywell.Indeed,Ishouldbesorrytolooklikehim.Youshrugyourshoulders?Iamtellingyouthetruth.Thereisafatalityaboutallphysicaland intellectualdistinction, the sortof fatality that seems todogthroughhistorythefalteringstepsofkings.Itisbetternottobedifferentfromone'sfellows.Theuglyandthestupidhavethebestofitinthisworld.Theycansitattheireaseandgapeattheplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory,theyareatleastsparedtheknowledgeofdefeat.Theyliveasweallshouldlive—undisturbed, indifferent, andwithout disquiet. They neither bring ruin uponothers,noreverreceiveitfromalienhands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;my

brains, such as they are—my art, whatever itmay beworth; DorianGray'sgood looks—we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, sufferterribly."

"DorianGray? Is that his name?" askedLordHenry,walking across thestudiotowardsBasilHallward.

"Yes,thatishisname.Ididn'tintendtotellittoyou."

"Butwhynot?"

"Oh,Ican'texplain.WhenIlikepeopleimmensely,Inevertelltheirnamestoanyone.Itislikesurrenderingapartofthem.Ihavegrowntolovesecrecy.It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious ormarvelloustous.Thecommonestthingisdelightfulifoneonlyhidesit.WhenIleavetownnowInevertellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.IfIdid,Iwouldlose allmypleasure. It is a sillyhabit, I dare say, but somehow it seems tobringagreatdealofromanceintoone'slife.Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?"

"Notatall,"answeredLordHenry,"notatall,mydearBasil.YouseemtoforgetthatIammarried,andtheonecharmofmarriageisthatitmakesalifeof deception absolutely necessary for both parties. I never knowwheremywife is,andmywifeneverknowswhatIamdoing.Whenwemeet—wedomeetoccasionally,whenwedineouttogether,orgodowntotheDuke's—wetelleachotherthemostabsurdstorieswiththemostseriousfaces.Mywifeisverygoodatit—muchbetter,infact,thanIam.Shenevergetsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.Butwhenshedoesfindmeout,shemakesnorowatall.Isometimeswishshewould;butshemerelylaughsatme."

"I hate the way you talk about your married life, Harry," said BasilHallward, strolling towards thedoor that led into thegarden. "I believe thatyouare reallyaverygoodhusband,but thatyouare thoroughlyashamedofyour own virtues. You are an extraordinary fellow. You never say a moralthing,andyouneverdoawrongthing.Yourcynicismissimplyapose."

"Beingnaturalissimplyapose,andthemostirritatingposeIknow,"criedLord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the gardentogether and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in theshadeofatalllaurelbush.Thesunlightslippedoverthepolishedleaves.Inthegrass,whitedaisiesweretremulous.

After a pause, LordHenry pulled out hiswatch. "I am afraid Imust begoing, Basil," hemurmured, "and before I go, I insist on your answering aquestionIputtoyousometimeago."

"Whatisthat?"saidthepainter,keepinghiseyesfixedontheground.

"Youknowquitewell."

"Idonot,Harry."

"Well,Iwilltellyouwhatitis.Iwantyoutoexplaintomewhyyouwon'texhibitDorianGray'spicture.Iwanttherealreason."

"Itoldyoutherealreason."

"No,youdidnot.Yousaiditwasbecausetherewastoomuchofyourselfinit.Now,thatischildish."

"Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "everyportrait that ispaintedwithfeelingisaportraitof theartist,notof thesitter.Thesitterismerelytheaccident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythe painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibitthispictureisthatIamafraidthatIhaveshowninitthesecretofmyownsoul."

LordHenrylaughed."Andwhatisthat?"heasked.

"Iwilltellyou,"saidHallward;butanexpressionofperplexitycameoverhisface.

"Iamallexpectation,Basil,"continuedhiscompanion,glancingathim.

"Oh,thereisreallyverylittletotell,Harry,"answeredthepainter;"andIamafraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.Perhapsyouwillhardlybelieveit."

LordHenrysmiled,andleaningdown,pluckedapink-petalleddaisyfromthegrassandexaminedit."IamquitesureIshallunderstandit,"hereplied,gazingintentlyatthelittlegolden,white-feathereddisk,"andasforbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything,providedthatitisquiteincredible."

Thewindshooksomeblossomsfromthetrees,andtheheavylilac-blooms,withtheirclusteringstars,movedtoandfrointhelanguidair.Agrasshopperbegan to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-flyfloated past on its brown gauzewings. LordHenry felt as if he could hearBasilHallward'sheartbeating,andwonderedwhatwascoming.

"Thestoryissimplythis,"saidthepainteraftersometime."Twomonthsago Iwent to a crush atLadyBrandon's.Youknowwepoor artists have toshowourselvesinsocietyfromtimetotime,justtoremindthepublicthatwearenot savages.Withaneveningcoatandawhite tie, asyou toldmeonce,anybody,evenastock-broker,cangainareputationforbeingcivilized.Well,after I hadbeen in the roomabout tenminutes, talking tohugeoverdresseddowagersand tediousacademicians, I suddenlybecameconscious that someonewaslookingatme.Iturnedhalf-wayroundandsawDorianGrayforthefirst time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious

sensationof terror cameoverme. I knew that I had come face to facewithsomeonewhosemerepersonalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwouldabsorbmywholenature,mywholesoul,myveryartitself.Ididnotwant any external influence inmy life.You know yourself,Harry, howindependentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmyownmaster;hadatleastalwaysbeenso,tillImetDorianGray.Then—butIdon'tknowhowtoexplainit toyou.Something seemed to tellme that Iwason thevergeof a terriblecrisisinmylife.Ihadastrangefeelingthatfatehadinstoreformeexquisitejoysandexquisitesorrows.Igrewafraidandturnedtoquit theroom.Itwasnotconsciencethatmademedoso:itwasasortofcowardice.Itakenocredittomyselffortryingtoescape."

"Conscienceandcowardicearereallythesamethings,Basil.Conscienceisthetrade-nameofthefirm.Thatisall."

"I don't believe that, Harry, and I don't believe you do either. However,whateverwasmymotive—anditmayhavebeenpride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainlystruggledtothedoor.There,ofcourse,IstumbledagainstLadyBrandon. 'You are not going to run away so soon,Mr.Hallward?' shescreamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?"

"Yes;sheisapeacockineverythingbutbeauty,"saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhislongnervousfingers.

"Icouldnotgetridofher.Shebroughtmeuptoroyalties,andpeoplewithstarsandgarters,andelderlyladieswithgigantictiarasandparrotnoses.Shespokeofmeasherdearestfriend.Ihadonlymetheroncebefore,butshetookitintoherheadtolionizeme.Ibelievesomepictureofminehadmadeagreatsuccessatthetime,atleasthadbeenchatteredaboutinthepennynewspapers,which is the nineteenth-century standard of immortality. Suddenly I foundmyself face to facewith the youngmanwhose personality had so strangelystirredme.Wewerequiteclose,almosttouching.Oureyesmetagain.Itwasrecklessofme,butIaskedLadyBrandontointroducemetohim.Perhapsitwasnotsoreckless,afterall.Itwassimplyinevitable.Wewouldhavespokentoeachotherwithoutany introduction. I amsureof that.Dorian toldmesoafterwards.He,too,feltthatweweredestinedtoknoweachother."

"AndhowdidLadyBrandondescribethiswonderfulyoungman?"askedhiscompanion."Iknowshegoesinforgivingarapidprecisofallherguests.Iremember her bringing me up to a truculent and red-faced old gentlemancoveredalloverwithordersandribbons,andhissingintomyear,inatragicwhisperwhichmusthavebeenperfectlyaudibletoeverybodyintheroom,themostastoundingdetails.Isimplyfled.Iliketofindoutpeopleformyself.ButLadyBrandontreatsherguestsexactlyasanauctioneertreatshisgoods.Sheeitherexplainsthementirelyaway,ortellsoneeverythingaboutthemexcept

whatonewantstoknow."

"PoorLadyBrandon!Youarehardonher,Harry!"saidHallwardlistlessly.

"Mydearfellow,shetriedtofoundasalon,andonlysucceededinopeningarestaurant.HowcouldIadmireher?Buttellme,whatdidshesayaboutMr.DorianGray?"

"Oh, something like, 'Charming boy—poor dearmother and I absolutelyinseparable.Quiteforgetwhathedoes—afraidhe—doesn'tdoanything—oh,yes,plays thepiano—or is it theviolin,dearMr.Gray?'Neitherofuscouldhelplaughing,andwebecamefriendsatonce."

"Laughterisnotatallabadbeginningforafriendship,anditisfarthebestendingforone,"saidtheyounglord,pluckinganotherdaisy.

Hallwardshookhishead."Youdon'tunderstandwhatfriendshipis,Harry,"hemurmured—"orwhatenmityis,forthatmatter.Youlikeeveryone;thatistosay,youareindifferenttoeveryone."

"Howhorriblyunjustofyou!"criedLordHenry, tiltinghishatbackandlookingup at the little clouds that, like ravelled skeinsof glossywhite silk,weredriftingacrossthehollowedturquoiseofthesummersky."Yes;horriblyunjustofyou.Imakeagreatdifferencebetweenpeople.Ichoosemyfriendsfor their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and myenemiesfortheirgoodintellects.Amancannotbetoocarefulinthechoiceofhis enemies. I have not got one who is a fool. They are all men of someintellectualpower,andconsequentlytheyallappreciateme.Isthatveryvainofme?Ithinkitisrathervain."

"I should think it was,Harry. But according to your category Imust bemerelyanacquaintance."

"MydearoldBasil,youaremuchmorethananacquaintance."

"Andmuchlessthanafriend.Asortofbrother,Isuppose?"

"Oh,brothers!Idon'tcareforbrothers.Myelderbrotherwon'tdie,andmyyoungerbrothersseemnevertodoanythingelse."

"Harry!"exclaimedHallward,frowning.

"My dear fellow, I am not quite serious. But I can't help detesting myrelations. I suppose it comes from the fact that none of us can stand otherpeoplehavingthesamefaultsasourselves.IquitesympathizewiththerageoftheEnglish democracy againstwhat they call the vices of the upper orders.Themasses feel that drunkenness, stupidity, and immorality should be theirownspecialproperty,andthatifanyoneofusmakesanassofhimself,heispoachingontheirpreserves.WhenpoorSouthwarkgotintothedivorcecourt,

their indignationwasquitemagnificent.AndyetIdon'tsuppose that tenpercentoftheproletariatlivecorrectly."

"I don't agreewith a singleword that youhave said, and,what ismore,Harry,Ifeelsureyoudon'teither."

Lord Henry stroked his pointed brown beard and tapped the toe of hispatent-leatherbootwithatasselledebonycane."HowEnglishyouareBasil!Thatis thesecondtimeyouhavemadethatobservation.IfoneputsforwardanideatoatrueEnglishman—alwaysarashthingtodo—heneverdreamsofconsideringwhethertheideaisrightorwrong.Theonlythingheconsidersofanyimportanceiswhetheronebelievesitoneself.Now,thevalueofanideahasnothingwhatsoevertodowiththesincerityofthemanwhoexpressesit.Indeed, the probabilities are that the more insincere the man is, the morepurely intellectualwill the ideabe,as in thatcase itwillnotbecolouredbyeither his wants, his desires, or his prejudices. However, I don't propose todiscusspolitics,sociology,ormetaphysicswithyou.Ilikepersonsbetterthanprinciples,andIlikepersonswithnoprinciplesbetterthananythingelseintheworld.TellmemoreaboutMr.DorianGray.Howoftendoyouseehim?"

"Every day. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him every day. He isabsolutelynecessarytome."

"Howextraordinary!Ithoughtyouwouldnevercareforanythingbutyourart."

"Heisallmyarttomenow,"saidthepaintergravely."Isometimesthink,Harry, that there areonly twoerasof any importance in theworld'shistory.The first is the appearance of a newmedium for art, and the second is theappearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greeksculpture,andthefaceofDorianGraywillsomedaybetome.ItisnotmerelythatIpaintfromhim,drawfromhim,sketchfromhim.Ofcourse,Ihavedoneall that.Butheismuchmoretomethanamodelorasitter.Iwon't tellyouthatIamdissatisfiedwithwhatIhavedoneofhim,orthathisbeautyissuchthatartcannotexpressit.Thereisnothingthatartcannotexpress,andIknowthattheworkIhavedone,sinceImetDorianGray,isgoodwork,isthebestworkofmylife.Butinsomecuriousway—Iwonderwillyouunderstandme?—his personality has suggested to me an entirely new manner in art, anentirelynewmodeofstyle.Iseethingsdifferently,Ithinkofthemdifferently.Icannowrecreatelifeinawaythatwashiddenfrommebefore.'Adreamofform in days of thought'—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is whatDorianGrayhasbeentome.Themerelyvisiblepresenceofthislad—forheseemstomelittlemorethanalad,thoughheisreallyovertwenty—hismerelyvisible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means?

Unconsciouslyhedefinesformethelinesofafreshschool,aschoolthatistohaveinitallthepassionoftheromanticspirit,alltheperfectionofthespiritthat isGreek.Theharmonyofsoulandbody—howmuchthat is!Weinourmadnesshaveseparatedthetwo,andhaveinventedarealismthatisvulgar,anidealitythatisvoid.Harry!ifyouonlyknewwhatDorianGrayistome!Youremember that landscapeofmine, forwhichAgnewofferedmesuchahugepricebutwhichIwouldnotpartwith?ItisoneofthebestthingsIhaveeverdone. Andwhy is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray satbesideme.Somesubtleinfluencepassedfromhimtome,andforthefirsttimeinmylifeIsawintheplainwoodlandthewonderIhadalwayslookedforandalwaysmissed."

"Basil,thisisextraordinary!ImustseeDorianGray."

Hallwardgotupfromtheseatandwalkedupanddownthegarden.Aftersome time he cameback. "Harry," he said, "DorianGray is tome simply amotive in art.Youmight seenothing inhim. I see everything inhim.He isnevermorepresentinmyworkthanwhennoimageofhimisthere.Heisasuggestion,asIhavesaid,ofanewmanner.Ifindhiminthecurvesofcertainlines,inthelovelinessandsubtletiesofcertaincolours.Thatisall."

"Thenwhywon'tyouexhibithisportrait?"askedLordHenry.

"Because,withoutintendingit,Ihaveputintoitsomeexpressionofallthiscurious artistic idolatry, ofwhich, of course, I have never cared to speak tohim.Heknowsnothingabout it.Heshallneverknowanythingabout it.Buttheworldmightguessit,andIwillnotbaremysoultotheirshallowpryingeyes.Myheartshallneverbeputundertheirmicroscope.Thereistoomuchofmyselfinthething,Harry—toomuchofmyself!"

"Poetsarenotsoscrupulousasyouare.Theyknowhowusefulpassionisforpublication.Nowadaysabrokenheartwillruntomanyeditions."

"I hate them for it," cried Hallward. "An artist should create beautifulthings, but should put nothing of his own life into them.We live in an agewhenmentreatartasifitweremeanttobeaformofautobiography.Wehavelost theabstractsenseofbeauty.SomedayIwillshowtheworldwhat it is;andforthatreasontheworldshallneverseemyportraitofDorianGray."

"I think you arewrong,Basil, but Iwon't arguewith you. It is only theintellectuallylostwhoeverargue.Tellme,isDorianGrayveryfondofyou?"

The painter considered for a fewmoments. "He likesme," he answeredafterapause;"Iknowhelikesme.OfcourseIflatterhimdreadfully.IfindastrangepleasureinsayingthingstohimthatIknowIshallbesorryforhavingsaid.Asa rule,he ischarming tome,andwesit in the studioand talkofathousandthings.Nowandthen,however,heishorriblythoughtless,andseems

totakearealdelightingivingmepain.ThenIfeel,Harry,thatIhavegivenawaymywholesoultosomeonewhotreatsitasifitwereaflowertoputinhiscoat,abitofdecorationtocharmhisvanity,anornamentforasummer'sday."

"Days in summer, Basil, are apt to linger," murmured Lord Henry."Perhaps youwill tire sooner than hewill. It is a sad thing to think of, butthere is nodoubt that genius lasts longer thanbeauty.That accounts for thefactthatwealltakesuchpainstoover-educateourselves.Inthewildstrugglefor existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill ourminds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place. Thethoroughlywell-informedman—thatisthemodernideal.Andthemindofthethoroughlywell-informedmanisadreadfulthing.Itislikeabric-a-bracshop,allmonstersanddust,witheverythingpricedabove itspropervalue. I thinkyouwilltirefirst,allthesame.Somedayyouwilllookatyourfriend,andhewill seem toyou tobe a little out of drawing, or youwon't likehis toneofcolour, or something.Youwill bitterly reproachhim inyourownheart, andseriouslythinkthathehasbehavedverybadlytoyou.Thenexttimehecalls,youwillbeperfectlycoldandindifferent.Itwillbeagreatpity,foritwillalteryou.Whatyouhavetoldmeisquitearomance,aromanceofartonemightcallit,andtheworstofhavingaromanceofanykindisthatitleavesonesounromantic."

"Harry, don't talk like that. As long as I live, the personality of DorianGraywilldominateme.Youcan'tfeelwhatIfeel.Youchangetoooften."

"Ah,mydearBasil,thatisexactlywhyIcanfeelit.Thosewhoarefaithfulknow only the trivial side of love: it is the faithless who know love'stragedies."AndLordHenrystruckalightonadaintysilvercaseandbegantosmokeacigarettewithaself-consciousandsatisfiedair,asifhehadsummedup the world in a phrase. There was a rustle of chirruping sparrows in thegreenlacquerleavesoftheivy,andthebluecloud-shadowschasedthemselvesacross thegrass likeswallows.Howpleasant itwas in thegarden!Andhowdelightful other people's emotions were!—much more delightful than theirideas, it seemed tohim.One'sownsoul,and thepassionsofone's friends—those were the fascinating things in life. He pictured to himself with silentamusement the tedious luncheon thathehadmissedbystayingso longwithBasilHallward.Hadhegone tohisaunt's,hewouldhavebeensure tohavemetLordGoodbodythere,andthewholeconversationwouldhavebeenaboutthefeedingofthepoorandthenecessityformodellodging-houses.Eachclasswouldhavepreachedtheimportanceofthosevirtues,forwhoseexercisetherewasnonecessityintheirownlives.Therichwouldhavespokenonthevalueof thrift, and the idle grown eloquent over the dignity of labour. It wascharmingtohaveescapedallthat!Ashethoughtofhisaunt,anideaseemed

to strike him.He turned toHallward and said, "Mydear fellow, I have justremembered."

"Rememberedwhat,Harry?"

"WhereIheardthenameofDorianGray."

"Wherewasit?"askedHallward,withaslightfrown.

"Don'tlooksoangry,Basil.Itwasatmyaunt,LadyAgatha's.ShetoldmeshehaddiscoveredawonderfulyoungmanwhowasgoingtohelpherintheEastEnd, and that his namewasDorianGray. I ambound to state that shenever told me he was good-looking.Women have no appreciation of goodlooks;at least,goodwomenhavenot.Shesaid thathewasveryearnestandhadabeautifulnature.Iatoncepicturedtomyselfacreaturewithspectaclesandlankhair,horriblyfreckled,andtrampingaboutonhugefeet.IwishIhadknownitwasyourfriend."

"Iamverygladyoudidn't,Harry."

"Why?"

"Idon'twantyoutomeethim."

"Youdon'twantmetomeethim?"

"No."

"Mr. Dorian Gray is in the studio, sir," said the butler, coming into thegarden.

"Youmustintroducemenow,"criedLordHenry,laughing.

Thepainterturnedtohisservant,whostoodblinkinginthesunlight."AskMr.Graytowait,Parker:Ishallbeininafewmoments."Themanbowedandwentupthewalk.

ThenhelookedatLordHenry."DorianGrayismydearestfriend,"hesaid."Hehasasimpleandabeautifulnature.Yourauntwasquiterightinwhatshesaidofhim.Don'tspoilhim.Don'ttrytoinfluencehim.Yourinfluencewouldbebad.Theworldiswide,andhasmanymarvellouspeopleinit.Don'ttakeaway from me the one person who gives to my art whatever charm itpossesses:mylifeasanartistdependsonhim.Mind,Harry,Itrustyou."Hespokeveryslowly,andthewordsseemedwrungoutofhimalmostagainsthiswill.

"Whatnonsenseyoutalk!"saidLordHenry,smiling,andtakingHallwardbythearm,healmostledhimintothehouse.

CHAPTER2

AstheyenteredtheysawDorianGray.Hewasseatedatthepiano,withhisback to them, turning over the pages of a volume of Schumann's "ForestScenes." "Youmust lendme these, Basil," he cried. "I want to learn them.Theyareperfectlycharming."

"Thatentirelydependsonhowyousitto-day,Dorian."

"Oh,Iamtiredofsitting,andIdon'twantalife-sizedportraitofmyself,"answered the lad, swinging round on the music-stool in a wilful, petulantmanner. When he caught sight of Lord Henry, a faint blush coloured hischeeksforamoment,andhestartedup."Ibegyourpardon,Basil,butIdidn'tknowyouhadanyonewithyou."

"ThisisLordHenryWotton,Dorian,anoldOxfordfriendofmine.Ihavejustbeentellinghimwhatacapitalsitteryouwere,andnowyouhavespoiledeverything."

"Youhavenotspoiledmypleasure inmeetingyou,Mr.Gray,"saidLordHenry,steppingforwardandextendinghishand."Myaunthasoftenspokentome about you. You are one of her favourites, and, I am afraid, one of hervictimsalso."

"Iam inLadyAgatha'sblackbooksatpresent," answeredDorianwithafunnylookofpenitence."IpromisedtogotoaclubinWhitechapelwithherlastTuesday,and I really forgotall about it.Wewere tohaveplayedaduettogether—threeduets,Ibelieve.Idon'tknowwhatshewillsaytome.Iamfartoofrightenedtocall."

"Oh, Iwillmakeyour peacewithmy aunt.She is quite devoted to you.And I don't think it reallymatters about yournot being there.The audienceprobablythoughtitwasaduet.WhenAuntAgathasitsdowntothepiano,shemakesquiteenoughnoisefortwopeople."

"That is very horrid to her, and not very nice tome," answeredDorian,laughing.

LordHenry lookedathim.Yes,hewascertainlywonderfullyhandsome,with his finely curved scarlet lips, his frank blue eyes, his crisp gold hair.There was something in his face that made one trust him at once. All thecandourofyouthwas there,aswellasallyouth'spassionatepurity.Onefeltthathehadkepthimselfunspottedfromtheworld.NowonderBasilHallwardworshippedhim.

"You are too charming to go in for philanthropy, Mr. Gray—far toocharming."AndLordHenryflunghimselfdownonthedivanandopenedhis

cigarette-case.

The painter had been busy mixing his colours and getting his brushesready.Hewaslookingworried,andwhenheheardLordHenry'slastremark,he glanced at him, hesitated for amoment, and then said, "Harry, Iwant tofinishthispictureto-day.WouldyouthinkitawfullyrudeofmeifIaskedyoutogoaway?"

LordHenrysmiledandlookedatDorianGray."AmItogo,Mr.Gray?"heasked.

"Oh,pleasedon't,LordHenry.IseethatBasilisinoneofhissulkymoods,and I can't bear him when he sulks. Besides, I want you to tell me why Ishouldnotgoinforphilanthropy."

"Idon'tknowthatIshalltellyouthat,Mr.Gray.Itissotediousasubjectthat onewould have to talk seriously about it. But I certainly shall not runaway,now thatyouhaveaskedme tostop.Youdon't reallymind,Basil,doyou?Youhaveoftentoldmethatyoulikedyoursitters tohavesomeonetochatto."

Hallwardbithislip."IfDorianwishesit,ofcourseyoumuststay.Dorian'swhimsarelawstoeverybody,excepthimself."

LordHenrytookuphishatandgloves."Youareverypressing,Basil,butIamafraidImustgo.IhavepromisedtomeetamanattheOrleans.Good-bye,Mr. Gray. Come and seeme some afternoon in Curzon Street. I am nearlyalwaysathomeatfiveo'clock.Writetomewhenyouarecoming.Ishouldbesorrytomissyou."

"Basil," criedDorianGray, "if LordHenryWotton goes, I shall go, too.You never open your lips while you are painting, and it is horribly dullstandingon aplatformand trying to lookpleasant.Askhim to stay. I insistuponit."

"Stay,Harry, to obligeDorian, and to obligeme," saidHallward, gazingintentlyathispicture. "It isquite true, Inever talkwhen Iamworking,andneverlisteneither,anditmustbedreadfullytediousformyunfortunatesitters.Ibegyoutostay."

"ButwhataboutmymanattheOrleans?"

Thepainterlaughed."Idon't thinktherewillbeanydifficultyaboutthat.Sit down again,Harry.And now,Dorian, get up on the platform, and don'tmoveabouttoomuch,orpayanyattentiontowhatLordHenrysays.Hehasaverybadinfluenceoverallhisfriends,withthesingleexceptionofmyself."

DorianGraysteppeduponthedaiswiththeairofayoungGreekmartyr,andmadea littlemoueofdiscontent toLordHenry, towhomhehad rather

takenafancy.HewassounlikeBasil.Theymadeadelightfulcontrast.Andhehadsuchabeautifulvoice.Aftera fewmomentshesaid tohim,"Haveyoureallyaverybadinfluence,LordHenry?AsbadasBasilsays?"

"There is no such thing as a good influence,Mr. Gray. All influence isimmoral—immoralfromthescientificpointofview."

"Why?"

"Becausetoinfluenceapersonistogivehimone'sownsoul.Hedoesnotthinkhisnaturalthoughts,orburnwithhisnaturalpassions.Hisvirtuesarenotreal to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. Hebecomesanechoofsomeoneelse'smusic,anactorofapartthathasnotbeenwritten for him.The aimof life is self-development.To realize one's natureperfectly—thatiswhateachofusisherefor.Peopleareafraidofthemselves,nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that oneowes toone's self.Ofcourse, theyarecharitable.They feed thehungryandclothethebeggar.Buttheirownsoulsstarve,andarenaked.Couragehasgoneoutofourrace.Perhapsweneverreallyhadit.Theterrorofsociety,whichisthebasisofmorals, the terrorofGod,which is thesecretof religion—thesearethetwothingsthatgovernus.Andyet—"

"Justturnyourheadalittlemoretotheright,Dorian,likeagoodboy,"saidthepainter,deepinhisworkandconsciousonlythatalookhadcomeintothelad'sfacethathehadneverseentherebefore.

"Andyet,"continuedLordHenry,inhislow,musicalvoice,andwiththatgracefulwaveofthehandthatwasalwayssocharacteristicofhim,andthathehadeveninhisEtondays,"Ibelievethatifonemanweretoliveouthislifefullyandcompletely,weretogiveformtoeveryfeeling,expressiontoeverythought, reality to everydream—Ibelieve that theworldwouldgain such afresh impulseof joy thatwewould forget all themaladiesofmediaevalism,andreturntotheHellenicideal—tosomethingfiner,richerthantheHellenicideal, it may be. But the bravestman amongst us is afraid of himself. Themutilationofthesavagehasitstragicsurvivalintheself-denialthatmarsourlives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive tostranglebroodsinthemindandpoisonsus.Thebodysinsonce,andhasdonewithitssin,foractionisamodeofpurification.Nothingremainsthenbuttherecollectionofapleasure,ortheluxuryofaregret.Theonlywaytogetridofatemptationistoyieldtoit.Resistit,andyoursoulgrowssickwithlongingforthethingsithasforbiddentoitself,withdesireforwhatitsmonstrouslawshavemademonstrousandunlawful. Ithasbeensaid that thegreateventsoftheworldtakeplaceinthebrain.Itisinthebrain,andthebrainonly,thatthegreatsinsoftheworldtakeplacealso.You,Mr.Gray,youyourself,withyourrose-redyouthandyourrose-whiteboyhood,youhavehadpassionsthathave

made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams andsleepingdreamswhosemerememorymightstainyourcheekwithshame—"

"Stop!"falteredDorianGray,"stop!youbewilderme.Idon'tknowwhattosay.There is some answer to you, but I cannot find it.Don't speak.Letmethink.Or,rather,letmetrynottothink."

Fornearlytenminuteshestoodthere,motionless,withpartedlipsandeyesstrangelybright.Hewasdimlyconsciousthatentirelyfreshinfluenceswereatworkwithinhim.Yet theyseemedtohimtohavecomereallyfromhimself.ThefewwordsthatBasil'sfriendhadsaidtohim—wordsspokenbychance,nodoubt, andwithwilful paradox in them—had touched some secret chordthat had never been touched before, but that he felt was now vibrating andthrobbingtocuriouspulses.

Musichadstirredhimlikethat.Musichadtroubledhimmanytimes.Butmusicwasnotarticulate.Itwasnotanewworld,butratheranotherchaos,thatitcreatedinus.Words!Merewords!Howterribletheywere!Howclear,andvivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtlemagic therewas in them!They seemed to be able to give a plastic form toformlessthings,andtohaveamusicoftheirownassweetasthatofvioloroflute.Merewords!Wasthereanythingsorealaswords?

Yes;therehadbeenthingsinhisboyhoodthathehadnotunderstood.Heunderstoodthemnow.Lifesuddenlybecamefiery-colouredtohim.Itseemedtohimthathehadbeenwalkinginfire.Whyhadhenotknownit?

With his subtle smile, Lord Henry watched him. He knew the precisepsychologicalmomentwhen to saynothing.He felt intensely interested.Hewas amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and,rememberingabookthathehadreadwhenhewassixteen,abookwhichhadrevealed to himmuch that he had not known before, hewonderedwhetherDorianGraywaspassingthroughasimilarexperience.Hehadmerelyshotanarrowintotheair.Hadithitthemark?Howfascinatingtheladwas!

Hallwardpaintedawaywiththatmarvellousboldtouchofhis,thathadthetrue refinementandperfectdelicacy that inart, atany ratecomesonly fromstrength.Hewasunconsciousofthesilence.

"Basil,Iamtiredofstanding,"criedDorianGraysuddenly."Imustgooutandsitinthegarden.Theairisstiflinghere."

"My dear fellow, I am so sorry. When I am painting, I can't think ofanythingelse.Butyounever satbetter.Youwereperfectly still.And IhavecaughttheeffectIwanted—thehalf-partedlipsandthebrightlookintheeyes.I don't knowwhatHarryhasbeen saying toyou, buthehas certainlymadeyouhave themostwonderful expression. I supposehehasbeenpayingyou

compliments.Youmustn'tbelieveawordthathesays."

"He has certainly not been paying me compliments. Perhaps that is thereasonthatIdon'tbelieveanythinghehastoldme."

"Youknowyoubelieve it all," saidLordHenry, lookingathimwithhisdreamylanguorouseyes."Iwillgoout to thegardenwithyou.It ishorriblyhot in thestudio.Basil, letushavesomething iced todrink, somethingwithstrawberriesinit."

"Certainly,Harry. Just touch the bell, andwhenParker comes Iwill tellhimwhatyouwant.Ihavegottoworkupthisbackground,soIwilljoinyoulater on. Don't keep Dorian too long. I have never been in better form forpainting than I am to-day. This is going to be my masterpiece. It is mymasterpieceasitstands."

LordHenrywentouttothegardenandfoundDorianGrayburyinghisfacein thegreat cool lilac-blossoms, feverishlydrinking in their perfume as if ithadbeenwine.Hecameclosetohimandputhishanduponhisshoulder."Youarequite right todo that,"hemurmured. "Nothingcancure thesoulbut thesenses,justasnothingcancurethesensesbutthesoul."

The lad started and drew back. He was bareheaded, and the leaves hadtossed his rebellious curls and tangled all their gilded threads. Therewas alook of fear in his eyes, such as people have when they are suddenlyawakened.Hisfinelychisellednostrilsquivered,andsomehiddennerveshookthescarletofhislipsandleftthemtrembling.

"Yes,"continuedLordHenry, "that isoneof thegreat secretsof life—tocurethesoulbymeansofthesenses,andthesensesbymeansofthesoul.Youareawonderfulcreation.Youknowmorethanyouthinkyouknow,justasyouknowlessthanyouwanttoknow."

DorianGrayfrownedandturnedhisheadaway.Hecouldnothelplikingthe tall,gracefulyoungmanwhowas standingbyhim.His romantic,olive-colouredfaceandwornexpressioninterestedhim.Therewassomethinginhislowlanguidvoicethatwasabsolutelyfascinating.Hiscool,white,flowerlikehands,even,hadacuriouscharm.Theymoved,ashespoke,likemusic,andseemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, andashamedofbeingafraid.Whyhaditbeenleftforastrangertorevealhimtohimself?HehadknownBasilHallwardformonths,butthefriendshipbetweenthemhadneveralteredhim.Suddenlytherehadcomesomeoneacrosshislifewhoseemedtohavedisclosedtohimlife'smystery.And,yet,whatwasthereto be afraid of? He was not a schoolboy or a girl. It was absurd to befrightened.

"Letusgoandsitintheshade,"saidLordHenry."Parkerhasbroughtout

thedrinks,andifyoustayanylongerinthisglare,youwillbequitespoiled,andBasilwill never paint you again.You reallymust not allowyourself tobecomesunburnt.Itwouldbeunbecoming."

"Whatcanitmatter?"criedDorianGray,laughing,ashesatdownontheseatattheendofthegarden.

"Itshouldmattereverythingtoyou,Mr.Gray."

"Why?"

"Becauseyouhavethemostmarvellousyouth,andyouthistheonethingworthhaving."

"Idon'tfeelthat,LordHenry."

"No,youdon'tfeelitnow.Someday,whenyouareoldandwrinkledandugly, when thought has seared your forehead with its lines, and passionbranded your lips with its hideous fires, you will feel it, you will feel itterribly.Now,whereveryougo,youcharmtheworld.Willitalwaysbeso?...Youhaveawonderfullybeautifulface,Mr.Gray.Don'tfrown.Youhave.Andbeauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs noexplanation.Itisofthegreatfactsoftheworld,likesunlight,orspring-time,orthereflectionindarkwatersofthatsilvershellwecallthemoon.Itcannotbequestioned.Ithasitsdivinerightofsovereignty.Itmakesprincesofthosewhohaveit.Yousmile?Ah!whenyouhavelostityouwon'tsmile....Peoplesaysometimesthatbeautyisonlysuperficial.Thatmaybeso,butatleastitisnotsosuperficialasthoughtis.Tome,beautyisthewonderofwonders.Itisonlyshallowpeoplewhodonotjudgebyappearances.Thetruemysteryoftheworld is the visible, not the invisible.... Yes,Mr. Gray, the gods have beengoodtoyou.Butwhatthegodsgivetheyquicklytakeaway.Youhaveonlyafewyearsinwhichtolivereally,perfectly,andfully.Whenyouryouthgoes,yourbeautywillgowithit,andthenyouwillsuddenlydiscoverthattherearenotriumphsleftforyou,orhavetocontentyourselfwiththosemeantriumphsthatthememoryofyourpastwillmakemorebitterthandefeats.Everymonthas itwanesbringsyounearer tosomethingdreadful.Timeis jealousofyou,and wars against your lilies and your roses. You will become sallow, andhollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly.... Ah! realize youryouthwhileyouhaveit.Don'tsquanderthegoldofyourdays,listeningtothetedious,tryingtoimprovethehopelessfailure,orgivingawayyourlifetotheignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the falseideals,ofourage.Live!Livethewonderfullifethatisinyou!Letnothingbelostuponyou.Bealwayssearchingfornewsensations.Beafraidofnothing....A newHedonism—that iswhat our centurywants.Youmight be its visiblesymbol.Withyourpersonality there isnothingyoucouldnotdo.Theworldbelongs to you for a season.... Themoment Imet you I saw that youwere

quiteunconsciousofwhatyoureallyare,ofwhatyoureallymightbe.Therewas somuch in you that charmedme that I felt Imust tell you somethingaboutyourself.Ithoughthowtragicitwouldbeifyouwerewasted.Forthereissuchalittletimethatyouryouthwilllast—suchalittletime.Thecommonhill-flowerswither,but theyblossomagain.The laburnumwillbeasyellownextJuneas it isnow.Inamonth therewillbepurplestarson theclematis,andyearafteryearthegreennightofitsleaveswillholditspurplestars.Butwe never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twentybecomessluggish.Ourlimbsfail,oursensesrot.Wedegenerateintohideouspuppets,hauntedbythememoryofthepassionsofwhichweweretoomuchafraid,and theexquisite temptations thatwehadnot thecourage toyield to.Youth!Youth!Thereisabsolutelynothingintheworldbutyouth!"

Dorian Gray listened, open-eyed and wondering. The spray of lilac fellfromhis handupon thegravel.A furrybee cameandbuzzed round it for amoment.Thenitbegantoscrambleallovertheovalstellatedglobeofthetinyblossoms.Hewatcheditwiththatstrangeinterestintrivialthingsthatwetrytodevelopwhenthingsofhighimportmakeusafraid,orwhenwearestirredby some new emotion forwhichwe cannot find expression, orwhen somethoughtthatterrifiesuslayssuddensiegetothebrainandcallsonustoyield.Afteratimethebeeflewaway.HesawitcreepingintothestainedtrumpetofaTyrianconvolvulus.Theflowerseemedtoquiver,andthenswayedgentlytoandfro.

Suddenlythepainterappearedatthedoorofthestudioandmadestaccatosignsforthemtocomein.Theyturnedtoeachotherandsmiled.

"Iamwaiting,"hecried."Docomein.Thelightisquiteperfect,andyoucanbringyourdrinks."

Theyroseupandsauntereddownthewalktogether.Twogreen-and-whitebutterfliesflutteredpastthem,andinthepear-treeatthecornerofthegardenathrushbegantosing.

"Youaregladyouhavemetme,Mr.Gray," saidLordHenry, looking athim.

"Yes,Iamgladnow.IwondershallIalwaysbeglad?"

"Always! That is a dreadfulword. Itmakesme shudderwhen I hear it.Womenaresofondofusingit.Theyspoileveryromancebytryingtomakeitlast for ever. It is a meaningless word, too. The only difference between acapriceandalifelongpassionisthatthecapricelastsalittlelonger."

As theyentered thestudio,DorianGrayputhishanduponLordHenry'sarm."Inthatcase, letourfriendshipbeacaprice,"hemurmured,flushingathisownboldness,thensteppedupontheplatformandresumedhispose.

LordHenryflunghimselfintoalargewickerarm-chairandwatchedhim.The sweep and dash of the brush on the canvas made the only sound thatbrokethestillness,exceptwhen,nowandthen,Hallwardsteppedbacktolookathisworkfromadistance. In theslantingbeamsthatstreamedthroughtheopendoorwaythedustdancedandwasgolden.Theheavyscentoftherosesseemedtobroodovereverything.

AfteraboutaquarterofanhourHallwardstoppedpainting, looked foralongtimeatDorianGray,andthenforalongtimeatthepicture,bitingtheendofoneofhishugebrushesandfrowning."Itisquitefinished,"hecriedatlast,and stooping down hewrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-handcornerofthecanvas.

Lord Henry came over and examined the picture. It was certainly awonderfulworkofart,andawonderfullikenessaswell.

"Mydearfellow,Icongratulateyoumostwarmly,"hesaid."Itisthefinestportraitofmoderntimes.Mr.Gray,comeoverandlookatyourself."

Theladstarted,asifawakenedfromsomedream.

"Isitreallyfinished?"hemurmured,steppingdownfromtheplatform.

"Quite finished," said thepainter. "Andyouhave sat splendidly to-day. Iamawfullyobligedtoyou."

"Thatisentirelyduetome,"brokeinLordHenry."Isn'tit,Mr.Gray?"

Dorianmade no answer, but passed listlessly in front of his picture andturnedtowardsit.Whenhesawithedrewback,andhischeeksflushedforamoment with pleasure. A look of joy came into his eyes, as if he hadrecognizedhimselfforthefirsttime.Hestoodtheremotionlessandinwonder,dimly conscious that Hallward was speaking to him, but not catching themeaning of his words. The sense of his own beauty came on him like arevelation. He had never felt it before. Basil Hallward's compliments hadseemedtohimtobemerelythecharmingexaggerationoffriendship.Hehadlistenedtothem,laughedatthem,forgottenthem.Theyhadnotinfluencedhisnature. Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric onyouth,histerriblewarningofitsbrevity.Thathadstirredhimatthetime,andnow,ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullrealityofthedescription flashedacrosshim.Yes, therewouldbeadaywhenhis facewouldbewrinkled andwizen, his eyesdimand colourless, thegraceof hisfigurebrokenanddeformed.The scarletwouldpass away fromhis lips andthegoldstealfromhishair.Thelifethatwastomakehissoulwouldmarhisbody.Hewouldbecomedreadful,hideous,anduncouth.

Ashe thoughtof it,asharppangofpainstruck throughhimlikeaknife

and made each delicate fibre of his nature quiver. His eyes deepened intoamethyst,andacrossthemcameamistoftears.Hefeltasifahandoficehadbeenlaiduponhisheart.

"Don'tyoulikeit?"criedHallwardatlast,stungalittlebythelad'ssilence,notunderstandingwhatitmeant.

"Ofcoursehelikesit,"saidLordHenry."Whowouldn'tlikeit?Itisoneofthegreatestthingsinmodernart.Iwillgiveyouanythingyouliketoaskforit.Imusthaveit."

"Itisnotmyproperty,Harry."

"Whosepropertyisit?"

"Dorian's,ofcourse,"answeredthepainter.

"Heisaveryluckyfellow."

"Howsaditis!"murmuredDorianGraywithhiseyesstillfixeduponhisownportrait."Howsaditis!Ishallgrowold,andhorrible,anddreadful.Butthis picture will remain always young. It will never be older than thisparticulardayofJune....Ifitwereonlytheotherway!IfitwereIwhowastobealwaysyoung,andthepicturethatwastogrowold!Forthat—forthat—Iwouldgiveeverything!Yes, there isnothingin thewholeworldIwouldnotgive!Iwouldgivemysoulforthat!"

"Youwouldhardlycareforsuchanarrangement,Basil,"criedLordHenry,laughing."Itwouldberatherhardlinesonyourwork."

"Ishouldobjectverystrongly,Harry,"saidHallward.

DorianGray turnedand lookedathim. "Ibelieveyouwould,Basil.Youlikeyourartbetterthanyourfriends.Iamnomoretoyouthanagreenbronzefigure.Hardlyasmuch,Idaresay."

Thepainterstaredinamazement.ItwassounlikeDoriantospeaklikethat.What had happened?He seemed quite angry. His facewas flushed and hischeeksburning.

"Yes," he continued, "I am less to you than your ivory Hermes or yoursilverFaun.Youwilllikethemalways.Howlongwillyoulikeme?TillIhavemy first wrinkle, I suppose. I know, now, that when one loses one's goodlooks,whatevertheymaybe,oneloseseverything.Yourpicturehastaughtmethat. Lord Henry Wotton is perfectly right. Youth is the only thing worthhaving.WhenIfindthatIamgrowingold,Ishallkillmyself."

Hallward turned pale and caught his hand. "Dorian! Dorian!" he cried,"don't talklikethat.Ihaveneverhadsuchafriendasyou,andIshallneverhavesuchanother.Youarenotjealousofmaterialthings,areyou?—youwho

arefinerthananyofthem!"

"Iamjealousofeverythingwhosebeautydoesnotdie.Iamjealousoftheportraityouhavepaintedofme.WhyshoulditkeepwhatImustlose?Everymomentthatpassestakessomethingfrommeandgivessomethingtoit.Oh,ifitwereonlytheotherway!Ifthepicturecouldchange,andIcouldbealwayswhatIamnow!Whydidyoupaintit?Itwillmockmesomeday—mockmehorribly!" The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away and,flinginghimselfonthedivan,heburiedhisfaceinthecushions,asthoughhewaspraying.

"Thisisyourdoing,Harry,"saidthepainterbitterly.

LordHenry shrugged his shoulders. "It is the real DorianGray—that isall."

"Itisnot."

"Ifitisnot,whathaveItodowithit?"

"YoushouldhavegoneawaywhenIaskedyou,"hemuttered.

"Istayedwhenyouaskedme,"wasLordHenry'sanswer.

"Harry,Ican'tquarrelwithmytwobestfriendsatonce,butbetweenyoubothyouhavemademehatethefinestpieceofworkIhaveeverdone,andIwilldestroyit.Whatisitbutcanvasandcolour?Iwillnotletitcomeacrossourthreelivesandmarthem."

DorianGray liftedhisgoldenhead from thepillow, andwithpallid faceand tear-stainedeyes, lookedathimashewalkedover to thedealpainting-table that was set beneath the high curtained window.What was he doingthere?His fingerswere straying about among the litter of tin tubes and drybrushes,seekingforsomething.Yes,itwasforthelongpalette-knife,withitsthinbladeof lithe steel.Hehad found it at last.Hewasgoing to ripup thecanvas.

With a stifled sob the lad leaped from the couch, and, rushing over toHallward,toretheknifeoutofhishand,andflungittotheendofthestudio."Don't,Basil,don't!"hecried."Itwouldbemurder!"

"Iamgladyouappreciatemyworkatlast,Dorian,"saidthepaintercoldlywhenhehadrecoveredfromhissurprise."Ineverthoughtyouwould."

"Appreciateit?Iaminlovewithit,Basil.Itispartofmyself.Ifeelthat."

"Well,assoonasyouaredry,youshallbevarnished,andframed,andsenthome.Thenyoucandowhatyoulikewithyourself."Andhewalkedacrosstheroomandrangthebellfortea."Youwillhavetea,ofcourse,Dorian?Andsowillyou,Harry?Ordoyouobjecttosuchsimplepleasures?"

"Iadoresimplepleasures,"saidLordHenry."Theyare the last refugeofthecomplex.ButIdon'tlikescenes,exceptonthestage.Whatabsurdfellowsyouare,bothofyou!Iwonderwhoitwasdefinedmanasarationalanimal.Itwasthemostprematuredefinitionevergiven.Manismanythings,butheisnotrational.Iamgladheisnot,afterall—thoughIwishyouchapswouldnotsquabbleoverthepicture.Youhadmuchbetterletmehaveit,Basil.Thissillyboydoesn'treallywantit,andIreallydo."

"Ifyouletanyonehaveitbutme,Basil,Ishallneverforgiveyou!"criedDorianGray;"andIdon'tallowpeopletocallmeasillyboy."

"Youknowthepictureisyours,Dorian.Igaveittoyoubeforeitexisted."

"Andyouknowyouhavebeena littlesilly,Mr.Gray,and thatyoudon'treallyobjecttobeingremindedthatyouareextremelyyoung."

"Ishouldhaveobjectedverystronglythismorning,LordHenry."

"Ah!thismorning!Youhavelivedsincethen."

Therecameaknockat thedoor, and thebutlerenteredwitha laden tea-trayandset itdownuponasmall Japanese table.Therewasa rattleofcupsandsaucersandthehissingofaflutedGeorgianurn.Twoglobe-shapedchinadisheswerebroughtinbyapage.DorianGraywentoverandpouredoutthetea. The twomen sauntered languidly to the table and examined what wasunderthecovers.

"Letusgo to the theatre to-night," saidLordHenry. "There is sure tobesomethingon, somewhere. Ihavepromised todineatWhite's,but it isonlywithanoldfriend,soIcansendhimawiretosaythatIamill,orthatIamprevented fromcoming inconsequenceofa subsequentengagement. I thinkthatwouldbearatherniceexcuse:itwouldhaveallthesurpriseofcandour."

"Itissuchaboreputtingonone'sdress-clothes,"mutteredHallward."And,whenonehasthemon,theyaresohorrid."

"Yes," answered Lord Henry dreamily, "the costume of the nineteenthcenturyisdetestable.Itissosombre,sodepressing.Sinistheonlyrealcolour-elementleftinmodernlife."

"YoureallymustnotsaythingslikethatbeforeDorian,Harry."

"BeforewhichDorian?Theonewhoispouringoutteaforus,ortheoneinthepicture?"

"Beforeeither."

"Ishouldliketocometothetheatrewithyou,LordHenry,"saidthelad.

"Thenyoushallcome;andyouwillcome,too,Basil,won'tyou?"

"Ican't,really.Iwouldsoonernot.Ihavealotofworktodo."

"Well,then,youandIwillgoalone,Mr.Gray."

"Ishouldlikethatawfully."

Thepainterbithislipandwalkedover,cupinhand,tothepicture."IshallstaywiththerealDorian,"hesaid,sadly.

"IsittherealDorian?"criedtheoriginaloftheportrait,strollingacrosstohim."AmIreallylikethat?"

"Yes;youarejustlikethat."

"Howwonderful,Basil!"

"At least you are like it in appearance. But it will never alter," sighedHallward."Thatissomething."

"Whata fusspeoplemakeabout fidelity!"exclaimedLordHenry. "Why,even in love it ispurelyaquestionforphysiology. Ithasnothing todowithourownwill.Youngmenwanttobefaithful,andarenot;oldmenwanttobefaithless,andcannot:thatisallonecansay."

"Don't go to the theatre to-night,Dorian," saidHallward. "Stopanddinewithme."

