TableofContentsFrom the Pages of ThePictureofDorianGrayTitlePageCopyrightPageOscarWildeThe World of Oscar Wildeand The Picture of DorianGrayIntroductionThePreface.

ChapterI.ChapterII.ChapterIII.ChapterIV.ChapterV.ChapterVI.ChapterVII.ChapterVIII.ChapterIX.ChapterX.ChapterXI.ChapterXII.

ChapterXIII.ChapterXIV.ChapterXV.ChapterXVI.ChapterXVII.ChapterXVIII.ChapterXIX.ChapterXX.EndnotesInspired by The Picture ofDorianGrayComments&Questions

ForFurtherReading

FromthePagesofThePictureofDorian

Gray

Allart isquiteuseless. (page2)

“There is only one thing inthe world worse than being

talked about, and that is notbeingtalkedabout.”(page4)

“Being natural is simply apose, and the most irritatingposeIknow.”(page7)“She tried to found a salon,and only succeeded inopening a restaurant.” (page10)

“I like persons better than

principles, and I like personswithnoprinciplesbetter thananything else in the world.”(page11)

“Theonlywaytogetridofatemptationistoyieldtoit.”(page21)

“Beauty is a form of Genius—is higher, indeed, thanGenius, as it needs no

explanation. It is of thegreatfacts of the world, likesunlight,orspringtime,orthereflection in dark waters ofthat silver shell we call themoon. It cannot bequestioned.”(page24)

Shecrouchedonthefloorlikeawounded thing, andDorianGray,withhisbeautifuleyes,looked down at her, and his

chiseled lips curled inexquisite disdain. There isalways something ridiculousabout the emotion of peoplewhomonehasceasedtolove.(page92)

“Life has always poppies inherhands.”(page105)

No theory of life seemed tohim to be of any importance

compared with life itself.(page136)

Is insincerity such a terriblething?Ithinknot.Itismerelya method by which we canmultiply our personalities.(page146)

Oscar Wilde, 1894—This isthe last photograph taken ofWildebeforehistrials.

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OscarWilde

Oscar Fingal O’FlahertieWills Wilde was born onOcto ber 16, 1854, to anintellectually prominentDublinfamily.Hisfather,SirWilliam Wilde, was arenownedphysician,whowasknighted for his work as

medical adviser to the 1841and 1851 Irish censuses; hismother,Lady JaneFrancescaElgee, was a poet andjournalist. Wilde showedhimself to be an exceptionalstudent. While at the RoyalSchoolinEnniskillen,hetookFirst Prize in classics. Hecontinued his studies atTrinity College, Dublin, onscholarship, where he wonhigh honors, including theDemyship Scholarship to

MagdalenCollege,Oxford.AtOxford,Wilde engaged

in self-discovery, throughboth intellectualandpersonalpursuits. He fell under theinfluence of the AestheticphilosophyofWalterPater,atutorandauthorwhoinspiredWilde to create art for thesake of art alone. It wasduringtheseyearsthatWildedeveloped a reputation as aneccentric and a foppish

dresser who always had aflower in his lapel. Wildewonhis first recognitionasawriter when the universityawarded him the NewdigatePrize for his poem“Ravenna.”WildewentfromOxfordto

London, where he publishedhis first volume of verse,Poems, in 1881. From 1882to1884,hetouredtheUnitedStates, Ireland, and England

givinga seriesof lecturesonAestheticism. In America,between speakingengagements,hemetsomeofthegreatliterarymindsoftheday, including HenryWadsworth Longfellow,Oliver Wendell Holmes, andWaltWhitman.Hisfirstplay,Vera, was staged in NewYorkbutdidpoorly.Afterhismarriage to Constance Lloydin 1884 and the birth of histwo sons, Wilde began to

make his way into theLondon theater, literary, andhomosexual scenes. Hepublished Intentions, acollection of dialogues onAesthetic philosophy, in1891, the year he met LordAlfredDouglas,whobecamehis lover and his ultimatedownfall. Wilde soonproduced several successfulplays, including LadyWindermere’s Fan (1892)and A Woman of No

Importance(1893).Wilde’s popularity was

short-lived, however. In1895, during the concurrentruns of his plays An IdealHusbandandTheImportanceof Being Earnest, he becamethe subject of a homosexualscandal that led him towithdraw all theaterengagements and declarebankruptcy. Urged by manytofleethecountryratherthan

faceatrialinwhichhewouldsurelybefoundguilty,Wildechose instead to remain inEngland. Arrested in 1895and found guilty of“homosexual offenses,”Wilde was sentenced to twoyears hard labor and beganserving time in Wandsworthprison. He was latertransferred to the detentioncenter in Reading Gaol,where he composed DeProfundis, a dramatic

monologuewrittenasa letterto Lord Alfred Douglas thatwaspublished in1905.Uponhisrelease,WilderetreatedtotheContinent,wherehelivedouttherestofhislifeunderapseudonym.Hepublishedhislast work, The Ballad ofReadingGaol, in 1898whilelivinginexile.During his lifetime,Wilde

wasmost often the center ofcontroversy. The Picture of

DorianGray,whichappearedas the lead story inLippincott’s MonthlyMagazine on June 20, 1890,and was published in bookform the next year, isconsidered to be Wilde’smost personal work.Scrutinized by critics whoquestioned its morality, thenovel portrays the author’sinternal battles and arrives atthe disturbing possibility that“ugliness is theonly reality.”

OscarWildediedpennilessofcerebral meningitis in ParisonNovember30,1900.Heisburied inLachaiseCemetery,Paris.

TheWorldofOscarWildeand

ThePictureofDorianGray

OscarFingalO’FlahertieWills

WildeisbornonOctober16inDublinto

1854 WilliamWilde,aprominentoph

thalmologist,andJaneFrancescaElgee,arenownedpoetand

journalist.

1864

WildeentersthePortoraRoyalSchoolinEnniskillen,where

heexcels,andsubsequentlytakesFirstPrizeinclassicsandSecondPrizein

drawing.

1867

OnFebruary23Wilde’ssisterIsola

diesofasuddenfever.Profoundlyaffectedbythedeath,Wildekeepsalockofherhairuntiltheendof

hislife.Wildeenrollsasa

RoyalSchoolScholaratTrinityCollege,Dublin,wherehe

1871

earnstheFoundationScholarship(thehighesthonor

bestowedonanundergraduate)aswellastheBerkeleyGoldMedalforGreekand

theDemyshipScholarshipto

MagdalenCollege,Oxford.

AsastudentatMagdalenCollege,

1874

WildefindsamentorinWalterPater,a

tutorandwriterwhoseworks,alongwiththoseofthePre-

Raphaelites,inspireWildetosubscribeto

theAestheticmovement,which

promotes“artforart’ssake.”Wildedevelopsareputationforhis

flamboyantmannerisms,

includinghisdandyismandlong

hair.1876 Wilde’sfatherdies.

1878

WildewinstheNewdigatePrizeforhispoem“Ravenna,”aswellas“FirstInGreats”byhis

examiners.Wilde’seldestbrother,Henry

Wilson,dies.Upongraduation,

1879

WildemovestoLondonwithFrankMiles,afriendandportraitpainter,andbeginshiswriting

career.

1881

Wildepublisheshisfirstvolumeofverse,Poems,whichiswellreceivedbycritics.HebecomesthesubjectoftheGilbertandSullivancomic

operettaPatience,whichsatirizestheAestheticmovement.WildeembarksuponaseriesoflecturesintheUnitedStates.

Originallyscheduledtolastonlyfourmonths,thetourisextendedtofiftylecturesandlasts

nearlyayear.WildemeetsHenry

1882 WadsworthLongfellow,OliverWendellHolmes,WaltWhitman,andHenryJames.Healsoarrangesforhisfirstplay,Vera,tobe

stagedinNewYork;itisacommercial

flop.

1883

Wildecontinueshislecturetour

throughouttheUnitedKingdom.

1884

OnMay29WildemarriesConstance

Lloyd,theheiressofaDublinbarrister.ThecoupleresidesinChelsea,aLondon

neighborhoodpopularwithartists,writers,andintellectuals.Wildewriteshis

secondunsuccessful

play,TheDuchessofPadua.

1885

Wilde’sfirstson,Cyril,isborn.TheCriminalLaw

AmendmentAct,underwhichWildewouldlaterbeprosecutedfor

engagingin“grossindecency,”ispassed.

1886Anotherson,Vyvyan,

isborn.

1887

Wildeacceptsaneditor’spositionwithWoman’sWorld,apopularmagazine,whereheremainsfor

twoyears.

1888

Acollectionoffairytales,TheHappyPrinceandOtherTales,ispublished.Wilde’sstory“ThePortraitofMr.W.H.”

appearsin

1889

Blackwood’sMagazine;itassertsthatthepoemshaveahooeroticsubtext.“TheDecayof

Lying,”adialogueonAestheticsandothersubjects,ispublishedinTheNineteenthCentury,aliterary

review.ThePictureof

DorianGrayappears

1890 inLippincott’sMonthlyMagazine,

publishedinPhiladelphia.

ThepublicationofThePictureofDorianGray,anextendedversionofthe

magazinepieceandWilde’sonlynovel,arousescontroversyoverthework’s

moralitybutmakes

1891

littlemoney.Wildealsoproducesseveralworksthatreflecthisvariedinterests:Intentions,acollectionof

dialoguesonWilde’sAestheticphilosophy,andLordArthurSavile’sCrimeandOtherStories,avolumeofshort

fiction.HemeetsLordAlfredDouglas,an

undergraduateatOxford,andtheysoonbecomelovers.WildealsobefriendsAndréGide,theFrench

writerandspokesmanforhomosexualrights.

TheHouseofPomegranates,acollectionofshortstories,ispublished.InFebruarythefirstofWilde’sdomestic

1892

comedies,LadyWindermere’sFan,opensattheSt.

James’Theatretoaccolades.Thefinancialsuccessenableshimto

continuewritingplays,andhe

completesSalomé,areinterpretationinFrenchofJohntheBaptist’smartyrdom;

heisunabletoproducetheplay

becauseofalawprohibitingtheatricaldepictionsofbiblical

characters.

1893

Wildeagainenjoystheatricalsuccesswithhisseconddomesticcomedy,AWomanofNoImportance.HebecomesfriendlywithMaxBeerbohm,a

fledglingwriteratOxfordwhosoon

becomesBritain’sforemostcaricaturist;hisfirstsubjectis

Wilde.

1894

InParis,actressSarahBernhardtgivesaperformanceof

Salomé.InApril“ADefenceofCosmetics,”

Beerbohm’sparodyofWildean

Aestheticism,appears

inTheYellowBook,analternativejournal.Wildeisimmensely

popularontheLondontheatercircuit:AnIdeal

HusbandisperformedattheHaymarketTheatre,andThe

ImportanceofBeingEarnestisattheSt.James’.Wilde

becomesinvolvedin

1895

threetrials:InthefirsthesuestheMarquessofQueensbury,thefatherofhislover

LordAlfredDouglas,forlibelafterthemarquessreferstohimin

anoteasa“somdomite”(sic).ThedefensecounseldenouncesDorianGrayasanimmoralbook,andenough

evidenceispresented

totryWildeforengagingin

homosexualactivity.Aftertwotrialsheis

sentencedtoWandsworthprisonfortwoyears’hardlabor.Wilde’swifeandsonsrelocatetoSwitzerlandandadoptanoldfamilyname,“Holland.”WildeistransferredfromWandsworthto

ReadingGaol.

1897

Whiledetained,hewritesDeProfundis,adramaticmonologue

andbiographyaddressedtoAlfredDouglasthatis

publishedinpartin1905.Uponhis

releasefromprison,WildegoesintoexiletotheContinent,

wherehelivesunder

thealias“SebastianMelmoth.”

1898

TheBalladofReadingGaol,

Wilde’sfinalwork,ispublished.Wildealsopublishestwolettersonprisonreform.

Constancedies.WildebrieflyreuniteswithDouglasbutspendsmostofhistime

travelingthroughout

Europe,occasionallywritingforParisian

journals.