"Ican't,Basil."

"Why?"

"BecauseIhavepromisedLordHenryWottontogowithhim."

"Hewon'tlikeyouthebetterforkeepingyourpromises.Healwaysbreakshisown.Ibegyounottogo."

DorianGraylaughedandshookhishead.

"Ientreatyou."

Theladhesitated,andlookedoveratLordHenry,whowaswatchingthemfromthetea-tablewithanamusedsmile.

"Imustgo,Basil,"heanswered.

"Verywell,"saidHallward,andhewentoverandlaiddownhiscuponthetray."Itisratherlate,and,asyouhavetodress,youhadbetterlosenotime.Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Come to-morrow."

"Certainly."

"Youwon'tforget?"

"No,ofcoursenot,"criedDorian.

"And...Harry!"

"Yes,Basil?"

"RememberwhatIaskedyou,whenwewereinthegardenthismorning."

"Ihaveforgottenit."

"Itrustyou."

"IwishIcouldtrustmyself,"saidLordHenry,laughing."Come,Mr.Gray,myhansomisoutside,andIcandropyouatyourownplace.Good-bye,Basil.Ithasbeenamostinterestingafternoon."

Asthedoorclosedbehindthem,thepainterflunghimselfdownonasofa,andalookofpaincameintohisface.

CHAPTER3

At half-past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from CurzonStreet over to the Albany to call on his uncle, Lord Fermor, a genial ifsomewhat rough-mannered old bachelor, whom the outside world calledselfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who wasconsidered generous by Society as he fed the peoplewho amused him.HisfatherhadbeenourambassadoratMadridwhenIsabellawasyoungandPrimunthought of, but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capriciousmoment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris, a post towhich he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth, hisindolence, thegoodEnglishofhisdispatches,andhis inordinatepassion forpleasure.Theson,whohadbeenhisfather'ssecretary,hadresignedalongwithhischief, somewhat foolishlyaswas thoughtat the time,andonsucceedingsomemonthslatertothetitle,hadsethimselftotheseriousstudyofthegreataristocraticartofdoingabsolutelynothing.Hehadtwolargetownhouses,butpreferredtoliveinchambersasitwaslesstrouble,andtookmostofhismealsathisclub.HepaidsomeattentiontothemanagementofhiscollieriesintheMidlandcounties,excusinghimselfforthistaintofindustryonthegroundthattheoneadvantageofhavingcoalwasthatitenabledagentlemantoaffordthedecencyofburningwoodonhisownhearth.InpoliticshewasaTory,exceptwhentheTorieswereinoffice,duringwhichperiodheroundlyabusedthemforbeingapackofRadicals.Hewasaherotohisvalet,whobulliedhim,andaterrortomostofhisrelations,whomhebulliedinturn.OnlyEnglandcouldhaveproducedhim,andhealwayssaidthatthecountrywasgoingtothedogs.

Hisprincipleswereoutofdate,but therewasagooddeal tobesaid forhisprejudices.

WhenLordHenryenteredtheroom,hefoundhisunclesittinginaroughshooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times. "Well,Harry,"saidtheoldgentleman,"whatbringsyououtsoearly?Ithoughtyoudandiesnevergotuptilltwo,andwerenotvisibletillfive."

"Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to getsomethingoutofyou."

"Money,Isuppose,"saidLordFermor,makingawryface."Well,sitdownand tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money iseverything."

"Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "andwhentheygrowoldertheyknowit.ButIdon'twantmoney.Itisonlypeoplewhopaytheirbillswhowantthat,UncleGeorge,andIneverpaymine.Creditis thecapitalofayoungerson,andone livescharminglyupon it.Besides, IalwaysdealwithDartmoor's tradesmen, and consequently theyneverbotherme.What I want is information: not useful information, of course; uselessinformation."

"Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry,althoughthosefellowsnowadayswritea lotofnonsense.WhenIwasin theDiplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now byexamination.Whatcanyouexpect?Examinations,sir,arepurehumbugfrombeginningtoend.Ifamanisagentleman,heknowsquiteenough,andifheisnotagentleman,whateverheknowsisbadforhim."

"Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," saidLordHenrylanguidly.

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

"ThatiswhatIhavecometolearn,UncleGeorge.Orrather,Iknowwhoheis.HeisthelastLordKelso'sgrandson.HismotherwasaDevereux,LadyMargaret Devereux. I want you to tellme about hismother.What was shelike?Whomdidshemarry?Youhaveknownnearlyeverybodyinyourtime,so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray atpresent.Ihaveonlyjustmethim."

"Kelso's grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso's grandson! ... Ofcourse....Iknewhismotherintimately.IbelieveIwasatherchristening.Shewas an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all themenfranticbyrunningawaywithapennilessyoungfellow—amerenobody,

sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. Iremember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap waskilled in a duel at Spa a fewmonths after themarriage. Therewas an uglystory about it. They saidKelso got some rascally adventurer, someBelgianbrute,toinsulthisson-in-lawinpublic—paidhim,sir,todoit,paidhim—andthat the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing washushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some timeafterwards.Hebroughthisdaughterbackwithhim,Iwastold,andsheneverspoke tohimagain.Oh, yes; itwas a badbusiness.Thegirl died, too, diedwithinayear.Sosheleftason,didshe?Ihadforgottenthat.Whatsortofboyishe?Ifheislikehismother,hemustbeagood-lookingchap."

"Heisverygood-looking,"assentedLordHenry.

"Ihopehewillfallintoproperhands,"continuedtheoldman."HeshouldhaveapotofmoneywaitingforhimifKelsodidtherightthingbyhim.Hismother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through hergrandfather.HergrandfatherhatedKelso, thoughthimameandog.Hewas,too.CametoMadridoncewhenIwasthere.Egad,Iwasashamedofhim.TheQueen used to askme about theEnglish noblewhowas always quarrellingwiththecabmenabouttheirfares.Theymadequiteastoryofit.Ididn'tdareshowmyfaceatCourtforamonth.Ihopehetreatedhisgrandsonbetterthanhedidthejarvies."

"I don't know," answeredLordHenry. "I fancy that theboywill bewelloff.He is not of age yet.He has Selby, I know.He toldme so.And ... hismotherwasverybeautiful?"

"MargaretDevereuxwasoneof the loveliestcreatures Ieversaw,Harry.Whatonearthinducedhertobehaveasshedid,Inevercouldunderstand.Shecouldhavemarriedanybodyshechose.Carlingtonwasmadafterher.Shewasromantic, though.All thewomenof that familywere.Themenwereapoorlot, but, egad! thewomenwerewonderful.Carlingtonwent on his knees toher.Toldmesohimself.Shelaughedathim,andtherewasn'tagirlinLondonat the timewhowasn'tafterhim.Andby theway,Harry, talkingaboutsillymarriages,whatisthishumbugyourfathertellsmeaboutDartmoorwantingtomarryanAmerican?Ain'tEnglishgirlsgoodenoughforhim?"

"ItisratherfashionabletomarryAmericansjustnow,UncleGeorge."

"I'll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor,strikingthetablewithhisfist.

"ThebettingisontheAmericans."

"Theydon'tlast,Iamtold,"mutteredhisuncle.

"Alongengagementexhauststhem,buttheyarecapitalatasteeplechase.Theytakethingsflying.Idon'tthinkDartmoorhasachance."

"Whoareherpeople?"grumbledtheoldgentleman."Hasshegotany?"

LordHenry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealingtheirparents,asEnglishwomenareatconcealingtheirpast,"hesaid,risingtogo.

"Theyarepork-packers,Isuppose?"

"Ihopeso,UncleGeorge,forDartmoor'ssake.Iamtoldthatpork-packingisthemostlucrativeprofessioninAmerica,afterpolitics."

"Isshepretty?"

"Shebehavesasifshewasbeautiful.MostAmericanwomendo.Itisthesecretoftheircharm."

"Why can't theseAmericanwomen stay in their own country? They arealwaystellingusthatitistheparadiseforwomen."

"Itis.Thatisthereasonwhy,likeEve,theyaresoexcessivelyanxioustogetoutof it,"saidLordHenry."Good-bye,UncleGeorge.Ishallbe lateforlunch,ifIstopanylonger.ThanksforgivingmetheinformationIwanted.Ialwaysliketoknoweverythingaboutmynewfriends,andnothingaboutmyoldones."

"Whereareyoulunching,Harry?"

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

"Humph!tellyourAuntAgatha,Harry,nottobothermeanymorewithhercharityappeals. Iamsickof them.Why, thegoodwomanthinks that Ihavenothingtodobuttowritechequesforhersillyfads."

"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 distinguishingcharacteristic."

Theoldgentlemangrowledapprovinglyandrangthebellforhisservant.LordHenry passed up the low arcade intoBurlington Street and turned hisstepsinthedirectionofBerkeleySquare.

So thatwas thestoryofDorianGray'sparentage.Crudelyas ithadbeentoldtohim,ithadyetstirredhimbyitssuggestionofastrange,almostmodernromance.Abeautifulwomanriskingeverythingforamadpassion.Afewwildweeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months ofvoicelessagony,andthenachildborninpain.Themothersnatchedawayby

death,theboylefttosolitudeandthetyrannyofanoldandlovelessman.Yes;itwasaninterestingbackground.Itposedthelad,madehimmoreperfect,asitwere.Behind every exquisite thing that existed, therewas something tragic.Worldshad tobe in travail, that themeanest flowermightblow....Andhowcharminghehadbeenatdinnerthenightbefore,aswithstartledeyesandlipsparted in frightenedpleasurehehad sat opposite to himat the club, the redcandleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face.Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered toeverytouchandthrillofthebow....Therewassomethingterriblyenthrallingintheexerciseofinfluence.Nootheractivitywaslikeit.Toprojectone'ssoulintosomegraciousform,andletittarrythereforamoment;tohearone'sownintellectualviewsechoedbacktoonewithalltheaddedmusicofpassionandyouth; to convey one's temperament into another as though itwere a subtlefluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that—perhaps the mostsatisfying joy left to us in an age so limited and vulgar as our own, an agegrossly carnal in its pleasures, and grossly common in its aims....Hewas amarvellous type, too, this lad,whom by so curious a chance he hadmet inBasil'sstudio,orcouldbefashionedintoamarvelloustype,atanyrate.Gracewas his, and the white purity of boyhood, and beauty such as old Greekmarbles kept for us.Therewasnothing that one couldnot dowithhim.Hecould be made a Titan or a toy. What a pity it was that such beauty wasdestined to fade! ... And Basil? From a psychological point of view, howinterestinghewas!Thenewmannerinart,thefreshmodeoflookingatlife,suggested so strangely by the merely visible presence of one who wasunconsciousofitall;thesilentspiritthatdweltindimwoodland,andwalkedunseen in open field, suddenly showing herself, Dryadlike and not afraid,becauseinhissoulwhosoughtforhertherehadbeenwakenedthatwonderfulvision to which alone are wonderful things revealed; the mere shapes andpatterns of things becoming, as it were, refined, and gaining a kind ofsymbolicalvalue,asthoughtheywerethemselvespatternsofsomeotherandmoreperfectformwhoseshadowtheymadereal:howstrangeitallwas!Heremembered something like it in history. Was it not Plato, that artist inthought,whohadfirstanalyzedit?WasitnotBuonarottiwhohadcarveditinthe colouredmarbles of a sonnet-sequence? But in our own century it wasstrange....Yes;hewould try tobe toDorianGraywhat,withoutknowing it,theladwastothepainterwhohadfashionedthewonderfulportrait.Hewouldseektodominatehim—hadalready,indeed,halfdoneso.Hewouldmakethatwonderfulspirithisown.Therewassomethingfascinatinginthissonofloveanddeath.

Suddenlyhestoppedandglancedupat thehouses.Hefoundthathehadpassedhisaunt'ssomedistance,and,smilingtohimself,turnedback.Whenheenteredthesomewhatsombrehall,thebutlertoldhimthattheyhadgoneinto

lunch.Hegaveoneofthefootmenhishatandstickandpassedintothedining-room.

"Lateasusual,Harry,"criedhisaunt,shakingherheadathim.

Heinventedafacileexcuse,andhavingtakenthevacantseatnexttoher,lookedroundtoseewhowasthere.Dorianbowedtohimshylyfromtheendof the table, a flush of pleasure stealing into his cheek. Opposite was theDuchessofHarley, a ladyofadmirablegood-natureandgood temper,muchlikedbyeveryonewhoknewher,andofthoseamplearchitecturalproportionsthat in women who are not duchesses are described by contemporaryhistorians as stoutness.Next to her sat, on her right, Sir ThomasBurdon, aRadicalmemberofParliament,whofollowedhis leader inpublic lifeand inprivatelifefollowedthebestcooks,diningwiththeToriesandthinkingwiththeLiberals,inaccordancewithawiseandwell-knownrule.Thepostonherleft was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman ofconsiderablecharmandculture,whohad fallen,however, intobadhabitsofsilence,having,asheexplainedoncetoLadyAgatha,saideverythingthathehadtosaybeforehewasthirty.HisownneighbourwasMrs.Vandeleur,oneofhis aunt's oldest friends, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfullydowdy that she remindedoneof a badly boundhymn-book.Fortunately forhim she had on the other side Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-agedmediocrity,asbaldasaministerialstatementintheHouseofCommons,withwhomshewasconversing in that intenselyearnestmannerwhich is theoneunpardonableerror,asheremarkedoncehimself, thatall reallygoodpeoplefallinto,andfromwhichnoneofthemeverquiteescape.

"We are talking about poor Dartmoor, Lord Henry," cried the duchess,noddingpleasantlytohimacrossthetable."Doyouthinkhewillreallymarrythisfascinatingyoungperson?"

"Ibelieveshehasmadeuphermindtoproposetohim,Duchess."

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

"Iamtold,onexcellentauthority, thatherfatherkeepsanAmericandry-goodsstore,"saidSirThomasBurdon,lookingsupercilious.

"Myunclehasalreadysuggestedpork-packing,SirThomas."

"Dry-goods!What are American dry-goods?" asked the duchess, raisingherlargehandsinwonderandaccentuatingtheverb.

"Americannovels,"answeredLordHenry,helpinghimselftosomequail.

Theduchesslookedpuzzled.

"Don't mind him, my dear," whispered Lady Agatha. "He never means

anythingthathesays."

"WhenAmericawasdiscovered,"saidtheRadicalmember—andhebegantogivesomewearisomefacts.Likeallpeoplewhotrytoexhaustasubject,heexhausted his listeners. The duchess sighed and exercised her privilege ofinterruption. "I wish to goodness it never had been discovered at all!" sheexclaimed."Really,ourgirlshavenochancenowadays.Itismostunfair."

"Perhaps,afterall,Americaneverhasbeendiscovered,"saidMr.Erskine;"Imyselfwouldsaythatithadmerelybeendetected."

"Oh!butIhaveseenspecimensoftheinhabitants,"answeredtheduchessvaguely. "I must confess that most of them are extremely pretty. And theydresswell,too.TheygetalltheirdressesinParis.IwishIcouldaffordtodothesame."

"Theysay thatwhengoodAmericansdie theygo toParis,"chuckledSirThomas,whohadalargewardrobeofHumour'scast-offclothes.

"Really!AndwheredobadAmericansgotowhentheydie?"inquiredtheduchess.

"TheygotoAmerica,"murmuredLordHenry.

SirThomasfrowned."Iamafraidthatyournephewisprejudicedagainstthatgreatcountry,"hesaidtoLadyAgatha."Ihavetravelledalloveritincarsprovidedby thedirectors,who, insuchmatters,areextremelycivil. Iassureyouthatitisaneducationtovisitit."

"But must we really see Chicago in order to be educated?" asked Mr.Erskineplaintively."Idon'tfeeluptothejourney."

SirThomaswavedhishand."Mr.ErskineofTreadleyhastheworldonhisshelves. We practical men like to see things, not to read about them. TheAmericans are an extremely interesting people. They are absolutelyreasonable.Ithinkthatistheirdistinguishingcharacteristic.Yes,Mr.Erskine,anabsolutely reasonablepeople. Iassureyou there isnononsenseabout theAmericans."

"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brutereasonisquiteunbearable.Thereissomethingunfairaboutitsuse.Itishittingbelowtheintellect."

"Idonotunderstandyou,"saidSirThomas,growingratherred.

"Ido,LordHenry,"murmuredMr.Erskine,withasmile.

"Paradoxesareallverywellintheirway...."rejoinedthebaronet.

"Was that a paradox?" askedMr.Erskine. "I didnot think so.Perhaps it

was.Well,thewayofparadoxesisthewayoftruth.Totestrealitywemustseeitonthetightrope.Whentheveritiesbecomeacrobats,wecanjudgethem."

"Dearme!"saidLadyAgatha,"howyoumenargue!IamsureInevercanmakeoutwhatyouaretalkingabout.Oh!Harry,Iamquitevexedwithyou.WhydoyoutrytopersuadeourniceMr.DorianGraytogiveuptheEastEnd?Iassureyouhewouldbequiteinvaluable.Theywouldlovehisplaying."

"Iwanthimtoplaytome,"criedLordHenry,smiling,andhelookeddownthetableandcaughtabrightansweringglance.

"ButtheyaresounhappyinWhitechapel,"continuedLadyAgatha.

"I can sympathize with everything except suffering," said Lord Henry,shrugging his shoulders. "I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, toohorrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modernsympathywithpain.One should sympathizewith thecolour, thebeauty, thejoyoflife.Thelesssaidaboutlife'ssores,thebetter."

"Still, the East End is a very important problem," remarked Sir Thomaswithagraveshakeofthehead.

"Quiteso,"answeredtheyounglord."Itistheproblemofslavery,andwetrytosolveitbyamusingtheslaves."

Thepoliticianlookedathimkeenly."Whatchangedoyoupropose,then?"heasked.

LordHenrylaughed."Idon'tdesiretochangeanythinginEnglandexceptthe weather," he answered. "I am quite content with philosophiccontemplation.But, as the nineteenth century has gone bankrupt through anover-expenditure of sympathy, I would suggest that we should appeal tosciencetoputusstraight.Theadvantageoftheemotionsisthattheyleadusastray,andtheadvantageofscienceisthatitisnotemotional."

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

"Terriblygrave,"echoedLadyAgatha.

Lord Henry looked over at Mr. Erskine. "Humanity takes itself tooseriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known how tolaugh,historywouldhavebeendifferent."

"Youarereallyverycomforting,"warbledtheduchess."IhavealwaysfeltratherguiltywhenIcametoseeyourdearaunt,forItakenointerestatallintheEastEnd.For thefuture Ishallbeable to lookher in thefacewithoutablush."

"Ablushisverybecoming,Duchess,"remarkedLordHenry.

"Only when one is young," she answered. "When an old woman likemyselfblushes, it isaverybadsign.Ah!LordHenry,Iwishyouwouldtellmehowtobecomeyoungagain."

He thought for amoment. "Can you remember any great error that youcommitted inyourearlydays,Duchess?"heasked, lookingatheracross thetable.

"Agreatmany,Ifear,"shecried.

"Thencommitthemoveragain,"hesaidgravely."Togetbackone'syouth,onehasmerelytorepeatone'sfollies."

"Adelightfultheory!"sheexclaimed."Imustputitintopractice."

"A dangerous theory!" came from Sir Thomas's tight lips. Lady Agathashookherhead,butcouldnothelpbeingamused.Mr.Erskinelistened.

"Yes," he continued, "that is one of the great secrets of life. Nowadaysmostpeopledieofasortofcreepingcommonsense,anddiscoverwhenitistoolatethattheonlythingsoneneverregretsareone'smistakes."

Alaughranroundthetable.

He played with the idea and grew wilful; tossed it into the air andtransformed it; let it escape and recaptured it;made it iridescentwith fancyandwingeditwithparadox.Thepraiseoffolly,ashewenton,soaredintoaphilosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the madmusicofpleasure,wearing,onemightfancy,herwine-stainedrobeandwreathof ivy, danced like aBacchante over the hills of life, andmocked the slowSilenusforbeingsober.Factsfledbeforeherlikefrightenedforestthings.HerwhitefeettrodthehugepressatwhichwiseOmarsits,tilltheseethinggrape-juiceroseroundherbarelimbsinwavesofpurplebubbles,orcrawledinredfoam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides. It was an extraordinaryimprovisation.HefeltthattheeyesofDorianGraywerefixedonhim,andtheconsciousnessthatamongsthisaudiencetherewasonewhosetemperamenthewishedtofascinateseemedtogivehiswitkeennessandtolendcolourtohisimagination.Hewasbrilliant,fantastic,irresponsible.Hecharmedhislistenersout of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing.DorianGray nevertookhisgazeoffhim,butsatlikeoneunderaspell,smileschasingeachotheroverhislipsandwondergrowinggraveinhisdarkeningeyes.

Atlast,liveriedinthecostumeoftheage,realityenteredtheroomintheshapeofaservanttotelltheduchessthathercarriagewaswaiting.Shewrungherhandsinmockdespair."Howannoying!"shecried."Imustgo.Ihavetocallformyhusbandattheclub,totakehimtosomeabsurdmeetingatWillis'sRooms, where he is going to be in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be

furious,andIcouldn'thaveasceneinthisbonnet.Itisfartoofragile.Aharshwordwouldruinit.No,Imustgo,dearAgatha.Good-bye,LordHenry,youarequitedelightfulanddreadfullydemoralizing.IamsureIdon'tknowwhatto say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night.Tuesday?AreyoudisengagedTuesday?"

"ForyouIwouldthrowoveranybody,Duchess,"saidLordHenrywithabow.

"Ah! that isverynice, andverywrongofyou," shecried; "somindyoucome";andshesweptoutoftheroom,followedbyLadyAgathaandtheotherladies.

When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, andtakingachairclosetohim,placedhishanduponhisarm.

"Youtalkbooksaway,"hesaid;"whydon'tyouwriteone?"

"I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. Ishould like towrite a novel certainly, a novel thatwould be as lovely as aPersian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England foranythingexceptnewspapers,primers,andencyclopaedias.OfallpeopleintheworldtheEnglishhavetheleastsenseofthebeautyofliterature."

"Ifearyouareright,"answeredMr.Erskine."Imyselfusedtohaveliteraryambitions,but Igave themup longago.Andnow,mydearyoung friend, ifyouwillallowme tocallyouso,mayIask ifyoureallymeantall thatyousaidtousatlunch?"

"IquiteforgetwhatIsaid,"smiledLordHenry."Wasitallverybad?"

"Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and ifanything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as beingprimarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. ThegenerationintowhichIwasbornwastedious.Someday,whenyouaretiredofLondon, come down to Treadley and expound to me your philosophy ofpleasureoversomeadmirableBurgundyIamfortunateenoughtopossess."

"Ishallbecharmed.AvisittoTreadleywouldbeagreatprivilege.Ithasaperfecthost,andaperfectlibrary."

"Youwillcompleteit,"answeredtheoldgentlemanwithacourteousbow."And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at theAthenaeum.Itisthehourwhenwesleepthere."

"Allofyou,Mr.Erskine?"

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

LordHenrylaughedandrose."Iamgoingtothepark,"hecried.

Ashewaspassingoutofthedoor,DorianGraytouchedhimonthearm."Letmecomewithyou,"hemurmured.

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

"Iwouldsoonercomewithyou;yes,IfeelImustcomewithyou.Doletme. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks sowonderfullyasyoudo."

"Ah!Ihavetalkedquiteenoughforto-day,"saidLordHenry,smiling."AllIwantnowistolookatlife.Youmaycomeandlookatitwithme,ifyoucareto."

CHAPTER4

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxuriousarm-chair,inthelittlelibraryofLordHenry'shouseinMayfair.Itwas,initsway, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stainedoak,itscream-colouredfriezeandceilingofraisedplasterwork,anditsbrickdust felt carpet strewn with silk, long-fringed Persian rugs. On a tinysatinwoodtablestoodastatuettebyClodion,andbesideit layacopyofLesCentNouvelles, bound forMargaret ofValois byClovisEve and powderedwith thegiltdaisies thatQueenhadselectedforherdevice.Somelargebluechina jars andparrot-tulipswere rangedon themantelshelf, and through thesmall leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-coloured light of asummerdayinLondon.

Lord Henry had not yet come in. He was always late on principle, hisprinciple being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the ladwas lookingrathersulky,aswithlistlessfingersheturnedoverthepagesofanelaboratelyillustrated edition ofManon Lescaut that he had found in one of the book-cases.The formalmonotonous tickingof theLouisQuatorze clock annoyedhim.Onceortwicehethoughtofgoingaway.

At lasthehearda stepoutside, and thedooropened. "How lateyouare,Harry!"hemurmured.

"IamafraiditisnotHarry,Mr.Gray,"answeredashrillvoice.

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

"You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let meintroduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think myhusbandhasgotseventeenofthem."

"Notseventeen,LadyHenry?"

"Well, eighteen, then. And I saw you with him the other night at theopera."Shelaughednervouslyasshespoke,andwatchedhimwithhervagueforget-me-noteyes.Shewasacuriouswoman,whosedressesalways lookedasiftheyhadbeendesignedinarageandputoninatempest.Shewasusuallyinlovewithsomebody,and,asherpassionwasneverreturned,shehadkeptall her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in beinguntidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going tochurch.

"ThatwasatLohengrin,LadyHenry,Ithink?"

"Yes; it was at dear Lohengrin. I like Wagner's music better thananybody's.Itissoloudthatonecantalkthewholetimewithoutotherpeoplehearing what one says. That is a great advantage, don't you think so, Mr.Gray?"

Thesamenervousstaccatolaughbrokefromherthinlips,andherfingersbegantoplaywithalongtortoise-shellpaper-knife.

Dorian smiled and shook his head: "I am afraid I don't think so, LadyHenry. I never talk duringmusic—at least, during goodmusic. If one hearsbadmusic,itisone'sdutytodrownitinconversation."

"Ah!thatisoneofHarry'sviews,isn'tit,Mr.Gray?IalwayshearHarry'sviewsfromhisfriends.ItistheonlywayIgettoknowofthem.ButyoumustnotthinkIdon'tlikegoodmusic.Iadoreit,butIamafraidofit.Itmakesmetoo romantic. Ihavesimplyworshippedpianists—twoata time, sometimes,Harrytellsme.Idon'tknowwhatitisaboutthem.Perhapsitisthattheyareforeigners. They all are, ain't they? Even those that are born in Englandbecomeforeignersafteratime,don'tthey?Itissocleverofthem,andsuchacompliment to art.Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn't it?You have neverbeentoanyofmyparties,haveyou,Mr.Gray?Youmustcome.Ican'taffordorchids,butIsparenoexpenseinforeigners.Theymakeone'sroomslooksopicturesque.Buthere isHarry!Harry, I came in to look foryou, toaskyousomething—I forgetwhat itwas—and I foundMr.Grayhere.Wehavehadsuchapleasantchataboutmusic.Wehavequite thesameideas.No;I thinkourideasarequitedifferent.Buthehasbeenmostpleasant.IamsogladI'veseenhim."

"I amcharmed,my love, quite charmed," saidLordHenry, elevatinghisdark, crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused

smile."SosorryIamlate,Dorian.IwenttolookafterapieceofoldbrocadeinWardourStreetandhadtobargainforhoursforit.Nowadayspeopleknowthepriceofeverythingandthevalueofnothing."

"I am afraid I must be going," exclaimed Lady Henry, breaking anawkwardsilencewithhersillysuddenlaugh."Ihavepromisedtodrivewiththe duchess. Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are dining out, Isuppose?SoamI.PerhapsIshallseeyouatLadyThornbury's."

"I dare say,my dear," saidLordHenry, shutting the door behind her as,lookinglikeabirdofparadisethathadbeenoutallnightintherain,sheflittedoutof the room, leavinga faintodourof frangipanni.Thenhe litacigaretteandflunghimselfdownonthesofa.

"Nevermarryawomanwithstraw-colouredhair,Dorian,"hesaidafterafewpuffs.

"Why,Harry?"

"Becausetheyaresosentimental."

"ButIlikesentimentalpeople."

"Nevermarry at all,Dorian.Menmarry because they are tired;women,becausetheyarecurious:botharedisappointed."

"Idon't thinkIamlikelytomarry,Harry.Iamtoomuchinlove.That isoneofyouraphorisms.Iamputtingitintopractice,asIdoeverythingthatyousay."

"Whoareyouinlovewith?"askedLordHenryafterapause.

"Withanactress,"saidDorianGray,blushing.

LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders."Thatisarathercommonplacedebut."

"Youwouldnotsaysoifyousawher,Harry."

"Whoisshe?"

"HernameisSibylVane."

"Neverheardofher."

"Noonehas.Peoplewillsomeday,however.Sheisagenius."

"Mydearboy,nowomanisagenius.Womenareadecorativesex.Theyneverhaveanythingtosay,but theysayitcharmingly.Womenrepresent thetriumphofmatterovermind,justasmenrepresentthetriumphofmindovermorals."

"Harry,howcanyou?"

"MydearDorian, it is quite true. I amanalysingwomenat present, so Ioughttoknow.ThesubjectisnotsoabstruseasIthoughtitwas.Ifindthat,ultimately,thereareonlytwokindsofwomen,theplainandthecoloured.Theplain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation forrespectability,youhavemerelytotakethemdowntosupper.Theotherwomenareverycharming.Theycommitonemistake,however.Theypaintinordertotry and look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try and talkbrilliantly.Rougeandespritusedtogotogether.Thatisallovernow.Aslongasawomancanlooktenyearsyoungerthanherowndaughter,sheisperfectlysatisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worthtalkingto,andtwoofthesecan'tbeadmittedintodecentsociety.However,tellmeaboutyourgenius.Howlonghaveyouknownher?"

"Ah!Harry,yourviewsterrifyme."

"Nevermindthat.Howlonghaveyouknownher?"

"Aboutthreeweeks."

"Andwheredidyoucomeacrossher?"

"Iwilltellyou,Harry,butyoumustn'tbeunsympatheticaboutit.Afterall,itneverwouldhavehappenedifIhadnotmetyou.Youfilledmewithawilddesire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, somethingseemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the park, or strolled downPiccadilly,Iusedtolookateveryonewhopassedmeandwonder,withamadcuriosity, what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Othersfilledmewithterror.Therewasanexquisitepoisonintheair.Ihadapassionforsensations....Well,oneeveningaboutseveno'clock,Ideterminedtogooutinsearchof someadventure. I felt that thisgreymonstrousLondonofours,withitsmyriadsofpeople,itssordidsinners,anditssplendidsins,asyouoncephrasedit,musthavesomethinginstoreforme.Ifanciedathousandthings.Themeredangergavemeasenseofdelight.Irememberedwhatyouhadsaidto me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about thesearchforbeautybeing therealsecretof life. Idon'tknowwhat Iexpected,butIwentoutandwanderedeastward,soonlosingmywayinalabyrinthofgrimystreetsandblackgrasslesssquares.Abouthalf-pasteightIpassedbyanabsurdlittletheatre,withgreatflaringgas-jetsandgaudyplay-bills.AhideousJew,inthemostamazingwaistcoatIeverbeheldinmylife,wasstandingattheentrance, smokingavilecigar.Hehadgreasy ringlets, andanenormousdiamondblazedinthecentreofasoiledshirt.'Haveabox,myLord?'hesaid,when he sawme, and he took off his hatwith an air of gorgeous servility.There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such amonster.Youwilllaughatme,Iknow,butIreallywentinandpaidawholeguineaforthestage-box.TothepresentdayIcan'tmakeoutwhyIdidso;and

yetifIhadn't—mydearHarry,ifIhadn't—Ishouldhavemissedthegreatestromanceofmylife.Iseeyouarelaughing.Itishorridofyou!"

"I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But youshould not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the firstromanceofyourlife.Youwillalwaysbeloved,andyouwillalwaysbeinlovewithlove.Agrandepassionistheprivilegeofpeoplewhohavenothingtodo.Thatistheoneuseoftheidleclassesofacountry.Don'tbeafraid.Thereareexquisitethingsinstoreforyou.Thisismerelythebeginning."

"Doyouthinkmynaturesoshallow?"criedDorianGrayangrily.

"No;Ithinkyournaturesodeep."

"Howdoyoumean?"

"Mydearboy, thepeoplewholoveonlyonceintheir livesarereallytheshallowpeople.Whattheycalltheirloyalty,andtheirfidelity,Icalleitherthelethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to theemotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect—simply aconfessionoffailure.Faithfulness!Imustanalyseitsomeday.Thepassionforpropertyisinit.Therearemanythingsthatwewouldthrowawayifwewerenotafraidthatothersmightpickthemup.ButIdon'twanttointerruptyou.Goonwithyourstory."

"Well, I foundmyself seated in a horrid little private box,with a vulgardrop-scene staringme in the face. I lookedout frombehind the curtain andsurveyedthehouse.Itwasatawdryaffair,allCupidsandcornucopias,likeathird-ratewedding-cake.Thegalleryandpitwerefairlyfull,butthetworowsof dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what Isuppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges andginger-beer,andtherewasaterribleconsumptionofnutsgoingon."

"ItmusthavebeenjustlikethepalmydaysoftheBritishdrama."

"Justlike,Ishouldfancy,andverydepressing.IbegantowonderwhatonearthIshoulddowhenIcaughtsightoftheplay-bill.Whatdoyouthinktheplaywas,Harry?"

"Ishouldthink'TheIdiotBoy',or'DumbbutInnocent'.Ourfathersusedtolikethatsortofpiece,Ibelieve.ThelongerIlive,Dorian,themorekeenlyIfeelthatwhateverwasgoodenoughforourfathersisnotgoodenoughforus.Inart,asinpolitics,lesgrandperesonttoujourstort."

"Thisplaywasgoodenoughforus,Harry.ItwasRomeoandJuliet.ImustadmitthatIwasratherannoyedattheideaofseeingShakespearedoneinsuchawretchedholeofaplace.Still,Ifeltinterested,inasortofway.Atanyrate,Ideterminedtowaitforthefirstact.Therewasadreadfulorchestra,presided

over by a youngHebrewwho sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drovemeaway,butatlastthedrop-scenewasdrawnupandtheplaybegan.Romeowasastoutelderlygentleman,withcorkedeyebrows,ahuskytragedyvoice,andafigure likeabeer-barrel.Mercutiowasalmostasbad.Hewasplayedby thelow-comedian,whohadintroducedgagsofhisownandwasonmostfriendlytermswiththepit.Theywerebothasgrotesqueasthescenery,andthatlookedas if it had come out of a country-booth. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl,hardlyseventeenyearsofage,withalittle,flowerlikeface,asmallGreekheadwithplaitedcoilsofdark-brownhair,eyes thatwerevioletwellsofpassion,lipsthatwerelikethepetalsofarose.ShewastheloveliestthingIhadeverseen inmy life.Yousaid tomeonce thatpathos leftyouunmoved,but thatbeauty,merebeauty,couldfillyoureyeswithtears.Itellyou,Harry,Icouldhardlyseethisgirlforthemistoftearsthatcameacrossme.Andhervoice—Ineverheardsuchavoice.Itwasverylowatfirst,withdeepmellownotesthatseemed to fall singly upon one's ear. Then it became a little louder, andsounded like a flute or a distant hautboy. In the garden-scene it had all thetremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales aresinging. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion ofviolins.Youknowhowavoicecanstirone.YourvoiceandthevoiceofSibylVane are two things that I shall never forget.When I closemy eyes, I hearthem, and each of them says something different. I don't know which tofollow.WhyshouldInotloveher?Harry,Idoloveher.Sheiseverythingtomeinlife.NightafternightIgotoseeherplay.OneeveningsheisRosalind,and thenext evening she is Imogen. I have seenherdie in thegloomof anItalian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover's lips. I have watched herwanderingthroughtheforestofArden,disguisedasaprettyboyinhoseanddoubletanddaintycap.Shehasbeenmad,andhascomeintothepresenceofaguilty king, and given him rue towear and bitter herbs to taste of. She hasbeen innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reedlikethroat. Ihave seenher in everyageand ineverycostume.Ordinarywomennever appeal to one's imagination. They are limited to their century. Noglamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as oneknowstheirbonnets.Onecanalwaysfindthem.Thereisnomysteryinanyofthem.They ride in the park in themorning and chatter at tea-parties in theafternoon. They have their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner.They are quite obvious. But an actress!How different an actress is!Harry!whydidn'tyoutellmethattheonlythingworthlovingisanactress?"

"BecauseIhavelovedsomanyofthem,Dorian."

"Oh,yes,horridpeoplewithdyedhairandpaintedfaces."

"Don't run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinarycharminthem,sometimes,"saidLordHenry.

"IwishnowIhadnottoldyouaboutSibylVane."

"Youcouldnothavehelpedtellingme,Dorian.Allthroughyourlifeyouwilltellmeeverythingyoudo."

"Yes,Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. Youhave a curious influence overme. If I ever did a crime, Iwould come andconfessittoyou.Youwouldunderstandme."

"People like you—the wilful sunbeams of life—don't commit crimes,Dorian.ButIammuchobligedforthecompliment,allthesame.Andnowtellme—reachme thematches, like a goodboy—thanks—what are your actualrelationswithSibylVane?"

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes."Harry!SibylVaneissacred!"

"It is only the sacred things that areworth touching,Dorian," said LordHenry,witha strange touchofpathos inhisvoice. "Butwhyshouldyoubeannoyed?Isupposeshewillbelongtoyousomeday.Whenoneisinlove,onealways begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceivingothers.That iswhat theworldcallsa romance.Youknowher,atany rate, Isuppose?"

"OfcourseIknowher.OnthefirstnightIwasatthetheatre,thehorridoldJewcameroundtotheboxaftertheperformancewasoverandofferedtotakemebehindthescenesandintroducemetoher.Iwasfuriouswithhim,andtoldhim that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years and that her bodywaslyinginamarbletombinVerona.Ithink,fromhisblanklookofamazement,that hewas under the impression that I had taken toomuch champagne, orsomething."

"Iamnotsurprised."

"ThenheaskedmeifIwroteforanyofthenewspapers.ItoldhimIneverevenreadthem.Heseemedterriblydisappointedat that,andconfidedtomethat all the dramatic criticswere in a conspiracy against him, and that theywereeveryoneofthemtobebought."

"I shouldnotwonder ifhewasquite right there.But,on theotherhand,judgingfromtheirappearance,mostofthemcannotbeatallexpensive."

"Well,heseemedtothinktheywerebeyondhismeans,"laughedDorian."Bythistime,however,thelightswerebeingputoutinthetheatre,andIhadto go. He wanted me to try some cigars that he strongly recommended. Ideclined.Thenextnight,ofcourse,Iarrivedattheplaceagain.Whenhesawme,hemademealowbowandassuredmethatIwasamunificentpatronofart.Hewasamostoffensivebrute,thoughhehadanextraordinarypassionfor

Shakespeare.Hetoldmeonce,withanairofpride,thathisfivebankruptcieswereentirelydue to 'TheBard,'ashe insistedoncallinghim.Heseemed tothinkitadistinction."

"It was a distinction, my dear Dorian—a great distinction. Most peoplebecomebankruptthroughhavinginvestedtooheavilyintheproseoflife.Tohaveruinedone'sselfoverpoetryisanhonour.ButwhendidyoufirstspeaktoMissSibylVane?"

"The third night. She had beenplayingRosalind. I could not help goinground. Ihad thrownher someflowers,andshehad lookedatme—at least Ifancied that she had. The old Jewwas persistent.He seemed determined totakemebehind,soIconsented. Itwascuriousmynotwanting toknowher,wasn'tit?"

"No;Idon'tthinkso."

"MydearHarry,why?"

"Iwilltellyousomeothertime.NowIwanttoknowaboutthegirl."

"Sibyl?Oh, shewas so shyand sogentle.There is somethingof a childabouther.HereyesopenedwideinexquisitewonderwhenI toldherwhatIthoughtofherperformance,andsheseemedquiteunconsciousofherpower.Ithinkwewerebothrathernervous.TheoldJewstoodgrinningatthedoorwayof thedustygreenroom,makingelaborate speeches aboutusboth,whilewestoodlookingateachother likechildren.Hewouldinsistoncallingme 'MyLord,' so Ihad toassureSibyl that Iwasnotanythingof thekind.She saidquite simply to me, 'You look more like a prince. I must call you PrinceCharming.'"

"Uponmyword,Dorian,MissSibylknowshowtopaycompliments."

"Youdon'tunderstandher,Harry.Sheregardedmemerelyasapersoninaplay. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tiredwomanwhoplayedLadyCapuletinasortofmagentadressing-wrapperonthefirstnight,andlooksasifshehadseenbetterdays."

"Iknowthatlook.Itdepressesme,"murmuredLordHenry,examininghisrings.

"TheJewwantedtotellmeherhistory,butIsaiditdidnotinterestme."

"Youwere quite right. There is always something infinitelymean aboutotherpeople'stragedies."

"Sibyl is the only thing I care about.What is it tomewhere she camefrom? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirelydivine.EverynightofmylifeIgotoseeheract,andeverynightsheismore

marvellous."

"Thatisthereason,Isuppose,thatyouneverdinewithmenow.Ithoughtyoumusthavesomecurious romanceonhand.Youhave;but it isnotquitewhatIexpected."

"MydearHarry,weeitherlunchorsuptogethereveryday,andIhavebeento the operawith you several times," saidDorian, opening his blue eyes inwonder.

"Youalwayscomedreadfullylate."

"Well,Ican'thelpgoingtoseeSibylplay,"hecried,"evenifitisonlyforasingleact. Igethungry forherpresence;andwhen I thinkof thewonderfulsoulthatishiddenawayinthatlittleivorybody,Iamfilledwithawe."

"Youcandinewithmeto-night,Dorian,can'tyou?"

He shook his head. "To-night she is Imogen," he answered, "and to-morrownightshewillbeJuliet."

"WhenissheSibylVane?"

"Never."

"Icongratulateyou."

"Howhorridyouare!Sheisallthegreatheroinesoftheworldinone.Sheismorethananindividual.Youlaugh,butItellyoushehasgenius.Iloveher,andImustmakeher loveme.You,whoknowall thesecretsof life, tellmehowtocharmSibylVanetoloveme!IwanttomakeRomeojealous.Iwantthedeadloversoftheworldtohearourlaughterandgrowsad.Iwantabreathof our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, towake their ashes intopain.MyGod,Harry,howIworshipher!"Hewaswalkingupanddowntheroomashespoke.Hecticspotsofredburnedonhischeeks.Hewasterriblyexcited.

LordHenrywatchedhimwithasubtlesenseofpleasure.HowdifferenthewasnowfromtheshyfrightenedboyhehadmetinBasilHallward'sstudio!Hisnaturehaddevelopedlikeaflower,hadborneblossomsofscarletflame.Outofitssecrethiding-placehadcrepthissoul,anddesirehadcometomeetitontheway.

"Andwhatdoyouproposetodo?"saidLordHenryatlast.

"IwantyouandBasiltocomewithmesomenightandseeheract.Ihavenottheslightestfearoftheresult.Youarecertaintoacknowledgehergenius.Thenwemustgetheroutof theJew'shands.She isbound tohimfor threeyears—atleastfortwoyearsandeightmonths—fromthepresenttime.Ishallhavetopayhimsomething,ofcourse.Whenall that issettled,Ishall takea

WestEndtheatreandbringheroutproperly.Shewillmaketheworldasmadasshehasmademe."

"Thatwouldbeimpossible,mydearboy."

"Yes,shewill.Shehasnotmerelyart,consummateart-instinct,inher,butshehaspersonalityalso;andyouhaveoftentoldmethatitispersonalities,notprinciples,thatmovetheage."

"Well,whatnightshallwego?"

"Letmesee.To-dayisTuesday.Letusfixto-morrow.SheplaysJulietto-morrow."

"Allright.TheBristolateighto'clock;andIwillgetBasil."

"Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before thecurtainrises.Youmustseeherinthefirstact,whereshemeetsRomeo."

"Half-pastsix!Whatanhour!Itwillbelikehavingameat-tea,orreadinganEnglishnovel. Itmust be seven.Nogentlemandinesbefore seven.ShallyouseeBasilbetweenthisandthen?OrshallIwritetohim?"

"DearBasil!Ihavenotlaideyesonhimforaweek.Itisratherhorridofme, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, speciallydesignedbyhimself,and,thoughIamalittlejealousofthepictureforbeingawholemonthyoungerthanIam,ImustadmitthatIdelightinit.Perhapsyouhad better write to him. I don't want to see him alone. He says things thatannoyme.Hegivesmegoodadvice."

LordHenrysmiled."Peopleareveryfondofgivingawaywhattheyneedmostthemselves.ItiswhatIcallthedepthofgenerosity."

"Oh,Basil is thebestoffellows,butheseemstometobejustabitofaPhilistine.SinceIhaveknownyou,Harry,Ihavediscoveredthat."

"Basil,mydearboy,putseverythingthatischarminginhimintohiswork.The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, hisprinciples,andhiscommonsense.TheonlyartistsIhaveeverknownwhoarepersonally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what theymake,andconsequentlyareperfectlyuninteresting inwhat theyare.Agreatpoet, a reallygreatpoet, is themostunpoeticalof all creatures.But inferiorpoets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the morepicturesque they look.Themere factofhavingpublishedabookof second-ratesonnetsmakesamanquiteirresistible.Helivesthepoetrythathecannotwrite.Theotherswritethepoetrythattheydarenotrealize."

"I wonder is that really so, Harry?" said Dorian Gray, putting someperfumeonhishandkerchiefoutofa large,gold-toppedbottle that stoodon

thetable."Itmustbe,ifyousayit.AndnowIamoff.Imogeniswaitingforme.Don'tforgetaboutto-morrow.Good-bye."

Ashelefttheroom,LordHenry'sheavyeyelidsdrooped,andhebegantothink.CertainlyfewpeoplehadeverinterestedhimsomuchasDorianGray,andyetthelad'smadadorationofsomeoneelsecausedhimnottheslightestpang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him amoreinteresting study. He had been always enthralled by themethods of naturalscience, but the ordinary subject-matter of that science had seemed to himtrivial andofno import.And sohehadbegunbyvivisectinghimself, ashehad ended by vivisecting others.Human life—that appeared to him the onethingworthinvestigating.Comparedtoittherewasnothingelseofanyvalue.Itwastruethatasonewatchedlifeinitscuriouscrucibleofpainandpleasure,onecouldnotwearoverone'sfaceamaskofglass,norkeepthesulphurousfumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid withmonstrousfanciesandmisshapendreams.Therewerepoisonssosubtlethattoknow their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies sostrange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand theirnature.And,yet,whatagreatrewardonereceived!Howwonderfulthewholeworld became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and theemotionalcolouredlifeoftheintellect—toobservewheretheymet,andwheretheyseparated,atwhatpointtheywereinunison,andatwhatpointtheywereatdiscord—therewasadelight inthat!Whatmatterwhatthecostwas?Onecouldneverpaytoohighapriceforanysensation.

Hewasconscious—and the thoughtbroughtagleamofpleasure intohisbrown agate eyes—that it was through certainwords of his,musical wordssaidwithmusicalutterance, thatDorianGray'ssoulhad turned to thiswhitegirlandbowed inworshipbeforeher.Toa largeextent the ladwashisowncreation.Hehadmadehimpremature.Thatwassomething.Ordinarypeoplewaited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, themysteries of lifewere revealed before the veilwas drawn away. Sometimesthis was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealtimmediatelywiththepassionsandtheintellect.Butnowandthenacomplexpersonality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in itsway,a realworkofart, lifehaving itselaboratemasterpieces, just aspoetryhas,orsculpture,orpainting.

Yes,theladwaspremature.Hewasgatheringhisharvestwhileitwasyetspring.Thepulseandpassionofyouthwereinhim,buthewasbecomingself-conscious. It was delightful to watch him.With his beautiful face, and hisbeautifulsoul,hewasathingtowonderat.Itwasnomatterhowitallended,orwasdestinedtoend.Hewaslikeoneofthosegraciousfiguresinapageantor a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir

one'ssenseofbeauty,andwhosewoundsarelikeredroses.

Soul and body, body and soul—how mysterious they were! There wasanimalisminthesoul,andthebodyhaditsmomentsofspirituality.Thesensescouldrefine,andtheintellectcoulddegrade.Whocouldsaywherethefleshlyimpulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were thearbitrarydefinitionsofordinarypsychologists!Andyethowdifficulttodecidebetweentheclaimsofthevariousschools!Wasthesoulashadowseatedinthehouseofsin?Orwasthebodyreallyinthesoul,asGiordanoBrunothought?Theseparationofspiritfrommatterwasamystery,andtheunionofspiritwithmatterwasamysteryalso.

Hebegantowonderwhetherwecouldevermakepsychologysoabsoluteascience that each little springof lifewouldbe revealed tous.As itwas,wealwaysmisunderstoodourselvesandrarelyunderstoodothers.Experiencewasof no ethical value. It was merely the name men gave to their mistakes.Moralistshad,asarule,regardeditasamodeofwarning,hadclaimedforitacertain ethical efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it assomething that taught uswhat to follow and showed uswhat to avoid. Buttherewasnomotivepowerinexperience.Itwasaslittleofanactivecauseasconscienceitself.Allthatitreallydemonstratedwasthatourfuturewouldbethesameasourpast,andthatthesinwehaddoneonce,andwithloathing,wewoulddomanytimes,andwithjoy.