1900

WildeconvertstoRomanCatholicismonhisdeathbed,afteralifelongflirtationwiththereligion.HediesofcerebralmeningitisattheHotelD’AlsaceinParisonNovember30.Heisburiedat

LachaiseCemetery,Paris.

1905

Wilde’splaySaloméinspiresGermancomposerRichard

Strausstowriteaone-actoperaofthesame

name.

Introduction

Who is the infamous DorianGray, and how canwebeginto classify his story? Dorianis obviously a beauty, adandy, an impressionable,petulant boy who mutatesinto a wicked hedonist. Healso breaks hearts, takes

drugs, tortures his friends,and murders with nigh-impunity. Is Oscar Wilde’sonly novel, then, a neo-Gothic horror chiller about acursedantihero,asmany liketo think? A science-fictionfantasy about a magicalpainting, which realizes awish that never should havebeen spoken? A homosexualallegory of doomed,forbidden passion? Acautionarytaleaboutasoul’s

corruption, meant to remindthe reader of conscience,karma, politesse, and thedangersofexcessiveaestheticglorification? Or is it thereverse: a thinly disguisedmanifesto, an abstractembrace of sheergorgeousness, paradox, andthe art of personalityconstruction, a celebration ofthe artificial, the unnatural,the beautifully false?Ultimately Wilde’s story

remains sufficiently flexibletoaccommodateeachofthesejudgments, and consequentlyThe Picture of Dorian Grayhasbeenhorrifying,warning,enchanting, occasionallyboring,obsessing—and,somewould argue, perhaps evencorrupting—readers for welloverahundredyears.The Picture of Dorian

Gray first appeared in theJuly 1890 issue of

Lippincott’s MonthlyMagazine, based inPhiladelphia. The journal’spublisher sought out shortnovels to promote themagazine,andwhenheheardthe story of Dorian Gray,which Wilde apparently hadbeen telling for years, heaccepted the ideaimmediately.Whenaskedfora text of 100,000 words,Wildereplied,“Therearenot100,000 beautiful words in

theEnglishlanguage.”Inthisone sentence we can foreseemuchaboutWilde’snovel:itseconomic length, its preciseselection of detail (generallyself-contained, with the onenotable exception of ChapterXI’s logorrhea), and itsprioritizingofbeautyoverallother considerations,narrativeormoral.Dorian Gray caused an

immediate sensation upon its

publication. Wilde plainlyexpresses his exaltedaesthetic theories, and evendemonstratesthem—andtheirrisks—through Dorian’sactions, and providesguidelines for living abeautifully useless life. Thereaderhasonlytodigestthemand, if pressed, to synthesizetheir occasionallycontradictoryrecommendations. But muchof the reading public, and

many who claimed theywould never read the novel,generated near-hysteria byrailing against the immoralartistic practice of allowingan evil protagonist not to bepunished satisfactorily, intheir view, for his heinouscrimes. Escaping therepercussions of his actionsthrough death constituted toogenerous a penalty, theymaintained.Dorianshouldbeforced to suffer further by

having to live with hishorriblydeformedface!Wilde incensed reviewers

inparticularwithhisapparentconfidence that he shouldcross the (not entirely)heretofore-solid line ofunimpeachable Englishproprietybywritingabout,orimplying, certain kinds ofunmentionable, scandalousbehavior. (Also, becauseWilde was in fact Irish and

not English—which denoted,as he once put it, “quite adifferent thing”—his lifelongcritique of English socialmores won few sympathiesoutside avant-garde circles.)Of course, many of thesereviewers already countedthemselves his enemies. AmbroseBierce’s review inTheWasp of Wilde’s 1882 SanFrancisco lecture onaesthetics was typical of itsilk, if much more creative

than most; it also helps areader to better appreciateWilde’s side of his troubledrelationship with the press.Bierce accosted Wilde with,to cite a very few, thefollowing over-achievinginsults: He was the“sovereign of insufferables,”the “littlest and looniest of abrotherhood of simpletons,”andan“intellectual jellyfish”who “pos[es] as a statue ofhimself” and possesses “a

knowledge that would equipan idiot to converse with acast-iron dog.” Wilde’sclearly justifiable righteousanger only exacerbated theproblem, however, becauseWilde refused to accept notonly personal remarks butalso most criticism that hefound to be moralistic,insipid, or simply incorrect.He usually felt compelled torespond with letters to thenewspaper editors who

printed such negativereviews.Wilde found much to

defend himself against whenthe harsh notices forDorianGray hit the streets. Thenovelwasproclaimed“stupidandvulgar,”“dullandnasty,”“incurably silly,”“poisonous,” “coarse andcrude,” “a sham,” and,strangely enough given itscelebration of such things,

“falseart.”This“WildestandOscaristwork” that “delightsin dirtiness and confesses itsdelight”was“heavywith themephiticodoursofmoralandspiritual putrefaction,”promoted “tawdrymysticism,” and left a“contaminating trailofgarishvulgarity.” Its author was a“driveling pedant” who“bores you unmercifully”with his “prosy rigmaroles”and “clumsy and unideal

treatment.” The generalconsensus in the press: ThePicture of Dorian Gray wasprurient, immoral, unethical,dangerous, and conclusively“very lame.” Of course,Wilde had many admirers,and,inpartperhapstoappealto them, he responded inkind, upholding the right ofhiswork to separateart fromethics, and asking that hisnew work be left “to theimmortalityitdeserves.”

When The Picture ofDorian Gray was publishedin book form in 1891, thepublishersWard,Lock,&Co.dressed it in a simple,elegantly hand-lettered covercreated by influentialdesigners Charles Rickettsand Charles Shannon; it wasalso issued in a deluxe,limited oversize edition.Wilde expanded the novelfrom its original thirteenchapters to twenty andmade

numerous revisions, deletingin particular some explicitlyhomosexual sentiments. Thepublisher also addedWilde’sepigrammatical “Preface”(originally published on itsown in the March 1891FortnightlyReview,editedbyWilde’s friend and futurebiographer Frank Harris),which contains some of hismore clever aphorisms, mostof which were devisedspecifically asparries against

the novel’s critics. (Thepresent edition does notincludean“Artist’sPreface,”which was not a part of theoriginal publication in eitherits periodical or book form.Signed by “Basil Hallward,”this additional prologue,which sets forth an allegedreal-life circumstance thatcaused Wilde to write thenovel, surfaced for the firsttime in anAmerican edition,publishedbyCharterhouse in

1904.)Thenovel’sexpansionand revisions made notremendousdifferenceforthesecond round of critiques,however. Reviewers dubbedDorianGray“theverygeniusofaffectationcrystalised inasyrup of words” andironically bemoaned its“almost utter lack of truehumanity.” Walter Pater,Wilde’s philosophicalprogenitor, commentedfavorably upon the novel,

highlighting its cleverness,originality (rather humorous,considering howmany of itsideaswerecribbedfromPaterin the first place), livelydialogue, “artisticmanagement” of decorativedetail,itsplainmoral,andtheopportunityitgavethereaderto “compar[e Wilde’s]practise as a creative artistwith many a precept he hasenouncedascriticconcerningit.”

Critics have locatednumerous fictional sourcesfor Dorian’s fantasticalpredicament,somewithinthewell-represented tradition ofVictorianmagic-picturetales,the allure of which a few ofWilde’s other writings, inaddition to his mother’s,sometimes exploit. In LadyWilde’s 1849 translation ofWil helmMeinhold’s Gothicromance Sidonia theSorceress (1847), for

example, which absorbedWilde as aboy, thebeautifulbut voraciously evil titlecharacter, a sixteenth-centurywitch, ultimately destroys anentire Pomeranian royalcourt. Sidonia’s curiousportraitdepictsthewitchasayoung woman, while thespectral figure of her agedself lurks in the background.(The Sidonia subjectfascinated many othercontemporary figures,

including Pre-Raphaeliteartist Edward Burne-Jones;SidoniaVonBork(1860)wasone of his first paintings.) InWilde’s short story “ThePortraitofMr.W.H.”(1889),the title object, a forgery,purports to represent theyouthful male dedicatee ofmany of WilliamShakespeare’s love sonnets.Its mysterious discoveryseems to uphold thehypothesisputforwardbythe

characters that W. H. was abeloved boy actor inShakespeare’s company.However, doubts over thetheory’s validity lead tosuspicious suicides and thusconvey, as Dorian’s storydoes, issues of homosexualcrisis, as well as thequestionablenatureofartistic“truth.”Other influences on The

Picture ofDorianGray have

less bearing on the plot—inasmuch as this novel hasbeensaidtohaveaplotatall(some critics and readershave misguidedly, butperhaps understandably,lamented its plot’s frequentpostponement andoccasionallymaddeningnear-absence).Wilde cannibalizedtwoofthenovel’ssourcesfornear-verbatimcitations in thetext.Theaxiom“Nothingcancurethesoulbut thesenses,”

forexample,isliftedfromthe1885 novel Marius theEpicurean by Walter Pater,an Aesthetic sage whomWilde admired at Oxford.Wilde also closelyparaphrasestheConclusiontoPater’s era-shaping art-historical treatise, Studies inthe History of theRenaissance (1873; see “ForFurther Reading”), when hewrites, “[New Hedonism’s]aim, indeed, was to be

experience itself, and not thefruitsofexperience, sweetorbitter as they might be.” Inthat Conclusion, Pater’sinsistence on the primacy ofbeauty, artistic harmony, andpleasurable experience asends in their own rightscandalized manycontemporary readers; thesection influenced so manymore young, impressionablepeople than it did arthistorians that this allegedly

harmful section wassuppressed in later editions.(See this edition’s notes forfurther citations of the manyphrases Wilde lifted fromPater,aswellasfromotherofhisownworks.)One of the more extreme

influences on The Picture ofDorian Gray remains thestrongest candidate for theunnamed “poisonous book”that Lord Henry gives to

Dorian, thereby engenderinga narrative-halting digressionthat rivals any in pre-Modernist literature. ThisbooksofixatesDorianthathebegins tomodelhis interests,décor, and behavior after itsprotagonist’s unusuallyobsessive activities andstrangetastes,justasWilde’schapter-long tangentaccurately imitates thismysterious book’s own styleandpreoccupations.Thebook

isÀRebours (translated intoEnglish asAgainst Nature orAgainst the Grain), theseminal Decadent novel bythe French author Joris-KarlHuysmans.WildefirstreadÀRebours on his Parishoneymoon shortly after itspublication in 1884. (Hewould later describeHuysmans’s text as his own“goldenbook,” inanechoofPater’sMariustheEpicurean,whichalsofeaturesa“golden

book” that shapes the titularhero’s development.) ArtisticDecadence essentially camein its contemporary form toEngland from France.(Similarelementshadexistedpreviously in Englishliterature,mostnotablyintheworks of the nineteenth-century Romantic poets, butwere differently la beled.)With itsmorbid emphasis ondeath, decay, pleasurablesuffering, illness, strange

sensations, sexualexperimentation orperversion, and substanceabuse, Decadence succeededin shocking the bourgeoisie,as well as the artisticestablishment.Although critics have

named French poet CharlesBaude laire (most active inthe1850s)as thegrandfatherofDecadence,literaryhistorylocates the pinnacle of the

style—if, in fact, it can becalled a style rather than acollection of related traits—with the publication of ÀRebours. In that novel, aneurotic hedonist from adecaying, soon-to-be-extinctbranch of a patrician familyspends his days pursuingcurious,often-kinkypleasuresthat, although generallysensual, also can seemdownright unpleasurable. AllthenuancesofDecadenceare

there,except,perhaps,forthewhiff of the charnel housethat permeates Baudelaire’sverse. The novel’s hero, adandyish young Frencharistocrat named JeanFloressas des Esseintes,retreats to the countrysideaftersuccumbingtoostronglyto the temptations thatplagued his Parisian life andfed his myriad phobias andmanias. Des Esseintes is thequintessential neurotic

obsessive.Theserialfixationshe soon cultivates withvarious objects, historicalperiods, and physicalsensations, in addition to hisbizarre, compulsive fits ofluxuriousredecorating,renderhim only more nervous andgravely ill in body. At onepointheorders the shellof atortoise to be encrusted withgoldandprecious jewels; theanimalsoondies.Atanother,he devises what can only be

describedasafantasticsmell-typewriter, which pumps“phrases” of various scentcombinations into the air atthe touch of its levers. Hecollects liturgical vestments,asdoesDorian, andagonizesoverwhetherhisstronglikingforthemconstitutessacrilege.(Huysmans would laterrecover his childhoodCatholicism and spend twoyearsasaBenedictineoblate,orlaybrother.)ChapterXIof