Itwascleartohimthattheexperimentalmethodwastheonlymethodbywhichonecouldarriveatanyscientificanalysisofthepassions;andcertainlyDorianGraywasasubjectmadetohishand,andseemedtopromiserichandfruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychologicalphenomenonofnosmallinterest.Therewasnodoubtthatcuriosityhadmuchto dowith it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet itwas not asimple,butratheraverycomplexpassion.Whattherewasinitofthepurelysensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of theimagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to beremotefromsense,andwasforthatveryreasonallthemoredangerous.Itwasthepassionsaboutwhoseoriginwedeceivedourselves that tyrannizedmoststronglyoverus.Ourweakestmotiveswere thoseofwhosenaturewewereconscious.Itoftenhappenedthatwhenwethoughtwewereexperimentingonotherswewerereallyexperimentingonourselves.

WhileLordHenrysatdreamingonthesethings,aknockcametothedoor,andhisvaletenteredandremindedhimitwastimetodressfordinner.Hegotupandlookedoutintothestreet.Thesunsethadsmittenintoscarletgoldtheupperwindowsofthehousesopposite.Thepanesglowedlikeplatesofheatedmetal.Theskyabovewaslikeafadedrose.Hethoughtofhisfriend'syoungfiery-colouredlifeandwonderedhowitwasallgoingtoend.

Whenhearrivedhome,abouthalf-pasttwelveo'clock,hesawatelegramlyingonthehalltable.HeopeneditandfounditwasfromDorianGray.ItwastotellhimthathewasengagedtobemarriedtoSibylVane.

CHAPTER5

"Mother,Mother,Iamsohappy!"whisperedthegirl,buryingherfaceinthelapofthefaded,tired-lookingwomanwho,withbackturnedtotheshrillintrusive light,was sitting in theonearm-chair that theirdingy sitting-roomcontained."Iamsohappy!"sherepeated,"andyoumustbehappy,too!"

Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on herdaughter's head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl,when I seeyouact.Youmustnotthinkofanythingbutyouracting.Mr.Isaacshasbeenverygoodtous,andweowehimmoney."

Thegirl lookedup andpouted. "Money,Mother?" she cried, "what doesmoneymatter?Loveismorethanmoney."

"Mr.IsaacshasadvancedusfiftypoundstopayoffourdebtsandtogetaproperoutfitforJames.Youmustnotforgetthat,Sibyl.Fiftypoundsisaverylargesum.Mr.Isaacshasbeenmostconsiderate."

"Heisnotagentleman,Mother,andIhatethewayhetalkstome,"saidthegirl,risingtoherfeetandgoingovertothewindow.

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

SibylVane tossed her head and laughed. "We don'twant him anymore,Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A roseshookinherbloodandshadowedhercheeks.Quickbreathpartedthepetalsofher lips.They trembled.Somesouthernwindofpassion sweptoverherandstirredthedaintyfoldsofherdress."Ilovehim,"shesaidsimply.

"Foolishchild!foolishchild!"wastheparrot-phraseflunginanswer.Thewavingofcrooked,false-jewelledfingersgavegrotesquenesstothewords.

Thegirllaughedagain.Thejoyofacagedbirdwasinhervoice.Hereyescaught themelody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for amoment, asthoughtohidetheirsecret.Whentheyopened,themistofadreamhadpassedacrossthem.

Thin-lippedwisdomspokeatherfromthewornchair,hintedatprudence,quotedfromthatbookofcowardicewhoseauthorapesthenameofcommon

sense.Shedidnot listen.Shewas free inherprisonofpassion.Herprince,PrinceCharming,waswithher.Shehadcalledonmemorytoremakehim.Shehad sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kissburnedagainuponhermouth.Hereyelidswerewarmwithhisbreath.

Thenwisdomaltered itsmethodand spokeof espial anddiscovery.Thisyoungmanmight be rich. If so,marriage shouldbe thoughtof.Against theshellofherearbrokethewavesofworldlycunning.Thearrowsofcraftshotbyher.Shesawthethinlipsmoving,andsmiled.

Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her."Mother,Mother,"shecried,"whydoeshe lovemesomuch?IknowwhyIlovehim.Ilovehimbecauseheislikewhatlovehimselfshouldbe.Butwhatdoes he see inme? I amnotworthyof him.Andyet—why, I cannot tell—thoughIfeelsomuchbeneathhim,Idon'tfeelhumble.Ifeelproud,terriblyproud.Mother,didyoulovemyfatherasIlovePrinceCharming?"

The elderwoman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed hercheeks, andherdry lips twitchedwitha spasmofpain.Sybil rushed toher,flungherarmsroundherneck,andkissedher."Forgiveme,Mother.Iknowitpainsyoutotalkaboutourfather.Butitonlypainsyoubecauseyoulovedhimsomuch.Don't looksosad. Iamashappy to-dayasyouwere twentyyearsago.Ah!letmebehappyforever!"

"Mychild,youarefartooyoungtothinkoffallinginlove.Besides,whatdoyouknowofthisyoungman?Youdon'tevenknowhisname.Thewholethingismostinconvenient,andreally,whenJamesisgoingawaytoAustralia,andIhavesomuchtothinkof,Imustsaythatyoushouldhaveshownmoreconsideration.However,asIsaidbefore,ifheisrich..."

"Ah!Mother,Mother,letmebehappy!"

Mrs.Vaneglanced at her, andwithoneof those false theatrical gesturesthatsooftenbecomeamodeofsecondnaturetoastage-player,claspedherinherarms.Atthismoment,thedooropenedandayoungladwithroughbrownhair came into the room.Hewas thick-set of figure, andhis hands and feetwerelargeandsomewhatclumsyinmovement.Hewasnotsofinelybredashis sister.Onewouldhardlyhaveguessed theclose relationship that existedbetweenthem.Mrs.Vanefixedhereyesonhimandintensifiedhersmile.Shementallyelevatedhersontothedignityofanaudience.Shefeltsurethatthetableauwasinteresting.

"Youmightkeepsomeofyourkissesforme,Sibyl,Ithink,"saidtheladwithagood-naturedgrumble.

"Ah!butyoudon'tlikebeingkissed,Jim,"shecried."Youareadreadfuloldbear."Andsheranacrosstheroomandhuggedhim.

JamesVane looked into his sister's facewith tenderness. "Iwant you tocomeoutwithmeforawalk,Sibyl.Idon'tsupposeIshalleverseethishorridLondonagain.IamsureIdon'twantto."

"Myson,don'tsaysuchdreadfulthings,"murmuredMrs.Vane,takingupatawdrytheatricaldress,withasigh,andbeginningtopatchit.Shefeltalittledisappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased thetheatricalpicturesquenessofthesituation.

"Whynot,Mother?Imeanit."

"Youpainme,myson.ItrustyouwillreturnfromAustraliainapositionofaffluence.IbelievethereisnosocietyofanykindintheColonies—nothingthat I would call society—sowhen you havemade your fortune, youmustcomebackandassertyourselfinLondon."

"Society!"muttered the lad. "Idon'twant toknowanythingabout that. IshouldliketomakesomemoneytotakeyouandSibyloffthestage.Ihateit."

"Oh, Jim!" saidSibyl, laughing, "howunkindofyou!But areyou reallygoingforawalkwithme?Thatwillbenice!Iwasafraidyouweregoingtosay good-bye to some of your friends—to Tom Hardy, who gave you thathideouspipe,orNedLangton,whomakesfunofyouforsmokingit.Itisverysweetofyoutoletmehaveyourlastafternoon.Whereshallwego?Letusgotothepark."

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

"Nonsense,Jim,"shewhispered,strokingthesleeveofhiscoat.

Hehesitatedforamoment."Verywell,"hesaidat last,"butdon'tbe toolongdressing."Shedancedoutofthedoor.Onecouldhearhersingingassheranupstairs.Herlittlefeetpatteredoverhead.

Hewalkedupanddowntheroomtwoorthreetimes.Thenheturnedtothestillfigureinthechair."Mother,aremythingsready?"heasked.

"Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. Forsomemonthspastshehadfeltillateasewhenshewasalonewiththisroughsternsonofhers.Hershallowsecretnaturewastroubledwhentheireyesmet.She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made nootherobservation,becameintolerabletoher.Shebegantocomplain.Womendefend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strangesurrenders. "Ihopeyouwill be contented, James,withyour sea-faring life,"she said. "Youmust remember that it is your own choice. Youmight haveentereda solicitor'soffice.Solicitors are avery respectable class, and in thecountryoftendinewiththebestfamilies."

"I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite right. Ihavechosenmyownlife.AllIsayis,watchoverSibyl.Don'tlethercometoanyharm.Mother,youmustwatchoverher."

"James,youreallytalkverystrangely.OfcourseIwatchoverSibyl."

"Ihear agentlemancomeseverynight to the theatre andgoesbehind totalktoher.Isthatright?Whataboutthat?"

"You are speaking about things you don't understand, James. In theprofession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifyingattention.Imyselfusedtoreceivemanybouquetsatonetime.Thatwaswhenactingwasreallyunderstood.AsforSibyl,Idonotknowatpresentwhetherherattachmentisseriousornot.Butthereisnodoubtthattheyoungmaninquestion isaperfectgentleman.Heisalwaysmostpolite tome.Besides,hehastheappearanceofbeingrich,andtheflowershesendsarelovely."

"Youdon'tknowhisname,though,"saidtheladharshly.

"No,"answeredhismotherwithaplacidexpression inher face. "Hehasnot yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He isprobablyamemberofthearistocracy."

JamesVanebithislip."WatchoverSibyl,Mother,"hecried,"watchoverher."

"My son, you distressme verymuch. Sibyl is always undermy specialcare.Ofcourse,ifthisgentlemaniswealthy,thereisnoreasonwhysheshouldnotcontractanalliancewithhim.Itrustheisoneofthearistocracy.Hehasalltheappearanceofit,Imustsay.ItmightbeamostbrilliantmarriageforSibyl.They would make a charming couple. His good looks are really quiteremarkable;everybodynoticesthem."

Theladmutteredsomethingtohimselfanddrummedonthewindow-panewithhiscoarsefingers.Hehadjust turnedroundtosaysomethingwhenthedooropenedandSibylranin.

"Howseriousyoubothare!"shecried."Whatisthematter?"

"Nothing,"heanswered."Isupposeonemustbeserioussometimes.Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o'clock. Everything is packed,exceptmyshirts,soyouneednottrouble."

"Good-bye,myson,"sheansweredwithabowofstrainedstateliness.

Shewasextremelyannoyedatthetonehehadadoptedwithher,andtherewassomethinginhislookthathadmadeherfeelafraid.

"Kissme,Mother,"saidthegirl.Herflowerlikelipstouchedthewitheredcheekandwarmeditsfrost.

"Mychild!mychild!"criedMrs.Vane,lookinguptotheceilinginsearchofanimaginarygallery.

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

Theywentoutintotheflickering,wind-blownsunlightandstrolleddownthedrearyEustonRoad.Thepassersbyglancedinwonderatthesullenheavyyouth who, in coarse, ill-fitting clothes, was in the company of such agraceful,refined-lookinggirl.Hewaslikeacommongardenerwalkingwitharose.

Jim frowned from time to timewhenhe caught the inquisitiveglanceofsomestranger.Hehadthatdislikeofbeingstaredat,whichcomesongeniuseslate in life and never leaves the commonplace. Sibyl, however, was quiteunconscious of the effect she was producing. Her love was trembling inlaughteronherlips.ShewasthinkingofPrinceCharming,and,thatshemightthinkofhimall themore, shedidnot talkofhim,butprattledonabout theship inwhich Jimwas going to sail, about the gold hewas certain to find,aboutthewonderfulheiresswhoselifehewastosavefromthewicked,red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, orwhateverhewasgoingtobe.Oh,no!Asailor'sexistencewasdreadful.Fancybeingcoopedupinahorridship,withthehoarse,hump-backedwavestryingtogetin,andablackwindblowingthemastsdownandtearingthesailsintolongscreamingribands!HewastoleavethevesselatMelbourne,bidapolitegood-byetothecaptain,andgooffatoncetothegold-fields.Beforeaweekwasoverhewastocomeacrossalargenuggetofpuregold,thelargestnuggetthat had ever been discovered, and bring it down to the coast in a waggonguardedbysixmountedpolicemen.Thebushrangersweretoattackthemthreetimes,andbedefeatedwithimmenseslaughter.Or,no.Hewasnottogotothegold-fields at all. Theywere horrid places, wheremen got intoxicated, andshot each other in bar-rooms, and used bad language. He was to be a nicesheep-farmer, and one evening, as he was riding home, he was to see thebeautiful heiress being carried off by a robber on a black horse, and givechase,andrescueher.Ofcourse,shewouldfallinlovewithhim,andhewithher, and they would get married, and come home, and live in an immensehouse inLondon.Yes, therewere delightful things in store for him.But hemustbeverygood,andnotlosehistemper,orspendhismoneyfoolishly.Shewas only a year older thanhewas, but she knew somuchmore of life.Hemustbesure,also,towritetoherbyeverymail,andtosayhisprayerseachnightbeforehewenttosleep.Godwasverygood,andwouldwatchoverhim.Shewouldprayforhim,too,andinafewyearshewouldcomebackquiterichandhappy.

The lad listenedsulkily toherandmadenoanswer.Hewasheart-sickat

leavinghome.

Yetitwasnotthisalonethatmadehimgloomyandmorose.Inexperiencedthoughhewas, he had still a strong sense of the danger ofSibyl's position.Thisyoungdandywhowasmakinglovetohercouldmeanhernogood.Hewasagentleman,andhehatedhimforthat,hatedhimthroughsomecuriousrace-instinctforwhichhecouldnotaccount,andwhichforthatreasonwasallthemoredominantwithinhim.Hewasconsciousalsooftheshallownessandvanityofhismother'snature,andinthatsawinfiniteperilforSibylandSibyl'shappiness. Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older theyjudgethem;sometimestheyforgivethem.

Hismother!Hehadsomethingonhismindtoaskofher,somethingthathehadbroodedonformanymonthsofsilence.Achancephrasethathehadheardat the theatre, a whispered sneer that had reached his ears one night as hewaited at the stage-door, had set loose a train of horrible thoughts. Heremembereditasifithadbeenthelashofahunting-cropacrosshisface.Hisbrowsknittogetherintoawedge-likefurrow,andwithatwitchofpainhebithisunderlip.

"YouarenotlisteningtoawordIamsaying,Jim,"criedSibyl,"andIammakingthemostdelightfulplansforyourfuture.Dosaysomething."

"Whatdoyouwantmetosay?"

"Oh!thatyouwillbeagoodboyandnotforgetus,"sheanswered,smilingathim.

Heshruggedhisshoulders."YouaremorelikelytoforgetmethanIamtoforgetyou,Sibyl."

Sheflushed."Whatdoyoumean,Jim?"sheasked.

"You have a new friend, I hear.Who is he?Why have you not toldmeabouthim?Hemeansyounogood."

"Stop,Jim!"sheexclaimed."Youmustnotsayanythingagainsthim.Ilovehim."

"Why, youdon't evenknowhis name," answered the lad. "Who is he? Ihavearighttoknow."

"HeiscalledPrinceCharming.Don'tyoulikethename.Oh!yousillyboy!youshouldneverforgetit.Ifyouonlysawhim,youwouldthinkhimthemostwonderfulpersonintheworld.Somedayyouwillmeethim—whenyoucomebackfromAustralia.Youwilllikehimsomuch.Everybodylikeshim,andI...love him. Iwish you could come to the theatre to-night.He is going to bethere,andIamtoplayJuliet.Oh!howIshallplayit!Fancy,Jim,tobeinloveandplayJuliet!Tohavehimsittingthere!Toplayforhisdelight!IamafraidI

may frighten the company, frighten or enthrall them. To be in love is tosurpass one's self. Poor dreadfulMr. Isaacs will be shouting 'genius' to hisloafersatthebar.Hehaspreachedmeasadogma;to-nighthewillannouncemeasa revelation. I feel it.And it isallhis,hisonly,PrinceCharming,mywonderful lover,my god of graces.But I am poor beside him. Poor?Whatdoesthatmatter?Whenpovertycreepsinatthedoor,lovefliesinthroughthewindow.Our proverbs want rewriting. Theyweremade in winter, and it issummernow; spring-time forme, I think, a verydanceof blossoms inblueskies."

"Heisagentleman,"saidtheladsullenly.

"Aprince!"shecriedmusically."Whatmoredoyouwant?"

"Hewantstoenslaveyou."

"Ishudderatthethoughtofbeingfree."

"Iwantyoutobewareofhim."

"Toseehimistoworshiphim;toknowhimistotrusthim."

"Sibyl,youaremadabouthim."

Shelaughedandtookhisarm."YoudearoldJim,youtalkasifyouwereahundred.Somedayyouwillbeinloveyourself.Thenyouwillknowwhatitis.Don'tlooksosulky.Surelyyoushouldbegladtothinkthat,thoughyouaregoingaway,youleavemehappierthanIhaveeverbeenbefore.Lifehasbeenhardforusboth,terriblyhardanddifficult.Butitwillbedifferentnow.Youaregoingtoanewworld,andIhavefoundone.Herearetwochairs;letussitdownandseethesmartpeoplegoby."

Theytooktheirseatsamidstacrowdofwatchers.Thetulip-bedsacrosstheroad flamed like throbbing rings of fire. Awhite dust—tremulous cloud oforris-root it seemed—hung in thepantingair.Thebrightlycolouredparasolsdancedanddippedlikemonstrousbutterflies.

Shemadeherbrother talkofhimself,hishopes,hisprospects.Hespokeslowlyandwitheffort.Theypassedwordstoeachotherasplayersatagamepass counters. Sibyl felt oppressed. She could not communicate her joy. Afaint smile curving that sullenmouthwas all the echo she couldwin.Aftersome time shebecamesilent.Suddenly shecaught aglimpseofgoldenhairandlaughinglips,andinanopencarriagewithtwoladiesDorianGraydrovepast.

Shestartedtoherfeet."Thereheis!"shecried.

"Who?"saidJimVane.

"PrinceCharming,"sheanswered,lookingafterthevictoria.

Hejumpedupandseizedherroughlybythearm."Showhimtome.Whichishe?Pointhimout. Imustseehim!"heexclaimed;butat thatmoment theDukeofBerwick'sfour-in-handcamebetween,andwhenithadleftthespaceclear,thecarriagehadsweptoutofthepark.

"Heisgone,"murmuredSibylsadly."Iwishyouhadseenhim."

"IwishIhad,forassureasthereisaGodinheaven,ifheeverdoesyouanywrong,Ishallkillhim."

Shelookedathiminhorror.Herepeatedhiswords.Theycuttheairlikeadagger.Thepeopleroundbegantogape.Aladystandingclosetohertittered.

"Comeaway,Jim;comeaway,"shewhispered.Hefollowedherdoggedlyasshepassedthroughthecrowd.Hefeltgladatwhathehadsaid.

WhentheyreachedtheAchillesStatue,sheturnedround.Therewaspityinhereyesthatbecamelaughteronherlips.Sheshookherheadathim."Youarefoolish,Jim,utterlyfoolish;abad-temperedboy,thatisall.Howcanyousaysuchhorriblethings?Youdon'tknowwhatyouaretalkingabout.Youaresimply jealous and unkind.Ah! Iwish youwould fall in love. Lovemakespeoplegood,andwhatyousaidwaswicked."

"Iamsixteen,"heanswered,"andIknowwhatIamabout.Motherisnohelptoyou.Shedoesn'tunderstandhowtolookafteryou.IwishnowthatIwasnotgoingtoAustraliaatall.Ihaveagreatmindtochuckthewholethingup.Iwould,ifmyarticleshadn'tbeensigned."

"Oh,don'tbesoserious,Jim.YouarelikeoneoftheheroesofthosesillymelodramasMotherusedtobesofondofactingin.Iamnotgoingtoquarrelwithyou.Ihaveseenhim,andoh!toseehimisperfecthappiness.Wewon'tquarrel.IknowyouwouldneverharmanyoneIlove,wouldyou?"

"Notaslongasyoulovehim,Isuppose,"wasthesullenanswer.

"Ishalllovehimforever!"shecried.

"Andhe?"

"Forever,too!"

"Hehadbetter."

Sheshrankfromhim.Thenshelaughedandputherhandonhisarm.Hewasmerelyaboy.

AttheMarbleArchtheyhailedanomnibus,whichleftthemclosetotheirshabbyhomeintheEustonRoad.Itwasafterfiveo'clock,andSibylhadtoliedownforacoupleofhoursbeforeacting.Jiminsistedthatsheshoulddoso.Hesaidthathewouldsoonerpartwithherwhentheirmotherwasnotpresent.

Shewouldbesuretomakeascene,andhedetestedscenesofeverykind.

InSybil'sownroomtheyparted.Therewasjealousyinthelad'sheart,andafiercemurderoushatredofthestrangerwho,asitseemedtohim,hadcomebetweenthem.Yet,whenherarmswereflungroundhisneck,andherfingersstrayedthroughhishair,hesoftenedandkissedherwithrealaffection.Thereweretearsinhiseyesashewentdownstairs.

Hismotherwaswaitingforhimbelow.Shegrumbledathisunpunctuality,asheentered.Hemadenoanswer,butsatdowntohismeagremeal.Thefliesbuzzedroundthetableandcrawledoverthestainedcloth.Throughtherumbleofomnibuses,and theclatterof street-cabs,hecouldhear thedroningvoicedevouringeachminutethatwaslefttohim.

Aftersometime,hethrustawayhisplateandputhisheadinhishands.Hefelt thathehada right toknow.Itshouldhavebeen told tohimbefore, if itwas as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Wordsdroppedmechanicallyfromherlips.Atatteredlacehandkerchieftwitchedinherfingers.Whentheclockstrucksix,hegotupandwenttothedoor.Thenheturnedbackandlookedather.Theireyesmet.Inhershesawawildappealformercy.Itenragedhim.

"Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wanderedvaguelyabouttheroom.Shemadenoanswer."Tellmethetruth.Ihavearighttoknow.Wereyoumarriedtomyfather?"

Sheheavedadeepsigh. Itwasasighof relief.The terriblemoment, themomentthatnightandday,forweeksandmonths,shehaddreaded,hadcomeat last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was adisappointmenttoher.Thevulgardirectnessofthequestioncalledforadirectanswer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. Itremindedherofabadrehearsal.

"No,"sheanswered,wonderingattheharshsimplicityoflife.

"Myfatherwasascoundrelthen!"criedthelad,clenchinghisfists.

She shookherhead. "I knewhewasnot free.We loved eachotherverymuch. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don't speakagainst him,my son.Hewas your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, hewashighlyconnected."

Anoathbrokefromhislips."Idon'tcareformyself,"heexclaimed,"butdon'tletSibyl....Itisagentleman,isn'tit,whoisinlovewithher,orsaysheis?Highlyconnected,too,Isuppose."

Foramomentahideoussenseofhumiliationcameover thewoman.Herheaddrooped.Shewipedhereyeswithshakinghands."Sibylhasamother,"

shemurmured;"Ihadnone."

Theladwastouched.Hewenttowardsher,andstoopingdown,hekissedher."IamsorryifIhavepainedyoubyaskingaboutmyfather,"hesaid,"butIcouldnothelpit.Imustgonow.Good-bye.Don'tforgetthatyouwillhaveonlyonechildnowtolookafter,andbelievemethatifthismanwrongsmysister, Iwill find outwho he is, track himdown, and kill him like a dog. Iswearit."

The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture thataccompanied it, themadmelodramaticwords,made life seemmorevivid toher.Shewasfamiliarwiththeatmosphere.Shebreathedmorefreely,andforthe first time formanymonths she really admired her son. Shewould havelikedtohavecontinuedthesceneonthesameemotionalscale,buthecuthershort.Trunks had to be carried down andmufflers looked for.The lodging-housedrudgebustledinandout.Therewasthebargainingwiththecabman.The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling ofdisappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from thewindow, as her sondrove away.Shewas conscious that a great opportunityhadbeenwasted.SheconsoledherselfbytellingSibylhowdesolateshefelther life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. Sheremembered thephrase. Ithadpleasedher.Of the threatshesaidnothing. Itwasvividlyanddramaticallyexpressed.Shefeltthattheywouldalllaughatitsomeday.

CHAPTER6

"Isupposeyouhaveheardthenews,Basil?"saidLordHenrythateveningasHallwardwasshownintoa littleprivateroomat theBristolwheredinnerhadbeenlaidforthree.

"No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowingwaiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don't interestme.There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting,thoughmanyofthemwouldbethebetterforalittlewhitewashing."

"DorianGrayisengagedtobemarried,"saidLordHenry,watchinghimashespoke.

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

"Itisperfectlytrue."

"Towhom?"

"Tosomelittleactressorother."

"Ican'tbelieveit.Dorianisfartoosensible."

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

"Marriageishardlyathingthatonecandonowandthen,Harry."

"Except inAmerica,"rejoinedLordHenrylanguidly."ButIdidn'tsayhewasmarried.Isaidhewasengagedtobemarried.Thereisagreatdifference.Ihaveadistinctremembranceofbeingmarried,butIhavenorecollectionatallofbeingengaged.IaminclinedtothinkthatIneverwasengaged."

"ButthinkofDorian'sbirth,andposition,andwealth.Itwouldbeabsurdforhimtomarrysomuchbeneathhim."

"Ifyouwanttomakehimmarrythisgirl,tellhimthat,Basil.Heissuretodoit,then.Wheneveramandoesathoroughlystupidthing,itisalwaysfromthenoblestmotives."

"Ihopethegirlisgood,Harry.Idon'twanttoseeDoriantiedtosomevilecreature,whomightdegradehisnatureandruinhisintellect."

"Oh, she is better than good—she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry,sippingaglassofvermouthandorange-bitters."Doriansayssheisbeautiful,andheisnotoftenwrongaboutthingsofthatkind.Yourportraitofhimhasquickenedhisappreciationofthepersonalappearanceofotherpeople.Ithashadthatexcellenteffect,amongstothers.Wearetoseeherto-night,ifthatboydoesn'tforgethisappointment."

"Areyouserious?"

"Quite serious,Basil. I shouldbemiserable if I thought I shouldeverbemoreseriousthanIamatthepresentmoment."

"Butdoyouapproveofit,Harry?"askedthepainter,walkingupanddowntheroomandbitinghislip."Youcan'tapproveofit,possibly.Itissomesillyinfatuation."

"Ineverapprove,ordisapprove,ofanythingnow.Itisanabsurdattitudetotaketowardslife.Wearenotsentintotheworldtoairourmoralprejudices.Inevertakeanynoticeofwhatcommonpeoplesay,andIneverinterferewithwhat charming people do. If a personality fascinatesme,whatevermode ofexpressionthatpersonalityselectsisabsolutelydelightfultome.DorianGrayfalls in lovewithabeautifulgirlwhoactsJuliet,andproposes tomarryher.Whynot?IfheweddedMessalina,hewouldbenonethelessinteresting.YouknowIamnotachampionofmarriage.Therealdrawbacktomarriageisthat

it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lackindividuality.Still, therearecertain temperaments thatmarriagemakesmorecomplex.Theyretain theiregotism,andaddto itmanyotheregos.Theyareforcedtohavemorethanonelife.Theybecomemorehighlyorganized,andtobehighlyorganizedis,Ishouldfancy,theobjectofman'sexistence.Besides,everyexperienceisofvalue,andwhateveronemaysayagainstmarriage,itiscertainlyanexperience.IhopethatDorianGraywillmakethisgirlhiswife,passionately adoreher for sixmonths, and then suddenlybecome fascinatedbysomeoneelse.Hewouldbeawonderfulstudy."

"Youdon'tmeanasinglewordofall that,Harry;youknowyoudon't. IfDorianGray'slifewerespoiled,noonewouldbesorrierthanyourself.Youaremuchbetterthanyoupretendtobe."

LordHenrylaughed."Thereasonweall liketothinksowellofothersisthatweareallafraidforourselves.Thebasisofoptimismissheerterror.Wethink that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with thepossessionofthosevirtuesthatarelikelytobeabenefittous.Wepraisethebanker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in thehighwaymaninthehopethathemayspareourpockets.ImeaneverythingthatIhavesaid.Ihavethegreatestcontemptforoptimism.Asforaspoiledlife,nolifeisspoiledbutonewhosegrowthisarrested.Ifyouwanttomaranature,youhavemerelytoreformit.Asformarriage,ofcoursethatwouldbesilly,butthereareotherandmoreinterestingbondsbetweenmenandwomen.Iwillcertainlyencouragethem.Theyhavethecharmofbeingfashionable.ButhereisDorianhimself.HewilltellyoumorethanIcan."

"MydearHarry,mydearBasil,youmustbothcongratulateme!"saidthelad,throwingoffhiseveningcapewithitssatin-linedwingsandshakingeachofhisfriendsbythehandinturn."Ihaveneverbeensohappy.Ofcourse,itissudden—allreallydelightfulthingsare.AndyetitseemstometobetheonethingIhavebeenlookingforallmylife."Hewasflushedwithexcitementandpleasure,andlookedextraordinarilyhandsome.

"Ihopeyouwillalwaysbeveryhappy,Dorian,"saidHallward,"butIdon'tquite forgive you for not having letme know of your engagement. You letHarryknow."

"AndIdon't forgiveyouforbeing late fordinner,"broke inLordHenry,puttinghishandonthelad'sshoulderandsmilingashespoke."Come,letussitdownandtrywhatthenewchefhereislike,andthenyouwilltellushowitallcameabout."

"Thereisreallynotmuchtotell,"criedDorianastheytooktheirseatsatthe small round table. "What happened was simply this. After I left youyesterday evening, Harry, I dressed, had some dinner at that little Italian

restaurant in Rupert Street you introduced me to, and went down at eighto'clocktothetheatre.SibylwasplayingRosalind.Ofcourse,thescenerywasdreadfulandtheOrlandoabsurd.ButSibyl!Youshouldhaveseenher!Whenshe came on in her boy's clothes, shewas perfectlywonderful. Shewore amoss-coloured velvet jerkin with cinnamon sleeves, slim, brown, cross-garteredhose,adaintylittlegreencapwithahawk'sfeathercaughtinajewel,and a hooded cloak linedwith dull red. She had never seemed tomemoreexquisite.ShehadallthedelicategraceofthatTanagrafigurinethatyouhaveinyourstudio,Basil.Herhairclusteredroundherfacelikedarkleavesroundapalerose.Asforheracting—well,youshallseeherto-night.Sheissimplyabornartist.Isatinthedingyboxabsolutelyenthralled.IforgotthatIwasinLondonandinthenineteenthcentury.Iwasawaywithmyloveinaforestthatnoman had ever seen. After the performancewas over, I went behind andspoketoher.Asweweresittingtogether,suddenlytherecameintohereyesalook that I had never seen there before. My lips moved towards hers. Wekissedeachother.Ican'tdescribetoyouwhatIfeltatthatmoment.Itseemedtomethatallmylifehadbeennarrowedtooneperfectpointofrose-colouredjoy.She trembled all over and shook like awhite narcissus.Then she flungherselfonherkneesandkissedmyhands.IfeelthatIshouldnottellyouallthis,butIcan'thelpit.Ofcourse,ourengagementisadeadsecret.Shehasnoteven told her ownmother. I don't know what my guardians will say. LordRadleyissuretobefurious.Idon'tcare.Ishallbeofageinlessthanayear,and thenIcandowhat I like. Ihavebeenright,Basil,haven't I, to takemylove out of poetry and to find my wife in Shakespeare's plays? Lips thatShakespearetaughttospeakhavewhisperedtheirsecretinmyear.IhavehadthearmsofRosalindaroundme,andkissedJulietonthemouth."

"Yes,Dorian,Isupposeyouwereright,"saidHallwardslowly.

"Haveyouseenherto-day?"askedLordHenry.

DorianGrayshookhishead."IleftherintheforestofArden;IshallfindherinanorchardinVerona."

Lord Henry sipped his champagne in a meditative manner. "At whatparticularpointdidyoumentionthewordmarriage,Dorian?Andwhatdidshesayinanswer?Perhapsyouforgotallaboutit."

"MydearHarry, Ididnot treat itasabusiness transaction,andIdidnotmakeanyformalproposal.ItoldherthatIlovedher,andshesaidshewasnotworthy tobemywife.Notworthy!Why, thewholeworld is nothing tomecomparedwithher."

"Womenarewonderfully practical,"murmuredLordHenry, "muchmorepracticalthanweare.Insituationsofthatkindweoftenforgettosayanythingaboutmarriage,andtheyalwaysremindus."

Hallward laid his hand upon his arm. "Don't, Harry. You have annoyedDorian.Heisnotlikeothermen.Hewouldneverbringmiseryuponanyone.Hisnatureistoofineforthat."

LordHenrylookedacrossthetable."Dorianisneverannoyedwithme,"heanswered. "I asked the question for the best reason possible, for the onlyreason, indeed, thatexcusesoneforaskinganyquestion—simplecuriosity. Ihaveatheorythatitisalwaysthewomenwhoproposetous,andnotwewhopropose to thewomen. Except, of course, inmiddle-class life.But then themiddleclassesarenotmodern."

Dorian Gray laughed, and tossed his head. "You are quite incorrigible,Harry;butIdon'tmind.Itisimpossibletobeangrywithyou.WhenyouseeSibylVane,youwillfeelthatthemanwhocouldwrongherwouldbeabeast,abeastwithoutaheart.Icannotunderstandhowanyonecanwishtoshamethethingheloves.IloveSibylVane.Iwanttoplaceheronapedestalofgoldandtoseetheworldworshipthewomanwhoismine.Whatismarriage?Anirrevocablevow.Youmockatitforthat.Ah!don'tmock.Itisanirrevocablevow that I want to take. Her trust makesme faithful, her belief makesmegood.When I amwith her, I regret all that you have taughtme. I becomedifferent fromwhatyouhaveknownme tobe. I amchanged, and themeretouch of Sibyl Vane's hand makes me forget you and all your wrong,fascinating,poisonous,delightfultheories."

"Andthoseare...?"askedLordHenry,helpinghimselftosomesalad.

"Oh,yourtheoriesaboutlife,yourtheoriesaboutlove,yourtheoriesaboutpleasure.Allyourtheories,infact,Harry."

"Pleasure is theonly thingworthhavinga theoryabout,"heanswered inhis slowmelodiousvoice. "But I amafraid I cannotclaimmy theoryasmyown. It belongs to Nature, not to me. Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign ofapproval.Whenwearehappy,wearealwaysgood,butwhenwearegood,wearenotalwayshappy."

"Ah!butwhatdoyoumeanbygood?"criedBasilHallward.

"Yes,"echoedDorian,leaningbackinhischairandlookingatLordHenryover theheavyclustersofpurple-lipped irises that stood in thecentreof thetable,"whatdoyoumeanbygood,Harry?"

"Tobegoodistobeinharmonywithone'sself,"hereplied,touchingthethin stem of his glass with his pale, fine-pointed fingers. "Discord is to beforced to be in harmonywith others. One's own life—that is the importantthing. As for the lives of one's neighbours, if onewishes to be a prig or aPuritan,onecan flauntone'smoralviewsabout them,but theyarenotone'sconcern. Besides, individualism has really the higher aim.Modernmorality

consistsinacceptingthestandardofone'sage.Iconsiderthatforanymanofculturetoacceptthestandardofhisageisaformofthegrossestimmorality."

"But, surely, ifone livesmerely forone's self,Harry,onepaysa terriblepricefordoingso?"suggestedthepainter.

"Yes,weareoverchargedforeverythingnowadays.Ishouldfancythatthereal tragedy of the poor is that they can afford nothing but self-denial.Beautifulsins,likebeautifulthings,aretheprivilegeoftherich."

"Onehastopayinotherwaysbutmoney."

"Whatsortofways,Basil?"

"Oh! I should fancy in remorse, in suffering, in ... well, in theconsciousnessofdegradation."

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, mediaeval art ischarming,butmediaevalemotionsareoutofdate.Onecanusetheminfiction,ofcourse.But then theonly things thatonecanuse in fictionare the thingsthatonehasceasedtouseinfact.Believeme,nocivilizedmaneverregretsapleasure,andnouncivilizedmaneverknowswhatapleasureis."

"Iknowwhatpleasureis,"criedDorianGray."Itistoadoresomeone."

"Thatiscertainlybetterthanbeingadored,"heanswered,toyingwithsomefruits."Beingadoredisanuisance.Womentreatusjustashumanitytreatsitsgods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something forthem."

"Ishouldhavesaidthatwhatevertheyaskfortheyhadfirstgiventous,"murmuredtheladgravely."Theycreateloveinournatures.Theyhavearighttodemanditback."

"Thatisquitetrue,Dorian,"criedHallward.

"Nothingiseverquitetrue,"saidLordHenry.

"Thisis,"interruptedDorian."Youmustadmit,Harry,thatwomengivetomentheverygoldoftheirlives."

"Possibly,"hesighed,"buttheyinvariablywantitbackinsuchverysmallchange. That is the worry. Women, as some witty Frenchman once put it,inspire us with the desire to do masterpieces and always prevent us fromcarryingthemout."

"Harry,youaredreadful!Idon'tknowwhyIlikeyousomuch."

"Youwillalwayslikeme,Dorian,"hereplied."Willyouhavesomecoffee,you fellows?Waiter,bringcoffee, and fine-champagne,andsomecigarettes.No,don'tmindthecigarettes—Ihavesome.Basil,Ican'tallowyoutosmoke

cigars.Youmusthaveacigarette.Acigarette is theperfect typeofaperfectpleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can onewant?Yes,Dorian,youwillalwaysbefondofme.Irepresenttoyouall thesinsyouhaveneverhadthecouragetocommit."

"Whatnonsenseyoutalk,Harry!"criedthelad,takingalightfromafire-breathing silver dragon that the waiter had placed on the table. "Let us godowntothetheatre.WhenSibylcomesonthestageyouwillhaveanewidealoflife.Shewillrepresentsomethingtoyouthatyouhaveneverknown."

"Ihaveknowneverything,"saidLordHenry,withatiredlookinhiseyes,"butIamalwaysreadyforanewemotion.Iamafraid,however,that,formeatanyrate, there isnosuchthing.Still,yourwonderfulgirlmaythrillme.Iloveacting.Itissomuchmorerealthanlife.Letusgo.Dorian,youwillcomewithme.Iamsosorry,Basil,butthereisonlyroomfortwointhebrougham.Youmustfollowusinahansom."

They got up and put on their coats, sipping their coffee standing. Thepainterwassilentandpreoccupied.Therewasagloomoverhim.Hecouldnotbear this marriage, and yet it seemed to him to be better than many otherthings that might have happened. After a few minutes, they all passeddownstairs.Hedroveoffbyhimself,ashadbeenarranged,andwatched theflashinglightsof thelittlebroughaminfrontofhim.Astrangesenseof losscameoverhim.HefeltthatDorianGraywouldneveragainbetohimallthathehadbeen in thepast.Lifehadcomebetween them....His eyesdarkened,andthecrowdedflaringstreetsbecameblurredtohiseyes.Whenthecabdrewupatthetheatre,itseemedtohimthathehadgrownyearsolder.

CHAPTER7

For some reasonor other, the housewas crowded that night, and the fatJewmanagerwhometthematthedoorwasbeamingfromeartoearwithanoily tremulous smile.Heescorted them to theirboxwith a sort ofpompoushumility, waving his fat jewelled hands and talking at the top of his voice.DorianGrayloathedhimmorethanever.HefeltasifhehadcometolookforMiranda and had been met by Caliban. Lord Henry, upon the other hand,ratherlikedhim.Atleasthedeclaredhedid,andinsistedonshakinghimbythe hand and assuring him that he was proud to meet a man who haddiscovered a real genius and gone bankrupt over a poet. Hallward amusedhimselfwithwatching the faces in thepit.Theheatwas terriblyoppressive,and the huge sunlight flamed like amonstrous dahliawith petals of yellowfire. The youths in the gallery had taken off their coats andwaistcoats and

hung them over the side. They talked to each other across the theatre andsharedtheirorangeswiththetawdrygirlswhosatbesidethem.Somewomenwerelaughinginthepit.Theirvoiceswerehorriblyshrillanddiscordant.Thesoundofthepoppingofcorkscamefromthebar.

"Whataplacetofindone'sdivinityin!"saidLordHenry.

"Yes!"answeredDorianGray."ItwashereIfoundher,andsheisdivinebeyond all living things.When she acts, you will forget everything. Thesecommon rough people, with their coarse faces and brutal gestures, becomequitedifferentwhensheisonthestage.Theysitsilentlyandwatchher.Theyweepand laughasshewills themtodo.Shemakes themas responsiveasaviolin.Shespiritualizesthem,andonefeelsthattheyareofthesamefleshandbloodasone'sself."

"Thesamefleshandbloodasone'sself!Oh,Ihopenot!"exclaimedLordHenry,whowasscanningtheoccupantsofthegallerythroughhisopera-glass.

"Don't pay any attention to him,Dorian," said the painter. "I understandwhat you mean, and I believe in this girl. Any one you love must bemarvellous, and any girl who has the effect you describemust be fine andnoble.Tospiritualizeone'sage—thatissomethingworthdoing.Ifthisgirlcangiveasoultothosewhohavelivedwithoutone,ifshecancreatethesenseofbeautyinpeoplewhoseliveshavebeensordidandugly,ifshecanstripthemoftheirselfishnessandlendthemtearsforsorrowsthatarenottheirown,sheis worthy of all your adoration, worthy of the adoration of theworld. Thismarriageisquiteright.Ididnotthinksoatfirst,butIadmititnow.ThegodsmadeSibylVaneforyou.Withoutheryouwouldhavebeenincomplete."

"Thanks, Basil," answeredDorianGray, pressing his hand. "I knew thatyouwouldunderstandme.Harryissocynical,heterrifiesme.Buthereistheorchestra.Itisquitedreadful,butitonlylastsforaboutfiveminutes.Thenthecurtainrises,andyouwillseethegirltowhomIamgoingtogiveallmylife,towhomIhavegiveneverythingthatisgoodinme."

A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil ofapplause,SibylVanesteppedontothestage.Yes,shewascertainlylovelytolookat—oneoftheloveliestcreatures,LordHenrythought,thathehadeverseen.Therewassomethingofthefawninhershygraceandstartledeyes.Afaintblush,liketheshadowofaroseinamirrorofsilver,cametohercheeksas she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. She stepped back a fewpaces andher lips seemed to tremble.BasilHallward leaped tohis feet andbegantoapplaud.Motionless,andasoneinadream,satDorianGray,gazingat her. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming!charming!"

The scene was the hall of Capulet's house, and Romeo in his pilgrim'sdress had enteredwithMercutio and his other friends. The band, such as itwas,struckupafewbarsofmusic,andthedancebegan.Throughthecrowdofungainly,shabbilydressedactors,SibylVanemovedlikeacreaturefromafinerworld.Herbodyswayed,whileshedanced,asaplantswaysinthewater.Thecurvesofherthroatwerethecurvesofawhitelily.Herhandsseemedtobemadeofcoolivory.

Yet shewascuriously listless.She showednosignof joywhenhereyesrestedonRomeo.Thefewwordsshehadtospeak—

Goodpilgrim,youdowrongyourhandtoomuch,

Whichmannerlydevotionshowsinthis;

Forsaintshavehandsthatpilgrims'handsdotouch,

Andpalmtopalmisholypalmers'kiss—

withthebriefdialoguethatfollows,werespokeninathoroughlyartificialmanner.The voicewas exquisite, but from the point of viewof tone itwasabsolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from theverse.Itmadethepassionunreal.

DorianGraygrewpale as hewatched her.Hewas puzzled and anxious.Neitherofhisfriendsdaredtosayanythingtohim.Sheseemedtothemtobeabsolutelyincompetent.Theywerehorriblydisappointed.

Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of thesecondact.Theywaitedforthat.Ifshefailedthere,therewasnothinginher.

Shelookedcharmingasshecameoutinthemoonlight.Thatcouldnotbedenied.Butthestaginessofheractingwasunbearable,andgrewworseasshewent on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasizedeverythingthatshehadtosay.Thebeautifulpassage—

Thouknowestthemaskofnightisonmyface,

Elsewouldamaidenblushbepaintmycheek

Forthatwhichthouhastheardmespeakto-night—

was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has beentaughttorecitebysomesecond-rateprofessorofelocution.Whensheleanedoverthebalconyandcametothosewonderfullines—

AlthoughIjoyinthee,

Ihavenojoyofthiscontractto-night:

Itistoorash,toounadvised,toosudden;

Toolikethelightning,whichdothceasetobe

Ereonecansay,"Itlightens."Sweet,good-night!

Thisbudoflovebysummer'sripeningbreath

Mayproveabeauteousflowerwhennextwemeet—

shespokethewordsasthoughtheyconveyednomeaningtoher.Itwasnotnervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained.Itwassimplybadart.Shewasacompletefailure.

Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost theirinterestintheplay.Theygotrestless,andbegantotalkloudlyandtowhistle.TheJewmanager,whowasstandingat thebackof thedress-circle,stampedandsworewithrage.Theonlypersonunmovedwasthegirlherself.

When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and LordHenry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful,Dorian,"hesaid,"butshecan'tact.Letusgo."

"I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bittervoice. "I amawfully sorry that I havemadeyouwaste an evening,Harry. Iapologizetoyouboth."

"MydearDorian,IshouldthinkMissVanewasill,"interruptedHallward."Wewillcomesomeothernight."

"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simplycallous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night shewas a great artist.Thiseveningsheismerelyacommonplacemediocreactress."

"Don't talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a morewonderfulthingthanart."

"Theyarebothsimplyformsofimitation,"remarkedLordHenry."Butdoletusgo.Dorian,youmustnotstayhereanylonger.It isnotgoodforone'smoralstoseebadacting.Besides,Idon'tsupposeyouwillwantyourwifetoact,sowhatdoesitmatterifsheplaysJulietlikeawoodendoll?Sheisverylovely,andifsheknowsaslittleaboutlifeasshedoesaboutacting,shewillbeadelightfulexperience.Thereareonlytwokindsofpeoplewhoarereallyfascinating—peoplewhoknowabsolutelyeverything, andpeoplewhoknowabsolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don't look so tragic! Thesecret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming.CometotheclubwithBasilandmyself.WewillsmokecigarettesanddrinktothebeautyofSibylVane.Sheisbeautiful.Whatmorecanyouwant?"

"Goaway,Harry,"criedthe lad."Iwant tobealone.Basil,youmustgo.Ah!can'tyouseethatmyheartisbreaking?"Thehottearscametohiseyes.

Hislipstrembled,andrushingtothebackofthebox,heleanedupagainstthewall,hidinghisfaceinhishands.

"Letusgo,Basil,"saidLordHenrywithastrangetendernessinhisvoice,andthetwoyoungmenpassedouttogether.

Afewmomentsafterwardsthefootlightsflaredupandthecurtainroseonthe thirdact.DorianGraywentback tohisseat.He lookedpale,andproud,and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable.Half of theaudiencewent out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing. Thewhole thingwas a fiasco.The last actwasplayed to almost emptybenches.The curtainwentdownonatitterandsomegroans.

As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into thegreenroom.Thegirlwasstandingtherealone,witha lookof triumphonherface.Hereyeswerelitwithanexquisitefire.Therewasaradianceabouther.Herpartedlipsweresmilingoversomesecretoftheirown.

Whenheentered,shelookedathim,andanexpressionofinfinitejoycameoverher."HowbadlyIactedto-night,Dorian!"shecried.

"Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It wasdreadful.Areyouill?Youhavenoideawhatitwas.YouhavenoideawhatIsuffered."

The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name withlong-drawnmusicinhervoice,asthoughitweresweeterthanhoneytotheredpetalsofhermouth."Dorian,youshouldhaveunderstood.Butyouunderstandnow,don'tyou?"

"Understandwhat?"heasked,angrily.

"WhyIwassobadto-night.WhyIshallalwaysbebad.WhyIshallneveractwellagain."

Heshruggedhisshoulders."Youare ill, Isuppose.Whenyouare illyoushouldn't act. You make yourself ridiculous.My friends were bored. I wasbored."

Sheseemednottolistentohim.Shewastransfiguredwithjoy.Anecstasyofhappinessdominatedher.