The Picture of Dorian Grayclearly parodies Huysmans’sinordinately name-dropping,ornate style and its almostobscenely excessiveconcatenation of details viaDorian’s own consecutiveobsessions with Renaissancecriminals, jewels, liturgicalcloths, ancient Romanemperors, and his familyancestors, to name only afew. Wilde also apparentlylifted, again often verbatim,

many of the descriptions oftextiles, exotic gems, andmusical instruments fromcontemporary museumhandbooks, particularly thoseof the South KensingtonMuseum in London, knowntoday as the Victoria andAlbert.WildedoestryalittletocovertheHuysmanstraces,however, with a few redherrings about the borrowedprotagonist’s identity. Theteasinglyabsent titlealsohas

led critics to Pater’s Studiesin the History of theRenaissance and to JohnAddingtonSymonds’s seven-volume detailed history, TheRenaissance in Italy (1875-1886).AlthoughbycomparisonÀ

Rebours is almost entirelywithout plot, Wilde’snarrative strategy throughoutThe Picture of Dorian Grayexploits a similarly delicious

senseofdelay.Many readershave expressed frustrationwith what they view as thenovel’s procrastination, butmore sensitive souls maylinger over the exquisitepassages Wilde insertsprimarily for their own sake—that is, their own aestheticmerit. Chapter I is a case inpoint, and its techniqueresurfaces throughout thebook, as plot devices are putoff in favor of sparring wits

and commentary. The firsttwo paragraphs dally overdetails, and gently mockthemselvesfordoingso,withthe comparison of the lovelysummer afternoon to asignificantly charged yetstatic image from a Japaneseprint. Wilde introducesvarious sensual particulars:the heady smell of roses,lilacs, and thorn; the gentlesummer wind; the taste ofcigarettes;thevibrantcolorof

a laburnum that can hardlyendure its own outrageousbeauty; the buzzing of bees;the distant noises of the city.Dorian’s painted image nextappears,withBasilHallward,its maker, physicallyattempting to push back intohis skull, and thereby furtherdelay, the effects of theoverpowering, dreamlikesensation the portrait raiseswithin him. The artisticidolatrythatDoriancreatesin

Basil contains a fervor thatonly romantic love caninduce, and thepassionBasillater confesses to Dorian isclearly sexual, even thoughthe novel cannot cite thatexact sentiment. But if thetext is to progress past thefirst chapter, Basil’s fantasymust be released, and thebeautiful spell is broken byLord Henry Wotton, whosenear-constant chatter,however languidly delivered,

dominates the tone of thebook from this momentforward.With Lord Henry’s first

wordscomesthebeginningofa novel-long deluge ofepigrams, bons mots, andunsolicitedopinionsfromthisquintessential Wildeanmouthpiece and avatar. Hisremarks range from thecynical class commentary ofsuchthoughtsas“Themasses

feel that drunkenness,stupidity, and immoralityshould be their own specialproperty, and that if any oneofusmakesanassofhimself,he is poaching on theirpreserves” (p. 11) to theGroucho Marx-esque “I likepersonsbetterthanprinciples,and I like persons with noprinciples better thananything else in the world”(p. 11). The quips appear asquickly as Lord Henry can

pluckdaisiesfromthegroundand tear them to shreds withhislong,nervousfingers;likedaisies, such sentences arebright but overabundant andprone to spread, becomingthemselves ironically toocommon. The chapter’snarrative progression mirrorsBasil’sownstallingtacticsinhisunwillingnesstointroduceLord Henry and Dorian.Although we do not meetDorian until Chapter II, he

has already begun to hauntthe novel.Near the chapter’send, Dorian’s physicalpresence is tauntinglyanticipated with the butler’sportentous announcement,“Mr. Dorian Gray is in thestudio,sir”(p.15).What conclusions can be

drawn from this mysteriousyoungman’sname?Dorian’sunique first name, fromwhich theOxfordDictionary

of First Names strips allmagic by explaining it aslogically the masculine formof Doris, apparently was notinusebeforeWildebestowedit on his disreputable hero(therehavebeenmore thanafew brave Dorians since). Itconjures the ancient Greeks,specifically the tribe knownasDorianswhosettled in thePeloponnese and conqueredMycenean civilization in thepre-Classical era. Fitting for

this character, the nameconnotes an element ofdanger and savagery aswell,because the Atheniansregarded their more rusticDorian neighbors asuncivilized; the name wasalsogiventothemostsimpleof ancient architecturalorders, the unadorned Doric.MusiciansmayalsorecognizeDorian as a mode of scale,ending on D. More widely,Dorian’s Greek resonance

suggests Greek— that is,homosexual—love and thelovelyyoungmalepagesanddarlingsfromclassicalhistoryand myth, such as Antinousand Adonis, to whomDorian’s admirers repeatedlycompare him in the novel.His beauty itself is evendescribed in classical terms:As an idolatrous loverwritesin praise, “The world ischanged because you aremade of ivory and gold” (p.