"Dorian,Dorian,"shecried,"beforeIknewyou,actingwastheonerealityofmylife.ItwasonlyinthetheatrethatIlived.Ithoughtthatitwasalltrue.IwasRosalindonenightandPortiatheother.ThejoyofBeatricewasmyjoy,and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. Thecommonpeoplewhoactedwithmeseemedtometobegodlike.Thepaintedscenesweremyworld.Iknewnothingbutshadows,andIthoughtthemreal.Youcame—oh,mybeautifullove!—andyoufreedmysoulfromprison.You

taughtmewhatrealityreally is.To-night, for thefirst timeinmylife, Isawthroughthehollowness,thesham,thesillinessoftheemptypageantinwhichIhad always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that theRomeowashideous,andold,andpainted, that themoonlight in theorchardwasfalse,thatthescenerywasvulgar,andthatthewordsIhadtospeakwereunreal,werenotmywords,werenotwhatIwantedtosay.Youhadbroughtmesomethinghigher,somethingofwhichallart isbutareflection.Youhadmademeunderstandwhatlovereallyis.Mylove!Mylove!PrinceCharming!Princeoflife!Ihavegrownsickofshadows.Youaremoretomethanallartcaneverbe.WhathaveItodowiththepuppetsofaplay?WhenIcameonto-night,Icouldnotunderstandhowitwasthateverythinghadgonefromme.Ithought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing.Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge wasexquisitetome.Iheardthemhissing,andIsmiled.Whatcouldtheyknowoflovesuchasours?Takemeaway,Dorian—takemeawaywithyou,wherewecanbequitealone.Ihatethestage.ImightmimicapassionthatIdonotfeel,but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, youunderstandnowwhatitsignifies?EvenifIcoulddoit,itwouldbeprofanationformetoplayatbeinginlove.Youhavemademeseethat."

He flunghimselfdownon the sofaand turnedawayhis face. "Youhavekilledmylove,"hemuttered.

Shelookedathiminwonderandlaughed.Hemadenoanswer.Shecameacrosstohim,andwithherlittlefingersstrokedhishair.Shekneltdownandpressedhishandstoherlips.Hedrewthemaway,andashudderranthroughhim.

Thenheleapedupandwenttothedoor."Yes,"hecried,"youhavekilledmy love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don't even stir mycuriosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you weremarvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized thedreamsofgreatpoetsandgaveshapeandsubstancetotheshadowsofart.Youhavethrownitallaway.Youareshallowandstupid.MyGod!howmadIwastoloveyou!WhatafoolIhavebeen!Youarenothingtomenow.Iwillneverseeyouagain.Iwillneverthinkofyou.Iwillnevermentionyourname.Youdon'tknowwhatyouweretome,once.Why,once...Oh,Ican'tbeartothinkofit!IwishIhadneverlaideyesuponyou!Youhavespoiledtheromanceofmylife.Howlittleyoucanknowoflove,ifyousayitmarsyourart!Withoutyour art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid,magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would havebornemyname.Whatareyounow?Athird-rateactresswithaprettyface."

Thegirlgrewwhite,and trembled.Sheclenchedherhands together, andher voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious,Dorian?" she

murmured."Youareacting."

"Acting!Ileavethattoyou.Youdoitsowell,"heansweredbitterly.

Sherosefromherkneesand,withapiteousexpressionofpaininherface,cameacrosstheroomtohim.Sheputherhanduponhisarmandlookedintohiseyes.Hethrustherback."Don'ttouchme!"hecried.

Alowmoanbrokefromher,andsheflungherselfathisfeetandlaytherelikeatrampledflower."Dorian,Dorian,don'tleaveme!"shewhispered."IamsosorryIdidn'tactwell.Iwasthinkingofyouall thetime.ButIwill try—indeed, Iwill try. Itcamesosuddenlyacrossme,my love foryou. I think Ishouldneverhaveknown it ifyouhadnotkissedme—ifwehadnotkissedeachother.Kissmeagain,mylove.Don'tgoawayfromme.Icouldn'tbearit.Oh!don'tgoawayfromme.Mybrother...No;nevermind.Hedidn'tmeanit.Hewasinjest....Butyou,oh!can'tyouforgivemeforto-night?Iwillworksohardandtrytoimprove.Don'tbecrueltome,becauseIloveyoubetterthananythingintheworld.Afterall,itisonlyoncethatIhavenotpleasedyou.Butyouarequiteright,Dorian.Ishouldhaveshownmyselfmoreofanartist. Itwasfoolishofme,andyetIcouldn'thelp it.Oh,don't leaveme,don't leaveme."Afitofpassionatesobbingchokedher.Shecrouchedonthefloorlikeawoundedthing,andDorianGray,withhisbeautifuleyes,lookeddownather,andhis chiselled lipscurled inexquisitedisdain.There is always somethingridiculousabout theemotionsofpeoplewhomonehasceased to love.SibylVaneseemedtohimtobeabsurdlymelodramatic.Hertearsandsobsannoyedhim.

"I amgoing," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don'twish to beunkind,butIcan'tseeyouagain.Youhavedisappointedme."

Shewept silently, andmadenoanswer,butcreptnearer.Her littlehandsstretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him.He turned on hisheelandlefttheroom.Inafewmomentshewasoutofthetheatre.

Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering throughdimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-lookinghouses.Womenwith hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him.Drunkardshadreeledby,cursingandchatteringtothemselveslikemonstrousapes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heardshrieksandoathsfromgloomycourts.

Asthedawnwasjustbreaking,hefoundhimselfclosetoCoventGarden.Thedarknesslifted,and,flushedwithfaintfires,theskyholloweditselfintoaperfectpearl.Hugecarts filledwithnodding lilies rumbledslowlydown thepolishedemptystreet.Theairwasheavywiththeperfumeoftheflowers,andtheirbeautyseemedtobringhimananodyneforhispain.Hefollowedintothe

market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smockedcarterofferedhimsomecherries.Hethankedhim,wonderedwhyherefusedtoacceptanymoneyforthem,andbegantoeatthemlistlessly.Theyhadbeenpluckedatmidnight,and thecoldnessof themoonhadentered into them.Alonglineofboyscarryingcratesofstripedtulips,andofyellowandredroses,defiledinfrontofhim,threadingtheirwaythroughthehuge,jade-greenpilesofvegetables.Undertheportico,withitsgrey,sun-bleachedpillars,loiteredatroopofdraggledbareheadedgirls,waitingfortheauctiontobeover.Otherscrowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. Theheavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking theirbellsandtrappings.Someofthedriverswerelyingasleeponapileofsacks.Iris-neckedandpink-footed,thepigeonsranaboutpickingupseeds.

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a fewmoments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square,with its blank, close-shutteredwindows and its staring blinds. The skywaspureopalnow,andtheroofsofthehousesglistenedlikesilveragainstit.Fromsomechimneyoppositeathinwreathofsmokewasrising.Itcurled,avioletriband,throughthenacre-colouredair.

In the huge giltVenetian lantern, spoil of someDoge's barge, that hungfrom the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lightswere stillburning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed,rimmedwithwhite fire.He turned themout and,having thrownhishat andcapeonthetable,passedthroughthelibrarytowardsthedoorofhisbedroom,alargeoctagonalchamberonthegroundfloorthat,inhisnew-bornfeelingforluxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curiousRenaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic atSelbyRoyal.Ashewasturningthehandleof thedoor,hiseyefellupontheportraitBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim.Hestartedbackas if insurprise.Thenhewentonintohisownroom,lookingsomewhatpuzzled.Afterhehadtakenthebutton-holeoutofhiscoat,heseemedtohesitate.Finally,hecameback,wentovertothepicture,andexaminedit.Inthedimarrestedlightthatstruggledthroughthecream-colouredsilkblinds,thefaceappearedtohimtobealittlechanged.Theexpressionlookeddifferent.Onewouldhavesaidthattherewasatouchofcrueltyinthemouth.Itwascertainlystrange.

Heturnedroundand,walkingtothewindow,drewuptheblind.Thebrightdawn flooded the roomand swept the fantastic shadows intoduskycorners,wheretheylayshuddering.Butthestrangeexpressionthathehadnoticedinthefaceoftheportraitseemedtolingerthere,tobemoreintensifiedeven.Thequiveringardentsunlightshowedhimthelinesofcrueltyroundthemouthasclearlyasifhehadbeenlookingintoamirrorafterhehaddonesomedreadfulthing.

Hewinced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivoryCupids,oneofLordHenry'smanypresentstohim,glancedhurriedlyintoitspolisheddepths.Nolinelikethatwarpedhisredlips.Whatdiditmean?

Herubbedhiseyes,andcameclosetothepicture,andexamineditagain.Therewerenosignsofanychangewhenhe looked into theactualpainting,andyettherewasnodoubtthatthewholeexpressionhadaltered.Itwasnotamerefancyofhisown.Thethingwashorriblyapparent.

Hethrewhimself intoachairandbeganto think.Suddenly thereflashedacrosshismindwhathehadsaidinBasilHallward'sstudiothedaythepicturehadbeenfinished.Yes,heremembereditperfectly.Hehadutteredamadwishthathehimselfmight remainyoung,and theportraitgrowold; thathisownbeautymightbeuntarnished,andthefaceonthecanvasbeartheburdenofhispassionsandhissins;thatthepaintedimagemightbesearedwiththelinesofsuffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom andlovelinessofhis then just consciousboyhood.Surelyhiswishhadnotbeenfulfilled?Suchthingswereimpossible.Itseemedmonstrouseventothinkofthem.And,yet,therewasthepicturebeforehim,withthetouchofcrueltyinthemouth.

Cruelty!Hadhebeencruel?Itwasthegirl'sfault,nothis.Hehaddreamedofherasagreatartist,hadgivenhis lovetoherbecausehehadthoughthergreat.Then she had disappointed him.She had been shallow and unworthy.And,yet,afeelingofinfiniteregretcameoverhim,ashethoughtofherlyingathisfeetsobbinglikealittlechild.Herememberedwithwhatcallousnesshehadwatchedher.Whyhadhebeenmadelikethat?Whyhadsuchasoulbeengiventohim?Buthehadsufferedalso.Duringthethreeterriblehoursthattheplayhadlasted,hehadlivedcenturiesofpain,aeonuponaeonoftorture.Hislife was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he hadwounded her for an age.Besides,womenwere better suited to bear sorrowthanmen.Theylivedontheiremotions.Theyonlythoughtoftheiremotions.Whentheytooklovers,itwasmerelytohavesomeonewithwhomtheycouldhave scenes. Lord Henry had told him that, and Lord Henry knew whatwomenwere.Why shouldhe trouble aboutSibylVane?Shewasnothing tohimnow.

Butthepicture?Whatwashetosayofthat?Itheldthesecretofhislife,andtoldhisstory.Ithadtaughthimtolovehisownbeauty.Woulditteachhimtoloathehisownsoul?Wouldheeverlookatitagain?

No;itwasmerelyanillusionwroughtonthetroubledsenses.Thehorriblenightthathehadpassedhadleftphantomsbehindit.Suddenlytherehadfallenuponhisbrainthattinyscarletspeckthatmakesmenmad.Thepicturehadnotchanged.Itwasfollytothinkso.

Yetitwaswatchinghim,withitsbeautifulmarredfaceanditscruelsmile.Itsbrighthairgleamedintheearlysunlight.Itsblueeyesmethisown.Asenseof infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself, cameoverhim.Ithadalteredalready,andwouldaltermore.Itsgoldwouldwitherintogrey.Itsredandwhiteroseswoulddie.Foreverysinthathecommitted,astainwould fleck andwreck its fairness.But hewouldnot sin.Thepicture,changedorunchanged,wouldbetohimthevisibleemblemofconscience.Hewouldresisttemptation.HewouldnotseeLordHenryanymore—wouldnot,at any rate, listen to those subtlepoisonous theories that inBasilHallward'sgardenhadfirststirredwithinhimthepassionforimpossiblethings.HewouldgobacktoSibylVane,makeheramends,marryher,trytoloveheragain.Yes,itwashisdutytodoso.Shemusthavesufferedmorethanhehad.Poorchild!Hehadbeen selfish andcruel toher.The fascination that shehadexercisedoverhimwouldreturn.Theywouldbehappytogether.Hislifewithherwouldbebeautifulandpure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front of theportrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured tohimself,andhewalkedacrosstothewindowandopenedit.Whenhesteppedouton to thegrass,hedrewadeepbreath.Thefreshmorningairseemedtodriveawayallhissombrepassions.HethoughtonlyofSibyl.Afaintechoofhis lovecameback tohim.He repeatedhernameover andover again.Thebirds thatweresinging in thedew-drenchedgardenseemed tobe telling theflowersabouther.

CHAPTER8

Itwaslongpastnoonwhenheawoke.Hisvalethadcreptseveraltimesontiptoeintotheroomtoseeifhewasstirring,andhadwonderedwhatmadehisyoungmastersleepsolate.Finallyhisbellsounded,andVictorcameinsoftlywithacupoftea,andapileofletters,onasmalltrayofoldSevreschina,anddrew back the olive-satin curtains, with their shimmering blue lining, thathunginfrontofthethreetallwindows.

"Monsieurhaswellsleptthismorning,"hesaid,smiling.

"Whato'clockisit,Victor?"askedDorianGraydrowsily.

"Onehourandaquarter,Monsieur."

Howlate itwas!Hesatup,andhavingsippedsome tea, turnedoverhisletters.OneofthemwasfromLordHenry,andhadbeenbroughtbyhandthatmorning. He hesitated for a moment, and then put it aside. The others he

opened listlessly.Theycontained theusualcollectionofcards, invitations todinner,ticketsforprivateviews,programmesofcharityconcerts,andthelikethatareshoweredonfashionableyoungmeneverymorningduringtheseason.Therewasaratherheavybill forachasedsilverLouis-Quinze toilet-set thathe had not yet had the courage to send on to his guardians, who wereextremelyold-fashionedpeopleanddidnotrealizethatweliveinanagewhenunnecessary things are our only necessities; and there were several verycourteously worded communications from Jermyn Street money-lendersoffering toadvanceanysumofmoneyatamoment'snoticeandat themostreasonableratesofinterest.

Afterabouttenminuteshegotup,andthrowingonanelaboratedressing-gown of silk-embroidered cashmere wool, passed into the onyx-pavedbathroom.The coolwater refreshed him after his long sleep.He seemed tohaveforgottenallthathehadgonethrough.Adimsenseofhavingtakenpartinsomestrangetragedycametohimonceortwice,buttherewastheunrealityofadreamaboutit.

Assoonashewasdressed,hewentintothelibraryandsatdowntoalightFrenchbreakfastthathadbeenlaidoutforhimonasmallroundtableclosetotheopenwindow. Itwas an exquisite day.Thewarmair seemed ladenwithspices.Abeeflewinandbuzzedroundtheblue-dragonbowlthat,filledwithsulphur-yellowroses,stoodbeforehim.Hefeltperfectlyhappy.

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

"ToocoldforMonsieur?"askedhisvalet,puttinganomeletteonthetable."Ishutthewindow?"

Dorianshookhishead."Iamnotcold,"hemurmured.

Wasitalltrue?Hadtheportraitreallychanged?Orhaditbeensimplyhisownimaginationthathadmadehimseealookofevilwheretherehadbeenalookofjoy?Surelyapaintedcanvascouldnotalter?Thethingwasabsurd.ItwouldserveasataletotellBasilsomeday.Itwouldmakehimsmile.

And,yet, howvividwashis recollectionof thewhole thing!First in thedim twilight, and then in the bright dawn, he had seen the touch of crueltyroundthewarpedlips.Healmostdreadedhisvaletleavingtheroom.Heknewthatwhenhewasalonehewouldhavetoexaminetheportrait.Hewasafraidof certainty.When the coffee and cigarettes had been brought and themanturned to go, he felt a wild desire to tell him to remain. As the door wasclosingbehindhim,hecalledhimback.Themanstoodwaitingforhisorders.Dorianlookedathimforamoment."Iamnotathometoanyone,Victor,"hesaidwithasigh.Themanbowedandretired.

Thenhe rose fromthe table, litacigarette,andflunghimselfdownonaluxuriouslycushionedcouchthatstoodfacing thescreen.Thescreenwasanold one, of gilt Spanish leather, stamped and wrought with a rather floridLouis-Quatorzepattern.He scanned it curiously,wondering if everbefore ithadconcealedthesecretofaman'slife.

Shouldhemoveitaside,afterall?Whynotletitstaythere?Whatwastheuseofknowing?Ifthethingwastrue,itwasterrible.Ifitwasnottrue,whytroubleaboutit?Butwhatif,bysomefateordeadlierchance,eyesotherthanhis spied behind and saw the horrible change?What should he do if BasilHallwardcameandaskedtolookathisownpicture?Basilwouldbesuretodo that.No; the thinghad to be examined, and at once.Anythingwouldbebetterthanthisdreadfulstateofdoubt.

He got up and locked both doors. At least he would be alone when helookedupon themaskofhisshame.Thenhedrewthescreenasideandsawhimselffacetoface.Itwasperfectlytrue.Theportraithadaltered.

Asheoftenrememberedafterwards,andalwayswithnosmallwonder,hefoundhimselfatfirstgazingattheportraitwithafeelingofalmostscientificinterest.That such a change shouldhave takenplacewas incredible to him.And yet itwas a fact.Was there some subtle affinity between the chemicalatomsthatshapedthemselvesintoformandcolouronthecanvasandthesoulthatwaswithinhim?Coulditbethatwhatthatsoulthought,theyrealized?—thatwhatitdreamed,theymadetrue?Orwastheresomeother,moreterriblereason?Heshuddered,andfeltafraid,and,goingbacktothecouch,laythere,gazingatthepictureinsickenedhorror.

One thing, however, he felt that it had done for him. It had made himconscioushowunjust,howcruel,hehadbeen toSibylVane. Itwasnot toolate tomake reparation for that. She could still be hiswife.His unreal andselfishlovewouldyieldtosomehigherinfluence,wouldbetransformedintosomenoblerpassion,andtheportrait thatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhimwould be a guide to him through life,would be to himwhat holiness is tosome, and conscience to others, and the fear of God to us all. There wereopiates for remorse, drugs that could lull themoral sense to sleep.But herewasavisiblesymbolofthedegradationofsin.Herewasanever-presentsignoftheruinmenbroughtupontheirsouls.

Threeo'clockstruck,andfour,andthehalf-hourrangitsdoublechime,butDorianGraydidnotstir.Hewastryingtogatherupthescarletthreadsoflifeand to weave them into a pattern; to find his way through the sanguinelabyrinthofpassionthroughwhichhewaswandering.Hedidnotknowwhatto do, or what to think. Finally, he went over to the table and wrote apassionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and

accusinghimselfofmadness.Hecoveredpageafterpagewithwildwordsofsorrowandwilderwordsofpain.Thereisaluxuryinself-reproach.Whenweblame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is theconfession,notthepriest,thatgivesusabsolution.WhenDorianhadfinishedtheletter,hefeltthathehadbeenforgiven.

Suddenlytherecameaknocktothedoor,andheheardLordHenry'svoiceoutside. "Mydear boy, Imust seeyou.Letme in at once. I can't bear yourshuttingyourselfuplikethis."

Hemade no answer at first, but remained quite still. The knocking stillcontinued and grew louder. Yes, it was better to let Lord Henry in, and toexplain to him the new life hewas going to lead, to quarrel with him if itbecamenecessarytoquarrel,topartifpartingwasinevitable.Hejumpedup,drewthescreenhastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor.

"Iamsosorryforitall,Dorian,"saidLordHenryasheentered."Butyoumustnotthinktoomuchaboutit."

"DoyoumeanaboutSibylVane?"askedthelad.

"Yes, of course," answered LordHenry, sinking into a chair and slowlypullingoffhisyellowgloves."Itisdreadful,fromonepointofview,butitwasnot your fault. Tell me, did you go behind and see her, after the play wasover?"

"Yes."

"Ifeltsureyouhad.Didyoumakeascenewithher?"

"I was brutal, Harry—perfectly brutal. But it is all right now. I am notsorryforanythingthathashappened.Ithastaughtmetoknowmyselfbetter."

"Ah,Dorian,Iamsogladyoutakeitinthatway!IwasafraidIwouldfindyouplungedinremorseandtearingthatnicecurlyhairofyours."

"Ihavegotthroughallthat,"saidDorian,shakinghisheadandsmiling."Iamperfectlyhappynow. Iknowwhatconscience is, tobeginwith. It isnotwhatyoutoldmeitwas.Itisthedivinestthinginus.Don'tsneeratit,Harry,anymore—atleastnotbeforeme.Iwanttobegood.Ican'tbeartheideaofmysoulbeinghideous."

"Averycharmingartisticbasisforethics,Dorian!Icongratulateyouonit.Buthowareyougoingtobegin?"

"BymarryingSibylVane."

"MarryingSibylVane!"criedLordHenry,standingupandlookingathiminperplexedamazement."But,mydearDorian—"

"Yes,Harry,Iknowwhatyouaregoingtosay.Somethingdreadfulaboutmarriage.Don't say it.Don't ever say things of that kind tome again. TwodaysagoIaskedSibyltomarryme.Iamnotgoingtobreakmywordtoher.Sheistobemywife."

"Your wife! Dorian! ... Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to you thismorning,andsentthenotedownbymyownman."

"Your letter? Oh, yes, I remember. I have not read it yet, Harry. I wasafraidtheremightbesomethinginitthatIwouldn'tlike.Youcutlifetopieceswithyourepigrams."

"Youknownothingthen?"

"Whatdoyoumean?"

Lord Henry walked across the room, and sitting down by Dorian Gray,tookbothhishandsinhisownandheldthemtightly."Dorian,"hesaid,"myletter—don'tbefrightened—wastotellyouthatSibylVaneisdead."

Acryofpainbrokefromthelad'slips,andheleapedtohisfeet,tearinghishandsawayfromLordHenry'sgrasp."Dead!Sibyldead!Itisnottrue!Itisahorriblelie!Howdareyousayit?"

"Itisquitetrue,Dorian,"saidLordHenry,gravely."Itisinallthemorningpapers.IwrotedowntoyoutoaskyounottoseeanyonetillIcame.Therewill have to be an inquest, of course, and youmust not bemixed up in it.ThingslikethatmakeamanfashionableinParis.ButinLondonpeoplearesoprejudiced. Here, one should never make one's debut with a scandal. Oneshould reserve that togive an interest toone's old age. I suppose theydon'tknowyournameat the theatre? If theydon't, it isall right.Didanyoneseeyougoingroundtoherroom?Thatisanimportantpoint."

Dorian did not answer for a few moments. He was dazed with horror.Finallyhestammered,inastifledvoice,"Harry,didyousayaninquest?Whatdidyoumeanbythat?DidSibyl—?Oh,Harry,Ican'tbearit!Butbequick.Tellmeeverythingatonce."

"Ihavenodoubtitwasnotanaccident,Dorian, thoughitmustbeputinthatway to thepublic. It seems that as shewas leaving the theatrewithhermother, about half-past twelve or so, she said she had forgotten somethingupstairs. Theywaited some time for her, but she did not come down again.Theyultimatelyfoundher lyingdeadonthefloorofherdressing-room.Shehad swallowed something by mistake, some dreadful thing they use attheatres.Idon'tknowwhatitwas,butithadeitherprussicacidorwhiteleadin it. I should fancy it was prussic acid, as she seems to have diedinstantaneously."

"Harry,Harry,itisterrible!"criedthelad.

"Yes;itisverytragic,ofcourse,butyoumustnotgetyourselfmixedupinit. I seebyTheStandard that shewas seventeen. I shouldhave thought shewasalmostyoungerthanthat.Shelookedsuchachild,andseemedtoknowsolittleaboutacting.Dorian,youmustn't let thisthinggetonyournerves.Youmustcomeanddinewithme,andafterwardswewilllookinattheopera.ItisaPattinight,andeverybodywillbe there.Youcancome tomysister'sbox.Shehasgotsomesmartwomenwithher."

"So I have murdered Sibyl Vane," said Dorian Gray, half to himself,"murderedheras surelyas if Ihadcuther little throatwithaknife.Yet theroses are not less lovely for all that. The birds sing just as happily in mygarden.Andto-nightIamtodinewithyou,andthengoontotheopera,andsupsomewhere,Isuppose,afterwards.Howextraordinarilydramaticlifeis!IfI had read all this in a book, Harry, I think I would have wept over it.Somehow, now that it has happened actually, and to me, it seems far toowonderfulfortears.Hereisthefirstpassionatelove-letterIhaveeverwrittenin my life. Strange, that my first passionate love-letter should have beenaddressedtoadeadgirl.Cantheyfeel,Iwonder,thosewhitesilentpeoplewecallthedead?Sibyl!Canshefeel,orknow,orlisten?Oh,Harry,howIlovedheronce!Itseemsyearsagotomenow.Shewaseverythingtome.Thencamethatdreadfulnight—wasitreallyonlylastnight?—whensheplayedsobadly,andmyheartalmostbroke.Sheexplaineditalltome.Itwasterriblypathetic.But I was not moved a bit. I thought her shallow. Suddenly somethinghappenedthatmademeafraid.Ican'ttellyouwhatitwas,butitwasterrible.IsaidIwouldgobacktoher.IfeltIhaddonewrong.Andnowsheisdead.MyGod!MyGod!Harry,whatshallIdo?Youdon'tknowthedangerIamin,andthereisnothingtokeepmestraight.Shewouldhavedonethatforme.Shehadnorighttokillherself.Itwasselfishofher."

"MydearDorian,"answeredLordHenry,takingacigarettefromhiscaseand producing a gold-latten matchbox, "the only way a woman can everreformamanisbyboringhimsocompletelythathelosesallpossibleinterestinlife.Ifyouhadmarriedthisgirl,youwouldhavebeenwretched.Ofcourse,youwouldhave treatedherkindly.Onecanalwaysbekind topeopleaboutwhomonecaresnothing.But shewouldhavesoon foundout thatyouwereabsolutely indifferent to her. And when a woman finds that out about herhusband, sheeitherbecomesdreadfullydowdy,orwearsvery smartbonnetsthatsomeotherwoman'shusbandhastopayfor.Isaynothingaboutthesocialmistake,whichwouldhavebeenabject—which,ofcourse,Iwouldnothaveallowed—butIassureyouthatinanycasethewholethingwouldhavebeenanabsolutefailure."

"Isupposeitwould,"mutteredthelad,walkingupanddowntheroomand

lookinghorriblypale."ButIthoughtitwasmyduty.Itisnotmyfaultthatthisterrible tragedy has prevented my doing what was right. I remember yoursaying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions—that they arealwaysmadetoolate.Minecertainlywere."

"Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws.Theirorigin ispurevanity.Their result is absolutelynil.Theygiveus, nowand then,someof those luxurioussterileemotions thathaveacertaincharmfor theweak.That isall thatcanbesaidfor them.Theyaresimplychequesthatmendrawonabankwheretheyhavenoaccount."

"Harry," cried Dorian Gray, coming over and sitting down beside him,"whyisitthatIcannotfeelthistragedyasmuchasIwantto?Idon'tthinkIamheartless.Doyou?"

"You have done too many foolish things during the last fortnight to beentitled to give yourself that name,Dorian," answeredLordHenrywith hissweetmelancholysmile.

Theladfrowned."Idon'tlikethatexplanation,Harry,"herejoined,"butIamgladyoudon'tthinkIamheartless.Iamnothingofthekind.IknowIamnot.AndyetImustadmitthatthisthingthathashappeneddoesnotaffectmeas it should. It seems to me to be simply like a wonderful ending to awonderfulplay.Ithasall theterriblebeautyofaGreektragedy,a tragedyinwhichItookagreatpart,butbywhichIhavenotbeenwounded."

"It is an interesting question," said LordHenry, who found an exquisitepleasureinplayingonthelad'sunconsciousegotism,"anextremelyinterestingquestion.Ifancythatthetrueexplanationisthis:Itoftenhappensthattherealtragediesof lifeoccur insuchan inartisticmanner that theyhurtusby theircrudeviolence,theirabsoluteincoherence,theirabsurdwantofmeaning,theirentirelackofstyle.Theyaffectusjustasvulgarityaffectsus.Theygiveusanimpression of sheer brute force, and we revolt against that. Sometimes,however,atragedythatpossessesartisticelementsofbeautycrossesourlives.If these elements of beauty are real, thewhole thing simply appeals to oursenseofdramatic effect.Suddenlywe find thatweareno longer theactors,butthespectatorsoftheplay.Orratherweareboth.Wewatchourselves,andthemerewonderof thespectacleenthrallsus. In thepresentcase,what is itthathasreallyhappened?Someonehaskilledherselfforloveofyou.IwishthatIhadeverhadsuchanexperience.Itwouldhavemademeinlovewithlovefortherestofmylife.Thepeoplewhohaveadoredme—therehavenotbeenverymany,buttherehavebeensome—havealwaysinsistedonlivingon,long after I had ceased to care for them, or they to care forme.They havebecome stout and tedious, and when I meet them, they go in at once forreminiscences.Thatawfulmemoryofwoman!Whatafearfulthingitis!And

whatanutterintellectualstagnationitreveals!Oneshouldabsorbthecolouroflife,butoneshouldneverrememberitsdetails.Detailsarealwaysvulgar."

"Imustsowpoppiesinmygarden,"sighedDorian.

"Thereisnonecessity,"rejoinedhiscompanion."Lifehasalwayspoppiesinherhands.Ofcourse,nowandthenthingslinger.Ionceworenothingbutviolets all throughone season, as a formof artisticmourning for a romancethatwould not die.Ultimately, however, it did die. I forgetwhat killed it. Ithinkitwasherproposingtosacrificethewholeworldforme.Thatisalwaysadreadfulmoment. It fills onewith the terror of eternity.Well—wouldyoubelieveit?—aweekago,atLadyHampshire's,Ifoundmyselfseatedatdinnernexttheladyinquestion,andsheinsistedongoingoverthewholethingagain,anddiggingupthepast,andrakingupthefuture.Ihadburiedmyromanceinabedofasphodel.ShedraggeditoutagainandassuredmethatIhadspoiledherlife.Iamboundtostatethatsheateanenormousdinner,soIdidnotfeelanyanxiety.Butwhatalackoftastesheshowed!Theonecharmofthepastisthat it is thepast.Butwomenneverknowwhenthecurtainhasfallen.Theyalwayswantasixthact,andassoonastheinterestoftheplayisentirelyover,theyproposetocontinueit.Iftheywereallowedtheirownway,everycomedywould have a tragic ending, and every tragedywould culminate in a farce.They are charmingly artificial, but they have no sense of art.You aremorefortunate than Iam. Iassureyou,Dorian, thatnotoneof thewomen IhaveknownwouldhavedoneformewhatSibylVanedidforyou.Ordinarywomenalways console themselves. Someof themdo it by going in for sentimentalcolours.Nevertrustawomanwhowearsmauve,whateverheragemaybe,orawomanover thirty-fivewho is fondof pink ribbons. It alwaysmeans thatthey have a history.Others find a great consolation in suddenly discoveringthegoodqualitiesoftheirhusbands.Theyflaunttheirconjugalfelicityinone'sface, as if it were themost fascinating of sins. Religion consoles some. Itsmysterieshaveallthecharmofaflirtation,awomanoncetoldme,andIcanquiteunderstandit.Besides,nothingmakesonesovainasbeingtoldthatoneisasinner.Consciencemakesegotistsofusall.Yes;thereisreallynoendtotheconsolationsthatwomenfindinmodernlife.Indeed,Ihavenotmentionedthemostimportantone."

"Whatisthat,Harry?"saidtheladlistlessly.

"Oh, the obvious consolation. Taking some one else's admirerwhen onelosesone'sown.Ingoodsocietythatalwayswhitewashesawoman.Butreally,Dorian, how different Sibyl Vane must have been from all the women onemeets!Thereissomethingtomequitebeautifulaboutherdeath.IamgladIamlivinginacenturywhensuchwondershappen.Theymakeonebelieveintherealityofthethingsweallplaywith,suchasromance,passion,andlove."

"Iwasterriblycrueltoher.Youforgetthat."

"Iamafraid thatwomenappreciatecruelty,downrightcruelty,more thananything else. They have wonderfully primitive instincts. We haveemancipated them, but they remain slaves looking for theirmasters, all thesame.Theylovebeingdominated.Iamsureyouweresplendid.Ihaveneverseen you really and absolutely angry, but I can fancy how delightful youlooked.And,afterall,yousaidsomethingtomethedaybeforeyesterdaythatseemed to me at the time to be merely fanciful, but that I see now wasabsolutelytrue,anditholdsthekeytoeverything."

"Whatwasthat,Harry?"

"You said to me that Sibyl Vane represented to you all the heroines ofromance—that shewasDesdemonaonenight, andOphelia theother; that ifshediedasJuliet,shecametolifeasImogen."

"Shewillnevercometolifeagainnow,"mutteredthelad,buryinghisfaceinhishands.

"No,shewillnevercometolife.Shehasplayedherlastpart.Butyoumustthink of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strangelurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene fromWebster,orFord,orCyrilTourneur.Thegirlneverreallylived,andsoshehasnever really died. To you at least shewas always a dream, a phantom thatflitted through Shakespeare's plays and left them lovelier for its presence, areedthroughwhichShakespeare'smusicsoundedricherandmorefullofjoy.Themomentshetouchedactuallife,shemarredit,anditmarredher,andsoshe passed away. Mourn for Ophelia, if you like. Put ashes on your headbecauseCordeliawasstrangled.CryoutagainstHeavenbecausethedaughterofBrabantiodied.Butdon'twasteyour tearsoverSibylVane.Shewas lessrealthantheyare."

Therewasasilence.Theeveningdarkened in theroom.Noiselessly,andwith silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden. The colours fadedwearilyoutofthings.

After some time Dorian Gray looked up. "You have explained me tomyself,Harry,"hemurmuredwithsomethingofasighofrelief."Ifeltallthatyouhavesaid,but somehowIwasafraidof it, and Icouldnotexpress it tomyself. How well you know me! But we will not talk again of what hashappened.Ithasbeenamarvellousexperience.Thatisall.Iwonderiflifehasstillinstoreformeanythingasmarvellous."

"Life has everything in store for you,Dorian.There is nothing that you,withyourextraordinarygoodlooks,willnotbeabletodo."

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

"Ah, then," said Lord Henry, rising to go, "then, my dear Dorian, youwouldhave tofightforyourvictories.As it is, theyarebrought toyou.No,youmustkeepyourgoodlooks.Weliveinanagethatreadstoomuchtobewise,andthatthinkstoomuchtobebeautiful.Wecannotspareyou.Andnowyouhadbetterdressanddrivedowntotheclub.Weareratherlate,asitis."

"IthinkIshalljoinyouattheopera,Harry.Ifeeltootiredtoeatanything.Whatisthenumberofyoursister'sbox?"

"Twenty-seven,Ibelieve.Itisonthegrandtier.Youwillseehernameonthedoor.ButIamsorryyouwon'tcomeanddine."

"Idon'tfeeluptoit,"saidDorianlistlessly."ButIamawfullyobligedtoyouforallthatyouhavesaidtome.Youarecertainlymybestfriend.Noonehaseverunderstoodmeasyouhave."

"Weareonlyat thebeginningofour friendship,Dorian,"answeredLordHenry,shakinghimbythehand."Good-bye.Ishallseeyoubeforenine-thirty,Ihope.Remember,Pattiissinging."

Asheclosedthedoorbehindhim,DorianGraytouchedthebell,andinafewminutesVictor appearedwith the lamps and drew the blinds down.Hewaited impatiently for him to go. Theman seemed to take an interminabletimeovereverything.

Assoonashehadleft,herushedtothescreenanddrewitback.No;therewasnofurtherchangeinthepicture.IthadreceivedthenewsofSibylVane'sdeathbeforehehadknownofithimself.Itwasconsciousoftheeventsoflifeas theyoccurred.Theviciouscruelty thatmarredthefinelinesof themouthhad,nodoubt,appearedattheverymomentthatthegirlhaddrunkthepoison,whateveritwas.Orwasitindifferenttoresults?Diditmerelytakecognizanceofwhat passedwithin the soul?Hewondered, and hoped that some day hewould see the change taking place before his very eyes, shuddering as hehopedit.

PoorSibyl!Whataromanceithadallbeen!Shehadoftenmimickeddeathon the stage. ThenDeath himself had touched her and taken herwith him.Howhadsheplayedthatdreadfullastscene?Hadshecursedhim,asshedied?No; shehaddied for loveofhim,and lovewouldalwaysbea sacrament tohimnow.Shehadatonedforeverythingbythesacrificeshehadmadeofherlife.Hewouldnotthinkanymoreofwhatshehadmadehimgothrough,onthat horrible night at the theatre.When he thought of her, itwould be as awonderful tragic figure sent on to the world's stage to show the supremereality of love. A wonderful tragic figure? Tears came to his eyes as he

rememberedherchildlikelook,andwinsomefancifulways,andshytremulousgrace.Hebrushedthemawayhastilyandlookedagainatthepicture.

He felt that the time had really come formaking his choice.Or had hischoice alreadybeenmade?Yes, life had decided that for him—life, and hisown infinite curiosity about life. Eternal youth, infinite passion, pleasuressubtleandsecret,wildjoysandwildersins—hewastohaveallthesethings.Theportraitwastobeartheburdenofhisshame:thatwasall.

Afeelingofpaincreptoverhimashethoughtofthedesecrationthatwasinstoreforthefairfaceonthecanvas.Once,inboyishmockeryofNarcissus,hehadkissed,orfeignedtokiss,thosepaintedlipsthatnowsmiledsocruellyathim.Morningaftermorninghehadsatbeforetheportraitwonderingatitsbeauty,almostenamouredof it, as it seemed tohimat times.Was it toalternowwitheverymoodtowhichheyielded?Wasittobecomeamonstrousandloathsomething,tobehiddenawayinalockedroom,tobeshutoutfromthesunlight thathadsooften touched tobrightergold thewavingwonderof itshair?Thepityofit!thepityofit!

For a moment, he thought of praying that the horrible sympathy thatexistedbetweenhimandthepicturemightcease.Ithadchangedinanswertoaprayer;perhapsinanswertoaprayeritmightremainunchanged.Andyet,who,thatknewanythingaboutlife,wouldsurrenderthechanceofremainingalways young, however fantastic that chancemight be, orwithwhat fatefulconsequences itmight be fraught? Besides, was it really under his control?Haditindeedbeenprayerthathadproducedthesubstitution?Mighttherenotbe some curious scientific reason for it all? If thought could exercise itsinfluence upon a living organism, might not thought exercise an influenceupon dead and inorganic things? Nay, without thought or conscious desire,mightnot thingsexternal toourselvesvibrate inunisonwithourmoodsandpassions,atomcallingtoatominsecretloveorstrangeaffinity?Butthereasonwasofno importance.Hewouldnever again temptbyaprayer any terriblepower.Ifthepicturewastoalter,itwastoalter.Thatwasall.Whyinquiretoocloselyintoit?

For there would be a real pleasure in watching it. He would be able tofollowhismindintoitssecretplaces.Thisportraitwouldbetohimthemostmagicalofmirrors.Asithadrevealedtohimhisownbody,soitwouldrevealtohimhisownsoul.Andwhenwintercameuponit,hewouldstillbestandingwherespringtremblesonthevergeofsummer.Whenthebloodcreptfromitsface,andleftbehindapallidmaskofchalkwithleadeneyes,hewouldkeeptheglamourofboyhood.Notoneblossomofhislovelinesswouldeverfade.Notonepulseofhislifewouldeverweaken.LikethegodsoftheGreeks,hewouldbestrong,andfleet,andjoyous.Whatdid itmatterwhathappenedtothecolouredimageonthecanvas?Hewouldbesafe.Thatwaseverything.

He drew the screen back into its former place in front of the picture,smilingashedidso,andpassedintohisbedroom,wherehisvaletwasalreadywaiting for him. An hour later he was at the opera, and Lord Henry wasleaningoverhischair.

CHAPTER9

As hewas sitting at breakfast nextmorning, BasilHallwardwas shownintotheroom.

"I am so glad I have found you,Dorian," he said gravely. "I called lastnight, and they toldme youwere at the opera.Of course, I knew thatwasimpossible. But I wish you had left word where you had really gone to. Ipassedadreadfulevening,halfafraidthatonetragedymightbefollowedbyanother.Ithinkyoumighthavetelegraphedformewhenyouheardofitfirst.IreadofitquitebychanceinalateeditionofTheGlobethatIpickedupattheclub.Icamehereatonceandwasmiserableatnotfindingyou.Ican'ttellyouhowheart-brokenIamabout thewhole thing. Iknowwhatyoumustsuffer.But where were you? Did you go down and see the girl's mother? For amomentIthoughtoffollowingyouthere.Theygavetheaddressinthepaper.SomewhereintheEustonRoad,isn'tit?ButIwasafraidofintrudinguponasorrowthatIcouldnotlighten.Poorwoman!Whatastateshemustbein!Andheronlychild,too!Whatdidshesayaboutitall?"

"MydearBasil, howdo Iknow?"murmuredDorianGray, sipping somepale-yellowwine fromadelicate, gold-beadedbubble ofVenetianglass andlookingdreadfullybored."Iwasattheopera.Youshouldhavecomeonthere.ImetLadyGwendolen,Harry'ssister,forthefirsttime.Wewereinherbox.She is perfectly charming; and Patti sang divinely. Don't talk about horridsubjects.Ifonedoesn'ttalkaboutathing,ithasneverhappened.Itissimplyexpression,asHarrysays,thatgivesrealitytothings.Imaymentionthatshewasnotthewoman'sonlychild.Thereisason,acharmingfellow,Ibelieve.Butheisnotonthestage.Heisasailor,orsomething.Andnow,tellmeaboutyourselfandwhatyouarepainting."

"Youwenttotheopera?"saidHallward,speakingveryslowlyandwithastrainedtouchofpaininhisvoice."YouwenttotheoperawhileSibylVanewas lyingdead insomesordid lodging?Youcan talk tomeofotherwomenbeing charming, and of Patti singing divinely, before the girl you loved haseventhequietofagravetosleepin?Why,man,therearehorrorsinstoreforthatlittlewhitebodyofhers!"

"Stop,Basil!Iwon'thearit!"criedDorian,leapingtohisfeet."Youmustnottellmeaboutthings.Whatisdoneisdone.Whatispastispast."

"Youcallyesterdaythepast?"

"What has the actual lapse of time got to dowith it? It is only shallowpeoplewho requireyears toget ridof an emotion.Amanwho ismasterofhimselfcanendasorrowaseasilyashecaninventapleasure.Idon'twanttobe at themercyofmy emotions. Iwant to use them, to enjoy them, and todominatethem."

"Dorian,thisishorrible!Somethinghaschangedyoucompletely.Youlookexactlythesamewonderfulboywho,dayafterday,usedtocomedowntomystudio to sit for his picture. But you were simple, natural, and affectionatethen.Youwerethemostunspoiledcreatureinthewholeworld.Now,Idon'tknowwhathascomeoveryou.Youtalkasifyouhadnoheart,nopityinyou.ItisallHarry'sinfluence.Iseethat."

The lad flushed up and, going to the window, looked out for a fewmoments on the green, flickering, sun-lashed garden. "I owe a great deal toHarry,Basil,"hesaidatlast,"morethanIowetoyou.Youonlytaughtmetobevain."

"Well,Iampunishedforthat,Dorian—orshallbesomeday."

"Idon'tknowwhatyoumean,Basil,"heexclaimed,turninground."Idon'tknowwhatyouwant.Whatdoyouwant?"

"IwanttheDorianGrayIusedtopaint,"saidtheartistsadly.

"Basil," said the lad, going over to him and putting his hand on hisshoulder, "youhave come too late.Yesterday,when I heard that SibylVanehadkilledherself—"

"Killed herself! Good heavens! is there no doubt about that?" criedHallward,lookingupathimwithanexpressionofhorror.

"MydearBasil!Surelyyoudon'tthinkitwasavulgaraccident?Ofcourseshekilledherself."

The eldermanburied his face in his hands. "How fearful," hemuttered,andashudderranthroughhim.

"No,"saidDorianGray,"thereisnothingfearfulabout it. It isoneof thegreat romantic tragediesof theage.Asa rule,peoplewhoact lead themostcommonplacelives.Theyaregoodhusbands,orfaithfulwives,orsomethingtedious. You know what I mean—middle-class virtue and all that kind ofthing.HowdifferentSibylwas!Shelivedherfinesttragedy.Shewasalwaysaheroine.The lastnight sheplayed—thenightyou sawher—sheactedbadly

becauseshehadknowntherealityof love.Whensheknewitsunreality,shedied,asJulietmighthavedied.Shepassedagainintothesphereofart.Thereissomethingofthemartyrabouther.Herdeathhasallthepatheticuselessnessofmartyrdom,allitswastedbeauty.But,asIwassaying,youmustnotthinkIhavenotsuffered.Ifyouhadcomeinyesterdayataparticularmoment—abouthalf-pastfive,perhaps,oraquartertosix—youwouldhavefoundmeintears.EvenHarry,whowas here,who broughtme the news, in fact, had no ideawhatIwasgoingthrough.Isufferedimmensely.Thenitpassedaway.Icannotrepeat anemotion.Noonecan, except sentimentalists.Andyouare awfullyunjust,Basil.Youcomedownhere toconsoleme.That is charmingofyou.You findmeconsoled, andyouare furious.How likea sympatheticperson!You remindmeof a storyHarry toldmeabout a certainphilanthropistwhospent twenty years of his life in trying to get some grievance redressed, orsomeunjust lawaltered—Iforgetexactlywhat itwas.Finallyhesucceeded,and nothing could exceed his disappointment.He had absolutely nothing todo,almostdiedofennui,andbecameaconfirmedmisanthrope.Andbesides,mydearoldBasil,ifyoureallywanttoconsoleme,teachmerathertoforgetwhathashappened,ortoseeitfromaproperartisticpointofview.WasitnotGautierwhousedtowriteaboutlaconsolationdesarts?Irememberpickingupa littlevellum-coveredbook inyourstudioonedayandchancingon thatdelightfulphrase.Well,IamnotlikethatyoungmanyoutoldmeofwhenweweredownatMarlow together, theyoungmanwhoused to say thatyellowsatincouldconsoleoneforallthemiseriesoflife.Ilovebeautifulthingsthatonecantouchandhandle.Oldbrocades,greenbronzes,lacquer-work,carvedivories, exquisite surroundings, luxury,pomp—there ismuch tobegot fromallthese.Buttheartistictemperamentthattheycreate,oratanyratereveal,isstillmoretome.Tobecomethespectatorofone'sownlife,asHarrysays,istoescapethesufferingoflife.Iknowyouaresurprisedatmytalkingtoyoulikethis.YouhavenotrealizedhowIhavedeveloped.Iwasaschoolboywhenyouknewme.Iamamannow.Ihavenewpassions,newthoughts,newideas.Iam different, but you must not like me less. I am changed, but you mustalwaysbemyfriend.Ofcourse,IamveryfondofHarry.ButIknowthatyouarebetterthanheis.Youarenotstronger—youaretoomuchafraidoflife—butyouarebetter.Andhowhappyweused tobe together!Don't leaveme,Basil,anddon'tquarrelwithme.IamwhatIam.Thereisnothingmoretobesaid."

Thepainter feltstrangelymoved.The ladwas infinitelydear tohim,andhispersonalityhadbeen thegreat turningpoint inhisart.Hecouldnotbeartheideaofreproachinghimanymore.Afterall,hisindifferencewasprobablymerely amood that would pass away. Therewas somuch in him that wasgood,somuchinhimthatwasnoble.

"Well,Dorian,"hesaidat length,withasadsmile,"Iwon'tspeaktoyou

againabout thishorrible thing,after to-day. Ionly trustyournamewon'tbementioned in connectionwith it.The inquest is to takeplace this afternoon.Havetheysummonedyou?"

Dorianshookhishead,andalookofannoyancepassedoverhisfaceatthemention of the word "inquest." There was something so crude and vulgarabouteverythingofthekind."Theydon'tknowmyname,"heanswered.

"Butsurelyshedid?"

"OnlymyChristianname,andthatIamquitesureshenevermentionedtoanyone.ShetoldmeoncethattheywereallrathercurioustolearnwhoIwas,andthatsheinvariablytoldthemmynamewasPrinceCharming.Itwasprettyof her. You must do me a drawing of Sibyl, Basil. I should like to havesomething more of her than the memory of a few kisses and some brokenpatheticwords."

"Iwilltryanddosomething,Dorian,ifitwouldpleaseyou.Butyoumustcomeandsittomeyourselfagain.Ican'tgetonwithoutyou."

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

The painter stared at him. "Mydear boy,what nonsense!" he cried. "Doyoumeantosayyoudon'tlikewhatIdidofyou?Whereisit?Whyhaveyoupulledthescreeninfrontofit?Letmelookatit.ItisthebestthingIhaveeverdone.Dotakethescreenaway,Dorian.Itissimplydisgracefulofyourservanthidingmyworklikethat.IfelttheroomlookeddifferentasIcamein."

"Myservanthasnothingtodowithit,Basil.Youdon't imagineI lethimarrangemyroomforme?Hesettlesmyflowersformesometimes—thatisall.No;Ididitmyself.Thelightwastoostrongontheportrait."

"Toostrong!Surelynot,mydearfellow?Itisanadmirableplaceforit.Letmeseeit."AndHallwardwalkedtowardsthecorneroftheroom.

AcryofterrorbrokefromDorianGray'slips,andherushedbetweenthepainterandthescreen."Basil,"hesaid,lookingverypale,"youmustnotlookatit.Idon'twishyouto."

"Not lookatmyownwork!Youarenotserious.Whyshouldn't I lookatit?"exclaimedHallward,laughing.