226),conjuringthelegendarychryselephantine templestatues of the classical gods,with their ivory flesh andgolddrapery.Although Gray appears in

this context to be anironically flat surname forsuchaluminous,inspirationalyoungman asDorian,Wildehad many precedents, bothfictionalandpersonal,forhischoice.Moreobviousliterary

sources for Wilde’s namingpurposesincludeVivianGrey(1826), the first novel(published anonymously) bytwenty-two-year-old futureBritish Conservative primeminister Benjamin Disraeli.In this very popular book,which spawned a series ofsequels, the unprincipled,cynical titular hero begins,like Dorian, as a charmingboy but comes to excel atmanipulation in the political

realm,asopposedtoDorian’sartistic, social one. Vivianalso kills in defense of hisinterests,inhiscaseinaduel,andisdisgraced.CriticIsobelMurray has uncoveredanother fictional source inEdward Heron-Allen’s novelAshesof theFuture (AStudyofMereHumanNature):TheSuicide of Sylvester Gray(1888). Heron-Allen was afriend of Wilde’s who alsopublishedfrequentlyonpalm-

reading, one article on thesubject coincidentallyappearinginthesameissueofLippincott’s MonthlyMagazine that debutedDorianGray. SylvesterGrayis also extremely good-looking, and his mask-likeface seems never to registeradvancingage;hehasasisternamedSybilandafewtragicromantic attachments.Sylvester’s own self-slaughter stems from his

inability to reconcile suchtroubling binaries as falsityand sincerity, and mask andreality.The most obvious

biographical source forDorian’s name and goodlooks was John Gray, astrikingly handsome youngpoet, translator, andenthusiasticearlyproselytizerfor French Symbolistliterature, who in all

probability was one ofWilde’s lovers at the time ofDorian Gray’s writing.(Although it cannotdefinitively be proven thatWilde and Gray had aphysical sexual relationship,Gray certainly washomoerotically inclined, andthe two at the very least hadformed a meaningful,romantic mentor-acolyteattachment,whichlastedforafewyears).Wildebiographer

Richard Ellmann hashypothesized further thatGray was the originalrecipient of Wilde’s “ivoryand gold” come-on. Thecircumstances of Gray’s lifehardly match those of thecharmed, aristocratic Dorian,however. Having come froma working-class background,Gray essentially was anautodidactwhowasforcedtoleaveschoolatagethirteentobeapprenticedasanartisanal

laborer in order to helpsupporthismanysiblings.Heeventuallyworkedhiswayupto various clerkships in thecivil service, mostsignificantly in the ForeignOffice,wherehewasworkingat the time he met Wilde.Gray had been introduced toLondon artistic andhomosexual social circles atthehomeofhisfirstmentors,CharlesShannonandCharlesRicketts, a homosexual

couple.ShannonandRickettswere renowned for bookdesigns and illustrations ofthe 1880s and 1890s, havingdesigned and publishedvolumes for manycontemporary authorsthrough their Vale Press(their oeuvre included thefirsteditionofDorianGray).Aside from serving as thealleged “model” for Dorian,Gray would be mostremembered for his 1893

collection of Decadent-inflectedpoems,Silverpoints,avolumemorefamousforitsdelicately engraved,unusually narrow RickettsandShannonbinding,aniconof Aesthetic bookmaking,thanforanyversescontainedwithin.Gray and Wilde are

believedtohavemetby1889,whenWildewasworking onhis novel. But again, little

concrete information abouttheir relationship hassurvived, primarily becauseGray, who seems to havepanicked about his ownsexual preference, ultimatelybroke from Wilde indisillusionmentwiththeolderauthor’s growing infatuationwithLordAlfredDouglas. Itiseasytoreadwithhindsightthat Dorian Gray existed inthepersonofDouglas,whoma romantic might call the

great, tragic love of Wilde’slife,butwhosechildishgrandappetites ultimately broughtabout Wilde’s downfall.However, the author did notmeetDouglasuntilwellafterThe Picture of Dorian Grayhadbeenwritten.Yetthefactdoesleadustoanotheroptionunder which to categorizeWilde’s novel: self-fulfillingprophecy. (Life imitates art,indeed.)

Precipitated by a near-completementalandphysicalcollapse, during which hespoke of suicide, John Grayby 1892 had formed an anti-Wildean alliance with thedeeply sublimatedhomosexual French authorAndréRaffalovich,whooftenhad been fodder for some ofWilde’s harsher witticisms,and whose psychologicalstudy Uranisme etUnisexualité (1896) would

later praise the virtues of acelibate—andthus,accordingtotheauthor,moreexalted—homosexual nonpractice.Gray’s tremendous anxietydemonstrates powerfulpsychic confusion over hispublic and private identity—much as, one might say,Dorian Gray exhibits inWilde’s novel. Gray’s ownself-reinvention, however,although not having a resultas dramatic asDorian’s,was

moreeffective.Gray began by destroying

every letter that he hadreceived from Wilde, notwantingtobeassociatedwithhim in the publicconsciousness at all—particularly during Wilde’strials, for which Gray alsoengaged a lawyer on a“watching brief” to monitorthe proceedings for anymention of his name. There

was none, and Wilde laterwould deny that Gray hadbeen the model for Dorian.Yet what sources haveremained note that Grayinitially encouraged such abelief. His only extant lettertoWilde is signed “Dorian,”and his fellow poets ErnestDowson and Lionel Johnsonfrequently refer to Gray asDorian in their own letters.(Dowson also recalledWildenamingRickettsasthemodel

for Basil Hallward.) For theremainder of his life,however,Graysystematicallywould continue to eliminateand suppress anyincriminating evidence of hisplace in Wilde’s circle. Heeven took the somewhatdrasticstepofbuyingupstraycopies of his own book ofpoetry, Silverpoints, whichfeatures severalhomosexually resonantpoems, for the express

purpose of destroying them.What volumes of otherDecadentversehediddecidetokeepheldtheirplaceonhisbookshelveswith theirspinesto the wall. Gray hadconverted to RomanCatholicism in 1890, one ofthe first to succumb to thecurious Catholic conversionphenomenon that affectedmanyfin-desièclewriters.Hewasordainedapriestin1901,eventually becoming the

respected Canon Gray ofEdinburgh. There, he andRaffalovich, with whom heremained “partnered” for therest of his life, designed andhad constructed St. Peter’sChurch, a high AestheticshrineforGray.The Picture of Dorian

Gray also intersects withother nineteenth-centuryartistic movements, just aselements of Wilde’s text

reappear like ghosts in thoseof the twentieth century.Nearly all ofWilde’s artisticoeuvre seemingly claims, forexample, to deliver us fromthe diametrically opposedNaturalism of hiscontemporary Émile Zola,with its belief in inescapablegenetic destiny and itsexploration of deliberateugliness. Yet Dorian Gray,for all its emphasis on thecreation of personality,

simultaneously employsNaturalism’s trappings forboth its class-prejudicedobservations and its ownironically escapist purposes.For example, Dorian seeksrefuge in the marginalLondondocksandthesqualorof their neighboring opiumdens, to which he resortsbecausetheyare“morevivid,in their intense actuality ofimpression, than all thegracious shapes of Art” (p.

191). The adaptabilityinherent in Wilde’s owniconic text makes itvulnerable in hindsight tocannibalizing in the sameway that Wilde so liberallystitched the ideas of WalterPater into his own work.Wilde’s preface, whichreadily providesmerchandisingslogans today,points us neatly towardTristan Tzara’s Dadamanifestos of World War I,

“with their epigrammaticassertion, echoing Wilde’spithy‘Allartisquiteuseless’and “Art needs anoperation.’” And LordHenry’s contention that“repetition converts anappetite intoanart” (p.201),although delivered in thecontext of a discussionconcerning love affairs,uncannilyprovidesarationalefor Andy Warhol’s serialpaintings, pop-advertising

sculptures, and silk-screenedmultiples of the 1960s and1970s.What can be learned from

Wilde’s life and culturalhistory that will help us tounderstandtheprominenceofDorian Gray as a work ofliterature? Essentially thatnothingquitelikeithadbeenpublishedinthepopularpressbefore. Oscar FingalO’FlahertieWillsWilde,who

sought more vocally thanalmostanyonetoredefinetherelationship between art andlife, was born in Dublin onOctober 16, 1854. This wasthe year of theCrimeanWarBattle of Balaclava and itswasteful, devastating Chargeof the Light Brigade,celebrated, also in that year,bypoet laureateAlfred,LordTennyson’s elegiac poem ofthe same name. CoventryPatmore published the first

part of his series “Angel inthe House,” a popular,sentimental poem enshriningVictorian domesticwomanhood. Pope Pius IXofficially declared theImmaculate Conception oftheVirginMaryasanarticleof Catholic faith that year,while under the rectorship ofthe influential religiousconvertandfutureWildeidolCardinal John HenryNewman, Dublin opened the

Catholic University ofIreland, what would laterbecome University College,Dublin, future almamater ofJames Joyce. The year alsosaw the birth of GeorgeEastman, the photographicinnovator, and of ArthurRimbaud, tragic poet andyouthful lover of CatholicDecadentheroPaulVerlaine.Wildedied inFrenchexile

and in English social

disgrace, on November 30,1900, his death frommeningitis coinciding withthe close of the fin de sièclethathesotragicallyhadcometodefine.Onhisdeathbed,hefinally converted to RomanCatholicism, with which hehadbeenflirtingformuchofhislife.BytheendofWilde’slastyear,Britainwasfightingin the South African BoerWars, Boxer rebellions hadoccurredagainstEuropeansin

China, and Germantheoretical physicist MaxPlanck had formulated aquantum theory. Along withWilde,maddenedphilosopherFriedrich Nietzsche and arthistorian John Ruskin, aseminal figure for Wilde’sbeloved Aesthetic movementandanearlyenthusiastofthePre-Raphaelite school ofEnglishpainters,likewisedidnot outlive the century. SirArthurSullivan,whowithhis

partner, Sir William Gilbert,had satirized Wilde as theeffeminate,pop-star-likeüberaesthete Reginald Bunthornein their 1881 operettaPatience, also died, whileGerman composer KurtWeill, who would deeplydarken popular musicaltheater in the twentiethcentury, was born. AndAntonChekhov’s playUncleVanya debuted, calling for awell-deserved rest for the

troubled, the disappointed,andtheweary.During the intervening

years, Wilde shaped perhapsmore thananyother figure—not merely more than anyother artist—the tenor of hisculture: As its most publicface, he almost single-handedly engineered theAesthetic movement’s latter-day development, aswell as,later, the popular conception

of what being a successfulartist meant. In a moreeveryday sense, his wit andgift for aphorism werelegendary if often abrasive,his abilities as a raconteurwere widely observed asunparalleled, and the easewith which he could speak,whennecessary, to people ofall social classes wasremarkable,particularlygivenhis numerous elitist publicpronouncements (as an

example,considerhissuccessin winning over Coloradominers during his Americanlecture tour of 1882). Asmanywhowatchedhimholdcourt at dinner parties or inclubs have recalled, heseemedable toweave storiesand fables out of thin air,albeit often recyclingepigramsandthemesfromhispublished work. He waslikewise gifted at workingitems fromhis table talk into

hisplays.Over the course of his

career, Wilde achievedpersonal success in severalwriting genres, but thejustification for his greatpopular fame was achievedprimarily through hiscomedic plays, most notablyLady Windermere’s Fan(1892), An Ideal Husband(1895), and The ImportanceofBeingEarnest (1895).But

Wilde also had a moreexperimental side, evidencedby his Symbolist-inflected,one-actdramaSalomé(1893),writteninFrench.Theprintedversion was accompanied bythe stiffly erotic pen-and-inkillustrations of AubreyBeardsley (who would alsoconvert to Catholicismshortlybeforehisowndeath).Wilde also excelled at theromantic, fabulist short-storyform; notable among his

effortswere“TheNightingaleandtheRose,”“TheBirthdayof the Infanta,” and “TheSelfish Giant.” As ajournalist, reviewer, andeditor he published in andedited some unexpectedperiodicals,including,fortwoyears, Woman’s World(although, as an advocate forliberationindressreform,thisparticularchoicewasperhapsnot so unusual). His earliestcreative attempts were made

atpoetry,someofitreligiousin nature and often detailinghisEuropean travels.Amonghis more notable poems are“Rome Unvisited,” “TheHarlot’s House,” his poemwritten from prison, “TheBalladofReadingGaol.”This paragon was born to