"Ifyoutrytolookatit,Basil,onmywordofhonourIwillneverspeaktoyouagainas longasI live. Iamquiteserious. Idon'tofferanyexplanation,and you are not to ask for any. But, remember, if you touch this screen,everythingisoverbetweenus."

Hallward was thunderstruck. He looked at Dorian Gray in absolute

amazement. He had never seen him like this before. The lad was actuallypallidwithrage.Hishandswereclenched,andthepupilsofhiseyeswerelikedisksofbluefire.Hewastremblingallover.

"Dorian!"

"Don'tspeak!"

"Butwhatisthematter?OfcourseIwon'tlookatitifyoudon'twantmeto," he said, rather coldly, turning on his heel and going over towards thewindow."But,really,itseemsratherabsurdthatIshouldn'tseemyownwork,especiallyasIamgoingtoexhibitit inParisintheautumn.Ishallprobablyhavetogiveitanothercoatofvarnishbeforethat,soImustseeitsomeday,andwhynotto-day?"

"Toexhibit it!Youwant toexhibit it?"exclaimedDorianGray,astrangesenseofterrorcreepingoverhim.Wastheworldgoingtobeshownhissecret?Were people to gape at the mystery of his life? That was impossible.Something—hedidnotknowwhat—hadtobedoneatonce.

"Yes; I don't suppose you will object to that. Georges Petit is going tocollectallmybestpicturesforaspecialexhibitionintheRuedeSeze,whichwillopenthefirstweekinOctober.Theportraitwillonlybeawayamonth.Ishouldthinkyoucouldeasilyspareitforthattime.Infact,youaresuretobeoutoftown.Andifyoukeepitalwaysbehindascreen,youcan'tcaremuchaboutit."

Dorian Gray passed his hand over his forehead. There were beads ofperspirationthere.Hefeltthathewasonthebrinkofahorribledanger."Youtoldmeamonth ago that youwouldnever exhibit it," he cried. "Whyhaveyouchangedyourmind?Youpeoplewhogoinforbeingconsistenthavejustasmanymoods as others have. The only difference is that yourmoods arerather meaningless. You can't have forgotten that you assured me mostsolemnly that nothing in the world would induce you to send it to anyexhibition.YoutoldHarryexactlythesamething."Hestoppedsuddenly,andagleamoflightcameintohiseyes.HerememberedthatLordHenryhadsaidto him once, half seriously and half in jest, "If youwant to have a strangequarterofanhour,getBasiltotellyouwhyhewon'texhibityourpicture.Hetoldmewhyhewouldn't,anditwasarevelationtome."Yes,perhapsBasil,too,hadhissecret.Hewouldaskhimandtry.

"Basil,"he said, comingoverquite closeand lookinghimstraight in theface, "wehave eachofus a secret.Letmeknowyours, and I shall tell youmine.Whatwasyourreasonforrefusingtoexhibitmypicture?"

Thepaintershudderedinspiteofhimself."Dorian,ifItoldyou,youmightlikemelessthanyoudo,andyouwouldcertainlylaughatme.Icouldnotbear

yourdoingeitherof those two things. Ifyouwishmenever to lookatyourpictureagain,Iamcontent.Ihavealwaysyoutolookat.Ifyouwishthebestwork I have ever done to be hidden from the world, I am satisfied. Yourfriendshipisdearertomethananyfameorreputation."

"No,Basil,youmusttellme,"insistedDorianGray."IthinkIhavearighttoknow."His feelingof terror hadpassed away, and curiosityhad taken itsplace.HewasdeterminedtofindoutBasilHallward'smystery.

"Let us sit down,Dorian," said the painter, looking troubled. "Let us sitdown. And just answer me one question. Have you noticed in the picturesomethingcurious?—something thatprobablyat firstdidnot strikeyou,butthatrevealeditselftoyousuddenly?"

"Basil!"criedthelad,clutchingthearmsofhischairwithtremblinghandsandgazingathimwithwildstartledeyes.

"Iseeyoudid.Don'tspeak.WaittillyouhearwhatIhavetosay.Dorian,from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinaryinfluence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power, by you. Youbecame to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memoryhauntsusartistslikeanexquisitedream.Iworshippedyou.Igrewjealousofeveryonetowhomyouspoke.Iwantedtohaveyoualltomyself.Iwasonlyhappywhen Iwaswithyou.Whenyouwere away fromme, youwere stillpresent inmy art....Of course, I never let you know anything about this. Itwould have been impossible. You would not have understood it. I hardlyunderstooditmyself.IonlyknewthatIhadseenperfectionfacetoface,andthattheworldhadbecomewonderfultomyeyes—toowonderful,perhaps,forinsuchmadworshipsthereisperil,theperiloflosingthem,nolessthantheperilofkeepingthem....Weeksandweekswenton,andIgrewmoreandmoreabsorbedinyou.Thencameanewdevelopment.IhaddrawnyouasParisindaintyarmour,andasAdoniswithhuntsman'scloakandpolishedboar-spear.Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian'sbarge,gazingacrossthegreenturbidNile.Youhadleanedoverthestillpoolof someGreekwoodland and seen in thewater's silent silver themarvel ofyour own face.And it had all beenwhat art shouldbe—unconscious, ideal,and remote.Oneday, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined topaint awonderfulportraitofyouasyouactuallyare,notinthecostumeofdeadages,butinyourowndressandinyourowntime.Whetheritwastherealismofthemethod,orthemerewonderofyourownpersonality, thusdirectlypresentedtomewithoutmist or veil, I cannot tell.But I know that as Iworked at it,everyflakeandfilmofcolourseemedtometorevealmysecret.Igrewafraidthatotherswouldknowofmyidolatry.Ifelt,Dorian,thatIhadtoldtoomuch,thatIhadputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.ThenitwasthatIresolvednevertoallowthepicturetobeexhibited.Youwerealittleannoyed;butthenyoudid

notrealizeallthatitmeanttome.Harry,towhomItalkedaboutit,laughedatme.But Ididnotmind that.When thepicturewas finished, and I sat alonewithit,IfeltthatIwasright....Well,afterafewdaysthethingleftmystudio,and as soon as I hadgot ridof the intolerable fascinationof its presence, itseemedtomethatIhadbeenfoolishinimaginingthatIhadseenanythinginit, more than that youwere extremely good-looking and that I could paint.EvennowIcannothelpfeelingthatitisamistaketothinkthatthepassiononefeels increation is ever really shown in theworkonecreates.Art is alwaysmoreabstractthanwefancy.Formandcolourtellusofformandcolour—thatisall.Itoftenseemstomethatartconcealstheartistfarmorecompletelythaniteverrevealshim.AndsowhenIgot thisofferfromParis,Ideterminedtomakeyourportrait theprincipal thing inmyexhibition. Itneveroccurred tomethatyouwouldrefuse.Iseenowthatyouwereright.Thepicturecannotbeshown.Youmustnotbeangrywithme,Dorian,forwhatIhavetoldyou.AsIsaidtoHarry,once,youaremadetobeworshipped."

DorianGraydrewalongbreath.Thecolourcamebacktohischeeks,andasmileplayedabouthislips.Theperilwasover.Hewassafeforthetime.Yethecouldnothelpfeelinginfinitepityfor thepainterwhohadjustmadethisstrange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be sodominatedbythepersonalityofafriend.LordHenryhadthecharmofbeingvery dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to bereally fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with astrangeidolatry?Wasthatoneofthethingsthatlifehadinstore?

"It isextraordinary tome,Dorian,"saidHallward,"thatyoushouldhaveseenthisintheportrait.Didyoureallyseeit?"

"Isawsomethinginit,"heanswered,"somethingthatseemedtomeverycurious."

"Well,youdon'tmindmylookingatthethingnow?"

Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could notpossiblyletyoustandinfrontofthatpicture."

"Youwillsomeday,surely?"

"Never."

"Well,perhapsyouareright.Andnowgood-bye,Dorian.Youhavebeentheonepersoninmylifewhohasreallyinfluencedmyart.WhateverIhavedonethatisgood,Iowetoyou.Ah!youdon'tknowwhatitcostmetotellyouallthatIhavetoldyou."

"MydearBasil," saidDorian, "whathaveyou toldme?Simply that youfeltthatyouadmiredmetoomuch.Thatisnotevenacompliment."

"Itwasnotintendedasacompliment.Itwasaconfession.NowthatIhavemadeit,somethingseemstohavegoneoutofme.Perhapsoneshouldneverputone'sworshipintowords."

"Itwasaverydisappointingconfession."

"Why,what did you expect,Dorian?You didn't see anything else in thepicture,didyou?Therewasnothingelsetosee?"

"No;therewasnothingelsetosee.Whydoyouask?Butyoumustn'ttalkaboutworship.Itisfoolish.YouandIarefriends,Basil,andwemustalwaysremainso."

"YouhavegotHarry,"saidthepaintersadly.

"Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends hisdays in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what isimprobable. Just thesortof life Iwould like to lead.But still Idon't think IwouldgotoHarryifIwereintrouble.Iwouldsoonergotoyou,Basil."

"Youwillsittomeagain?"

"Impossible!"

"Youspoilmylifeasanartistbyrefusing,Dorian.Nomancomesacrosstwoidealthings.Fewcomeacrossone."

"Ican'texplainittoyou,Basil,butImustneversittoyouagain.Thereissomethingfatalaboutaportrait.Ithasalifeofitsown.Iwillcomeandhaveteawithyou.Thatwillbejustaspleasant."

"Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "Andnowgood-bye.Iamsorryyouwon'tletmelookatthepictureonceagain.Butthatcan'tbehelped.Iquiteunderstandwhatyoufeelaboutit."

Ashelefttheroom,DorianGraysmiledtohimself.PoorBasil!Howlittlehe knewof the true reason!And how strange itwas that, instead of havingbeenforcedtorevealhisownsecret,hehadsucceeded,almostbychance,inwrestingasecretfromhisfriend!Howmuchthatstrangeconfessionexplainedtohim!Thepainter'sabsurdfitsofjealousy,hiswilddevotion,hisextravagantpanegyrics, his curious reticences—he understood them all now, and he feltsorry.Thereseemedtohimtobesomethingtragicinafriendshipsocolouredbyromance.

He sighed and touched the bell.Theportraitmust be hidden away at allcosts.Hecouldnotrunsuchariskofdiscoveryagain.Ithadbeenmadofhimtohaveallowedthethingtoremain,evenforanhour,inaroomtowhichanyofhisfriendshadaccess.

CHAPTER10

Whenhisservantentered,helookedathimsteadfastlyandwonderedifhehad thoughtofpeeringbehind thescreen.Themanwasquite impassiveandwaitedforhisorders.Dorianlitacigaretteandwalkedover to theglassandglanced into it.He could see the reflection ofVictor's face perfectly. Itwaslikeaplacidmaskofservility.Therewasnothingtobeafraidof,there.Yethethoughtitbesttobeonhisguard.

Speakingveryslowly,hetoldhimtotellthehouse-keeperthathewantedtoseeher,andthentogototheframe-makerandaskhimtosendtwoofhismen roundatonce. It seemed tohim that as theman left the roomhis eyeswanderedinthedirectionofthescreen.Orwasthatmerelyhisownfancy?

After a fewmoments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned threadmittensonherwrinkledhands,Mrs.Leafbustledintothelibrary.Heaskedherforthekeyoftheschoolroom.

"Theoldschoolroom,Mr.Dorian?"sheexclaimed."Why,itisfullofdust.Imustgetitarrangedandputstraightbeforeyougointoit.Itisnotfitforyoutosee,sir.Itisnot,indeed."

"Idon'twantitputstraight,Leaf.Ionlywantthekey."

"Well,sir,you'llbecoveredwithcobwebsifyougointoit.Why,ithasn'tbeenopenedfornearlyfiveyears—notsincehislordshipdied."

Hewincedatthementionofhisgrandfather.Hehadhatefulmemoriesofhim."Thatdoesnotmatter,"heanswered."Isimplywant tosee theplace—thatisall.Givemethekey."

"Andhereisthekey,sir,"saidtheoldlady,goingoverthecontentsofherbunchwith tremulouslyuncertainhands."Here is thekey. I'llhave itoff thebunch in amoment. But you don't think of living up there, sir, and you socomfortablehere?"

"No,no,"hecriedpetulantly."Thankyou,Leaf.Thatwilldo."

Shelingeredforafewmoments,andwasgarrulousoversomedetailofthehousehold.Hesighedandtoldhertomanagethingsasshethoughtbest.Shelefttheroom,wreathedinsmiles.

Asthedoorclosed,Dorianputthekeyinhispocketandlookedroundtheroom.Hiseyefellonalarge,purplesatincoverletheavilyembroideredwithgold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that hisgrandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to

wrapthedreadfulthingin.Ithadperhapsservedoftenasapallforthedead.Nowitwastohidesomethingthathadacorruptionofitsown,worsethanthecorruptionofdeathitself—somethingthatwouldbreedhorrorsandyetwouldneverdie.Whatthewormwastothecorpse,hissinswouldbetothepaintedimageonthecanvas.Theywouldmaritsbeautyandeatawayitsgrace.Theywoulddefileitandmakeitshameful.Andyetthethingwouldstillliveon.Itwouldbealwaysalive.

Heshuddered,andforamomentheregrettedthathehadnottoldBasilthetrue reasonwhy he hadwished to hide the picture away. Basil would havehelped him to resist Lord Henry's influence, and the still more poisonousinfluencesthatcamefromhisowntemperament.Thelovethatheborehim—foritwasreallylove—hadnothinginitthatwasnotnobleandintellectual.Itwasnotthatmerephysicaladmirationofbeautythatisbornofthesensesandthatdieswhenthesenses tire. Itwassuch loveasMichelangelohadknown,andMontaigne,andWinckelmann,andShakespearehimself.Yes,Basilcouldhavesavedhim.Butitwastoolatenow.Thepastcouldalwaysbeannihilated.Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that.But the futurewas inevitable.Therewerepassions inhim thatwould find their terribleoutlet,dreams thatwouldmaketheshadowoftheirevilreal.

Hetookupfromthecouchthegreatpurple-and-goldtexturethatcoveredit,and,holdingitinhishands,passedbehindthescreen.Wasthefaceonthecanvasvilerthanbefore?Itseemedtohimthatitwasunchanged,andyethisloathingofitwasintensified.Goldhair,blueeyes,androse-redlips—theyallwerethere.Itwassimplytheexpressionthathadaltered.Thatwashorribleinitscruelty.Comparedtowhathesawinitofcensureorrebuke,howshallowBasil's reproaches about Sibyl Vane had been!—how shallow, and of whatlittle account! His own soul was looking out at him from the canvas andcallinghim to judgement.A lookofpaincameacrosshim,andhe flung therichpalloverthepicture.Ashedidso,aknockcametothedoor.Hepassedoutashisservantentered.

"Thepersonsarehere,Monsieur."

Hefeltthatthemanmustbegotridofatonce.Hemustnotbeallowedtoknowwhere thepicturewasbeing taken to.Therewas something sly abouthim,andhehadthoughtful,treacherouseyes.Sittingdownatthewriting-tablehescribbledanotetoLordHenry,askinghimtosendhimroundsomethingtoreadandremindinghimthattheyweretomeetateight-fifteenthatevening.

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

Intwoorthreeminutestherewasanotherknock,andMr.Hubbardhimself,thecelebratedframe-makerofSouthAudleyStreet,cameinwithasomewhat

rough-lookingyoungassistant.Mr.Hubbardwasaflorid,red-whiskeredlittleman,whose admiration for artwas considerably tempered by the inveterateimpecuniosityofmostof theartistswhodealtwithhim.Asa rule,heneverlefthis shop.Hewaited forpeople to come tohim.Buthealwaysmadeanexception in favourofDorianGray.TherewassomethingaboutDorian thatcharmedeverybody.Itwasapleasureeventoseehim.

"WhatcanIdoforyou,Mr.Gray?"hesaid,rubbinghisfatfreckledhands."I thought Iwoulddomyself thehonourof coming round inperson. Ihavejustgotabeautyofaframe,sir.Pickeditupatasale.OldFlorentine.CamefromFonthill,Ibelieve.Admirablysuitedforareligioussubject,Mr.Gray."

"Iamsosorryyouhavegivenyourself the troubleofcominground,Mr.Hubbard.Ishallcertainlydropinandlookattheframe—thoughIdon'tgoinmuchatpresentforreligiousart—butto-dayIonlywantapicturecarriedtothetopofthehouseforme.Itisratherheavy,soIthoughtIwouldaskyoutolendmeacoupleofyourmen."

"No trouble at all,Mr.Gray. I amdelighted tobeof any service toyou.Whichistheworkofart,sir?"

"This," replied Dorian, moving the screen back. "Can you move it,coveringandall,justasitis?Idon'twantittogetscratchedgoingupstairs."

"Therewillbenodifficulty, sir," said thegenial frame-maker,beginning,withtheaidofhisassistant,tounhookthepicturefromthelongbrasschainsbywhichitwassuspended."And,now,whereshallwecarryitto,Mr.Gray?"

"Iwillshowyoutheway,Mr.Hubbard,ifyouwillkindlyfollowme.Orperhaps you had better go in front. I am afraid it is right at the top of thehouse.Wewillgoupbythefrontstaircase,asitiswider."

He held the door open for them, and they passed out into the hall andbegan theascent.Theelaboratecharacterof the framehadmade thepictureextremelybulky,andnowandthen,inspiteoftheobsequiousprotestsofMr.Hubbard,whohadthetruetradesman'sspiriteddislikeofseeingagentlemandoinganythinguseful,Dorianputhishandtoitsoastohelpthem.

"Somethingofaloadtocarry,sir,"gaspedthelittlemanwhentheyreachedthetoplanding.Andhewipedhisshinyforehead.

"Iamafraiditisratherheavy,"murmuredDorianasheunlockedthedoorthatopenedintotheroomthatwastokeepforhimthecurioussecretofhislifeandhidehissoulfromtheeyesofmen.

Hehadnotenteredtheplaceformorethanfouryears—not,indeed,sincehehaduseditfirstasaplay-roomwhenhewasachild,andthenasastudywhenhegrewsomewhatolder.Itwasalarge,well-proportionedroom,which

had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the littlegrandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for otherreasons,hehadalwayshatedanddesiredtokeepatadistance.ItappearedtoDoriantohavebutlittlechanged.TherewasthehugeItaliancassone,withitsfantasticallypaintedpanelsandits tarnishedgiltmouldings, inwhichhehadsooftenhiddenhimself asaboy.There the satinwoodbook-case filledwithhis dog-eared schoolbooks. On the wall behind it was hanging the sameraggedFlemishtapestrywhereafadedkingandqueenwereplayingchessinagarden,whileacompanyofhawkersrodeby,carryinghoodedbirdsontheirgauntletedwrists.Howwellheremembereditall!Everymomentofhislonelychildhood came back to him as he looked round. He recalled the stainlesspurityofhisboyishlife,anditseemedhorribletohimthatitwasherethefatalportraitwastobehiddenaway.Howlittlehehadthought,inthosedeaddays,ofallthatwasinstoreforhim!

But therewasnootherplace in thehouse so secure frompryingeyesasthis.Hehadthekey,andnooneelsecouldenterit.Beneathitspurplepall,thefacepaintedonthecanvascouldgrowbestial,sodden,andunclean.Whatdiditmatter?Noonecould see it.Hehimselfwouldnot see it.Why shouldhewatchthehideouscorruptionofhissoul?Hekepthisyouth—thatwasenough.And,besides,mightnothisnaturegrowfiner,afterall?Therewasnoreasonthat thefutureshouldbesofullofshame.Somelovemightcomeacrosshislife,andpurifyhim,andshieldhimfromthosesinsthatseemedtobealreadystirring in spirit and in flesh—those curious unpictured sins whose verymysterylentthemtheirsubtletyandtheircharm.Perhaps,someday,thecruellookwouldhavepassedawayfromthescarletsensitivemouth,andhemightshowtotheworldBasilHallward'smasterpiece.

No;thatwasimpossible.Hourbyhour,andweekbyweek,thethinguponthe canvaswasgrowingold. Itmight escape thehideousnessof sin, but thehideousnessof agewas in store for it.The cheekswouldbecomeholloworflaccid.Yellowcrow'sfeetwouldcreeproundthefadingeyesandmakethemhorrible.Thehairwouldloseitsbrightness, themouthwouldgapeordroop,wouldbefoolishorgross,asthemouthsofoldmenare.Therewouldbethewrinkled throat, the cold, blue-veined hands, the twisted body, that herememberedinthegrandfatherwhohadbeensosterntohiminhisboyhood.Thepicturehadtobeconcealed.Therewasnohelpforit.

"Bring it in,Mr.Hubbard,please,"hesaid,wearily, turninground."IamsorryIkeptyousolong.Iwasthinkingofsomethingelse."

"Alwaysglad tohave a rest,Mr.Gray," answered the frame-maker,whowasstillgaspingforbreath."Whereshallweputit,sir?"

"Oh,anywhere.Here:thiswilldo.Idon'twanttohaveithungup.Justlean

itagainstthewall.Thanks."

"Mightonelookattheworkofart,sir?"

Dorianstarted."Itwouldnotinterestyou,Mr.Hubbard,"hesaid,keepinghiseyeontheman.Hefeltreadytoleapuponhimandflinghimtothegroundifhedaredtoliftthegorgeoushangingthatconcealedthesecretofhislife."Ishan't trouble you any more now. I ammuch obliged for your kindness incominground."

"Not at all, not at all,Mr.Gray.Ever ready todo anything foryou, sir."AndMr.Hubbardtrampeddownstairs,followedbytheassistant,whoglancedbackatDorianwithalookofshywonderinhisroughuncomelyface.Hehadneverseenanyonesomarvellous.

Whenthesoundoftheirfootstepshaddiedaway,Dorianlockedthedoorandputthekeyinhispocket.Hefeltsafenow.Noonewouldeverlookuponthehorriblething.Noeyebuthiswouldeverseehisshame.

Onreachingthelibrary,hefoundthatitwasjustafterfiveo'clockandthattheteahadbeenalreadybroughtup.Onalittletableofdarkperfumedwoodthicklyincrustedwithnacre,apresentfromLadyRadley,hisguardian'swife,aprettyprofessionalinvalidwhohadspenttheprecedingwinterinCairo,waslyinganotefromLordHenry,andbesideitwasabookboundinyellowpaper,thecoverslightlytornandtheedgessoiled.AcopyofthethirdeditionofTheSt.James'sGazettehadbeenplacedonthetea-tray.ItwasevidentthatVictorhad returned.Hewondered if he hadmet themen in the hall as theywereleavingthehouseandhadwormedoutofthemwhattheyhadbeendoing.Hewouldbesure tomiss thepicture—hadnodoubtmissed italready,whilehehadbeenlayingthetea-things.Thescreenhadnotbeensetback,andablankspacewasvisibleonthewall.Perhapssomenighthemightfindhimcreepingupstairs and trying to force the door of the room. Itwas a horrible thing tohave a spy in one's house. He had heard of rich men who had beenblackmailedalltheirlivesbysomeservantwhohadreadaletter,oroverheardaconversation,orpickedupacardwithanaddress,orfoundbeneathapillowawitheredflowerorashredofcrumpledlace.

Hesighed,andhavingpouredhimselfoutsometea,openedLordHenry'snote. Itwas simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and abookthatmightinteresthim,andthathewouldbeattheclubateight-fifteen.HeopenedTheSt.James'slanguidly,andlookedthroughit.Aredpencil-markonthefifthpagecaughthiseye.Itdrewattentiontothefollowingparagraph:

INQUESTONANACTRESS.—AninquestwasheldthismorningattheBellTavern,HoxtonRoad,byMr.Danby,theDistrictCoroner,onthebodyofSibylVane,ayoungactressrecentlyengagedattheRoyalTheatre,Holborn.A

verdict of death bymisadventurewas returned.Considerable sympathywasexpressedforthemotherofthedeceased,whowasgreatlyaffectedduringthegivingofherownevidence,and thatofDr.Birrell,whohadmade thepost-mortemexaminationofthedeceased.

Hefrowned,andtearingthepaperintwo,wentacrosstheroomandflungthepieces away.Howugly it allwas!Andhowhorribly realuglinessmadethings!HefeltalittleannoyedwithLordHenryforhavingsenthimthereport.And itwascertainlystupidofhim tohavemarked itwith redpencil.Victormighthavereadit.ThemanknewmorethanenoughEnglishforthat.

Perhapshehadreaditandhadbeguntosuspectsomething.And,yet,whatdiditmatter?WhathadDorianGraytodowithSibylVane'sdeath?Therewasnothingtofear.DorianGrayhadnotkilledher.

HiseyefellontheyellowbookthatLordHenryhadsenthim.Whatwasit,hewondered.Hewent towards the little,pearl-colouredoctagonalstand thathadalways looked tohim like theworkof some strangeEgyptianbees thatwrought insilver,andtakingup thevolume,flunghimself intoanarm-chairandbegantoturnovertheleaves.Afterafewminuteshebecameabsorbed.Itwasthestrangestbookthathehadeverread.Itseemedtohimthatinexquisiteraiment,andtothedelicatesoundofflutes,thesinsoftheworldwerepassingindumbshowbeforehim.Thingsthathehaddimlydreamedofweresuddenlymade real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were graduallyrevealed.

Itwasanovelwithoutaplotandwithonlyonecharacter,being, indeed,simply a psychological study of a certain youngParisianwho spent his lifetrying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes ofthought thatbelonged toeverycenturyexcepthisown,and to sumup, as itwere, inhimself thevariousmoods throughwhich theworld-spirit had everpassed, loving for theirmere artificiality those renunciations thatmen haveunwiselycalledvirtue,asmuchasthosenaturalrebellionsthatwisemenstillcallsin.Thestyleinwhichitwaswrittenwasthatcuriousjewelledstyle,vividandobscureatonce, fullofargotandofarchaisms,of technicalexpressionsandofelaborateparaphrases,thatcharacterizestheworkofsomeofthefinestartists of the French school of Symbolistes. There were in it metaphors asmonstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses wasdescribed in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at timeswhetheronewasreadingthespiritualecstasiesofsomemediaevalsaintorthemorbidconfessionsofamodernsinner. Itwasapoisonousbook.Theheavyodourofincenseseemedtoclingaboutitspagesandtotroublethebrain.Themerecadenceofthesentences,thesubtlemonotonyoftheirmusic,sofullasitwasofcomplexrefrainsandmovementselaboratelyrepeated,producedinthemind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a

malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day andcreepingshadows.

Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamedthroughthewindows.Hereadonbyitswanlighttillhecouldreadnomore.Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of thehour, hegot up, andgoing into thenext room,placed thebookon the littleFlorentinetablethatalwaysstoodathisbedsideandbegantodressfordinner.

Itwasalmostnineo'clockbeforehereachedtheclub,wherehefoundLordHenrysittingalone,inthemorning-room,lookingverymuchbored.

"Iamsosorry,Harry,"hecried, "but really it isentirelyyour fault.ThatbookyousentmesofascinatedmethatIforgothowthetimewasgoing."

"Yes,Ithoughtyouwouldlikeit,"repliedhishost,risingfromhischair.

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

"Ah,youhavediscoveredthat?"murmuredLordHenry.Andtheypassedintothedining-room.

CHAPTER11

Foryears,DorianGraycouldnot freehimself from the influenceof thisbook.Orperhapsitwouldbemoreaccuratetosaythatheneversoughttofreehimselffromit.HeprocuredfromParisnolessthanninelarge-papercopiesofthefirstedition,andhad themboundindifferentcolours,so that theymightsuit his variousmoods and the changing fancies of a nature overwhich heseemed,attimes,tohavealmostentirelylostcontrol.Thehero,thewonderfulyoungParisianinwhomtheromanticandthescientifictemperamentsweresostrangelyblended,becametohimakindofprefiguringtypeofhimself.And,indeed, thewhole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life,writtenbeforehehadlivedit.

In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. Heneverknew—never,indeed,hadanycausetoknow—thatsomewhatgrotesquedreadofmirrors,andpolishedmetalsurfaces,andstillwaterwhichcameuponthe young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the suddendecayofabeauthathadonce,apparently,beensoremarkable.Itwaswithanalmost cruel joy—and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in everypleasure,crueltyhasitsplace—thatheusedtoreadthelatterpartofthebook,withitsreallytragic,ifsomewhatoveremphasized,accountofthesorrowand

despairofonewhohadhimselflostwhatinothers,andtheworld,hehadmostdearlyvalued.

ForthewonderfulbeautythathadsofascinatedBasilHallward,andmanyothersbesideshim,seemednevertoleavehim.Eventhosewhohadheardthemostevilthingsagainsthim—andfromtimetotimestrangerumoursabouthismodeoflifecreptthroughLondonandbecamethechatteroftheclubs—couldnotbelieveanythingtohisdishonourwhentheysawhim.Hehadalwaysthelookofonewhohadkepthimselfunspottedfromtheworld.Menwhotalkedgrossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There wassomething in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presenceseemedtorecalltothemthememoryoftheinnocencethattheyhadtarnished.They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could haveescapedthestainofanagethatwasatoncesordidandsensual.

Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolongedabsencesthatgaverisetosuchstrangeconjectureamongthosewhowerehisfriends,or thought that theywereso,hehimselfwouldcreepupstairs to thelockedroom,openthedoorwith thekeythatnever lefthimnow,andstand,withamirror,infrontoftheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim,looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fairyoung face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The verysharpnessofthecontrastusedtoquickenhissenseofpleasure.Hegrewmoreand more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in thecorruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, andsometimeswithamonstrousandterribledelight,thehideouslinesthatsearedthewrinklingforeheadorcrawledaroundtheheavysensualmouth,wonderingsometimeswhichwerethemorehorrible,thesignsofsinorthesignsofage.Hewouldplacehiswhitehandsbesidethecoarsebloatedhandsofthepicture,andsmile.Hemockedthemisshapenbodyandthefailinglimbs.

Thereweremoments, indeed, at night,when, lying sleepless in his owndelicatelyscentedchamber,orinthesordidroomofthelittleill-famedtavernnearthedockswhich,underanassumednameandindisguise,itwashishabitto frequent,hewould thinkof the ruinhehadbroughtuponhis soulwith apitythatwasallthemorepoignantbecauseitwaspurelyselfish.Butmomentssuchasthesewererare.ThatcuriosityaboutlifewhichLordHenryhadfirststirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed toincreasewithgratification.Themoreheknew, themorehedesired toknow.Hehadmadhungersthatgrewmoreravenousashefedthem.

Yethewasnotreallyreckless,atanyrateinhisrelationstosociety.Onceor twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday eveningwhiletheseasonlasted,hewouldthrowopentotheworldhisbeautifulhouseandhavethemostcelebratedmusiciansofthedaytocharmhisguestswiththe

wonders of their art.His little dinners, in the settling ofwhich LordHenryalwaysassistedhim,werenotedasmuchforthecarefulselectionandplacingofthoseinvited,asfortheexquisitetasteshowninthedecorationofthetable,with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroideredcloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many,especiallyamongtheveryyoungmen,whosaw,orfanciedthat theysaw,inDorianGraythetruerealizationofatypeofwhichtheyhadoftendreamedinEtonorOxforddays,atypethatwastocombinesomethingoftherealcultureofthescholarwithallthegraceanddistinctionandperfectmannerofacitizenoftheworld.TothemheseemedtobeofthecompanyofthosewhomDantedescribes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship ofbeauty."LikeGautier,hewasoneforwhom"thevisibleworldexisted."

And,certainly,tohimlifeitselfwasthefirst,thegreatest,ofthearts,andforitalltheotherartsseemedtobebutapreparation.Fashion,bywhichwhatis really fantasticbecomes foramomentuniversal,anddandyism,which, initsownway,isanattempttoasserttheabsolutemodernityofbeauty,had,ofcourse, their fascination for him. His mode of dressing, and the particularstyles that from time to timehe affected, had theirmarked influenceon theyoungexquisitesoftheMayfairballsandPallMallclubwindows,whocopiedhimineverythingthathedid,andtriedtoreproducetheaccidentalcharmofhisgraceful,thoughtohimonlyhalf-serious,fopperies.

For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almostimmediatelyofferedtohimonhiscomingofage,andfound,indeed,asubtlepleasureinthethoughtthathemightreallybecometotheLondonofhisownday what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the Satyricon once hadbeen, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be somethingmore than amerearbiterelegantiarum,tobeconsultedonthewearingofajewel,ortheknottingof a necktie, or the conduct of a cane. He sought to elaborate some newscheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its orderedprinciples,andfindinthespiritualizingofthesensesitshighestrealization.

Theworshipofthesenseshasoften,andwithmuchjustice,beendecried,menfeelinganaturalinstinctofterroraboutpassionsandsensationsthatseemstrongerthanthemselves,andthattheyareconsciousofsharingwiththelesshighlyorganizedformsofexistence.But itappearedtoDorianGraythat thetrue nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they hadremained savage and animalmerely because theworld had sought to starvethem into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at makingthemelementsofanewspirituality,ofwhichafineinstinctforbeautywastobethedominantcharacteristic.Ashelookedbackuponmanmovingthroughhistory,hewashauntedbyafeelingof loss.Somuchhadbeensurrendered!and to such little purpose!Therehadbeenmadwilful rejections,monstrous

formsofself-tortureandself-denial,whoseoriginwasfearandwhoseresultwasadegradationinfinitelymore terrible than thatfancieddegradationfromwhich,intheirignorance,theyhadsoughttoescape;Nature,inherwonderfulirony,drivingouttheanchoritetofeedwiththewildanimalsofthedesertandgivingtothehermitthebeastsofthefieldashiscompanions.

Yes:therewastobe,asLordHenryhadprophesied,anewHedonismthatwastorecreatelifeandtosaveitfromthatharshuncomelypuritanismthatishaving, inourownday, its curious revival. Itwas tohave its serviceof theintellect,certainly,yetitwasnevertoacceptanytheoryorsystemthatwouldinvolve the sacrifice of anymode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed,wastobeexperienceitself,andnotthefruitsofexperience,sweetorbitterasthey might be. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgarprofligacythatdullsthem,itwastoknownothing.Butitwastoteachmantoconcentratehimselfuponthemomentsofalifethatisitselfbutamoment.

Therearefewofuswhohavenotsometimeswakenedbeforedawn,eitherafteroneofthosedreamlessnightsthatmakeusalmostenamouredofdeath,or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through thechambers of the brain sweep phantomsmore terrible than reality itself, andinstinctwiththatvividlifethatlurksinallgrotesques,andthatlendstoGothicart its enduringvitality, this artbeing,onemight fancy, especially theartofthosewhosemindshavebeentroubledwiththemaladyofreverie.Graduallywhitefingerscreepthroughthecurtains,andtheyappeartotremble.Inblackfantasticshapes,dumbshadowscrawlintothecornersoftheroomandcrouchthere.Outside,thereisthestirringofbirdsamongtheleaves,orthesoundofmengoingforthtotheirwork,orthesighandsobofthewindcomingdownfrom the hills andwandering round the silent house, as though it feared towake the sleepers andyetmust needs call forth sleep fromher purple cave.Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms andcoloursof thingsarerestored to them,andwewatch thedawnremaking theworld in its antiquepattern.Thewanmirrorsgetback theirmimic life.Theflamelesstapersstandwherewehadleftthem,andbesidethemliesthehalf-cutbookthatwehadbeenstudying,orthewiredflowerthatwehadwornattheball,ortheletterthatwehadbeenafraidtoread,orthatwehadreadtoooften.Nothingseems touschanged.Outof theunreal shadowsof thenightcomesbackthereallifethatwehadknown.Wehavetoresumeitwherewehad leftoff, and there stealsoverus a terrible senseof thenecessity for thecontinuanceofenergyinthesamewearisomeroundofstereotypedhabits,orawild longing, itmay be, that our eyelidsmight open somemorning upon aworldthathadbeenrefashionedanewinthedarknessforourpleasure,aworldinwhichthingswouldhavefreshshapesandcolours,andbechanged,orhaveother secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, orsurvive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the

remembranceevenof joyhaving itsbitternessand thememoriesofpleasuretheirpain.

ItwasthecreationofsuchworldsasthesethatseemedtoDorianGraytobe the trueobject, or amongst the trueobjects, of life; and inhis search forsensationsthatwouldbeatoncenewanddelightful,andpossessthatelementof strangeness that is so essential to romance, hewould often adopt certainmodes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandonhimself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as itwere, caught theircolour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curiousindifference that isnot incompatiblewith a real ardourof temperament, andthat,indeed,accordingtocertainmodernpsychologists,isoftenaconditionofit.

ItwasrumouredofhimoncethathewasabouttojointheRomanCatholiccommunion,andcertainly theRomanritualhadalwaysagreatattractionforhim.Thedailysacrifice,moreawfulreallythanallthesacrificesoftheantiqueworld,stirredhimasmuchbyitssuperbrejectionoftheevidenceofthesensesas by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of thehumantragedythatitsoughttosymbolize.Helovedtokneeldownonthecoldmarblepavementandwatch thepriest, inhis stiff flowereddalmatic, slowlyandwithwhitehandsmovingasidetheveilofthetabernacle,orraisingaloftthe jewelled, lantern-shapedmonstrancewith that pallidwafer that at times,onewouldfain think, is indeed the"paniscaelestis," thebreadofangels,or,robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into thechaliceandsmitinghisbreastforhissins.Thefumingcensersthatthegraveboys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers hadtheirsubtlefascinationforhim.Ashepassedout,heusedtolookwithwonderattheblackconfessionalsandlongtositinthedimshadowofoneofthemandlistentomenandwomenwhisperingthroughtheworngratingthetruestoryoftheirlives.

Butheneverfellintotheerrorofarrestinghisintellectualdevelopmentbyany formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house inwhichtolive,aninnthatisbutsuitableforthesojournofanight,orforafewhours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail.Mysticism,withitsmarvellouspowerofmakingcommonthingsstrangetous,andthesubtleantinomianismthatalwaysseemstoaccompanyit,movedhimforaseason;andforaseasonheinclinedtothematerialisticdoctrinesoftheDarwinismusmovementinGermany,andfoundacuriouspleasureintracingthe thoughts and passions ofmen to some pearly cell in the brain, or somewhite nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolutedependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy,normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life

seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He feltkeenlyconsciousofhowbarrenallintellectualspeculationiswhenseparatedfromaction andexperiment.Heknew that the senses, no less than the soul,havetheirspiritualmysteriestoreveal.

Andsohewouldnowstudyperfumesandthesecretsoftheirmanufacture,distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums from the East. Hesaw that therewas nomood of themind that had not its counterpart in thesensuouslife,andsethimselftodiscovertheirtruerelations,wonderingwhattherewasinfrankincensethatmadeonemystical,andinambergristhatstirredone'spassions,andinvioletsthatwokethememoryofdeadromances,andinmuskthattroubledthebrain,andinchampakthatstainedtheimagination;andseekingoftentoelaboratearealpsychologyofperfumes,andtoestimatetheseveral influencesofsweet-smellingrootsandscented,pollen-ladenflowers;ofaromaticbalmsandofdarkandfragrantwoods;ofspikenard,thatsickens;ofhovenia,thatmakesmenmad;andofaloes,thataresaidtobeabletoexpelmelancholyfromthesoul.

Atanothertimehedevotedhimselfentirelytomusic,andinalonglatticedroom,withavermilion-and-goldceilingandwallsofolive-greenlacquer,heusedtogivecuriousconcertsinwhichmadgipsiestorewildmusicfromlittlezithers,orgrave,yellow-shawledTunisianspluckedat thestrainedstringsofmonstrous lutes, while grinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copperdrumsand,crouchinguponscarletmats,slimturbanedIndiansblewthroughlongpipesofreedorbrassandcharmed—orfeignedtocharm—greathoodedsnakesandhorriblehornedadders.Theharsh intervalsandshrilldiscordsofbarbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin'sbeautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fellunheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world thestrangestinstrumentsthatcouldbefound,eitherinthetombsofdeadnationsor among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with Westerncivilizations,andlovedtotouchandtrythem.HehadthemysteriousjuruparisoftheRioNegroIndians,thatwomenarenotallowedtolookatandthatevenyouthsmaynotseetilltheyhavebeensubjectedtofastingandscourging,andtheearthenjarsofthePeruviansthathavetheshrillcriesofbirds,andflutesofhuman bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorousgreen jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singularsweetness.He had painted gourds filledwith pebbles that rattledwhen theywereshaken;thelongclarinoftheMexicans, intowhichtheperformerdoesnotblow,butthroughwhichheinhalestheair;theharshtureoftheAmazontribes,thatissoundedbythesentinelswhositalldaylonginhightrees,andcanbeheard,itissaid,atadistanceofthreeleagues;theteponaztli,thathastwovibratingtonguesofwoodandisbeatenwithsticksthataresmearedwithan elastic gumobtained from themilky juiceof plants; theyotl-bells of the

Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum,coveredwith the skins of great serpents, like the one that BernalDiaz sawwhen he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose dolefulsound he has left us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of theseinstrumentsfascinatedhim,andhefeltacuriousdelightinthethoughtthatart,likeNature,hashermonsters,thingsofbestialshapeandwithhideousvoices.Yet,aftersometime,heweariedofthem,andwouldsitinhisboxattheopera,eitheraloneorwithLordHenry,listeninginraptpleasureto"Tannhauser"andseeinginthepreludetothatgreatworkofartapresentationofthetragedyofhisownsoul.

Ononeoccasionhetookupthestudyofjewels,andappearedatacostumeball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with fivehundredandsixtypearls.Thistasteenthralledhimforyears,and,indeed,maybesaidnevertohavelefthim.Hewouldoftenspendawholedaysettlingandresettling in their cases thevarious stones that hehad collected, such as theolive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophanewith itswirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars,flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts withtheir alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of thesunstone,andthemoonstone'spearlywhiteness,andthebrokenrainbowofthemilkyopal.HeprocuredfromAmsterdamthreeemeraldsofextraordinarysizeand richness of colour, and had a turquoise de la vieille roche thatwas theenvyofalltheconnoisseurs.

He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso'sClericalisDisciplinaaserpentwasmentionedwitheyesofrealjacinth,andintheromantichistoryofAlexander,theConquerorofEmathiawassaidtohavefoundinthevaleofJordansnakes"withcollarsofrealemeraldsgrowingontheirbacks."Therewasageminthebrainofthedragon,Philostratustoldus,and"bytheexhibitionofgoldenlettersandascarletrobe"themonstercouldbe thrown into amagical sleep and slain.According to the great alchemist,Pierre deBoniface, the diamond rendered aman invisible, and the agate ofIndia made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinthprovokedsleep,andtheamethystdroveawaythefumesofwine.Thegarnetcast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived themoon of her colour. Theselenitewaxed andwanedwith themoon, and themeloceus, that discoversthieves,couldbeaffectedonlybythebloodofkids.LeonardusCamillushadseen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly killed toad, that was acertainantidoteagainstpoison.Thebezoar,thatwasfoundintheheartoftheArabiandeer,wasacharmthatcouldcuretheplague.InthenestsofArabianbirdswas the aspilates, that, according toDemocritus, kept thewearer fromanydangerbyfire.

TheKingofCeilanrodethroughhiscitywithalargerubyinhishand,astheceremonyofhiscoronation.ThegatesofthepalaceofJohnthePriestwere"madeofsardius,withthehornofthehornedsnakeinwrought,sothatnomanmightbringpoisonwithin."Overthegablewere"twogoldenapples,inwhichweretwocarbuncles,"sothatthegoldmightshinebydayandthecarbunclesbynight.InLodge'sstrangeromance 'AMargariteofAmerica', itwasstatedthatinthechamberofthequeenonecouldbehold"allthechasteladiesoftheworld, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites,carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo had seen theinhabitantsofZipanguplacerose-colouredpearlsinthemouthsofthedead.Asea-monsterhadbeenenamouredof thepearl that thediverbrought toKingPerozes,andhadslain the thief,andmournedforsevenmoonsover its loss.WhentheHunsluredthekingintothegreatpit,heflungitaway—Procopiustells the story—norwas it ever foundagain, though theEmperorAnastasiusoffered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. TheKing ofMalabar hadshowntoacertainVenetianarosaryofthreehundredandfourpearls,oneforeverygodthatheworshipped.

WhentheDukedeValentinois,sonofAlexanderVI,visitedLouisXIIofFrance,hishorsewasloadedwithgoldleaves,accordingtoBrantome,andhiscaphaddoublerowsofrubiesthatthrewoutagreatlight.CharlesofEnglandhad ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds.Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousandmarks, which was coveredwith balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII, on his way to the Towerprevious to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placardembroideredwithdiamondsandotherrichstones,andagreatbauderikeabouthis neck of large balasses." The favourites of James I wore ear-rings ofemeraldssetingoldfiligrane.EdwardIIgavetoPiersGavestonasuitofred-goldarmour studdedwith jacinths, acollarofgold roses setwith turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsemewith pearls.Henry IIwore jewelled glovesreaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies andfifty-two great orients. The ducal hat ofCharles theRash, the lastDuke ofBurgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and studded withsapphires.

How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp anddecoration!Eventoreadoftheluxuryofthedeadwaswonderful.

Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries thatperformedtheofficeoffrescoesinthechillroomsofthenorthernnationsofEurope.Ashe investigated thesubject—andhealwayshadanextraordinaryfacultyofbecomingabsolutelyabsorbedforthemomentinwhateverhetookup—hewasalmostsaddenedbythereflectionoftheruinthattimebroughtonbeautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer

followedsummer,andtheyellowjonquilsbloomedanddiedmanytimes,andnightsofhorrorrepeatedthestoryoftheirshame,buthewasunchanged.Nowintermarredhisfaceorstainedhisflowerlikebloom.Howdifferent itwaswithmaterialthings!Wherehadtheypassedto?Wherewasthegreatcrocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had beenworkedbybrowngirlsforthepleasureofAthena?Wherethehugevelariumthat Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail ofpurpleonwhichwasrepresentedthestarrysky,andApollodrivingachariotdrawnbywhite,gilt-reinedsteeds?Helongedtoseethecurioustable-napkinswroughtforthePriestoftheSun,onwhichweredisplayedallthedaintiesandviandsthatcouldbewantedforafeast;themortuaryclothofKingChilperic,with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited theindignation of theBishop of Pontus andwere figuredwith "lions, panthers,bears,dogs,forests,rocks,hunters—all, infact, thatapaintercancopyfromnature"; and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves ofwhichwereembroideredtheversesofasongbeginning"Madame,jesuistoutjoyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in goldthread,andeachnote,ofsquareshapeinthosedays,formedwithfourpearls.HereadoftheroomthatwaspreparedatthepalaceatRheimsfortheuseofQueen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with "thirteen hundred andtwenty-oneparrots,madeinbroidery,andblazonedwiththeking'sarms,andfive hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarlyornamentedwiththearmsofthequeen,thewholeworkedingold."CatherinedeMedicishadamourning-bedmadeforherofblackvelvetpowderedwithcrescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths andgarlands,figureduponagoldandsilverground,andfringedalongtheedgeswithbroideriesofpearls,anditstoodinaroomhungwithrowsofthequeen'sdevices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had goldembroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed ofSobieski,KingofPoland,wasmadeofSmyrnagoldbrocadeembroideredinturquoises with verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt,beautifullychased,andprofuselysetwithenamelledandjewelledmedallions.Ithadbeen takenfromtheTurkishcampbeforeVienna,and thestandardofMohammedhadstoodbeneaththetremulousgiltofitscanopy.

And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisitespecimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting thedaintyDelhimuslins, finelywroughtwithgold-threadpalmates and stitchedover with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that from theirtransparencyareknownintheEastas"wovenair,"and"runningwater,"and"evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java; elaborate yellow Chinesehangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought withfleurs-de-lis,birdsandimages;veilsoflacisworkedinHungarypoint;Sicilian

brocades and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, andJapanese Foukousas, with their green-toned golds and their marvellouslyplumagedbirds.

Hehad a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeedhehadforeverythingconnectedwiththeserviceoftheChurch.Inthelongcedarcheststhatlinedthewestgalleryofhishouse,hehadstoredawaymanyrareandbeautiful specimensofwhat is really the raimentof theBrideofChrist,whomustwearpurpleandjewelsandfinelinenthatshemayhidethepallidmaceratedbodythatiswornbythesufferingthatsheseeksforandwoundedbyself-inflictedpain.Hepossessedagorgeouscopeofcrimsonsilkandgold-threaddamask,figuredwitharepeatingpatternofgoldenpomegranatessetinsix-petalledformalblossoms,beyondwhichoneithersidewasthepine-appledevice wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panelsrepresenting scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of theVirginwasfiguredincolouredsilksuponthehood.ThiswasItalianworkofthe fifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered withheart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmedwhiteblossoms, thedetails ofwhichwerepickedoutwith silver thread andcolouredcrystals.Themorseboreaseraph'sheadingold-threadraisedwork.Theorphreyswerewoven inadiaperof redandgold silk, andwere starredwithmedallionsofmanysaintsandmartyrs,amongwhomwasSt.Sebastian.He had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and goldbrocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured withrepresentationsofthePassionandCrucifixionofChrist,andembroideredwithlionsandpeacocksandotheremblems;dalmaticsofwhitesatinandpinksilkdamask,decoratedwithtulipsanddolphinsandfleurs-de-lis;altarfrontalsofcrimsonvelvetandbluelinen;andmanycorporals,chalice-veils,andsudaria.Inthemysticofficestowhichsuchthingswereput,therewassomethingthatquickenedhisimagination.

For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house,were tobe tohimmeansof forgetfulness,modesbywhichhecouldescape,foraseason,fromthefearthatseemedtohimattimestobealmosttoogreattobeborne.Uponthewallsofthelonelylockedroomwherehehadspentsomuch of his boyhood, he had hungwith his own hands the terrible portraitwhosechanging features showedhim the realdegradationofhis life, and infront of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks hewouldnotgothere,wouldforget thehideouspaintedthing,andgetbackhislight heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mereexistence. Then, suddenly, some night hewould creep out of the house, godowntodreadfulplacesnearBlueGateFields,andstaythere,dayafterday,untilhewasdrivenaway.Onhis returnhewould sit in frontof thepicture,sometimesloathingitandhimself,butfilled,atothertimes,withthatprideof

individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secretpleasureatthemisshapenshadowthathadtobeartheburdenthatshouldhavebeenhisown.

AfterafewyearshecouldnotenduretobelongoutofEngland,andgaveup the villa that he had shared atTrouvillewithLordHenry, aswell as thelittlewhitewalled-inhouseatAlgierswhere theyhadmore thanonce spentthewinter.Hehatedtobeseparatedfromthepicture thatwassuchapartofhis life, and was also afraid that during his absence some one might gainaccess to the room, in spite of the elaborate bars that he had caused to beplaceduponthedoor.

Hewasquiteconsciousthatthiswouldtellthemnothing.Itwastruethattheportraitstillpreserved,underallthefoulnessanduglinessoftheface,itsmarked likeness to himself; butwhat could they learn from that?Hewouldlaughatanyonewhotriedtotaunthim.Hehadnotpaintedit.Whatwasittohimhowvileandfullofshame it looked?Even ifhe told them,would theybelieveit?

Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house inNottinghamshire,entertainingthefashionableyoungmenofhisownrankwhowerehischiefcompanions,andastounding thecountyby thewanton luxuryand gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave hisguestsandrushbacktotowntoseethatthedoorhadnotbeentamperedwithand that the picture was still there.What if it should be stolen? The merethoughtmadehimcoldwithhorror.Surely theworldwouldknowhissecretthen.Perhapstheworldalreadysuspectedit.

For,whilehe fascinatedmany, therewerenot a fewwhodistrustedhim.Hewas very nearly blackballed at aWest End club of which his birth andsocialpositionfullyentitledhimtobecomeamember,anditwassaidthatononeoccasion,whenhewasbroughtbyafriendintothesmoking-roomoftheChurchill, theDuke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in amarkedmannerandwentout.Curiousstoriesbecamecurrentabouthimafterhehadpassedhistwenty-fifthyear.ItwasrumouredthathehadbeenseenbrawlingwithforeignsailorsinalowdeninthedistantpartsofWhitechapel,andthatheconsortedwith thievesandcoinersandknewthemysteriesof their trade.Hisextraordinaryabsencesbecamenotorious,and,whenheusedtoreappearagaininsociety,menwouldwhispertoeachotherincorners,orpasshimwitha sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they weredeterminedtodiscoverhissecret.

Ofsuchinsolencesandattemptedslightshe,ofcourse,tooknonotice,andintheopinionofmostpeoplehisfrankdebonairmanner,hischarmingboyishsmile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to

leavehim,wereinthemselvesasufficientanswertothecalumnies,forsotheytermedthem, thatwerecirculatedabouthim.Itwasremarked,however, thatsomeofthosewhohadbeenmostintimatewithhimappeared,afteratime,toshunhim.Womenwhohadwildlyadoredhim,andforhissakehadbravedallsocialcensureandsetconventionatdefiance,wereseen togrowpallidwithshameorhorrorifDorianGrayenteredtheroom.

Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many hisstrange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element ofsecurity. Society—civilized society, at least—is never very ready to believeanythingto thedetrimentof thosewhoarebothrichandfascinating.It feelsinstinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and, in itsopinion,thehighestrespectabilityisofmuchlessvaluethanthepossessionofagoodchef.And,afterall,itisaverypoorconsolationtobetoldthatthemanwhohasgivenoneabaddinner,orpoorwine,isirreproachableinhisprivatelife. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrees, as LordHenryremarkedonce, inadiscussionon thesubject,and there ispossiblyagooddealtobesaidforhisview.Forthecanonsofgoodsocietyare,orshouldbe,thesameasthecanonsofart.Formisabsolutelyessentialtoit.Itshouldhave thedignityofaceremony,aswellas itsunreality,andshouldcombinethe insincerecharacterofaromanticplaywith thewitandbeauty thatmakesuchplaysdelightfultous.Isinsinceritysuchaterriblething?Ithinknot.Itismerelyamethodbywhichwecanmultiplyourpersonalities.

Such, at any rate,wasDorianGray's opinion.He used towonder at theshallowpsychologyofthosewhoconceivetheegoinmanasathingsimple,permanent,reliable,andofoneessence.Tohim,manwasabeingwithmyriadlives andmyriad sensations, a complexmultiform creature that borewithinitself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh wastaintedwiththemonstrousmaladiesofthedead.Helovedtostrollthroughthegaunt cold picture-gallery of his country house and look at the variousportraitsof thosewhosebloodflowed inhisveins.HerewasPhilipHerbert,described by Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of QueenElizabeth and King James, as one who was "caressed by the Court for hishandsome face,which kept himnot long company."Was it youngHerbert'slifethathesometimesled?Hadsomestrangepoisonousgermcreptfrombodytobodytillithadreachedhisown?Wasitsomedimsenseofthatruinedgracethathadmadehimsosuddenly,andalmostwithoutcause,giveutterance, inBasilHallward'sstudio,tothemadprayerthathadsochangedhislife?Here,in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff andwristbands,stoodSirAnthonySherard,withhissilver-and-blackarmourpiledathis feet.Whathad thisman's legacybeen?Had the loverofGiovannaofNaples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame?Were his ownactionsmerely thedreamsthat thedeadmanhadnotdared torealize?Here,

fromthefadingcanvas,smiledLadyElizabethDevereux,inhergauzehood,pearlstomacher,andpinkslashedsleeves.Aflowerwasinherrighthand,andherleftclaspedanenamelledcollarofwhiteanddamaskroses.Onatablebyhersidelayamandolinandanapple.Therewerelargegreenrosettesuponherlittle pointed shoes.He knewher life, and the strange stories thatwere toldabouther lovers.Hadhesomethingofher temperament inhim?Theseoval,heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. What of GeorgeWilloughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil helooked!Thefacewassaturnineandswarthy,andthesensuallipsseemedtobetwistedwithdisdain.Delicatelacerufflesfellovertheleanyellowhandsthatwere so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenthcentury,andthefriend,inhisyouth,ofLordFerrars.WhatofthesecondLordBeckenham,thecompanionofthePrinceRegentinhiswildestdays,andoneofthewitnessesatthesecretmarriagewithMrs.Fitzherbert?Howproudandhandsome hewas,with his chestnut curls and insolent pose!What passionshadhebequeathed?Theworldhadlookeduponhimasinfamous.HehadledtheorgiesatCarltonHouse.Thestarof theGarterglittereduponhisbreast.Besidehimhungtheportraitofhiswife,apallid,thin-lippedwomaninblack.Herblood,also,stirredwithinhim.Howcuriousitallseemed!AndhismotherwithherLadyHamiltonfaceandhermoist,wine-dashedlips—heknewwhathehadgotfromher.Hehadgotfromherhisbeauty,andhispassionforthebeautyofothers.ShelaughedathiminherlooseBacchantedress.Therewerevineleavesinherhair.Thepurplespilledfromthecupshewasholding.Thecarnationsof thepaintinghadwithered,but theeyeswere stillwonderful intheirdepthandbrilliancyofcolour.Theyseemedtofollowhimwhereverhewent.

Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, nearerperhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with aninfluence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There were timeswhen it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history wasmerely therecordofhisownlife,notashehadliveditinactandcircumstance,butashisimagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in hispassions.Hefeltthathehadknownthemall,thosestrangeterriblefiguresthathadpassedacrossthestageoftheworldandmadesinsomarvellousandevilso fullof subtlety. It seemed tohim that in somemysteriousway their liveshadbeenhisown.

Theheroofthewonderfulnovelthathadsoinfluencedhislifehadhimselfknown thiscurious fancy. In theseventhchapterhe tellshow,crownedwithlaurel, lest lightningmightstrikehim,hehadsat,asTiberius, inagardenatCapri, reading theshamefulbooksofElephantis,whiledwarfsandpeacocksstruttedroundhimandtheflute-playermockedtheswingerofthecenser;and,asCaligula,hadcarousedwith thegreen-shirted jockeys in their stablesand

supped in an ivorymangerwith a jewel-frontleted horse; and, asDomitian,had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking roundwithhaggardeyesforthereflectionofthedaggerthatwastoendhisdays,andsickwiththatennui,thatterribletaediumvitae,thatcomesonthosetowhomlife denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the redshamblesofthecircusandthen,inalitterofpearlandpurpledrawnbysilver-shodmules, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to aHouse ofGoldandheardmencryonNeroCaesarashepassedby;and,asElagabalus,hadpaintedhisfacewithcolours,andpliedthedistaffamongthewomen,andbroughttheMoonfromCarthageandgivenherinmysticmarriagetotheSun.

OverandoveragainDorianusedtoreadthisfantasticchapter,andthetwochapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious tapestries orcunninglywrought enamels,were pictured the awful and beautiful forms ofthose whom vice and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad:Filippo,DukeofMilan,whoslewhiswifeandpaintedherlipswithascarletpoisonthatherlovermightsuckdeathfromthedeadthinghefondled;PietroBarbi, theVenetian,knownasPaul theSecond,who sought inhisvanity toassumethetitleofFormosus,andwhosetiara,valuedattwohundredthousandflorins,was bought at the price of a terrible sin;GianMariaVisconti, whousedhoundstochaselivingmenandwhosemurderedbodywascoveredwithroses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, withFratricideridingbesidehimandhismantlestainedwiththebloodofPerotto;PietroRiario,theyoungCardinalArchbishopofFlorence,childandminionofSixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and whoreceivedLeonoraofAragoninapavilionofwhiteandcrimsonsilk,filledwithnymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve at the feast asGanymedeorHylas;Ezzelin,whosemelancholycouldbecuredonlyby thespectacleofdeath,andwhohadapassionforredblood,asothermenhaveforredwine—thesonoftheFiend,aswasreported,andonewhohadcheatedhisfatheratdicewhengamblingwithhimforhisownsoul;GiambattistaCibo,who inmockery took thenameof Innocent and intowhose torpidveins thebloodofthreeladswasinfusedbyaJewishdoctor;SigismondoMalatesta,theloverofIsottaandthelordofRimini,whoseeffigywasburnedatRomeastheenemy of God andman, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gavepoison toGinevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shamefulpassionbuilt apaganchurch forChristianworship;CharlesVI,whohad sowildly adoredhisbrother'swife that a leperhadwarnedhimof the insanitythatwas coming on him, andwho,when his brain had sickened and grownstrange, couldonlybe soothedbySaracen cards paintedwith the imagesofloveanddeathandmadness;and,inhistrimmedjerkinandjewelledcapandacanthuslikecurls,GrifonettoBaglioni,whoslewAstorrewithhisbride,andSimonettowithhispage,andwhosecomelinesswassuchthat,ashelaydying

intheyellowpiazzaofPerugia,thosewhohadhatedhimcouldnotchoosebutweep,andAtalanta,whohadcursedhim,blessedhim.

Therewas a horrible fascination in them all.He saw them at night, andthey troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of strangemanners of poisoning—poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by anembroideredgloveandajewelledfan,byagildedpomanderandbyanamberchain.DorianGrayhadbeenpoisonedbyabook.Thereweremomentswhenhe looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize hisconceptionofthebeautiful.

CHAPTER12

ItwasontheninthofNovember,theeveofhisownthirty-eighthbirthday,asheoftenrememberedafterwards.

Hewaswalkinghomeabouteleveno'clockfromLordHenry's,wherehehadbeendining, andwaswrapped inheavy furs, as thenightwas cold andfoggy. At the corner of Grosvenor Square and South Audley Street, a manpassedhiminthemist,walkingveryfastandwiththecollarofhisgreyulsterturned up. He had a bag in his hand. Dorian recognized him. It was BasilHallward.Astrangesenseoffear,forwhichhecouldnotaccount,cameoverhim.Hemadenosignofrecognitionandwentonquicklyinthedirectionofhisownhouse.

But Hallward had seen him. Dorian heard him first stopping on thepavementandthenhurryingafterhim.Inafewmoments,hishandwasonhisarm.

"Dorian!Whatanextraordinarypieceofluck!Ihavebeenwaitingforyouinyourlibraryeversincenineo'clock.FinallyItookpityonyourtiredservantandtoldhimtogotobed,asheletmeout.IamofftoParisbythemidnighttrain,andIparticularlywantedtoseeyoubeforeIleft.Ithoughtitwasyou,orrather your fur coat, as you passedme. But I wasn't quite sure. Didn't yourecognizeme?"

"Inthisfog,mydearBasil?Why,Ican'tevenrecognizeGrosvenorSquare.I believemy house is somewhere about here, but I don't feel at all certainaboutit.Iamsorryyouaregoingaway,asIhavenotseenyouforages.ButIsupposeyouwillbebacksoon?"

"No: I amgoing to be out ofEngland for sixmonths. I intend to take astudioinParisandshutmyselfuptillIhavefinishedagreatpictureIhaveinmy head.However, itwasn't aboutmyself Iwanted to talk.Herewe are at

yourdoor.Letmecomeinforamoment.Ihavesomethingtosaytoyou."

"I shall be charmed. But won't youmiss your train?" said Dorian Graylanguidlyashepassedupthestepsandopenedthedoorwithhislatch-key.

The lamplight struggledout through the fog, andHallward looked at hiswatch."Ihaveheapsoftime,"heanswered."Thetraindoesn'tgotilltwelve-fifteen,anditisonlyjusteleven.Infact,Iwasonmywaytotheclubtolookforyou,whenImetyou.Yousee,Ishan'thaveanydelayaboutluggage,asIhave sent onmyheavy things.All I havewithme is in this bag, and I caneasilygettoVictoriaintwentyminutes."

Dorianlookedathimandsmiled."Whatawayforafashionablepaintertotravel!AGladstonebagandanulster!Come in,or the fogwillget into thehouse. And mind you don't talk about anything serious. Nothing is seriousnowadays.Atleastnothingshouldbe."

Hallward shook his head, as he entered, and followed Dorian into thelibrary. Therewas a brightwood fire blazing in the large open hearth. Thelampswerelit,andanopenDutchsilverspirit-casestood,withsomesiphonsofsoda-waterandlargecut-glasstumblers,onalittlemarqueterietable.

"You see your servant made me quite at home, Dorian. He gave meeverythingIwanted,includingyourbestgold-tippedcigarettes.Heisamosthospitable creature. I like himmuchbetter than theFrenchmanyouused tohave.WhathasbecomeoftheFrenchman,bythebye?"

Dorianshruggedhisshoulders."IbelievehemarriedLadyRadley'smaid,andhasestablishedherinParisasanEnglishdressmaker.Anglomaniaisveryfashionableovertherenow,Ihear.ItseemssillyoftheFrench,doesn'tit?But—doyouknow?—hewasnotatallabadservant.Ineverlikedhim,butIhadnothingtocomplainabout.Oneoftenimaginesthingsthatarequiteabsurd.Hewas really very devoted tome and seemedquite sorrywhen hewent away.Haveanotherbrandy-and-soda?Orwouldyoulikehock-and-seltzer?Ialwaystakehock-and-seltzermyself.Thereissuretobesomeinthenextroom."

"Thanks,Iwon'thaveanythingmore,"saidthepainter,takinghiscapandcoatoffandthrowingthemonthebagthathehadplacedinthecorner."Andnow,mydearfellow,Iwanttospeaktoyouseriously.Don'tfrownlikethat.Youmakeitsomuchmoredifficultforme."

"What is it all about?"criedDorian inhispetulantway, flinginghimselfdownonthesofa."Ihopeitisnotaboutmyself.Iamtiredofmyselfto-night.Ishouldliketobesomebodyelse."

"It isaboutyourself,"answeredHallward inhisgravedeepvoice,"andImustsayittoyou.Ishallonlykeepyouhalfanhour."

Doriansighedandlitacigarette."Halfanhour!"hemurmured.

"Itisnotmuchtoaskofyou,Dorian,anditisentirelyforyourownsakethatIamspeaking.IthinkitrightthatyoushouldknowthatthemostdreadfulthingsarebeingsaidagainstyouinLondon."

"I don't wish to know anything about them. I love scandals about otherpeople, but scandals aboutmyself don't interest me. They have not got thecharmofnovelty."

"Theymustinterestyou,Dorian.Everygentlemanisinterestedinhisgoodname.Youdon'twantpeople to talkofyouassomethingvileanddegraded.Ofcourse,youhaveyourposition,andyourwealth,andallthatkindofthing.But position andwealth are not everything.Mind you, I don't believe theserumoursatall.Atleast,Ican'tbelievethemwhenIseeyou.Sinisathingthatwritesitselfacrossaman'sface.Itcannotbeconcealed.Peopletalksometimesof secret vices. There are no such things. If a wretchedman has a vice, itshowsitselfinthelinesofhismouth,thedroopofhiseyelids,themouldingofhishandseven.Somebody—Iwon'tmentionhisname,butyouknowhim—cametome lastyear tohavehisportraitdone. Ihadneverseenhimbefore,and had never heard anything about him at the time, though I have heard agood deal since.He offered an extravagant price. I refused him. TherewassomethingintheshapeofhisfingersthatIhated.IknownowthatIwasquiterightinwhatIfanciedabouthim.Hislifeisdreadful.Butyou,Dorian,withyour pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth—Ican't believe anything against you.Andyet I seeyouvery seldom, andyounevercomedowntothestudionow,andwhenIamawayfromyou,andIhearall these hideous things that people arewhispering about you, I don't knowwhattosay.Whyisit,Dorian,thatamanliketheDukeofBerwickleavestheroomofaclubwhenyouenterit?WhyisitthatsomanygentlemeninLondonwillneithergotoyourhouseorinviteyoutotheirs?YouusedtobeafriendofLordStaveley.Imethimatdinnerlastweek.Yournamehappenedtocomeupin conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to theexhibitionattheDudley.Staveleycurledhislipandsaidthatyoumighthavethemost artistic tastes, but that youwere amanwhomnopure-mindedgirlshouldbeallowedtoknow,andwhomnochastewomanshouldsitinthesameroomwith.IremindedhimthatIwasafriendofyours,andaskedhimwhathemeant.He toldme.He toldme right out before everybody. Itwas horrible!Whyisyourfriendshipsofataltoyoungmen?TherewasthatwretchedboyintheGuardswhocommittedsuicide.Youwerehisgreatfriend.TherewasSirHenryAshton,whohadtoleaveEnglandwithatarnishedname.Youandhewere inseparable.What aboutAdrianSingleton and his dreadful end?WhataboutLordKent's only son andhis career? Imethis fatheryesterday inSt.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 gentlemanwouldassociatewithhim?"

"Stop, Basil. You are talking about things ofwhich you know nothing,"saidDorianGray, biting his lip, andwith a note of infinite contempt in hisvoice."YouaskmewhyBerwickleavesaroomwhenIenterit.ItisbecauseIknoweverything about his life, not because he knows anything aboutmine.Withsuchbloodashehasinhisveins,howcouldhisrecordbeclean?YouaskmeaboutHenryAshtonandyoungPerth.DidI teach theonehisvices,andtheother his debauchery? IfKent's silly son takeshiswife from the streets,whatisthattome?IfAdrianSingletonwriteshisfriend'snameacrossabill,amIhiskeeper?IknowhowpeoplechatterinEngland.Themiddleclassesairtheirmoralprejudicesovertheirgrossdinner-tables,andwhisperaboutwhattheycall theprofligaciesoftheirbettersinordertotryandpretendthattheyareinsmartsocietyandonintimatetermswiththepeopletheyslander.Inthiscountry, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for everycommontonguetowagagainsthim.Andwhatsortof livesdothesepeople,whoposeasbeingmoral,leadthemselves?Mydearfellow,youforgetthatweareinthenativelandofthehypocrite."

"Dorian,"criedHallward,"thatisnotthequestion.EnglandisbadenoughIknow,andEnglishsocietyisallwrong.ThatisthereasonwhyIwantyoutobefine.Youhavenotbeenfine.Onehasarighttojudgeofamanbytheeffecthehasoverhisfriends.Yoursseemtoloseallsenseofhonour,ofgoodness,ofpurity. You have filled them with a madness for pleasure. They have gonedownintothedepths.Youledthemthere.Yes:youledthemthere,andyetyoucansmile,asyouaresmilingnow.Andthereisworsebehind.IknowyouandHarryareinseparable.Surelyforthatreason,iffornoneother,youshouldnothavemadehissister'snameaby-word."

"Takecare,Basil.Yougotoofar."

"Imustspeak,andyoumustlisten.Youshalllisten.WhenyoumetLadyGwendolen, not a breath of scandal had ever touched her. Is there a singledecentwoman inLondonnowwhowoulddrivewithher in thepark?Why,evenherchildrenarenotallowedtolivewithher.Thenthereareotherstories—storiesthatyouhavebeenseencreepingatdawnoutofdreadfulhousesandslinkingindisguiseintothefoulestdensinLondon.Aretheytrue?Cantheybetrue?WhenIfirstheardthem,Ilaughed.Ihearthemnow,andtheymakeme shudder. What about your country-house and the life that is led there?Dorian, youdon't knowwhat is said about you. Iwon't tell you that I don'twant to preach to you. I rememberHarry saying once that everymanwhoturnedhimselfintoanamateurcurateforthemomentalwaysbeganbysayingthat,andthenproceededtobreakhisword.Idowanttopreachtoyou.Iwantyoutoleadsuchalifeaswillmaketheworldrespectyou.Iwantyoutohave

acleannameandafairrecord.Iwantyoutogetridofthedreadfulpeopleyouassociatewith.Don't shrugyour shoulders like that.Don't be so indifferent.Youhaveawonderfulinfluence.Letitbeforgood,notforevil.Theysaythatyou corrupt every onewithwhomyoubecome intimate, and that it is quitesufficient foryou toenterahouse for shameof somekind to followafter. Idon'tknowwhetheritissoornot.HowshouldIknow?Butitissaidofyou.Iamtoldthingsthatitseemsimpossibletodoubt.LordGloucesterwasoneofmygreatestfriendsatOxford.Heshowedmealetterthathiswifehadwrittento himwhen shewas dying alone in her villa atMentone. Your namewasimplicated in themost terrible confession I ever read. I toldhim that itwasabsurd—thatIknewyouthoroughlyandthatyouwereincapableofanythingofthekind.Knowyou?IwonderdoIknowyou?BeforeIcouldanswerthat,Ishouldhavetoseeyoursoul."

"To seemy soul!" muttered Dorian Gray, starting up from the sofa andturningalmostwhitefromfear.

"Yes," answered Hallward gravely, and with deep-toned sorrow in hisvoice,"toseeyoursoul.ButonlyGodcandothat."

Abitter laughofmockerybroke from the lipsof theyoungerman."Youshallseeityourself,to-night!"hecried,seizingalampfromthetable."Come:itisyourownhandiwork.Whyshouldn'tyoulookatit?Youcantelltheworldallaboutitafterwards,ifyouchoose.Nobodywouldbelieveyou.Iftheydidbelieveyou,theywouldlikemeallthebetterforit.Iknowtheagebetterthanyoudo,thoughyouwillprateaboutitsotediously.Come,Itellyou.Youhavechatteredenoughaboutcorruption.Nowyoushalllookonitfacetoface."

Therewasthemadnessofprideineverywordheuttered.Hestampedhisfootuponthegroundinhisboyishinsolentmanner.Hefeltaterriblejoyatthethoughtthatsomeoneelsewastosharehissecret,andthatthemanwhohadpaintedtheportraitthatwastheoriginofallhisshamewastobeburdenedfortherestofhislifewiththehideousmemoryofwhathehaddone.

"Yes,"hecontinued,comingclosertohimandlookingsteadfastlyintohissterneyes,"Ishallshowyoumysoul.YoushallseethethingthatyoufancyonlyGodcansee."

Hallwardstartedback. "This isblasphemy,Dorian!"hecried. "Youmustnotsaythingslikethat.Theyarehorrible,andtheydon'tmeananything."

"Youthinkso?"Helaughedagain.

"Iknowso.AsforwhatIsaidtoyouto-night,Isaiditforyourgood.YouknowIhavebeenalwaysastanchfriendtoyou."

"Don'ttouchme.Finishwhatyouhavetosay."

A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face. He paused for amoment,andawildfeelingofpitycameoverhim.Afterall,whatrighthadheto pry into the life of Dorian Gray? If he had done a tithe of what wasrumouredabouthim,howmuchhemusthavesuffered!Thenhestraightenedhimselfup,andwalkedovertothefire-place,andstoodthere,lookingattheburninglogswiththeirfrostlikeashesandtheirthrobbingcoresofflame.

"Iamwaiting,Basil,"saidtheyoungmaninahardclearvoice.

Heturnedround."WhatIhavetosayisthis,"hecried."Youmustgivemesomeanswertothesehorriblechargesthataremadeagainstyou.Ifyoutellmethat they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end, I shall believe you.Denythem,Dorian,denythem!Can'tyouseewhatIamgoingthrough?MyGod!don'ttellmethatyouarebad,andcorrupt,andshameful."

Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips. "Comeupstairs,Basil,"hesaidquietly."Ikeepadiaryofmylifefromdaytoday,anditnever leaves the room inwhich it iswritten. I shall show it toyou ifyoucomewithme."

"Ishallcomewithyou,Dorian,ifyouwishit.IseeIhavemissedmytrain.Thatmakesnomatter.Icangoto-morrow.Butdon'taskmetoreadanythingto-night.AllIwantisaplainanswertomyquestion."

"Thatshallbegiventoyouupstairs.Icouldnotgiveithere.Youwillnothavetoreadlong."

CHAPTER13

Hepassedoutoftheroomandbegantheascent,BasilHallwardfollowingclosebehind.Theywalkedsoftly,asmendoinstinctivelyatnight.Thelampcastfantasticshadowsonthewallandstaircase.Arisingwindmadesomeofthewindowsrattle.

Whentheyreachedthetoplanding,Doriansetthelampdownonthefloor,andtakingoutthekey,turneditinthelock."Youinsistonknowing,Basil?"heaskedinalowvoice.

"Yes."

"Iamdelighted,"heanswered,smiling.Thenheadded,somewhatharshly,"Youaretheonemanintheworldwhoisentitledtoknoweverythingaboutme.Youhavehadmoretodowithmylifethanyouthink";and,takingupthelamp,heopenedthedoorandwentin.Acoldcurrentofairpassedthem,andthe light shot up for amoment in a flame ofmurky orange.He shuddered.

"Shutthedoorbehindyou,"hewhispered,asheplacedthelamponthetable.

Hallwardglancedroundhimwithapuzzledexpression.Theroomlookedasif ithadnotbeenlivedinforyears.AfadedFlemishtapestry,acurtainedpicture,anoldItaliancassone,andanalmostemptybook-case—thatwasallthat it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table. AsDorianGraywaslightingahalf-burnedcandlethatwasstandingonthemantelshelf,hesawthatthewhole placewas coveredwith dust and that the carpetwas in holes.Amouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour ofmildew.

"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil? Draw thatcurtainback,andyouwillseemine."

Thevoicethatspokewascoldandcruel."Youaremad,Dorian,orplayingapart,"mutteredHallward,frowning.

"Youwon't?ThenImustdoitmyself,"saidtheyoungman,andhetorethecurtainfromitsrodandflungitontheground.

Anexclamationofhorrorbrokefromthepainter'slipsashesawinthedimlightthehideousfaceonthecanvasgrinningathim.Therewassomethinginitsexpressionthatfilledhimwithdisgustandloathing.Goodheavens!itwasDorianGray'sownfacethathewaslookingat!Thehorror,whatever itwas,hadnotyetentirelyspoiledthatmarvellousbeauty.Therewasstillsomegoldinthethinninghairandsomescarletonthesensualmouth.Thesoddeneyeshadkeptsomethingofthelovelinessoftheirblue,thenoblecurveshadnotyetcompletelypassedawayfromchisellednostrilsandfromplasticthroat.Yes,itwasDorianhimself.Butwhohaddone it?He seemed to recognizehisownbrushwork,andtheframewashisowndesign.Theideawasmonstrous,yethefeltafraid.Heseizedthelightedcandle,andheldittothepicture.Intheleft-handcornerwashisownname,tracedinlonglettersofbrightvermilion.

Itwassomefoulparody,someinfamousignoblesatire.Hehadneverdonethat.Still, itwashisownpicture.Heknewit,andhefeltasifhisbloodhadchangedinamomentfromfiretosluggishice.Hisownpicture!Whatdiditmean?Whyhaditaltered?HeturnedandlookedatDorianGraywiththeeyesofasickman.Hismouthtwitched,andhisparchedtongueseemedunabletoarticulate.Hepassedhishandacrosshisforehead. Itwasdankwithclammysweat.

The youngmanwas leaning against themantelshelf,watching himwiththatstrangeexpressionthatoneseesonthefacesofthosewhoareabsorbedinaplaywhensomegreatartistisacting.Therewasneitherrealsorrowinitnorrealjoy.Therewassimplythepassionofthespectator,withperhapsaflickerof triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was

smellingit,orpretendingtodoso.

"What does thismean?" criedHallward, at last. His own voice soundedshrillandcuriousinhisears.

"Yearsago,when Iwasaboy," saidDorianGray,crushing the flower inhis hand, "youmetme, flatteredme, and taughtme to be vain ofmy goodlooks.Onedayyouintroducedmetoafriendofyours,whoexplainedtomethewonderofyouth,andyoufinishedaportraitofmethatrevealedtomethewonderofbeauty. Inamadmoment that, evennow, Idon'tknowwhether Iregretornot,Imadeawish,perhapsyouwouldcallitaprayer...."

"Irememberit!Oh,howwellIrememberit!No!thethingisimpossible.The room is damp.Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used hadsomewretchedmineralpoisoninthem.Itellyouthethingisimpossible."

"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the youngman, going over to thewindowandleaninghisforeheadagainstthecold,mist-stainedglass.

"Youtoldmeyouhaddestroyedit."

"Iwaswrong.Ithasdestroyedme."

"Idon'tbelieveitismypicture."

"Can'tyouseeyouridealinit?"saidDorianbitterly.

"Myideal,asyoucallit..."

"Asyoucalledit."

"Therewasnothingevil in it,nothingshameful.YouweretomesuchanidealasIshallnevermeetagain.Thisisthefaceofasatyr."

"Itisthefaceofmysoul."

"Christ!whatathingImusthaveworshipped!Ithastheeyesofadevil."

"Eachofushasheavenandhell inhim,Basil,"criedDorianwithawildgestureofdespair.

Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "MyGod! If it istrue,"heexclaimed,"andthisiswhatyouhavedonewithyourlife,why,youmustbeworseeventhanthosewhotalkagainstyoufancyyoutobe!"Heheldthe light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to bequiteundisturbedandashehadleftit.Itwasfromwithin,apparently,thatthefoulnessandhorrorhadcome.Throughsomestrangequickeningofinnerlifetheleprosiesofsinwereslowlyeatingthethingaway.Therottingofacorpseinawaterygravewasnotsofearful.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay

theresputtering.Heplacedhisfootonitandputitout.Thenheflunghimselfintothericketychairthatwasstandingbythetableandburiedhisfaceinhishands.

"GoodGod,Dorian,whatalesson!Whatanawfullesson!"Therewasnoanswer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray,Dorian,pray,"hemurmured. "What is it thatonewas taught to say inone'sboyhood? 'Leadusnot into temptation.Forgiveusour sins.Washawayouriniquities.' Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has beenanswered.Theprayerofyourrepentancewillbeansweredalso.Iworshippedyou toomuch. Iampunishedfor it.Youworshippedyourself toomuch.Wearebothpunished."

DorianGray turned slowly around and looked at himwith tear-dimmedeyes."Itistoolate,Basil,"hefaltered.

"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannotremember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere, 'Though your sins be asscarlet,yetIwillmakethemaswhiteassnow'?"

"Thosewordsmeannothingtomenow."

"Hush!Don'tsay that.Youhavedoneenoughevil inyour life.MyGod!Don'tyouseethataccursedthingleeringatus?"

DorianGrayglancedatthepicture,andsuddenlyanuncontrollablefeelingofhatredforBasilHallwardcameoverhim,asthoughithadbeensuggestedtohimby the imageon thecanvas,whispered intohisearby thosegrinninglips.Themadpassionsofahuntedanimalstirredwithinhim,andheloathedthemanwhowasseatedatthetable,morethaninhiswholelifehehadeverloathedanything.Heglancedwildlyaround.Somethingglimmeredonthetopofthepaintedchestthatfacedhim.Hiseyefellonit.Heknewwhatitwas.Itwasaknifethathehadbroughtup,somedaysbefore,tocutapieceofcord,andhadforgottentotakeawaywithhim.Hemovedslowlytowardsit,passingHallwardashedidso.Assoonashegotbehindhim,heseizeditandturnedround.Hallwardstirredinhischairasifhewasgoingtorise.Herushedathimanddugtheknifeintothegreatveinthatisbehindtheear,crushingtheman'sheaddownonthetableandstabbingagainandagain.

Therewasastifledgroanandthehorriblesoundofsomeonechokingwithblood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, wavinggrotesque,stiff-fingeredhandsintheair.Hestabbedhimtwicemore,butthemandidnotmove.Somethingbegan to trickleon the floor.Hewaited foramoment, stillpressing theheaddown.Thenhe threw theknifeon the table,andlistened.

He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He

openedthedoorandwentoutonthelanding.Thehousewasabsolutelyquiet.Noonewasabout.Forafewsecondshestoodbendingoverthebalustradeandpeeringdowninto theblackseethingwellofdarkness.Thenhe tookout thekeyandreturnedtotheroom,lockinghimselfinashedidso.

Thethingwasstillseatedinthechair,strainingoverthetablewithbowedhead,andhumpedback,andlongfantasticarms.Haditnotbeenfor theredjaggedtearintheneckandtheclottedblackpoolthatwasslowlywideningonthetable,onewouldhavesaidthatthemanwassimplyasleep.

Howquicklyithadallbeendone!Hefeltstrangelycalm,andwalkingovertothewindow,openeditandsteppedoutonthebalcony.Thewindhadblownthe fog away, and the skywas like amonstrous peacock's tail, starredwithmyriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going hisrounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silenthouses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner andthen vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by therailings,staggeringasshewent.Nowandthenshestoppedandpeeredback.Once, shebegan to sing in a hoarsevoice.Thepoliceman strolledover andsaid something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast sweptacrossthesquare.Thegas-lampsflickeredandbecameblue,andtheleaflesstreesshooktheirblackironbranchestoandfro.Heshiveredandwentback,closingthewindowbehindhim.

Havingreachedthedoor,heturnedthekeyandopenedit.Hedidnotevenglanceatthemurderedman.Hefeltthatthesecretofthewholethingwasnottorealizethesituation.Thefriendwhohadpaintedthefatalportraittowhichallhismiseryhadbeenduehadgoneoutofhislife.Thatwasenough.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one ofMoorishworkmanship,made of dull silver inlaidwith arabesques of burnished steel,andstuddedwithcoarseturquoises.Perhapsitmightbemissedbyhisservant,andquestionswouldbeasked.Hehesitatedforamoment,thenheturnedbackandtookitfromthetable.Hecouldnothelpseeingthedeadthing.Howstillitwas!Howhorriblywhite the longhands looked! Itwas like adreadfulwaximage.

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs. Thewoodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain.He stopped severaltimesandwaited.No:everythingwasstill.Itwasmerelythesoundofhisownfootsteps.

Whenhereachedthelibrary,hesawthebagandcoatinthecorner.Theymustbehiddenawaysomewhere.Heunlockedasecretpressthatwasinthewainscoting,apressinwhichhekepthisowncuriousdisguises,andputthemintoit.Hecouldeasilyburnthemafterwards.Thenhepulledouthiswatch.It

wastwentyminutestotwo.

Hesatdownandbegantothink.Everyyear—everymonth,almost—menwerestrangledinEnglandforwhathehaddone.Therehadbeenamadnessofmurder in theair.Someredstarhadcome tooclose to theearth....Andyet,what evidencewas there against him? Basil Hallward had left the house ateleven. No one had seen him come in again.Most of the servants were atSelbyRoyal.Hisvalethadgonetobed....Paris!Yes.ItwastoParisthatBasilhad gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended.With his curiousreservedhabits, itwouldbemonthsbefore any suspicionswouldbe roused.Months!Everythingcouldbedestroyedlongbeforethen.

Asuddenthoughtstruckhim.Heputonhisfurcoatandhatandwentoutintothehall.Therehepaused,hearingtheslowheavytreadofthepolicemanonthepavementoutsideandseeingtheflashofthebull's-eyereflectedinthewindow.Hewaitedandheldhisbreath.

Afterafewmomentshedrewbackthelatchandslippedout,shuttingthedoor very gently behind him. Then he began ringing the bell. In about fiveminuteshisvaletappeared,half-dressedandlookingverydrowsy.

"Iamsorrytohavehadtowakeyouup,Francis,"hesaid,steppingin;"butIhadforgottenmylatch-key.Whattimeisit?"

"Tenminutes past two, sir," answered theman, looking at the clock andblinking.

"Tenminutespasttwo?Howhorriblylate!Youmustwakemeatnineto-morrow.Ihavesomeworktodo."

"Allright,sir."

"Didanyonecallthisevening?"

"Mr.Hallward, sir.He stayedhere till eleven, and thenhewent away tocatchhistrain."

"Oh!IamsorryIdidn'tseehim.Didheleaveanymessage?"

"No,sir,except thathewouldwrite toyoufromParis, ifhedidnot findyouattheclub."

"Thatwilldo,Francis.Don'tforgettocallmeatnineto-morrow."

"No,sir."

Themanshambleddownthepassageinhisslippers.

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed into thelibrary.Foraquarterofanhourhewalkedupanddowntheroom,bitinghislipand thinking.Thenhe tookdowntheBlueBookfromoneof theshelves

and began to turn over the leaves. "Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street,Mayfair."Yes;thatwasthemanhewanted.

CHAPTER14

At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup ofchocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quitepeacefully, lying on his right side,with one hand underneath his cheek.Helookedlikeaboywhohadbeentiredoutwithplay,orstudy.

Themanhadtotouchhimtwiceontheshoulderbeforehewoke,andasheopenedhiseyesafaintsmilepassedacrosshislips,asthoughhehadbeenlostinsomedelightfuldream.Yethehadnotdreamedatall.Hisnighthadbeenuntroubledbyanyimagesofpleasureorofpain.Butyouthsmileswithoutanyreason.Itisoneofitschiefestcharms.

Heturnedround,andleaninguponhiselbow,begantosiphischocolate.ThemellowNovembersuncamestreamingintotheroom.Theskywasbright,andtherewasagenialwarmthintheair.ItwasalmostlikeamorninginMay.

Graduallytheeventsoftheprecedingnightcreptwithsilent,blood-stainedfeet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terribledistinctness.Hewincedat thememoryofall thathehadsuffered,and foramomentthesamecuriousfeelingofloathingforBasilHallwardthathadmadehimkillhimashesat in thechaircamebacktohim,andhegrewcoldwithpassion. The deadmanwas still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now.Howhorriblethatwas!Suchhideousthingswereforthedarkness,notfortheday.

Hefeltthatifhebroodedonwhathehadgonethroughhewouldsickenorgrowmad.Thereweresinswhosefascinationwasmoreinthememorythaninthe doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than thepassions,andgaveto theintellectaquickenedsenseof joy,greater thananyjoy theybrought,orcouldeverbring, to thesenses.But thiswasnotoneofthem.Itwasathingtobedrivenoutofthemind,tobedruggedwithpoppies,tobestrangledlestitmightstrangleoneitself.

When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, andthengot uphastily anddressedhimselfwith evenmore thanhis usual care,givingagooddealofattentiontothechoiceofhisnecktieandscarf-pinandchanginghisringsmorethanonce.Hespentalongtimealsooverbreakfast,tastingthevariousdishes,talkingtohisvaletaboutsomenewliveriesthathewasthinkingofgettingmadefortheservantsatSelby,andgoingthroughhis

correspondence.Atsomeof theletters,hesmiled.Threeof themboredhim.One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look ofannoyanceinhisface."Thatawfulthing,awoman'smemory!"asLordHenryhadoncesaid.

Afterhehaddrunkhiscupofblackcoffee,hewipedhislipsslowlywithanapkin,motionedtohisservanttowait,andgoingovertothetable,satdownandwrote two letters.One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to thevalet.

"Take this round to152,HertfordStreet,Francis,and ifMr.Campbell isoutoftown,gethisaddress."

As soon as hewas alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon apieceofpaper,drawingfirstflowersandbitsofarchitecture,andthenhumanfaces.Suddenlyhe remarked that every face that hedrew seemed tohave afantasticlikenesstoBasilHallward.Hefrowned,andgettingup,wentovertothe book-case and took out a volume at hazard.Hewas determined that hewouldnotthinkaboutwhathadhappeneduntilitbecameabsolutelynecessarythatheshoulddoso.

Whenhehadstretchedhimselfonthesofa,he lookedat the title-pageofthe book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's Japanese-paperedition,withtheJacquemartetching.Thebindingwasofcitron-greenleather,withadesignofgilttrellis-workanddottedpomegranates.Ithadbeengiventohim by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages, his eye fell on thepoemaboutthehandofLacenaire,thecoldyellowhand"dusuppliceencoremallavee,"withitsdownyredhairsandits"doigtsdefaune."Heglancedathisownwhitetaperfingers,shudderingslightlyinspiteofhimself,andpassedon,tillhecametothoselovelystanzasuponVenice:

Surunegammechromatique,

Leseindeperiesruisselant,

LaVenusdel'Adriatique

Sortdel'eausoncorpsroseetblanc.

Lesdomes,surl'azurdesondes

Suivantlaphraseaupurcontour,

S'enflentcommedesgorgesrondes

Quesouleveunsoupird'amour.

L'esquifabordeetmedepose,

Jetantsonamarreaupilier,

Devantunefacaderose,

Surlemarbred'unescalier.

How exquisite theywere!As one read them, one seemed to be floatingdown the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a blackgondolawithsilverprowandtrailingcurtains.Themerelineslookedtohimlikethosestraightlinesofturquoise-bluethatfollowoneasonepushesouttotheLido.Thesuddenflashesofcolourremindedhimofthegleamoftheopal-and-iris-throatedbirds thatflutterroundthe tallhoneycombedCampanile,orstalk,withsuchstatelygrace,throughthedim,dust-stainedarcades.Leaningbackwithhalf-closedeyes,hekeptsayingoverandovertohimself:

"Devantunefacaderose,

Surlemarbred'unescalier."

ThewholeofVenicewas in those twolines.Heremembered theautumnthat he had passed there, and awonderful love that had stirred him tomaddelightfulfollies.Therewasromanceineveryplace.ButVenice,likeOxford,hadkept thebackgroundfor romance,and, to the trueromantic,backgroundwas everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him part of thetime,andhadgonewildoverTintoret.PoorBasil!Whatahorriblewayforamantodie!

Hesighed,and tookup thevolumeagain,and tried to forget.HereadoftheswallowsthatflyinandoutofthelittlecafeatSmyrnawheretheHadjissit counting their amberbeads and the turbanedmerchants smoke their longtasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of theObelisk in thePlacedelaConcordethatweepstearsofgraniteinitslonelysunlessexileandlongstobebackbythehot,lotus-coveredNile,wherethereareSphinxes,androse-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles withsmallberyleyes thatcrawlover thegreensteamingmud;hebegan tobroodoverthoseverseswhich,drawingmusicfromkiss-stainedmarble,tellofthatcurious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstrecharmant"thatcouchesintheporphyry-roomoftheLouvre.Butafteratimethebookfellfromhishand.Hegrewnervous,andahorriblefitofterrorcameover him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days wouldelapse before he could come back. Perhaps hemight refuse to come.Whatcouldhedothen?Everymomentwasofvitalimportance.

Theyhadbeengreat friendsonce, fiveyearsbefore—almost inseparable,indeed.Then the intimacyhad come suddenly to an end.When theymet insocietynow,itwasonlyDorianGraywhosmiled:AlanCampbellneverdid.

Hewasanextremelycleveryoungman,thoughhehadnorealappreciationof the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he

possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant intellectualpassionwasforscience.AtCambridgehehadspentagreatdealofhis timeworkinginthelaboratory,andhadtakenagoodclassintheNaturalScienceTriposofhisyear.Indeed,hewasstilldevotedtothestudyofchemistry,andhadalaboratoryofhisowninwhichheusedtoshuthimselfupalldaylong,greatlytotheannoyanceofhismother,whohadsetherheartonhisstandingforParliamentandhadavagueideathatachemistwasapersonwhomadeupprescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and playedboththeviolinandthepianobetterthanmostamateurs.Infact,itwasmusicthat had first brought him and Dorian Gray together—music and thatindefinableattractionthatDorianseemedtobeabletoexercisewheneverhewished—and,indeed,exercisedoftenwithoutbeingconsciousofit.TheyhadmetatLadyBerkshire's thenightthatRubinsteinplayedthere,andafterthatused to be always seen together at the opera andwherever goodmusicwasgoing on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was alwayseither at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others,DorianGraywas the typeofeverything that iswonderfuland fascinating inlife.Whetherornotaquarrelhadtakenplacebetweenthemnooneeverknew.But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spokewhen theymet andthat Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at whichDorianGraywaspresent.Hehadchanged,too—wasstrangelymelancholyattimes,appearedalmosttodislikehearingmusic,andwouldneverhimselfplay,giving as his excuse,when hewas called upon, that hewas so absorbed inscience thathehadno time left inwhich topractise.And thiswascertainlytrue.Everydayheseemedtobecomemoreinterestedinbiology,andhisnameappearedonceor twice in someof the scientific reviews in connectionwithcertaincuriousexperiments.

This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he keptglancingattheclock.Astheminuteswentbyhebecamehorriblyagitated.Atlast he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like abeautifulcagedthing.Hetooklongstealthystrides.Hishandswerecuriouslycold.

Thesuspensebecameunbearable.Timeseemedtohimtobecrawlingwithfeetoflead,whilehebymonstrouswindswasbeingswepttowardsthejaggededge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting for himthere; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushedwith dank hands his burninglids as though hewould have robbed the very brain of sight and driven theeyeballsback into their cave. Itwasuseless.Thebrainhad itsown foodonwhichitbattened,andtheimagination,madegrotesquebyterror,twistedanddistortedasa living thingbypain,danced like some foulpuppetona standand grinned throughmovingmasks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him.Yes:thatblind,slow-breathingthingcrawlednomore,andhorriblethoughts,

timebeingdead,racednimblyoninfront,anddraggedahideousfuturefromitsgrave,andshowedittohim.Hestaredatit.Itsveryhorrormadehimstone.

At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyesuponhim.

"Mr.Campbell,sir,"saidtheman.

Asighofreliefbrokefromhisparchedlips,andthecolourcamebacktohischeeks.

"Askhimtocomeinatonce,Francis."Hefeltthathewashimselfagain.Hismoodofcowardicehadpassedaway.

Themanbowedandretired.Inafewmoments,AlanCampbellwalkedin,looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-blackhairanddarkeyebrows.

"Alan!Thisiskindofyou.Ithankyouforcoming."

"Ihadintendednevertoenteryourhouseagain,Gray.Butyousaiditwasamatteroflifeanddeath."Hisvoicewashardandcold.Hespokewithslowdeliberation.TherewasalookofcontemptinthesteadysearchinggazethatheturnedonDorian.HekepthishandsinthepocketsofhisAstrakhancoat,andseemednottohavenoticedthegesturewithwhichhehadbeengreeted.

"Yes:itisamatteroflifeanddeath,Alan,andtomorethanoneperson.Sitdown."

Campbell tooka chairby the table, andDorian sat opposite tohim.Thetwomen'seyesmet.InDorian'stherewasinfinitepity.Heknewthatwhathewasgoingtodowasdreadful.

Afterastrainedmomentofsilence,heleanedacrossandsaid,veryquietly,butwatching the effect of eachword upon the face of him he had sent for,"Alan,inalockedroomatthetopofthishouse,aroomtowhichnobodybutmyselfhasaccess,adeadmanisseatedatatable.Hehasbeendeadtenhoursnow.Don'tstir,anddon'tlookatmelikethat.Whothemanis,whyhedied,howhedied,aremattersthatdonotconcernyou.Whatyouhavetodoisthis—"

"Stop,Gray.Idon'twanttoknowanythingfurther.Whetherwhatyouhavetoldmeistrueornottruedoesn'tconcernme.Ientirelydeclinetobemixedupinyourlife.Keepyourhorriblesecretstoyourself.Theydon'tinterestmeanymore."

"Alan,theywillhavetointerestyou.Thisonewillhavetointerestyou.Iamawfullysorryforyou,Alan.ButIcan'thelpmyself.Youaretheonemanwho is able to saveme. I am forced tobringyou into thematter. I haveno

option.Alan,youarescientific.Youknowaboutchemistryandthingsofthatkind.Youhavemadeexperiments.Whatyouhavegottodoistodestroythething that is upstairs—to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left.Nobodysawthispersoncomeintothehouse.Indeed,at thepresentmomentheissupposedtobeinParis.Hewillnotbemissedformonths.Whenheismissed,theremustbenotraceofhimfoundhere.You,Alan,youmustchangehim, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that Imayscatterintheair."

"Youaremad,Dorian."

"Ah!IwaswaitingforyoutocallmeDorian."

"You aremad, I tell you—mad to imagine that Iwould raise a finger tohelpyou,mad tomake thismonstrousconfession. Iwillhavenothing todowiththismatter,whateveritis.DoyouthinkIamgoingtoperilmyreputationforyou?Whatisittomewhatdevil'sworkyouareupto?"

"Itwassuicide,Alan."

"Iamgladofthat.Butwhodrovehimtoit?You,Ishouldfancy."

"Doyoustillrefusetodothisforme?"

"OfcourseIrefuse.Iwillhaveabsolutelynothingtodowithit.Idon'tcarewhatshamecomesonyou.Youdeserveitall.Ishouldnotbesorrytoseeyoudisgraced,publiclydisgraced.Howdareyouaskme,ofallmenintheworld,tomixmyselfupinthishorror?Ishouldhavethoughtyouknewmoreaboutpeople's characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can't have taught youmuchaboutpsychology,whateverelsehehastaughtyou.Nothingwillinducemetostirasteptohelpyou.Youhavecometothewrongman.Gotosomeofyourfriends.Don'tcometome."

"Alan,itwasmurder.Ikilledhim.Youdon'tknowwhathehadmademesuffer.Whatevermylifeis,hehadmoretodowiththemakingorthemarringofitthanpoorHarryhashad.Hemaynothaveintendedit,theresultwasthesame."

"Murder!GoodGod,Dorian, is thatwhat youhave come to? I shall notinform upon you. It is notmy business.Besides,withoutmy stirring in thematter,youarecertaintobearrested.Nobodyevercommitsacrimewithoutdoingsomethingstupid.ButIwillhavenothingtodowithit."

"Youmusthavesomethingtodowithit.Wait,waitamoment;listentome.Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientificexperiment.Yougotohospitalsanddead-houses,andthehorrorsthatyoudotheredon'taffectyou.If insomehideousdissecting-roomorfetidlaboratoryyoufoundthismanlyingonaleadentablewithredguttersscoopedoutinit

for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as anadmirablesubject.Youwouldnotturnahair.Youwouldnotbelievethatyouweredoinganythingwrong.Onthecontrary,youwouldprobablyfeelthatyouwere benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in theworld, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.What Iwantyoutodoismerelywhatyouhaveoftendonebefore.Indeed,todestroya bodymust be far less horrible thanwhat you are accustomed towork at.And,remember,itistheonlypieceofevidenceagainstme.Ifitisdiscovered,Iamlost;anditissuretobediscoveredunlessyouhelpme."

"Ihavenodesire tohelpyou.Youforget that. Iamsimply indifferent tothewholething.Ithasnothingtodowithme."

"Alan,Ientreatyou.ThinkofthepositionIamin.JustbeforeyoucameIalmostfaintedwithterror.Youmayknowterroryourselfsomeday.No!don'tthinkofthat.Lookatthematterpurelyfromthescientificpointofview.Youdon't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from.Don't inquirenow.Ihave toldyou toomuchas it is.ButIbegofyou todothis.Wewerefriendsonce,Alan."

"Don'tspeakaboutthosedays,Dorian—theyaredead."

"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He issittingatthetablewithbowedheadandoutstretchedarms.Alan!Alan!Ifyoudon'tcometomyassistance,Iamruined.Why,theywillhangme,Alan!Don'tyouunderstand?TheywillhangmeforwhatIhavedone."

"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to doanythinginthematter.Itisinsaneofyoutoaskme."

"Yourefuse?"

"Yes."

"Ientreatyou,Alan."

"Itisuseless."

ThesamelookofpitycameintoDorianGray'seyes.Thenhestretchedouthis hand, took a piece of paper, andwrote something on it.He read it overtwice,foldeditcarefully,andpusheditacrossthetable.Havingdonethis,hegotupandwentovertothewindow.

Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, andopenedit.Ashereadit,hisfacebecameghastlypaleandhefellbackinhischair.Ahorriblesenseofsicknesscameoverhim.Hefeltasifhisheartwasbeatingitselftodeathinsomeemptyhollow.

After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and

cameandstoodbehindhim,puttinghishanduponhisshoulder.

"I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me noalternative. Ihavea letterwrittenalready.Here it is.Yousee theaddress. Ifyou don't helpme, Imust send it. If you don't helpme, Iwill send it.Youknowwhattheresultwillbe.Butyouaregoingtohelpme.Itisimpossibleforyou to refusenow. I tried to spareyou.Youwilldome the justice to admitthat. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has everdaredtotreatme—nolivingman,atanyrate.Iboreitall.Nowitisformetodictateterms."

Campbellburiedhisfaceinhishands,andashudderpassedthroughhim.

"Yes, it ismy turn to dictate terms,Alan.Youknowwhat they are.Thethingisquitesimple.Come,don'tworkyourselfintothisfever.Thethinghastobedone.Faceit,anddoit."

AgroanbrokefromCampbell's lipsandheshiveredallover.Thetickingof the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time intoseparateatomsofagony,eachofwhichwastooterribletobeborne.Hefeltasif an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if thedisgracewithwhichhewasthreatenedhadalreadycomeuponhim.Thehanduponhisshoulderweighedlikeahandoflead.Itwasintolerable.Itseemedtocrushhim.

"Come,Alan,youmustdecideatonce."

"Icannotdoit,"hesaid,mechanically,asthoughwordscouldalterthings.

"Youmust.Youhavenochoice.Don'tdelay."

Hehesitatedamoment."Isthereafireintheroomupstairs?"

"Yes,thereisagas-firewithasbestos."

"Ishallhavetogohomeandgetsomethingsfromthelaboratory."

"No,Alan,youmustnotleavethehouse.Writeoutonasheetofnotepaperwhat youwant andmy servantwill take a cab andbring the things back toyou."

Campbellscrawledafewlines,blottedthem,andaddressedanenvelopetohisassistant.Dorian took thenoteupandread itcarefully.Thenherang thebellandgave it tohisvalet,withorders toreturnassoonaspossibleand tobringthethingswithhim.

Asthehalldoorshut,Campbellstartednervously,andhavinggotupfromthe chair,went over to the chimney-piece.Hewas shiveringwith a kind ofague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzednoisily 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 atDorianGray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in thepurity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You areinfamous,absolutelyinfamous!"hemuttered.

"Hush,Alan.Youhavesavedmylife,"saidDorian.

"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone fromcorruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doingwhatIamgoingtodo—whatyouforcemetodo—itisnotofyourlifethatIamthinking."

"Ah,Alan,"murmuredDorianwithasigh,"Iwishyouhada thousandthpartofthepityformethatIhaveforyou."Heturnedawayashespokeandstoodlookingoutatthegarden.Campbellmadenoanswer.

Afterabouttenminutesaknockcametothedoor,andtheservantentered,carrying a largemahogany chest of chemicals,with a long coil of steel andplatinumwireandtworathercuriouslyshapedironclamps.

"ShallIleavethethingshere,sir?"heaskedCampbell.

"Yes," saidDorian. "And Iamafraid,Francis, that Ihaveanothererrandforyou.Whatis thenameof themanatRichmondwhosuppliesSelbywithorchids?"

"Harden,sir."

"Yes—Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Hardenpersonally, and tell him to send twice asmany orchids as I ordered, and tohaveasfewwhiteonesaspossible.Infact,Idon'twantanywhiteones.Itisalovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place—otherwise Iwouldn'tbotheryouaboutit."

"Notrouble,sir.AtwhattimeshallIbeback?"

DorianlookedatCampbell."Howlongwillyourexperimenttake,Alan?"hesaidinacalmindifferentvoice.Thepresenceofathirdpersonintheroomseemedtogivehimextraordinarycourage.

Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," heanswered.

"Itwillbetimeenough,then,ifyouarebackathalf-pastseven,Francis.Orstay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening toyourself.Iamnotdiningathome,soIshallnotwantyou."

"Thankyou,sir,"saidtheman,leavingtheroom.

"Now,Alan,thereisnotamomenttobelost.Howheavythischestis!I'lltake it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly and in anauthoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the roomtogether.

Whentheyreachedthetoplanding,Doriantookoutthekeyandturneditin the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. Heshuddered."Idon'tthinkIcangoin,Alan,"hemurmured.

"Itisnothingtome.Idon'trequireyou,"saidCampbellcoldly.

Dorianhalfopenedthedoor.Ashedidso,hesawthefaceofhisportraitleeringinthesunlight.Onthefloorinfrontofitthetorncurtainwaslying.Herememberedthatthenightbeforehehadforgotten,forthefirsttimeinhislife,tohide the fatalcanvas,andwasabout to rush forward,whenhedrewbackwithashudder.

Whatwasthatloathsomereddewthatgleamed,wetandglistening,ononeofthehands,asthoughthecanvashadsweatedblood?Howhorribleitwas!—morehorrible, itseemedtohimforthemoment, thanthesilentthingthatheknew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapenshadowonthespottedcarpetshowedhimthatithadnotstirred,butwasstillthere,ashehadleftit.

He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, andwith half-closedeyesandavertedhead,walkedquicklyin,determinedthathewouldnotlookevenonceupon thedeadman.Then, stoopingdownand takingup thegold-and-purplehanging,heflungitrightoverthepicture.

There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixedthemselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him.He heardCampbellbringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he hadrequiredforhisdreadfulwork.HebegantowonderifheandBasilHallwardhadevermet,and,ifso,whattheyhadthoughtofeachother.

"Leavemenow,"saidasternvoicebehindhim.

Heturnedandhurriedout,justconsciousthatthedeadmanhadbeenthrustbackintothechairandthatCampbellwasgazingintoaglisteningyellowface.Ashewasgoingdownstairs,heheardthekeybeingturnedinthelock.

ItwaslongaftersevenwhenCampbellcamebackintothelibrary.Hewaspale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," hemuttered."Andnow,good-bye.Letusneverseeeachotheragain."

"You have savedme from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," saidDoriansimply.

AssoonasCampbellhadleft,hewentupstairs.Therewasahorriblesmell

ofnitricacidintheroom.Butthethingthathadbeensittingatthetablewasgone.

CHAPTER15

That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a largebutton-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into LadyNarborough'sdrawing-roombybowingservants.Hisforeheadwasthrobbingwithmaddenednerves,andhefeltwildlyexcited,buthismannerashebentoverhishostess'shandwasas easyandgraceful as ever.Perhapsoneneverseemssomuchatone'seaseaswhenonehastoplayapart.Certainlynoonelooking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed that he had passedthroughatragedyashorribleasanytragedyofourage.Thosefinelyshapedfingerscouldneverhaveclutchedaknifeforsin,northosesmilinglipshavecriedoutonGodandgoodness.Hehimselfcouldnothelpwonderingat thecalmofhisdemeanour,andforamomentfeltkeenlytheterriblepleasureofadoublelife.

Itwasasmallparty,gotupratherinahurrybyLadyNarborough,whowasaverycleverwomanwithwhatLordHenryusedtodescribeastheremainsofreally remarkable ugliness. She had proved an excellent wife to one of ourmost tedious ambassadors, and having buried her husband properly in amarble mausoleum, which she had herself designed, and married off herdaughters to some rich, rather elderly men, she devoted herself now to thepleasuresofFrenchfiction,Frenchcookery,andFrenchespritwhenshecouldgetit.

Dorianwasoneofherespecialfavourites,andshealwaystoldhimthatshewas extremely glad she had notmet him in early life. "I know,my dear, Ishouldhavefallenmadlyinlovewithyou,"sheusedtosay,"andthrownmybonnetrightoverthemillsforyoursake.Itismostfortunatethatyouwerenotthoughtof at the time.As itwas,ourbonnetswere sounbecoming, and themillswere so occupied in trying to raise thewind, that I never had even aflirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough's fault. He wasdreadfullyshort-sighted,andthereisnopleasureintakinginahusbandwhoneverseesanything."

Hergueststhiseveningwererathertedious.Thefactwas,assheexplainedtoDorian,behindaveryshabbyfan,oneofhermarrieddaughtershadcomeupquitesuddenly tostaywithher,and, tomakemattersworse,hadactuallybroughtherhusbandwithher."Ithinkitismostunkindofher,mydear,"shewhispered. "Of course I go and staywith them every summer after I come

fromHomburg,butthenanoldwomanlikememusthavefreshairsometimes,andbesides, I reallywake themup.Youdon't knowwhat an existence theylead down there. It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early,becausetheyhavesomuchtodo,andgotobedearly,because theyhavesolittletothinkabout.TherehasnotbeenascandalintheneighbourhoodsincethetimeofQueenElizabeth,andconsequentlytheyallfallasleepafterdinner.Youshan'tsitnexteitherofthem.Youshallsitbymeandamuseme."

Dorianmurmuredagracefulcomplimentandlookedroundtheroom.Yes:itwascertainlyatediousparty.Twoofthepeoplehehadneverseenbefore,and the others consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-agedmediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but arethoroughlydislikedbytheirfriends;LadyRuxton,anoverdressedwomanofforty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herselfcompromised,butwassopeculiarlyplainthattohergreatdisappointmentnoonewouldeverbelieveanythingagainsther;Mrs.Erlynne,apushingnobody,with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair; Lady Alice Chapman, hishostess'sdaughter,adowdydullgirl,withoneof thosecharacteristicBritishfacesthat,onceseen,areneverremembered;andherhusband,ared-cheeked,white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under theimpressionthatinordinatejovialitycanatoneforanentirelackofideas.

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough, looking at thegreat ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy curves on themauve-drapedmantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid of HenryWotton to be so late! I sentround to him this morning on chance and he promised faithfully not todisappointme."

It was some consolation that Harrywas to be there, andwhen the dooropenedandheheardhisslowmusicalvoicelendingcharmtosomeinsincereapology,heceasedtofeelbored.

But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went awayuntasted.LadyNarboroughkeptscoldinghimforwhatshecalled"aninsulttopoorAdolphe,who invented themenuspecially foryou,"andnowand thenLord Henry looked across at him, wondering at his silence and abstractedmanner. From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne. Hedrankeagerly,andhisthirstseemedtoincrease.

"Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handedround,"whatisthematterwithyouto-night?Youarequiteoutofsorts."

"Ibelieveheisinlove,"criedLadyNarborough,"andthatheisafraidtotellmeforfearIshouldbejealous.Heisquiteright.Icertainlyshould."

"DearLadyNarborough,"murmuredDorian,smiling,"Ihavenotbeenin

loveforawholeweek—not,infact,sinceMadamedeFerrollefttown."

"Howyoumencanfallinlovewiththatwoman!"exclaimedtheoldlady."Ireallycannotunderstandit."

"Itissimplybecausesheremembersyouwhenyouwerealittlegirl,LadyNarborough,"saidLordHenry."Sheistheonelinkbetweenusandyourshortfrocks."

"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry. But Iremember her verywell atVienna thirty years ago, and how decolletee shewasthen."

"She isstilldecolletee,"heanswered, takinganolive inhis longfingers;"andwhensheisinaverysmartgownshelookslikeaneditiondeluxeofabadFrenchnovel.Sheisreallywonderful,andfullofsurprises.Hercapacityfor family affection is extraordinary.When her third husband died, her hairturnedquitegoldfromgrief."

"Howcanyou,Harry!"criedDorian.

"It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess. "But her thirdhusband,LordHenry!Youdon'tmeantosayFerrolisthefourth?"

"Certainly,LadyNarborough."

"Idon'tbelieveawordofit."

"Well,askMr.Gray.Heisoneofhermostintimatefriends."

"Isittrue,Mr.Gray?"

"Sheassuresmeso,LadyNarborough,"saidDorian."Iaskedherwhether,likeMarguerite deNavarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at hergirdle.Shetoldmeshedidn't,becausenoneofthemhadhadanyheartsatall."

"Fourhusbands!Uponmywordthatistropdezele."

"Tropd'audace,Itellher,"saidDorian.

"Oh! she is audaciousenough for anything,mydear.Andwhat isFerrollike?Idon'tknowhim."

"The husbands of very beautifulwomen belong to the criminal classes,"saidLordHenry,sippinghiswine.

Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at allsurprisedthattheworldsaysthatyouareextremelywicked."

"Butwhatworldsaysthat?"askedLordHenry,elevatinghiseyebrows."Itcanonlybethenextworld.ThisworldandIareonexcellentterms."

"EverybodyIknowsaysyouareverywicked,"criedtheoldlady,shakingherhead.

LordHenrylookedseriousforsomemoments."Itisperfectlymonstrous,"hesaid,atlast,"thewaypeoplegoaboutnowadayssayingthingsagainstonebehindone'sbackthatareabsolutelyandentirelytrue."

"Isn'theincorrigible?"criedDorian,leaningforwardinhischair.

"I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really, if you all worshipMadamedeFerrolinthisridiculousway,Ishallhavetomarryagainsoastobeinthefashion."

"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry."You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because shedetestedherfirsthusband.Whenamanmarriesagain,itisbecauseheadoredhisfirstwife.Womentrytheirluck;menrisktheirs."

"Narboroughwasn'tperfect,"criedtheoldlady.

"If he hadbeen, youwould not have lovedhim,mydear lady,"was therejoinder. "Women loveus forourdefects. Ifwehaveenoughof them, theywillforgiveuseverything,evenourintellects.Youwillneveraskmetodinneragainaftersayingthis,Iamafraid,LadyNarborough,butitisquitetrue."

"Ofcourseitistrue,LordHenry.Ifwewomendidnotloveyouforyourdefects,wherewouldyouallbe?Notoneofyouwouldeverbemarried.Youwouldbea setofunfortunatebachelors.Not,however, that thatwouldalteryou much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors, and all thebachelorslikemarriedmen."

"Findesiecle,"murmuredLordHenry.

"Finduglobe,"answeredhishostess.

"I wish it were fin du globe," said Dorian with a sigh. "Life is a greatdisappointment."

"Ah,mydear,"criedLadyNarborough,puttingonhergloves, "don't tellmethatyouhaveexhaustedlife.Whenamansaysthatoneknowsthatlifehasexhaustedhim.LordHenry isverywicked,andIsometimeswish that Ihadbeen;butyouaremadetobegood—youlooksogood.Imustfindyouanicewife.LordHenry,don'tyouthinkthatMr.Grayshouldgetmarried?"

"I amalways tellinghimso,LadyNarborough," saidLordHenrywith abow.

"Well,wemust lookout fora suitablematch forhim. I shallgo throughDebrettcarefullyto-nightanddrawoutalistofalltheeligibleyoungladies."

"Withtheirages,LadyNarborough?"askedDorian.

"Ofcourse,withtheirages,slightlyedited.Butnothingmustbedoneinahurry. Iwant it tobewhatTheMorningPost calls a suitablealliance, and Iwantyoubothtobehappy."

"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed LordHenry. "Aman can be happywith anywoman, as long as he does not loveher."

"Ah!whatacynicyouare!"criedtheoldlady,pushingbackherchairandnoddingtoLadyRuxton."Youmustcomeanddinewithmesoonagain.Youarereallyanadmirabletonic,muchbetterthanwhatSirAndrewprescribesforme.Youmusttellmewhatpeopleyouwouldliketomeet,though.Iwantittobeadelightfulgathering."

"Ilikemenwhohaveafutureandwomenwhohaveapast,"heanswered."Ordoyouthinkthatwouldmakeitapetticoatparty?"

"Ifearso,"shesaid, laughing,asshestoodup."Athousandpardons,mydear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished yourcigarette."

"Nevermind,LadyNarborough.Ismokeagreatdealtoomuch.Iamgoingtolimitmyself,forthefuture."

"Praydon't,LadyRuxton,"saidLordHenry."Moderationisafatalthing.Enoughisasbadasameal.Morethanenoughisasgoodasafeast."

LadyRuxtonglancedathimcuriously."Youmustcomeandexplainthattome some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," shemurmured,asshesweptoutoftheroom.

"Now,mindyoudon'tstaytoolongoveryourpoliticsandscandal,"criedLadyNarboroughfromthedoor."Ifyoudo,wearesuretosquabbleupstairs."

Themenlaughed,andMr.Chapmangotupsolemnlyfromthefootofthetableandcameuptothetop.DorianGraychangedhisseatandwentandsatbyLordHenry.Mr.Chapmanbegantotalkinaloudvoiceaboutthesituationin the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries. The worddoctrinaire—wordfullofterrortotheBritishmind—reappearedfromtimetotimebetweenhisexplosions.Analliterativeprefixservedasanornamentoforatory.HehoistedtheUnionJackonthepinnaclesofthought.Theinheritedstupidity of the race—soundEnglish common sense he jovially termed it—wasshowntobetheproperbulwarkforsociety.

A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked atDorian.

"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather out ofsortsatdinner."

"Iamquitewell,Harry.Iamtired.Thatisall."

"Youwerecharminglastnight.Thelittleduchessisquitedevotedtoyou.ShetellsmesheisgoingdowntoSelby."

"Shehaspromisedtocomeonthetwentieth."

"IsMonmouthtobethere,too?"

"Oh,yes,Harry."

"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is veryclever,toocleverforawoman.Shelackstheindefinablecharmofweakness.Itisthefeetofclaythatmakethegoldoftheimageprecious.Herfeetareverypretty, but they are not feet of clay.White porcelain feet, if you like. Theyhavebeenthroughthefire,andwhatfiredoesnotdestroy,ithardens.Shehashadexperiences."

"Howlonghasshebeenmarried?"askedDorian.

"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage, it is tenyears,but tenyearswithMonmouthmusthavebeen likeeternity,with timethrownin.Whoelseiscoming?"

"Oh, theWilloughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess, GeoffreyClouston,theusualset.IhaveaskedLordGrotrian."

"Ilikehim,"saidLordHenry."Agreatmanypeopledon't,butIfindhimcharming.He atones for beingoccasionally somewhat overdressed bybeingalwaysabsolutelyover-educated.Heisaverymoderntype."

"I don't know if hewill be able to come, Harry. Hemay have to go toMonteCarlowithhisfather."

"Ah!whatanuisancepeople'speopleare!Tryandmakehimcome.Bytheway,Dorian,youranoffveryearlylastnight.Youleftbeforeeleven.Whatdidyoudoafterwards?Didyougostraighthome?"

Dorianglancedathimhurriedlyandfrowned.

"No,Harry,"hesaidatlast,"Ididnotgethometillnearlythree."

"Didyougototheclub?"

"Yes,"heanswered.Thenhebithislip."No,Idon'tmeanthat.Ididn'tgoto the club. Iwalked about. I forgetwhat I did....How inquisitive you are,Harry!Youalwayswanttoknowwhatonehasbeendoing.IalwayswanttoforgetwhatIhavebeendoing.Icameinathalf-pasttwo,ifyouwishtoknow

theexacttime.Ihadleftmylatch-keyathome,andmyservanthadtoletmein.Ifyouwantanycorroborativeevidenceonthesubject,youcanaskhim."

LordHenryshruggedhisshoulders."Mydearfellow,asifIcared!Letusgoup to thedrawing-room.Nosherry, thankyou,Mr.Chapman.Somethinghas happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is. You are not yourself to-night."

"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper. I shall comeround and see you to-morrow, or next day. Make my excuses to LadyNarborough.Ishan'tgoupstairs.Ishallgohome.Imustgohome."

"All right,Dorian. I dare say I shall seeyou to-morrowat tea-time.Theduchessiscoming."

"Iwilltrytobethere,Harry,"hesaid,leavingtheroom.Ashedrovebacktohisownhouse,hewasconsciousthatthesenseofterrorhethoughthehadstrangledhadcomeback tohim.LordHenry's casualquestioninghadmadehimlosehisnerveforthemoment,andhewantedhisnervestill.Thingsthatwere dangerous had to be destroyed.Hewinced.He hated the idea of eventouchingthem.

Yetithadtobedone.Herealizedthat,andwhenhehadlockedthedoorofhis library, he opened the secret press into which he had thrust BasilHallward'scoatandbag.Ahugefirewasblazing.Hepiledanotherlogonit.Thesmellofthesingeingclothesandburningleatherwashorrible.Ittookhimthree-quartersofanhourtoconsumeeverything.Attheendhefeltfaintandsick, and having lit some Algerian pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, hebathedhishandsandforeheadwithacoolmusk-scentedvinegar.

Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawednervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a largeFlorentinecabinet,madeoutofebonyandinlaidwithivoryandbluelapis.Hewatcheditas thoughitwerea thingthatcouldfascinateandmakeafraid,asthoughitheldsomethingthathelongedforandyetalmostloathed.Hisbreathquickened.Amadcravingcameoverhim.Helitacigaretteandthenthrewitaway. His eyelids drooped till the long fringed lashes almost touched hischeek. But he still watched the cabinet. At last he got up from the sofa onwhich he had been lying, went over to it, and having unlocked it, touchedsomehiddenspring.Atriangulardrawerpassedslowlyout.Hisfingersmovedinstinctively towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. Itwas a smallChinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought, the sidespatternedwith curvedwaves, and the silken cords hungwith round crystalsandtasselledinplaitedmetalthreads.Heopenedit.Insidewasagreenpaste,waxyinlustre,theodourcuriouslyheavyandpersistent.

Hehesitatedforsomemoments,withastrangelyimmobilesmileuponhisface.Thenshivering,thoughtheatmosphereoftheroomwasterriblyhot,hedrewhimselfupandglancedattheclock.Itwastwentyminutestotwelve.Heput theboxback, shutting the cabinet doors as hedid so, andwent intohisbedroom.

Asmidnightwasstrikingbronzeblowsupon theduskyair,DorianGray,dressedcommonly,andwithamufflerwrappedroundhisthroat,creptquietlyout of his house. InBondStreet he found a hansomwith a good horse.Hehaileditandinalowvoicegavethedriveranaddress.

Themanshookhishead."Itistoofarforme,"hemuttered.

"Hereisasovereignforyou,"saidDorian."Youshallhaveanotherifyoudrivefast."

"Allright,sir,"answeredtheman,"youwillbethereinanhour,"andafterhis fare hadgot in he turnedhis horse round anddrove rapidly towards theriver.

CHAPTER16

Acoldrainbegantofall,andtheblurredstreet-lampslookedghastlyinthedrippingmist.Thepublic-houseswerejustclosing,anddimmenandwomenwere clustering in broken groups round their doors. From some of the barscame the sound of horrible laughter. In others, drunkards brawled andscreamed.

Lyingback in thehansom,withhishat pulledoverhis forehead,DorianGraywatchedwith listless eyes the sordid shameof thegreat city, andnowandthenherepeatedtohimselfthewordsthatLordHenryhadsaidtohimonthefirstdaytheyhadmet,"Tocurethesoulbymeansofthesenses,andthesensesbymeansof thesoul."Yes, thatwas thesecret.Hehadoften tried it,and would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could buyoblivion,densofhorrorwherethememoryofoldsinscouldbedestroyedbythemadnessofsinsthatwerenew.

Themoonhung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time ahugemisshapencloudstretcheda longarmacrossandhid it.Thegas-lampsgrewfewer,and thestreetsmorenarrowandgloomy.Once theman losthisway and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from the horse as itsplashedupthepuddles.Thesidewindowsofthehansomwerecloggedwithagrey-flannelmist.

"Tocurethesoulbymeansofthesenses,andthesensesbymeansofthesoul!"Howthewordsranginhisears!Hissoul,certainly,wassicktodeath.Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled.Whatcouldatone for that?Ah! for that therewasnoatonement;but thoughforgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was possible still, and he wasdeterminedtoforget,tostampthethingout,tocrushitasonewouldcrushtheadderthathadstungone.Indeed,whatrighthadBasiltohavespokentohimashehaddone?Whohadmadehimajudgeoverothers?Hehadsaidthingsthatweredreadful,horrible,nottobeendured.

Onandonplodded thehansom,going slower, it seemed tohim, at eachstep.Hethrustupthetrapandcalledtothemantodrivefaster.Thehideoushunger for opiumbegan to gnaw at him.His throat burned and his delicatehandstwitchednervouslytogether.Hestruckatthehorsemadlywithhisstick.Thedriverlaughedandwhippedup.Helaughedinanswer,andthemanwassilent.

Thewayseemedinterminable,andthestreetsliketheblackwebofsomesprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and as the mistthickened,hefeltafraid.

Then theypassedby lonelybrickfields.The fogwas lighterhere,andhecouldseethestrange,bottle-shapedkilnswiththeirorange,fanliketonguesoffire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the darkness somewanderingsea-gullscreamed.Thehorsestumbledinarut,thenswervedasideandbrokeintoagallop.

Aftersometimetheylefttheclayroadandrattledagainoverrough-pavenstreets.Mostof thewindowsweredark,butnowandthenfantasticshadowsweresilhouettedagainstsomelamplitblind.Hewatchedthemcuriously.Theymoved like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things. Hehated them.Adull ragewas inhisheart.As they turneda corner, awomanyelled something at them from an open door, and two men ran after thehansomforaboutahundredyards.Thedriverbeatatthemwithhiswhip.

It issaid thatpassionmakesonethinkinacircle.CertainlywithhideousiterationthebittenlipsofDorianGrayshapedandreshapedthosesubtlewordsthatdealtwithsoulandsense,tillhehadfoundinthemthefullexpression,asit were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval, passions thatwithoutsuchjustificationwouldstillhavedominatedhistemper.Fromcelltocellofhisbraincrepttheonethought;andthewilddesiretolive,mostterribleof allman's appetites, quickened into force each trembling nerve and fibre.Ugliness that had once been hateful to him because it made things real,became dear to himnow for that very reason.Uglinesswas the one reality.Thecoarsebrawl,theloathsomeden,thecrudeviolenceofdisorderedlife,the

veryvilenessofthiefandoutcast,weremorevivid,intheirintenseactualityofimpression, thanall thegraciousshapesofart, thedreamyshadowsofsong.Theywerewhatheneededforforgetfulness.Inthreedayshewouldbefree.

Suddenlythemandrewupwithajerkatthetopofadarklane.Overthelow roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose the blackmasts ofships.Wreathsofwhitemistclunglikeghostlysailstotheyards.

"Somewhereabouthere,sir,ain'tit?"heaskedhuskilythroughthetrap.

Dorianstartedandpeeredround."Thiswilldo,"heanswered,andhavinggot out hastily and given the driver the extra fare he had promised him, hewalkedquicklyinthedirectionofthequay.Hereandtherealanterngleamedatthesternofsomehugemerchantman.Thelightshookandsplinteredinthepuddles.Aredglarecamefromanoutward-boundsteamer thatwascoaling.Theslimypavementlookedlikeawetmackintosh.

Hehurriedontowardstheleft,glancingbacknowandthentoseeifhewasbeing followed. In about seven or eightminutes he reached a small shabbyhouse that was wedged in between two gaunt factories. In one of the top-windowsstoodalamp.Hestoppedandgaveapeculiarknock.

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain beingunhooked.Thedooropenedquietly,andhewentinwithoutsayingawordtothesquatmisshapenfigurethatflatteneditself intotheshadowashepassed.Attheendofthehallhungatatteredgreencurtainthatswayedandshookinthegustywindwhichhadfollowedhiminfromthestreet.Hedraggeditasideandenteredalonglowroomwhichlookedasifithadoncebeenathird-ratedancing-saloon. Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blownmirrors that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors ofribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light. The floor wascoveredwithochre-colouredsawdust, trampledhereandthereintomud,andstainedwithdark ringsof spilled liquor.SomeMalayswere crouchingby alittlecharcoalstove,playingwithbonecountersandshowingtheirwhiteteethas they chattered. In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailorsprawled over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across onecomplete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who wasbrushingthesleevesofhiscoatwithanexpressionofdisgust."Hethinkshe'sgot red ants on him," laughed one of them, as Dorian passed by. Themanlookedatherinterrorandbegantowhimper.

At theendof the roomtherewasa little staircase, leading toadarkenedchamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps, the heavy odour ofopium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered withpleasure.Whenheentered, ayoungmanwith smoothyellowhair,whowasbendingoveralamplightingalongthinpipe,lookedupathimandnoddedin

ahesitatingmanner.

"Youhere,Adrian?"mutteredDorian.

"WhereelseshouldIbe?"heanswered,listlessly."Noneofthechapswillspeaktomenow."

"IthoughtyouhadleftEngland."

"Darlington isnotgoing todoanything.Mybrotherpaid thebill at last.Georgedoesn'tspeaktomeeither.... Idon'tcare,"headdedwithasigh."Aslong as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends. I think I have had toomanyfriends."

Dorianwincedand looked roundat thegrotesque things that lay in suchfantastic postures on the ragged mattresses. The twisted limbs, the gapingmouths, thestaring lustrelesseyes, fascinatedhim.Heknew inwhatstrangeheavenstheyweresuffering,andwhatdullhellswereteachingthemthesecretof some new joy. They were better off than he was. He was prisoned inthought.Memory,likeahorriblemalady,waseatinghissoulaway.FromtimetotimeheseemedtoseetheeyesofBasilHallwardlookingathim.Yethefelthecouldnotstay.ThepresenceofAdrianSingletontroubledhim.Hewantedto be where no one would know who he was. He wanted to escape fromhimself.

"Iamgoingontotheotherplace,"hesaidafterapause.

"Onthewharf?"

"Yes."

"Thatmad-catissuretobethere.Theywon'thaveherinthisplacenow."

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one.Womenwhohateonearemuchmoreinteresting.Besides,thestuffisbetter."

"Muchthesame."

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink. I must havesomething."

"Idon'twantanything,"murmuredtheyoungman.

"Nevermind."

AdrianSingletonroseupwearilyandfollowedDorianto thebar.Ahalf-caste,inaraggedturbanandashabbyulster,grinnedahideousgreetingashethrustabottleofbrandyandtwotumblersinfrontofthem.Thewomensidledupandbegantochatter.DorianturnedhisbackonthemandsaidsomethinginalowvoicetoAdrianSingleton.

Acrookedsmile,likeaMalaycrease,writhedacrossthefaceofoneofthewomen."Weareveryproudto-night,"shesneered.

"ForGod'ssakedon't talk tome,"criedDorian,stampinghisfooton theground."Whatdoyouwant?Money?Hereitis.Don'tevertalktomeagain."

Two red sparks flashed for amoment in thewoman's sodden eyes, thenflickeredoutandleftthemdullandglazed.Shetossedherheadandrakedthecoins off the counter with greedy fingers. Her companion watched herenviously.

"It'snouse,"sighedAdrianSingleton."Idon'tcaretogoback.Whatdoesitmatter?Iamquitehappyhere."

"Youwillwritetomeifyouwantanything,won'tyou?"saidDorian,afterapause.

"Perhaps."

"Goodnight,then."

"Goodnight,"answered theyoungman,passingup thestepsandwipinghisparchedmouthwithahandkerchief.

Dorianwalkedtothedoorwithalookofpaininhisface.Ashedrewthecurtainaside,ahideouslaughbrokefromthepaintedlipsofthewomanwhohad takenhismoney. "Theregoes thedevil'sbargain!" shehiccoughed, in ahoarsevoice.

"Curseyou!"heanswered,"don'tcallmethat."

Shesnappedherfingers."PrinceCharmingiswhatyoulike tobecalled,ain'tit?"sheyelledafterhim.

Thedrowsysailorleapedtohisfeetasshespoke,andlookedwildlyround.Thesoundoftheshuttingofthehalldoorfellonhisear.Herushedoutasifinpursuit.

DorianGrayhurriedalongthequaythroughthedrizzlingrain.HismeetingwithAdrianSingletonhadstrangelymovedhim,andhewonderediftheruinofthatyounglifewasreallytobelaidathisdoor,asBasilHallwardhadsaidtohimwith such infamyof insult.Hebit his lip, and for a few secondshiseyesgrewsad.Yet,afterall,whatdid itmatter tohim?One'sdayswere toobrieftotaketheburdenofanother'serrorsonone'sshoulders.Eachmanlivedhisownlifeandpaidhisownpriceforlivingit.Theonlypitywasonehadtopaysooftenforasinglefault.Onehadtopayoverandoveragain,indeed.Inherdealingswithman,destinyneverclosedheraccounts.

Therearemoments,psychologiststellus,whenthepassionforsin,orforwhattheworldcallssin,sodominatesanaturethateveryfibreofthebody,as

every cell of the brain, seems to be instinctwith fearful impulses.Men andwomen at suchmoments lose the freedomof theirwill.Theymove to theirterribleendasautomatonsmove.Choiceistakenfromthem,andconscienceiseitherkilled,or,ifitlivesatall,livesbuttogiverebellionitsfascinationanddisobedienceitscharm.Forallsins,astheologianswearynotofremindingus,aresinsofdisobedience.Whenthathighspirit, thatmorningstarofevil,fellfromheaven,itwasasarebelthathefell.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul hungry forrebellion,DorianGrayhastenedon,quickeninghisstepashewent,butashedartedasideintoadimarchway,thathadservedhimoftenasashortcuttotheill-famed place where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized frombehind,andbeforehehadtimetodefendhimself,hewasthrustbackagainstthewall,withabrutalhandroundhisthroat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched thetighteningfingersaway.Inasecondheheardtheclickofarevolver,andsawthe gleam of a polished barrel, pointing straight at his head, and the duskyformofashort,thick-setmanfacinghim.

"Whatdoyouwant?"hegasped.

"Keepquiet,"saidtheman."Ifyoustir,Ishootyou."

"Youaremad.WhathaveIdonetoyou?"

"YouwreckedthelifeofSibylVane,"wastheanswer,"andSibylVanewasmy sister.Shekilledherself. I know it.Herdeath is at yourdoor. I swore Iwouldkillyouinreturn.ForyearsIhavesoughtyou.Ihadnoclue,notrace.Thetwopeoplewhocouldhavedescribedyouweredead.Iknewnothingofyoubutthepetnamesheusedtocallyou.Ihearditto-nightbychance.MakeyourpeacewithGod,forto-nightyouaregoingtodie."

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered. "Ineverheardofher.Youaremad."

"Youhadbetterconfessyoursin,forassureasIamJamesVane,youaregoingtodie."Therewasahorriblemoment.Doriandidnotknowwhattosayor do. "Downon your knees!" growled theman. "I give you oneminute tomakeyourpeace—nomore.Igoonboardto-nightforIndia,andImustdomyjobfirst.Oneminute.That'sall."

Dorian'sarmsfelltohisside.Paralysedwithterror,hedidnotknowwhattodo.Suddenlyawildhopeflashedacrosshisbrain."Stop,"hecried."Howlongagoisitsinceyoursisterdied?Quick,tellme!"

"Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me? What do yearsmatter?"

"Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in hisvoice."Eighteenyears!Setmeunderthelampandlookatmyface!"

JamesVane hesitated for amoment, not understandingwhatwasmeant.ThenheseizedDorianGrayanddraggedhimfromthearchway.

Dimandwaveringaswasthewind-blownlight,yetitservedtoshowhimthehideouserror, as it seemed, intowhichhehad fallen, for the faceof theman he had sought to kill had all the bloom of boyhood, all the unstainedpurityofyouth.Heseemedlittlemorethana ladof twentysummers,hardlyolder,ifolderindeedatall,thanhissisterhadbeenwhentheyhadpartedsomanyyearsago.Itwasobviousthatthiswasnotthemanwhohaddestroyedherlife.

Heloosenedhisholdandreeledback."MyGod!myGod!"hecried,"andIwouldhavemurderedyou!"

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink ofcommittingaterriblecrime,myman,"hesaid,lookingathimsternly."Letthisbeawarningtoyounottotakevengeanceintoyourownhands."

"Forgiveme,sir,"mutteredJamesVane."Iwasdeceived.AchancewordIheardinthatdamneddensetmeonthewrongtrack."

"You had better go home and put that pistol away, or youmay get intotrouble,"saidDorian,turningonhisheelandgoingslowlydownthestreet.

JamesVanestoodonthepavementinhorror.Hewastremblingfromheadtofoot.Afteralittlewhile,ablackshadowthathadbeencreepingalongthedrippingwallmoved out into the light and came close to himwith stealthyfootsteps.Hefeltahandlaidonhisarmandlookedroundwithastart.Itwasoneofthewomenwhohadbeendrinkingatthebar.

"Whydidn'tyoukillhim?"shehissedout,puttinghaggardfacequiteclosetohis."IknewyouwerefollowinghimwhenyourushedoutfromDaly's.Youfool!You shouldhavekilledhim.Hehas lots ofmoney, andhe's as bad asbad."

"HeisnotthemanIamlookingfor,"heanswered,"andIwantnoman'smoney. Iwantaman's life.Themanwhose life Iwantmustbenearly fortynow.Thisoneislittlemorethanaboy.ThankGod,Ihavenotgothisblooduponmyhands."

The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered."Why,man,it'snighoneighteenyearssincePrinceCharmingmademewhatIam."

"Youlie!"criedJamesVane.

Sheraisedherhanduptoheaven."BeforeGodIamtellingthetruth,"shecried.

"BeforeGod?"

"Strikemedumbif itain'tso.Heis theworstonethatcomeshere.Theysayhehassoldhimselftothedevilforaprettyface.It'snighoneighteenyearssince I met him. He hasn't changed much since then. I have, though," sheadded,withasicklyleer.

"Youswearthis?"

"Iswearit,"cameinhoarseechofromherflatmouth."Butdon'tgivemeawaytohim,"shewhined;"Iamafraidofhim.Letmehavesomemoneyformynight'slodging."

Hebrokefromherwithanoathandrushedtothecornerofthestreet,butDorianGrayhaddisappeared.Whenhelookedback,thewomanhadvanishedalso.

CHAPTER17

AweeklaterDorianGraywassittingintheconservatoryatSelbyRoyal,talking to theprettyDuchessofMonmouth,whowithherhusband,a jaded-lookingmanofsixty,wasamongsthisguests.Itwastea-time,andthemellowlightofthehuge,lace-coveredlampthatstoodonthetablelitupthedelicatechinaandhammeredsilveroftheserviceatwhichtheduchesswaspresiding.Herwhitehandsweremovingdaintilyamong thecups,andher full red lipsweresmilingatsomethingthatDorianhadwhisperedtoher.LordHenrywaslyingbackinasilk-drapedwickerchair,lookingatthem.Onapeach-coloureddivan satLadyNarborough, pretending to listen to theduke's descriptionofthelastBrazilianbeetlethathehadaddedtohiscollection.Threeyoungmeninelaboratesmoking-suitswerehandingtea-cakestosomeofthewomen.Thehouse-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected toarriveonthenextday.

"Whatareyou two talkingabout?"saidLordHenry,strollingover to thetableandputtinghiscupdown."IhopeDorianhastoldyouaboutmyplanforrechristeningeverything,Gladys.Itisadelightfulidea."

"ButIdon'twanttoberechristened,Harry,"rejoinedtheduchess,lookingupathimwithherwonderfuleyes."Iamquitesatisfiedwithmyownname,andIamsureMr.Grayshouldbesatisfiedwithhis."

"MydearGladys, Iwould not alter either name for theworld.They are

bothperfect.Iwasthinkingchieflyofflowers.YesterdayIcutanorchid,formybutton-hole. Itwas amarvellous spotted thing, as effective as the sevendeadlysins.InathoughtlessmomentIaskedoneofthegardenerswhatitwascalled. He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana, or somethingdreadfulof thatkind. It isasad truth,butwehave lost thefacultyofgivinglovely names to things.Names are everything. I never quarrelwith actions.My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism inliterature.Themanwhocouldcallaspadeaspadeshouldbecompelledtouseone.Itistheonlythingheisfitfor."

"Thenwhatshouldwecallyou,Harry?"sheasked.

"HisnameisPrinceParadox,"saidDorian.

"Irecognizehiminaflash,"exclaimedtheduchess.

"Iwon'thearofit,"laughedLordHenry,sinkingintoachair."Fromalabelthereisnoescape!Irefusethetitle."

"Royaltiesmaynotabdicate,"fellasawarningfromprettylips.

"Youwishmetodefendmythrone,then?"

"Yes."

"Igivethetruthsofto-morrow."

"Ipreferthemistakesofto-day,"sheanswered.

"Youdisarmme,Gladys,"hecried,catchingthewilfulnessofhermood.

"Ofyourshield,Harry,notofyourspear."

"Inevertiltagainstbeauty,"hesaid,withawaveofhishand.

"Thatisyourerror,Harry,believeme.Youvaluebeautyfartoomuch."

"Howcanyousaythat?IadmitthatIthinkthatitisbettertobebeautifulthan to be good.But on the other hand, no one ismore ready than I am toacknowledgethatitisbettertobegoodthantobeugly."

"Uglinessisoneofthesevendeadlysins,then?"criedtheduchess."Whatbecomesofyoursimileabouttheorchid?"

"Uglinessisoneofthesevendeadlyvirtues,Gladys.You,asagoodTory,mustnotunderrate them.Beer, theBible, and the sevendeadlyvirtueshavemadeourEnglandwhatsheis."

"Youdon'tlikeyourcountry,then?"sheasked.

"Iliveinit."

"Thatyoumaycensureitthebetter."

"WouldyouhavemetaketheverdictofEuropeonit?"heinquired.

"Whatdotheysayofus?"

"ThatTartuffehasemigratedtoEnglandandopenedashop."

"Isthatyours,Harry?"

"Igiveittoyou."

"Icouldnotuseit.Itistootrue."

"Youneednotbeafraid.Ourcountrymenneverrecognizeadescription."

"Theyarepractical."

"Theyaremorecunning thanpractical.When theymakeup their ledger,theybalancestupiditybywealth,andvicebyhypocrisy."

"Still,wehavedonegreatthings."

"Greatthingshavebeenthrustonus,Gladys."

"Wehavecarriedtheirburden."

"OnlyasfarastheStockExchange."

Sheshookherhead."Ibelieveintherace,"shecried.

"Itrepresentsthesurvivalofthepushing."

"Ithasdevelopment."

"Decayfascinatesmemore."

"Whatofart?"sheasked.

"Itisamalady."

"Love?"

"Anillusion."

"Religion?"

"Thefashionablesubstituteforbelief."

"Youareasceptic."

"Never!Scepticismisthebeginningoffaith."

"Whatareyou?"

"Todefineistolimit."

"Givemeaclue."

"Threadssnap.Youwouldloseyourwayinthelabyrinth."

"Youbewilderme.Letustalkofsomeoneelse."

"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened PrinceCharming."

"Ah!don'tremindmeofthat,"criedDorianGray.

"Ourhostisratherhorridthisevening,"answeredtheduchess,colouring."IbelievehethinksthatMonmouthmarriedmeonpurelyscientificprinciplesasthebestspecimenhecouldfindofamodernbutterfly."

"Well,Ihopehewon'tstickpinsintoyou,Duchess,"laughedDorian.

"Oh!mymaiddoesthatalready,Mr.Gray,whensheisannoyedwithme."

"Andwhatdoesshegetannoyedwithyouabout,Duchess?"

"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because IcomeinattenminutestonineandtellherthatImustbedressedbyhalf-pasteight."

"Howunreasonableofher!Youshouldgiveherwarning."

"Idaren't,Mr.Gray.Why,sheinventshatsforme.YouremembertheoneIwore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party? You don't, but it is nice of you topretendthatyoudo.Well,shemadeitoutofnothing.Allgoodhatsaremadeoutofnothing."

"Likeallgoodreputations,Gladys,"interruptedLordHenry."Everyeffectthat one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be amediocrity."

"Notwithwomen,"saidtheduchess,shakingherhead;"andwomenruletheworld. Iassureyouwecan'tbearmediocrities.Wewomen,as someonesays,lovewithourears,justasyoumenlovewithyoureyes,ifyoueverloveatall."

"Itseemstomethatweneverdoanythingelse,"murmuredDorian.

"Ah! then, you never really love,Mr.Gray," answered the duchesswithmocksadness.

"MydearGladys!" criedLordHenry. "Howcanyou say that?Romancelives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides,each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved.Difference ofobject does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it.We canhave in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is toreproducethatexperienceasoftenaspossible."

"Evenwhenonehasbeenwoundedbyit,Harry?"askedtheduchessafterapause.

"Especiallywhenonehasbeenwoundedbyit,"answeredLordHenry.

TheduchessturnedandlookedatDorianGraywithacuriousexpressioninhereyes."Whatdoyousaytothat,Mr.Gray?"sheinquired.

Dorianhesitatedforamoment.Thenhethrewhisheadbackandlaughed."IalwaysagreewithHarry,Duchess."

"Evenwhenheiswrong?"

"Harryisneverwrong,Duchess."

"Anddoeshisphilosophymakeyouhappy?"

"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I havesearchedforpleasure."

"Andfoundit,Mr.Gray?"

"Often.Toooften."

Theduchesssighed."Iamsearchingforpeace,"shesaid,"andifIdon'tgoanddress,Ishallhavenonethisevening."

"Letmegetyousomeorchids,Duchess,"criedDorian,startingtohisfeetandwalkingdowntheconservatory.

"Youare flirtingdisgracefullywithhim," saidLordHenry tohis cousin."Youhadbettertakecare.Heisveryfascinating."

"Ifhewerenot,therewouldbenobattle."

"GreekmeetsGreek,then?"

"IamonthesideoftheTrojans.Theyfoughtforawoman."

"Theyweredefeated."

"Thereareworsethingsthancapture,"sheanswered.

"Yougallopwithalooserein."

"Pacegiveslife,"wastheriposte.

"Ishallwriteitinmydiaryto-night."

"What?"

"Thataburntchildlovesthefire."

"Iamnotevensinged.Mywingsareuntouched."

"Youusethemforeverything,exceptflight."

"Couragehaspassedfrommentowomen.Itisanewexperienceforus."

"Youhavearival."

"Who?"

He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adoreshim."

"Youfillmewithapprehension.Theappealtoantiquityisfataltouswhoareromanticists."

"Romanticists!Youhaveallthemethodsofscience."

"Menhaveeducatedus."

"Butnotexplainedyou."

"Describeusasasex,"washerchallenge.

"Sphinxeswithoutsecrets."

Shelookedathim,smiling."HowlongMr.Grayis!"shesaid."Letusgoandhelphim.Ihavenotyettoldhimthecolourofmyfrock."

"Ah!youmustsuityourfrocktohisflowers,Gladys."

"Thatwouldbeaprematuresurrender."

"Romanticartbeginswithitsclimax."

"Imustkeepanopportunityforretreat."

"IntheParthianmanner?"

"Theyfoundsafetyinthedesert.Icouldnotdothat."

"Womenarenotalwaysallowedachoice,"heanswered,buthardlyhadhefinished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory came astifledgroan,followedbythedullsoundofaheavyfall.Everybodystartedup.Theduchessstoodmotionlessinhorror.Andwithfearinhiseyes,LordHenryrushedthroughtheflappingpalmstofindDorianGraylyingfacedownwardsonthetiledfloorinadeathlikeswoon.

Hewascarriedatonce into thebluedrawing-roomand laidupononeofthe sofas. After a short time, he came to himself and looked round with adazedexpression.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here,Harry?"Hebegantotremble.

"MydearDorian," answeredLordHenry, "youmerely fainted.Thatwasall. You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down todinner.Iwilltakeyourplace."

"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet. "I would rather

comedown.Imustnotbealone."

Hewenttohisroomanddressed.Therewasawildrecklessnessofgaietyinhismannerashesatattable,butnowandthenathrillofterrorranthroughhim when he remembered that, pressed against the window of theconservatory, likeawhitehandkerchief,hehadseen the faceofJamesVanewatchinghim.

CHAPTER18

The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spentmost of thetimeinhisownroom,sickwithawildterrorofdying,andyetindifferenttolife itself. The consciousness of being hunted, snared, tracked down, hadbeguntodominatehim.Ifthetapestrydidbuttrembleinthewind,heshook.Thedeadleavesthatwereblownagainsttheleadedpanesseemedtohimlikehisownwastedresolutionsandwildregrets.Whenheclosedhiseyes,hesawagain the sailor's face peering through the mist-stained glass, and horrorseemedoncemoretolayitshanduponhisheart.

Butperhapsithadbeenonlyhisfancythathadcalledvengeanceoutofthenight and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him.Actual lifewaschaos,buttherewassomethingterriblylogicalintheimagination.Itwastheimaginationthatsetremorsetodogthefeetofsin.Itwastheimaginationthatmadeeachcrimebearitsmisshapenbrood.Inthecommonworldoffact thewickedwerenotpunished,nor thegoodrewarded.Successwasgiven to thestrong, failure thrustupon theweak.Thatwasall.Besides,hadanystrangerbeenprowling round thehouse,hewouldhavebeenseenby theservantsorthekeepers.Hadanyfoot-marksbeenfoundontheflower-beds,thegardenerswouldhavereportedit.Yes,ithadbeenmerelyfancy.SibylVane'sbrotherhadnotcomebacktokillhim.Hehadsailedawayinhisshiptofounderinsomewinter sea.Fromhim,atany rate,hewas safe.Why, themandidnotknowwhohewas,couldnotknowwhohewas.Themaskofyouthhadsavedhim.

Andyetifithadbeenmerelyanillusion,howterribleitwastothinkthatconsciencecouldraisesuchfearfulphantoms,andgivethemvisibleform,andmakethemmovebeforeone!Whatsortoflifewouldhisbeif,dayandnight,shadowsof his crimewere to peer at him from silent corners, tomockhimfromsecretplaces,towhisperinhisearashesatatthefeast,towakehimwithicyfingersashe layasleep!As the thoughtcrept throughhisbrain,hegrewpalewith terror,and theair seemed tohim tohavebecomesuddenlycolder.Oh!inwhatawildhourofmadnesshehadkilledhisfriend!Howghastlythemerememoryofthescene!Hesawitallagain.Eachhideousdetailcameback

tohimwithaddedhorror.Outoftheblackcaveoftime,terribleandswathedinscarlet,rosetheimageofhissin.WhenLordHenrycameinatsixo'clock,hefoundhimcryingasonewhoseheartwillbreak.

Itwasnottillthethirddaythatheventuredtogoout.Therewassomethingintheclear,pine-scentedairofthatwintermorningthatseemedtobringhimbackhisjoyousnessandhisardourforlife.Butitwasnotmerelythephysicalconditions of environment that had caused the change. His own nature hadrevolted against the excessof anguish thathad sought tomaimandmar theperfection of its calm. With subtle and finely wrought temperaments it isalwaysso.Theirstrongpassionsmusteitherbruiseorbend.Theyeitherslaytheman,or themselvesdie.Shallowsorrowsandshallow loves liveon.Thelovesandsorrowsthataregreataredestroyedbytheirownplenitude.Besides,he had convinced himself that he had been the victim of a terror-strickenimagination,andlookedbacknowonhisfearswithsomethingofpityandnotalittleofcontempt.

Afterbreakfast,hewalkedwiththeduchessforanhourinthegardenandthendroveacross theparkto join theshooting-party.Thecrispfrost laylikesaltuponthegrass.Theskywasaninvertedcupofbluemetal.Athinfilmoficeborderedtheflat,reed-grownlake.

Atthecornerofthepine-woodhecaughtsightofSirGeoffreyClouston,theduchess'sbrother,jerkingtwospentcartridgesoutofhisgun.Hejumpedfromthecart,andhavingtoldthegroomtotakethemarehome,madehiswaytowardshisguestthroughthewitheredbrackenandroughundergrowth.

"Haveyouhadgoodsport,Geoffrey?"heasked.

"Notverygood,Dorian.Ithinkmostofthebirdshavegonetotheopen.Idaresayitwillbebetterafterlunch,whenwegettonewground."

Dorianstrolledalongbyhisside.Thekeenaromaticair,thebrownandredlightsthatglimmeredinthewood,thehoarsecriesofthebeatersringingoutfrom time to time,and the sharp snapsof theguns that followed, fascinatedhimandfilledhimwithasenseofdelightfulfreedom.Hewasdominatedbythecarelessnessofhappiness,bythehighindifferenceofjoy.

Suddenlyfromalumpytussockofoldgrasssometwentyyardsinfrontofthem,withblack-tippedearserectandlonghinderlimbsthrowingitforward,startedahare.Itboltedforathicketofalders.SirGeoffreyputhisguntohisshoulder, but there was something in the animal's grace of movement thatstrangely charmed Dorian Gray, and he cried out at once, "Don't shoot it,Geoffrey.Letitlive."

"What nonsense, Dorian!" laughed his companion, and as the harebounded into the thicket, he fired.Therewere two cries heard, the cry of a

hareinpain,whichisdreadful,thecryofamaninagony,whichisworse.

"Goodheavens!Ihavehitabeater!"exclaimedSirGeoffrey."Whatanassthemanwastogetinfrontoftheguns!Stopshootingthere!"hecalledoutatthetopofhisvoice."Amanishurt."

Thehead-keepercamerunningupwithastickinhishand.

"Where,sir?Whereishe?"heshouted.Atthesametime,thefiringceasedalongtheline.

"Here,"answeredSirGeoffreyangrily,hurryingtowardsthethicket."Whyonearthdon'tyoukeepyourmenback?Spoiledmyshootingfortheday."

Dorianwatched themas theyplunged into the alder-clump, brushing thelithe swinging branches aside. In a fewmoments they emerged, dragging abodyafterthemintothesunlight.Heturnedawayinhorror.Itseemedtohimthatmisfortunefollowedwhereverhewent.HeheardSirGeoffreyaskif theman was really dead, and the affirmative answer of the keeper. The woodseemed to him to have become suddenly alive with faces. There was thetramplingofmyriadfeetandthelowbuzzofvoices.Agreatcopper-breastedpheasantcamebeatingthroughtheboughsoverhead.

Afterafewmoments—thatweretohim,inhisperturbedstate,likeendlesshours of pain—he felt a hand laid on his shoulder. He started and lookedround.

"Dorian," said Lord Henry, "I had better tell them that the shooting isstoppedforto-day.Itwouldnotlookwelltogoon."

"Iwishitwerestoppedforever,Harry,"heansweredbitterly."Thewholethingishideousandcruel.Istheman...?"

Hecouldnotfinishthesentence.

"Iamafraidso,"rejoinedLordHenry."Hegotthewholechargeofshotinhischest.Hemusthavediedalmostinstantaneously.Come;letusgohome."

Theywalked side by side in the direction of the avenue for nearly fiftyyardswithout speaking.ThenDorian lookedatLordHenryandsaid,withaheavysigh,"Itisabadomen,Harry,averybadomen."

"What is?" asked Lord Henry. "Oh! this accident, I suppose. My dearfellow,itcan'tbehelped.Itwastheman'sownfault.Whydidhegetinfrontoftheguns?Besides,itisnothingtous.ItisratherawkwardforGeoffrey,ofcourse. It doesnotdo topepperbeaters. Itmakespeople think thatone is awild shot.AndGeoffrey is not; he shoots very straight.But there is no usetalkingaboutthematter."

Dorian shook his head. "It is a bad omen, Harry. I feel as if something

horribleweregoingtohappentosomeofus.Tomyself,perhaps,"headded,passinghishandoverhiseyes,withagestureofpain.

The elder man laughed. "The only horrible thing in the world is ennui,Dorian.Thatistheonesinforwhichthereisnoforgiveness.Butwearenotlikelytosufferfromitunlessthesefellowskeepchatteringaboutthisthingatdinner.Imusttellthemthatthesubjectistobetabooed.Asforomens,thereisnosuchthingasanomen.Destinydoesnotsendusheralds.Sheistoowiseortoocruel for that.Besides,whatonearthcouldhappen toyou,Dorian?Youhaveeverythingintheworldthatamancanwant.Thereisnoonewhowouldnotbedelightedtochangeplaceswithyou."

"ThereisnoonewithwhomIwouldnotchangeplaces,Harry.Don'tlaughlikethat.Iamtellingyouthetruth.Thewretchedpeasantwhohasjustdiedisbetteroff thanIam. Ihaveno terrorofdeath. It is thecomingofdeath thatterrifiesme.Itsmonstrouswingsseemtowheelintheleadenairaroundme.Goodheavens!don'tyouseeamanmovingbehindthetrees there,watchingme,waitingforme?"

LordHenry looked in the direction inwhich the trembling gloved handwaspointing. "Yes," he said, smiling, "I see the gardenerwaiting for you. Isupposehewants toaskyouwhatflowersyouwish tohaveon the table to-night.Howabsurdlynervousyouare,mydearfellow!Youmustcomeandseemydoctor,whenwegetbacktotown."

Dorian heaved a sigh of relief as he saw the gardener approaching. Theman touched his hat, glanced for a moment at Lord Henry in a hesitatingmanner,andthenproducedaletter,whichhehandedtohismaster."HerGracetoldmetowaitforananswer,"hemurmured.

Dorianputtheletterintohispocket."TellherGracethatIamcomingin,"hesaid,coldly.Themanturnedroundandwentrapidlyinthedirectionofthehouse.

"Howfondwomenareofdoingdangerous things!" laughedLordHenry."ItisoneofthequalitiesinthemthatIadmiremost.Awomanwillflirtwithanybodyintheworldaslongasotherpeoplearelookingon."

"How fond you are of saying dangerous things, Harry! In the presentinstance,youarequiteastray. I like theduchessverymuch,but Idon't loveher."

"Andtheduchesslovesyouverymuch,butshelikesyouless,soyouareexcellentlymatched."

"Youaretalkingscandal,Harry,andthereisneveranybasisforscandal."

"The basis of every scandal is an immoral certainty," said Lord Henry,

lightingacigarette.

"Youwouldsacrificeanybody,Harry,forthesakeofanepigram."

"Theworldgoestothealtarofitsownaccord,"wastheanswer.

"IwishIcouldlove,"criedDorianGraywithadeepnoteofpathosinhisvoice."ButIseemtohavelostthepassionandforgottenthedesire.Iamtoomuch concentrated onmyself.My own personality has become a burden tome.Iwanttoescape,togoaway,toforget.Itwassillyofmetocomedownhereatall.IthinkIshallsendawiretoHarveytohavetheyachtgotready.Onayachtoneissafe."

"Safefromwhat,Dorian?Youareinsometrouble.Whynottellmewhatitis?YouknowIwouldhelpyou."

"I can't tell you,Harry," he answered sadly. "And I dare say it is only afancy of mine. This unfortunate accident has upset me. I have a horriblepresentimentthatsomethingofthekindmayhappentome."

"Whatnonsense!"

"Ihopeitis,butIcan'thelpfeelingit.Ah!hereistheduchess,lookinglikeArtemisinatailor-madegown.Youseewehavecomeback,Duchess."

"I have heard all about it, Mr. Gray," she answered. "Poor Geoffrey isterribly upset.And it seems that you asked himnot to shoot the hare.Howcurious!"

"Yes,itwasverycurious.Idon'tknowwhatmademesayit.Somewhim,Isuppose. It looked the loveliestof little live things.But Iamsorry they toldyouabouttheman.Itisahideoussubject."

"Itisanannoyingsubject,"brokeinLordHenry."Ithasnopsychologicalvalueatall.NowifGeoffreyhaddonethethingonpurpose,howinterestinghe would be! I should like to know some one who had committed a realmurder."

"Howhorridofyou,Harry!"criedtheduchess."Isn'tit,Mr.Gray?Harry,Mr.Grayisillagain.Heisgoingtofaint."

Doriandrewhimselfupwithaneffortandsmiled."Itisnothing,Duchess,"hemurmured;"mynervesaredreadfullyoutoforder.Thatisall.IamafraidIwalked toofar thismorning. Ididn'thearwhatHarrysaid.Was itverybad?Youmust tellmesomeother time. I thinkImustgoand liedown.Youwillexcuseme,won'tyou?"

Theyhadreachedthegreatflightofstepsthatledfromtheconservatoryontotheterrace.AstheglassdoorclosedbehindDorian,LordHenryturnedandlookedattheduchesswithhisslumberouseyes."Areyouverymuchinlove

withhim?"heasked.

She did not answer for some time, but stood gazing at the landscape. "IwishIknew,"shesaidatlast.

Heshookhishead. "Knowledgewouldbe fatal. It is theuncertainty thatcharmsone.Amistmakesthingswonderful."

"Onemayloseone'sway."

"Allwaysendatthesamepoint,mydearGladys."

"Whatisthat?"

"Disillusion."

"Itwasmydebutinlife,"shesighed.

"Itcametoyoucrowned."

"Iamtiredofstrawberryleaves."

"Theybecomeyou."

"Onlyinpublic."

"Youwouldmissthem,"saidLordHenry.

"Iwillnotpartwithapetal."

"Monmouthhasears."

"Oldageisdullofhearing."

"Hasheneverbeenjealous?"

"Iwishhehadbeen."

Heglancedaboutasifinsearchofsomething."Whatareyoulookingfor?"sheinquired.

"Thebuttonfromyourfoil,"heanswered."Youhavedroppedit."

Shelaughed."Ihavestillthemask."

"Itmakesyoureyeslovelier,"washisreply.

Shelaughedagain.Herteethshowedlikewhiteseedsinascarletfruit.

Upstairs,inhisownroom,DorianGraywaslyingonasofa,withterrorinevery tingling fibre of his body. Life had suddenly become too hideous aburdenforhimtobear.Thedreadfuldeathof theunluckybeater,shot inthethicketlikeawildanimal,hadseemedtohimtopre-figuredeathforhimselfalso.HehadnearlyswoonedatwhatLordHenryhadsaidinachancemoodofcynicaljesting.

Atfiveo'clockheranghisbellforhisservantandgavehimorderstopackhisthingsforthenight-expresstotown,andtohavethebroughamatthedoorbyeight-thirty.HewasdeterminednottosleepanothernightatSelbyRoyal.Itwasanill-omenedplace.Deathwalkedthereinthesunlight.Thegrassoftheforesthadbeenspottedwithblood.

Thenhewroteanote toLordHenry, tellinghimthathewasgoinguptotown to consult his doctor and asking him to entertain his guests in hisabsence.Ashewasputtingitintotheenvelope,aknockcametothedoor,andhisvalet informedhim that thehead-keeperwished to seehim.He frownedandbithislip."Sendhimin,"hemuttered,aftersomemoments'hesitation.

Assoonasthemanentered,Dorianpulledhischequebookoutofadrawerandspreaditoutbeforehim.

"Isupposeyouhavecomeabouttheunfortunateaccidentofthismorning,Thornton?"hesaid,takingupapen.

"Yes,sir,"answeredthegamekeeper.

"Was the poor fellowmarried? Had he any people dependent on him?"askedDorian,lookingbored."Ifso,Ishouldnotlikethemtobeleftinwant,andwillsendthemanysumofmoneyyoumaythinknecessary."

"Wedon'tknowwhoheis,sir.ThatiswhatItookthelibertyofcomingtoyouabout."

"Don't know who he is?" said Dorian, listlessly. "What do you mean?Wasn'theoneofyourmen?"

"No,sir.Neversawhimbefore.Seemslikeasailor,sir."

ThependroppedfromDorianGray'shand,andhefeltasifhishearthadsuddenlystoppedbeating."Asailor?"hecriedout."Didyousayasailor?"

"Yes,sir.Helooksasifhehadbeenasortofsailor;tattooedonbotharms,andthatkindofthing."

"Was there anything found on him?" said Dorian, leaning forward andlookingatthemanwithstartledeyes."Anythingthatwouldtellhisname?"

"Somemoney, sir—notmuch, and a six-shooter. Therewas no name ofanykind.Adecent-lookingman,sir,butrough-like.Asortofsailorwethink."

Dorianstartedtohisfeet.Aterriblehopeflutteredpasthim.Heclutchedatitmadly."Whereisthebody?"heexclaimed."Quick!Imustseeitatonce."

"ItisinanemptystableintheHomeFarm,sir.Thefolkdon'tliketohavethatsortofthingintheirhouses.Theysayacorpsebringsbadluck."

"TheHomeFarm!Gothereatonceandmeetme.Telloneofthegroomsto

bringmyhorse round.No.Nevermind. I'll go to the stablesmyself. Itwillsavetime."

Inlessthanaquarterofanhour,DorianGraywasgallopingdownthelongavenueashardashecouldgo.Thetreesseemedtosweeppasthiminspectralprocession, andwild shadows to fling themselves across his path.Once themareswervedatawhitegate-postandnearlythrewhim.Helashedheracrosstheneckwithhiscrop.Sheclefttheduskyairlikeanarrow.Thestonesflewfromherhoofs.

AtlasthereachedtheHomeFarm.Twomenwereloiteringintheyard.Heleaped from the saddle and threw the reins to one of them. In the fartheststablealightwasglimmering.Somethingseemedtotellhimthatthebodywasthere,andhehurriedtothedoorandputhishanduponthelatch.

There he paused for a moment, feeling that he was on the brink of adiscoverythatwouldeithermakeormarhislife.Thenhethrustthedooropenandentered.

Onaheapofsackinginthefarcornerwaslyingthedeadbodyofamandressed in a coarse shirt and apair of blue trousers.A spottedhandkerchiefhad been placed over the face.A coarse candle, stuck in a bottle, sputteredbesideit.

DorianGrayshuddered.Hefeltthathiscouldnotbethehandtotakethehandkerchiefaway,andcalledouttooneofthefarm-servantstocometohim.

"Take that thing off the face. I wish to see it," he said, clutching at thedoor-postforsupport.

When the farm-servant had done so, he stepped forward. A cry of joybroke from his lips. Themanwho had been shot in the thicket was JamesVane.

He stood there for someminutes looking at the dead body. As he rodehome,hiseyeswerefulloftears,forheknewhewassafe.

CHAPTER19

"Thereisnouseyourtellingmethatyouaregoingtobegood,"criedLordHenry,dippinghiswhitefingersintoaredcopperbowlfilledwithrose-water."Youarequiteperfect.Pray,don'tchange."

DorianGrayshookhishead. "No,Harry, Ihavedone toomanydreadfulthings inmy life. I amnot going to do anymore. I beganmygood actions

yesterday."

"Wherewereyouyesterday?"

"Inthecountry,Harry.Iwasstayingatalittleinnbymyself."

"My dear boy," said LordHenry, smiling, "anybody can be good in thecountry.There areno temptations there.That is the reasonwhypeoplewholiveoutoftownaresoabsolutelyuncivilized.Civilizationisnotbyanymeansaneasythingtoattainto.Thereareonlytwowaysbywhichmancanreachit.Oneisbybeingcultured,theotherbybeingcorrupt.Countrypeoplehavenoopportunityofbeingeither,sotheystagnate."

"Culture and corruption," echoed Dorian. "I have known something ofboth.Itseemsterribletomenowthattheyshouldeverbefoundtogether.ForIhaveanewideal,Harry.Iamgoingtoalter.IthinkIhavealtered."

"Youhavenotyettoldmewhatyourgoodactionwas.Ordidyousayyouhaddonemorethanone?"askedhiscompanionashespilledintohisplatealittlecrimsonpyramidofseededstrawberriesand,throughaperforated,shell-shapedspoon,snowedwhitesugaruponthem.

"Icantellyou,Harry.ItisnotastoryIcouldtelltoanyoneelse.Isparedsomebody. It sounds vain, but you understand what I mean. She was quitebeautiful and wonderfully like Sibyl Vane. I think it was that which firstattractedmetoher.YourememberSibyl,don'tyou?Howlongagothatseems!Well,Hettywasnotoneofourownclass,ofcourse.Shewassimplyagirlinavillage.ButIreallylovedher.IamquitesurethatIlovedher.AllduringthiswonderfulMaythatwehavebeenhaving,Iusedtorundownandseehertwoor three times aweek.Yesterday shemetme in a little orchard.The apple-blossomskepttumblingdownonherhair,andshewaslaughing.Weweretohave gone away together this morning at dawn. Suddenly I determined toleaveherasflowerlikeasIhadfoundher."

"Ishouldthinkthenoveltyoftheemotionmusthavegivenyouathrillofrealpleasure,Dorian,"interruptedLordHenry."ButIcanfinishyouridyllforyou.Yougavehergoodadviceandbrokeherheart.Thatwasthebeginningofyourreformation."

"Harry, you are horrible! You mustn't say these dreadful things. Hetty'sheartisnotbroken.Ofcourse,shecriedandallthat.Butthereisnodisgraceuponher.Shecanlive,likePerdita,inhergardenofmintandmarigold."

"And weep over a faithless Florizel," said Lord Henry, laughing, as heleanedbackinhischair."MydearDorian,youhavethemostcuriouslyboyishmoods.Doyouthinkthisgirlwilleverbereallycontentnowwithanyoneofherownrank?Isupposeshewillbemarriedsomedaytoaroughcarterora

grinning ploughman.Well, the fact of havingmet you, and loved you, willteach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moralpointofview,IcannotsaythatIthinkmuchofyourgreatrenunciation.Evenasabeginning,itispoor.Besides,howdoyouknowthatHettyisn'tfloatingatthepresentmoment in some starlitmill-pond,with lovelywater-lilies roundher,likeOphelia?"

"I can't bear this, Harry! Youmock at everything, and then suggest themostserioustragedies.IamsorryItoldyounow.Idon'tcarewhatyousaytome.IknowIwasrightinactingasIdid.PoorHetty!AsIrodepastthefarmthis morning, I saw her white face at the window, like a spray of jasmine.Don'tletustalkaboutitanymore,anddon'ttrytopersuademethatthefirstgoodactionIhavedoneforyears,thefirstlittlebitofself-sacrificeIhaveeverknown,isreallyasortofsin.Iwanttobebetter.Iamgoingtobebetter.Tellmesomethingaboutyourself.Whatisgoingonintown?Ihavenotbeentotheclubfordays."

"ThepeoplearestilldiscussingpoorBasil'sdisappearance."

"Ishouldhavethoughttheyhadgottiredofthatbythistime,"saidDorian,pouringhimselfoutsomewineandfrowningslightly.

"Mydearboy,theyhaveonlybeentalkingaboutitforsixweeks,andtheBritishpublicarereallynotequaltothementalstrainofhavingmorethanonetopiceverythreemonths.Theyhavebeenveryfortunatelately,however.Theyhavehadmyowndivorce-caseandAlanCampbell'ssuicide.Nowtheyhavegot themysteriousdisappearanceof an artist.ScotlandYard still insists thatthemaninthegreyulsterwholeftforParisbythemidnighttrainontheninthofNovemberwaspoorBasil, and theFrenchpolicedeclare thatBasilneverarrivedinParisatall. Isuppose inaboutafortnightweshallbe told thathehas been seen in San Francisco. It is an odd thing, but every one whodisappearsissaidtobeseenatSanFrancisco.Itmustbeadelightfulcity,andpossessalltheattractionsofthenextworld."

"WhatdoyouthinkhashappenedtoBasil?"askedDorian,holdinguphisBurgundyagainstthelightandwonderinghowitwasthathecoulddiscussthemattersocalmly.

"I have not the slightest idea. If Basil chooses to hide himself, it is nobusinessofmine.Ifheisdead,Idon'twanttothinkabouthim.Deathistheonlythingthateverterrifiesme.Ihateit."

"Why?"saidtheyoungermanwearily.

"Because,"saidLordHenry,passingbeneathhisnostrilsthegilttrellisofan open vinaigrette box, "one can survive everything nowadays except that.Deathandvulgarityare theonlytwofacts in thenineteenthcenturythatone

cannotexplainaway.Letushaveourcoffeeinthemusic-room,Dorian.Youmust play Chopin to me. The man with whom my wife ran away playedChopinexquisitely.PoorVictoria!Iwasveryfondofher.Thehouseisratherlonelywithouther.Ofcourse,marriedlifeismerelyahabit,abadhabit.Butthenoneregretsthelossevenofone'sworsthabits.Perhapsoneregretsthemthemost.Theyaresuchanessentialpartofone'spersonality."

Dorian said nothing, but rose from the table, and passing into the nextroom,satdowntothepianoandlethisfingersstrayacrossthewhiteandblackivory of the keys. After the coffee had been brought in, he stopped, andlookingoveratLordHenry, said, "Harry,did iteveroccur toyou thatBasilwasmurdered?"

Lord Henry yawned. "Basil was very popular, and always wore aWaterbury watch.Why should he have been murdered? He was not cleverenough tohaveenemies.Ofcourse,hehadawonderfulgenius forpainting.ButamancanpaintlikeVelasquezandyetbeasdullaspossible.Basilwasreallyratherdull.Heonlyinterestedmeonce,andthatwaswhenhetoldme,yearsago,thathehadawildadorationforyouandthatyouwerethedominantmotiveofhisart."

"IwasveryfondofBasil,"saidDorianwithanoteofsadnessinhisvoice."Butdon'tpeoplesaythathewasmurdered?"

"Oh,someofthepapersdo.Itdoesnotseemtometobeatallprobable.IknowtherearedreadfulplacesinParis,butBasilwasnotthesortofmantohavegonetothem.Hehadnocuriosity.Itwashischiefdefect."

"Whatwouldyousay,Harry,ifItoldyouthatIhadmurderedBasil?"saidtheyoungerman.Hewatchedhimintentlyafterhehadspoken.

"I would say,my dear fellow, that youwere posing for a character thatdoesn'tsuityou.Allcrimeisvulgar,justasallvulgarityiscrime.Itisnotinyou,Dorian,tocommitamurder.IamsorryifIhurtyourvanitybysayingso,but I assure you it is true.Crime belongs exclusively to the lower orders. Idon'tblametheminthesmallestdegree.Ishouldfancythatcrimewastothemwhatartistous,simplyamethodofprocuringextraordinarysensations."

"Amethodofprocuring sensations?Doyou think, then, that amanwhohasoncecommittedamurdercouldpossiblydothesamecrimeagain?Don'ttellmethat."

"Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried LordHenry, laughing. "That is oneof themost important secretsof life. I shouldfancy, however, that murder is always a mistake. One should never doanything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us pass from poorBasil.IwishIcouldbelievethathehadcometosuchareallyromanticendas

yousuggest,butIcan't. Idaresayhefell into theSeineoffanomnibusandthattheconductorhushedupthescandal.Yes:Ishouldfancythatwashisend.Iseehimlyingnowonhisbackunderthosedull-greenwaters,withtheheavybargesfloatingoverhimandlongweedscatchinginhishair.Doyouknow,Idon't think hewould have donemuchmore goodwork.During the last tenyearshispaintinghadgoneoffverymuch."

Dorianheavedasigh,andLordHenrystrolledacrosstheroomandbegantostroke theheadofacuriousJavaparrot,a large,grey-plumagedbirdwithpink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch. As hispointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids overblack,glasslikeeyesandbegantoswaybackwardsandforwards.

"Yes,"hecontinued,turningroundandtakinghishandkerchiefoutofhispocket; "his painting had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have lostsomething.Ithadlostanideal.Whenyouandheceasedtobegreatfriends,heceasedtobeagreatartist.Whatwasitseparatedyou?Isupposeheboredyou.If so, he never forgave you. It's a habit bores have. By the way, what hasbecomeofthatwonderfulportraithedidofyou?Idon'tthinkIhaveeverseenitsincehefinishedit.Oh!Irememberyourtellingmeyearsagothatyouhadsent it down toSelby, and that it hadgotmislaidor stolenon theway.Younever got it back?What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember Iwanted tobuy it. Iwish Ihadnow. Itbelonged toBasil'sbestperiod.Sincethen,hisworkwas that curiousmixtureofbadpaintingandgood intentionsthatalwaysentitlesamantobecalledarepresentativeBritishartist.Didyouadvertiseforit?Youshould."

"I forget,"saidDorian."I suppose Idid.But Inever really liked it. IamsorryIsatforit.Thememoryofthethingishatefultome.Whydoyoutalkofit?Itusedtoremindmeofthosecuriouslinesinsomeplay—Hamlet,Ithink—howdotheyrun?—

"Likethepaintingofasorrow,

Afacewithoutaheart."

Yes:thatiswhatitwaslike."

LordHenrylaughed."Ifamantreatslifeartistically,hisbrainishisheart,"heanswered,sinkingintoanarm-chair.

Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano."'Likethepaintingofasorrow,'"herepeated,"'afacewithoutaheart.'"

Theeldermanlaybackandlookedathimwithhalf-closedeyes."Bytheway,Dorian,"hesaidafterapause,"'whatdoesitprofitamanifhegainthewholeworldandlose—howdoesthequotationrun?—hisownsoul'?"

Themusicjarred,andDorianGraystartedandstaredathisfriend."Whydoyouaskmethat,Harry?"

"Mydearfellow,"saidLordHenry,elevatinghiseyebrowsinsurprise,"IaskedyoubecauseIthoughtyoumightbeabletogivemeananswer.Thatisall. Iwasgoing through thepark lastSunday,andcloseby theMarbleArchthere stooda little crowdof shabby-lookingpeople listening to somevulgarstreet-preacher.AsIpassedby,Iheardthemanyellingoutthatquestiontohisaudience.Itstruckmeasbeingratherdramatic.Londonisveryrichincuriouseffects of that kind.AwetSunday, an uncouthChristian in amackintosh, aring of sicklywhite faces under a broken roof of dripping umbrellas, and awonderfulphraseflungintotheairbyshrillhystericallips—itwasreallyverygoodinitsway,quiteasuggestion.Ithoughtoftellingtheprophetthatarthada soul, but that man had not. I am afraid, however, he would not haveunderstoodme."

"Don't,Harry.Thesoulisaterriblereality.Itcanbebought,andsold,andbarteredaway.Itcanbepoisoned,ormadeperfect.Thereisasoulineachoneofus.Iknowit."

"Doyoufeelquitesureofthat,Dorian?"

"Quitesure."

"Ah! then itmust be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certainaboutarenever true.That is the fatalityof faith,and the lessonof romance.Howgraveyouare!Don'tbe soserious.Whathaveyouor I todowith thesuperstitionsofourage?No:wehavegivenupourbeliefinthesoul.Playmesomething. Playme a nocturne,Dorian, and, as you play, tellme, in a lowvoice,howyouhavekeptyouryouth.Youmusthavesomesecret.Iamonlytenyearsolderthanyouare,andIamwrinkled,andworn,andyellow.Youarereallywonderful,Dorian.Youhaveneverlookedmorecharmingthanyoudoto-night.Youremindmeof thedayIsawyoufirst.Youwererathercheeky,veryshy,andabsolutelyextraordinary.Youhavechanged,ofcourse,butnotinappearance. I wish youwould tellme your secret. To get backmy youth Iwould do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or berespectable.Youth!Thereisnothinglikeit.It'sabsurdtotalkoftheignoranceofyouth.TheonlypeopletowhoseopinionsIlistennowwithanyrespectarepeople much younger than myself. They seem in front of me. Life hasrevealed to themher latestwonder.As for the aged, I always contradict theaged. I do it on principle. If you ask them their opinion on something thathappened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820,whenpeoplewore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutelynothing.Howlovelythatthingyouareplayingis!Iwonder,didChopinwriteitatMajorca,withtheseaweepingroundthevillaandthesaltspraydashing

againstthepanes?Itismarvellouslyromantic.Whatablessingitisthatthereisoneartlefttousthatisnotimitative!Don'tstop.Iwantmusicto-night.ItseemstomethatyouaretheyoungApolloandthatIamMarsyaslisteningtoyou.Ihavesorrows,Dorian,ofmyown,thatevenyouknownothingof.Thetragedyofoldageisnot thatoneisold,but thatoneisyoung.Iamamazedsometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are!What anexquisite lifeyouhavehad!Youhavedrunkdeeplyofeverything.Youhavecrushed the grapes against your palate.Nothing has been hidden from you.Andithasallbeentoyounomorethanthesoundofmusic.Ithasnotmarredyou.Youarestillthesame."

"Iamnotthesame,Harry."

"Yes,youarethesame.Iwonderwhattherestofyourlifewillbe.Don'tspoil it by renunciations. At present you are a perfect type. Don't makeyourself incomplete. You are quite flawless now. You need not shake yourhead:youknowyouare.Besides,Dorian,don'tdeceiveyourself.Life isnotgoverned by will or intention. Life is a question of nerves, and fibres, andslowlybuilt-upcellsinwhichthoughthidesitselfandpassionhasitsdreams.Youmayfancyyourselfsafeandthinkyourselfstrong.Butachancetoneofcolour in a room or amorning sky, a particular perfume that you had oncelovedand thatbrings subtlememorieswith it, a line froma forgottenpoemthatyouhadcomeacrossagain,acadencefromapieceofmusicthatyouhadceasedtoplay—Itellyou,Dorian,thatitisonthingslikethesethatourlivesdepend. Browning writes about that somewhere; but our own senses willimaginethemforus.Therearemomentswhentheodouroflilasblancpassessuddenly acrossme, and I have to live the strangestmonth ofmy life overagain.IwishIcouldchangeplaceswithyou,Dorian.Theworldhascriedoutagainstusboth,butithasalwaysworshippedyou.Italwayswillworshipyou.Youarethetypeofwhattheageissearchingfor,andwhatit isafraidithasfound.Iamsogladthatyouhaveneverdoneanything,nevercarvedastatue,orpaintedapicture,orproducedanythingoutsideofyourself!Lifehasbeenyourart.Youhavesetyourselftomusic.Yourdaysareyoursonnets."

Dorianroseupfromthepianoandpassedhishandthroughhishair."Yes,lifehasbeenexquisite,"hemurmured,"butIamnotgoingtohavethesamelife,Harry.Andyoumustnot say theseextravagant things tome.Youdon'tknoweverythingaboutme.Ithinkthatifyoudid,evenyouwouldturnfromme.Youlaugh.Don'tlaugh."

"Why have you stopped playing, Dorian? Go back and give me thenocturneover again.Look at that great, honey-colouredmoon that hangs inthedusky air.She iswaiting foryou to charmher, and if youplay shewillcomeclosertotheearth.Youwon't?Letusgototheclub,then.Ithasbeenacharming 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 hasbeggedmetointroducehimtoyou.Heisquitedelightfulandratherremindsmeofyou."

"Ihopenot,"saidDorianwithasadlookinhiseyes."ButIamtiredto-night,Harry.Ishan'tgototheclub.Itisnearlyeleven,andIwanttogotobedearly."

"Dostay.Youhaveneverplayedsowellasto-night.Therewassomethinginyourtouchthatwaswonderful.IthadmoreexpressionthanIhadeverheardfromitbefore."

"ItisbecauseIamgoingtobegood,"heanswered,smiling."Iamalittlechangedalready."

"You cannot change to me, Dorian," said Lord Henry. "You and I willalwaysbefriends."

"Yetyoupoisonedmewithabookonce.Ishouldnotforgivethat.Harry,promisemethatyouwillneverlendthatbooktoanyone.Itdoesharm."

"My dear boy, you are really beginning to moralize. You will soon begoingabout liketheconverted,andtherevivalist,warningpeopleagainstallthesinsofwhichyouhavegrowntired.Youaremuchtoodelightfultodothat.Besides,itisnouse.YouandIarewhatweare,andwillbewhatwewillbe.As for beingpoisonedby a book, there is no such thing as that.Art has noinfluenceuponaction.Itannihilatesthedesiretoact.Itissuperblysterile.Thebooks that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its ownshame.Thatisall.Butwewon'tdiscussliterature.Comeroundto-morrow.Iamgoingtorideateleven.Wemightgotogether,andIwilltakeyoutolunchafterwards with Lady Branksome. She is a charming woman, and wants toconsultyouaboutsometapestriessheisthinkingofbuying.Mindyoucome.Orshallwe lunchwithour littleduchess?Shesayssheneverseesyounow.Perhapsyouare tiredofGladys?I thoughtyouwouldbe.Herclever tonguegetsonone'snerves.Well,inanycase,behereateleven."

"MustIreallycome,Harry?"

"Certainly.Theparkisquitelovelynow.Idon'tthinktherehavebeensuchlilacssincetheyearImetyou."

"Verywell.Ishallbehereateleven,"saidDorian."Goodnight,Harry."Ashereachedthedoor,hehesitatedforamoment,asifhehadsomethingmoretosay.Thenhesighedandwentout.

CHAPTER20

Itwasalovelynight,sowarmthathethrewhiscoatoverhisarmanddidnotevenputhissilkscarfroundhisthroat.Ashestrolledhome,smokinghiscigarette,twoyoungmenineveningdresspassedhim.Heheardoneofthemwhispertotheother,"ThatisDorianGray."Herememberedhowpleasedheusedtobewhenhewaspointedout,orstaredat,ortalkedabout.Hewastiredofhearinghisownnamenow.Halfthecharmofthelittlevillagewherehehadbeensooftenlatelywasthatnooneknewwhohewas.Hehadoftentoldthegirlwhomhehad lured to lovehim thathewaspoor, and shehadbelievedhim.Hehadtoldheroncethathewaswicked,andshehadlaughedathimandanswered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly.What alaughshehad!—justlikeathrushsinging.Andhowprettyshehadbeeninhercottondressesandher largehats!Sheknewnothing,butshehadeverythingthathehadlost.

Whenhereachedhome,hefoundhisservantwaitingupforhim.Hesenthimtobed,and threwhimselfdownon thesofa in the library,andbegan tothinkoversomeofthethingsthatLordHenryhadsaidtohim.

Wasitreallytruethatonecouldneverchange?Hefeltawildlongingfortheunstainedpurityofhisboyhood—hisrose-whiteboyhood,asLordHenryhadoncecalledit.Heknewthathehadtarnishedhimself,filledhismindwithcorruptionandgivenhorrortohisfancy;thathehadbeenanevilinfluencetoothers,andhadexperiencedaterriblejoyinbeingso;andthatofthelivesthathadcrossedhisown,ithadbeenthefairestandthemostfullofpromisethathehadbrought toshame.Butwas itall irretrievable?Wastherenohopeforhim?

Ah!inwhatamonstrousmomentofprideandpassionhehadprayedthatthe portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsulliedsplendourofeternalyouth!Allhisfailurehadbeenduetothat.Betterforhimthateachsinofhislifehadbroughtitssureswiftpenaltyalongwithit.Therewaspurification inpunishment.Not "Forgiveusour sins"but "Smiteus forouriniquities"shouldbetheprayerofmantoamostjustGod.

Thecuriouslycarvedmirror thatLordHenryhadgiven tohim, somanyyears ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupidslaughedrounditasofold.Hetookitup,ashehaddoneonthatnightofhorrorwhenhe had first noted the change in the fatal picture, andwithwild, tear-dimmedeyeslookedintoitspolishedshield.Once,someonewhohadterriblylovedhimhadwrittentohimamadletter,endingwiththeseidolatrouswords:"Theworldischangedbecauseyouaremadeofivoryandgold.Thecurvesofyour lips rewrite history." The phrases came back to his memory, and he

repeatedthemoverandovertohimself.Thenheloathedhisownbeauty,andflingingthemirroronthefloor,crusheditintosilversplintersbeneathhisheel.Itwashis beauty that had ruinedhim,his beauty and theyouth that hehadprayedfor.Butforthosetwothings,hislifemighthavebeenfreefromstain.Hisbeautyhadbeen tohimbutamask,hisyouthbutamockery.Whatwasyouthatbest?Agreen,anunripe time,a timeofshallowmoods,andsicklythoughts.Whyhadhewornitslivery?Youthhadspoiledhim.

Itwas better not to think of the past.Nothing could alter that. Itwas ofhimself,andofhisownfuture,thathehadtothink.JamesVanewashiddeninanamelessgrave inSelbychurchyard.AlanCampbell had shothimselfonenightinhislaboratory,buthadnotrevealedthesecretthathehadbeenforcedtoknow.Theexcitement,suchasitwas,overBasilHallward'sdisappearancewould soon pass away. Itwas alreadywaning.Hewas perfectly safe there.Nor, indeed,was it thedeathofBasilHallward thatweighedmostuponhismind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil hadpaintedtheportraitthathadmarredhislife.Hecouldnotforgivehimthat.Itwas the portrait that had done everything.Basil had said things to him thatwere unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. Themurder hadbeensimplythemadnessofamoment.AsforAlanCampbell,hissuicidehadbeenhisownact.Hehadchosentodoit.Itwasnothingtohim.

Anewlife!Thatwaswhathewanted.Thatwaswhathewaswaitingfor.Surelyhehadbegunitalready.Hehadsparedoneinnocentthing,atanyrate.Hewouldneveragaintemptinnocence.Hewouldbegood.

Ashe thoughtofHettyMerton,hebegan towonder if theportrait in thelocked roomhadchanged.Surely itwasnot still sohorribleas ithadbeen?Perhapsifhislifebecamepure,hewouldbeabletoexpeleverysignofevilpassion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away.Hewouldgoandlook.

He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred thedoor, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face andlingeredforamomentabouthislips.Yes,hewouldbegood,andthehideousthingthathehadhiddenawaywouldnolongerbeaterrortohim.Hefeltasiftheloadhadbeenliftedfromhimalready.

Hewent inquietly, locking thedoorbehindhim,aswashiscustom,anddragged thepurple hanging from theportrait.A cryof pain and indignationbrokefromhim.Hecouldseenochange,savethatintheeyestherewasalookof cunning and in themouth the curvedwrinkleof thehypocrite.The thingwasstillloathsome—moreloathsome,ifpossible,thanbefore—andthescarletdewthatspottedthehandseemedbrighter,andmorelikebloodnewlyspilled.Thenhe trembled.Had itbeenmerelyvanity thathadmadehimdohisone

gooddeed?Orthedesireforanewsensation,asLordHenryhadhinted,withhismockinglaugh?Orthatpassiontoactapartthatsometimesmakesusdothings finer thanweareourselves?Or,perhaps,all these?Andwhywas theredstainlargerthanithadbeen?Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorriblediseaseoverthewrinkledfingers.Therewasbloodonthepaintedfeet,asthoughthething had dripped—blood even on the hand that had not held the knife.Confess?Diditmeanthathewastoconfess?Togivehimselfupandbeputtodeath?He laughed.He felt that the ideawasmonstrous.Besides, even ifhedidconfess,whowouldbelievehim?Therewasnotraceofthemurderedmananywhere.Everythingbelonging tohimhadbeendestroyed.Hehimselfhadburnedwhathadbeenbelow-stairs.Theworldwouldsimplysaythathewasmad.Theywouldshuthimupifhepersistedinhisstory....Yetitwashisdutytoconfess,tosufferpublicshame,andtomakepublicatonement.TherewasaGod who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven.Nothingthathecoulddowouldcleansehimtillhehadtoldhisownsin.Hissin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed verylittletohim.HewasthinkingofHettyMerton.Foritwasanunjustmirror,thismirrorofhissoulthathewaslookingat.Vanity?Curiosity?Hypocrisy?Hadthere been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had beensomethingmore.Atleasthethoughtso.Butwhocouldtell?...No.Therehadbeen nothingmore. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he hadwornthemaskofgoodness.Forcuriosity'ssakehehadtriedthedenialofself.Herecognizedthatnow.

But this murder—was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to beburdenedbyhispast?Washereallytoconfess?Never.Therewasonlyonebitofevidenceleftagainsthim.Thepictureitself—thatwasevidence.Hewoulddestroy it.Why had he kept it so long?Once it had given him pleasure towatchitchangingandgrowingold.Oflatehehadfeltnosuchpleasure.Ithadkept him awake at night.When he had been away, he had been filledwithterrorlestothereyesshouldlookuponit.Ithadbroughtmelancholyacrosshispassions.Itsmerememoryhadmarredmanymomentsofjoy.Ithadbeenlikeconsciencetohim.Yes,ithadbeenconscience.Hewoulddestroyit.

He looked round and saw theknife that had stabbedBasilHallward.Hehadcleaned itmany times, till therewasnostain leftupon it. Itwasbright,andglistened.Asithadkilledthepainter,soitwouldkillthepainter'swork,and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, hewouldbefree. Itwouldkill thismonstroussoul-life,andwithout itshideouswarnings,hewouldbeatpeace.Heseizedthething,andstabbedthepicturewithit.

Therewasacryheard,andacrash.Thecrywassohorrible in itsagonythatthefrightenedservantswokeandcreptoutoftheirrooms.Twogentlemen,

whowere passing in the square below, stopped and looked up at the greathouse.Theywalkedontilltheymetapolicemanandbroughthimback.Themanrangthebellseveraltimes,buttherewasnoanswer.Exceptforalightinoneof the topwindows, thehousewasalldark.Aftera time,hewentawayandstoodinanadjoiningporticoandwatched.

"Whosehouseisthat,Constable?"askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen.

"Mr.DorianGray's,sir,"answeredthepoliceman.

Theylookedateachother,astheywalkedaway,andsneered.OneofthemwasSirHenryAshton'suncle.

Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics weretalkinginlowwhisperstoeachother.OldMrs.Leafwascryingandwringingherhands.Franciswasaspaleasdeath.

After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of thefootmenandcreptupstairs.Theyknocked,buttherewasnoreply.Theycalledout.Everythingwasstill.Finally,aftervainlytryingtoforcethedoor,theygotontheroofanddroppeddownontothebalcony.Thewindowsyieldedeasily—theirboltswereold.

Whentheyentered,theyfoundhanginguponthewallasplendidportraitoftheirmasterastheyhadlastseenhim,inallthewonderofhisexquisiteyouthandbeauty.Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknifeinhisheart.Hewaswithered,wrinkled,and loathsomeofvisage. Itwasnottilltheyhadexaminedtheringsthattheyrecognizedwhoitwas.

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