William Wilde, a successfuloculist surgeon knighted in1864, and Jane Wilde (néeElgee), who, as “Speranza,”

would publish Irishnationalist verse. Her proud,self-styledgrandcharacternodoubtstrongly influencedherson (as may have herhusband’s own example ofmarital infidelity). LadyWilde’s sentimentalpatriotism and romanticimagination also foundexpressioninheryoungersonOscar’s lengthy given name,parts of which she culledfrom Irish legend. Fittingly,

in his last years Wilde usedthe alias SebastianMelmoth,indirectly derived from hismother’s family. Wildeborrowed the surname fromtheGothicnovelMelmoththeWanderer (1820), about atortured man who seeksfreedom from a satanic pacthe has made for long life;Speranza’s ancestor CharlesMaturin, an Anglican priest,wrote the novel. Wildeadopted the name Sebastian

from the homosexual-iconsaint, depicted in hishagiography as a beautifulyouth tied to a pillar andriddled with arrows; Wildepraised this image effusivelyin an early poem. Wildeattended Trinity College,Dublin, and OxfordUniversity,whereheexcelledat classical scholarship andbecame a respected studentpoet, winning the school’sNewdigate Prize in 1878 for

hispoem“Ravenna.”AtOxford,Wildeabsorbed

the writings ofWalter Pater,who at the time was anOxford don, and began toachieve notoriety for hispreciselycultivated,Aestheticmovement-influenced neo-dandyism. Pater hadespoused, but did not invent,theloosedoctrinesymbolizedby the term “Art for Art’sSake,” which set art apart

from any considerations ofmorality or ethical value,believed by him to beunnecessary, but in staidVictorianEnglandthiswasanextremely controversialviewpoint. We can traceAestheticism’s artisticprecursors back to the late1840s and the English Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhoodpainters, most famouslyamong them the mysticalpainter-poet Dante Gabriel

Rossetti. As implied by theirname, the Pre-Raphaelitessought to recover an artisticimpulsefromearliercenturiesin attempting to capture thecolor, subject matter, andpseudo-naive perspective ofmedieval artists such asGiotto. Also deeplyinfluenced by Englishliterature, they loved theRomantic poets, particularlyJohn Keats. After theBrotherhood’s collapse,

Rossettibecamecentraltothesecond wave of Pre-Raphaelitism,whichincludedthe painter Edward Burne-Jones, the controversialDecadent poet AlgernonCharles Swinburne, and theSocialist designer WilliamMorris, whose KelmscottPress revolutionizednineteenth-century book artsby almost literally taking apage from medievalmanuscripts. In doing so,

Morris prepared the groundfor Aubrey Beardsley, whoillustrated Alfred, LordTennyson’s poem “Morted’Arthur.” Morris’s Arts andCrafts movement called forthe reinvigoration of Englishart and design (andconsequently,initsparticularhierarchy, English life)through the appreciation ofbeauty, organic design, andexcellenthand-craftsmanship.

In the1870s, thedesignersand architects of theAesthetic movementintroduced a mania forJapanese design techniquesand composition, to whichWilde pays homage on thefirst page of Dorian Gray:“The fantastic shadows ofbirds in flight flitted acrossthelongtussore-silkcurtains.. . producing a kind ofmomentary Japanese effect,and making him think of

those pallid jade-facedpaintersofTokio”(p.3).Thecollection ofAsian blue-and-white ceramics that Wildedisplayed in his rooms atMagdalen College, Oxford,was noteworthy, as was hiswell-publicized worshipfulassertion that he hoped hecould liveup to it. (An1880Punch cartoon satirized astereo-typical youngAesthetic coupleparaphrasing Wilde’s words

in reference to their ownnewly bought teapot, and itshould also be noted thatDorianGrayadmireshisown“blue-dragon” bowl.) Wildeprobably also met thepoet/priest Gerard ManleyHopkins while at Oxford,although such a meeting hasnotbeenrecorded.Wildehadbegun attending Catholicservices in a local chapelwhere Hopkins served (sinceHopkins’s work remained

largely unpublished until1918, however, twenty-nineyears after his death, hisliterary importance wouldhave been unforeseen at thetime, even forWilde).Wildealso managed to tour theContinent during onelegendary university holiday,and his innate gift forexaggerated proclamationwas again in early evidencewhen he visited the Italiancapital, where he prostrated

himself on the grave of theRomanticpoetJohnKeats,inthe city’s ProtestantCemetery, declaring the spotto be the holiest place inRome.After coming down from

Oxford to London, Wildebecame extremely wellknown in artistic circles—asmuch for his aggressivelyAesthetic dress anddeclarations as for his

published verse, criticism,and stories. Wilde’s verypublic example of dandyshowmanship was not quiteas extreme as that of earliernineteenth-century FrenchwriterGerarddeNerval,whowalkedalobstertetheredtoaribbon through the PalaisRoyal gardens because, heclaimed, it didn’t bark andknew the secrets of the sea.Evenso,Wilde’sfondnessforpseudo-medieval knee

breeches, unusual colors,lilies, and sunflowersseparated him from dour,conventional Victorianmasculinity. No less acommentator than MaxNordau, hyperactive Germanphysician /authorandscornerof all things Aesthetic,Decadent, or mystical, tookcareful note of Wilde’sappearance in his mocking,560-page rant Degeneration(1892). He writes, “It is

asserted that [Wilde] haswalkeddownPallMallintheafternoon dressed in doubletand breeches, with apicturesque biretta on hishead, and a sunflower in hishand, the quasi-heraldicsymbol of the Aesthetes” (p.317). Nordau does notmention what he surelywould have named asimmorality or even dementiain Dorian Gray, which heprobably had not read before

writing his own text, but hedoes draw psychologicalconclusionsbasedonWilde’sstudiedattemptstoshock:When, therefore, an OscarWilde goes about in‘aesthetic costume’ amonggazing Philistines, excitingeither their ridicule or theirwrath, it is no indication ofindependence of character,butratherfromapurelyanti-socialistic, ego-maniacal

recklessness and hystericallonging tomake a sensation,justified by no exalted aim;nor is it froma strongdesirefor beauty, but from amalevolent mania forcontradiction(p.319).As dandies—who payfastidious attention towardrobe and oftenoutrageously luxuriousappointments and accessories—both Wilde and Dorian

Gray stand in a long line ofexemplars extending fromearly-nineteenth-centuryBritish gambler and flaneurBeau Brummell to Frenchauthor Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly (who wrote the bookonthesubject,OnDandyism,in 1844) to well into thepresent day. Such fashionplates historically have beenjaped at, not only in thepopular press, which hastendedtomocksuchdisplays

even as it grants them spacein its pages, but in suchnovel-lengthsatiresasRobertHitchens’s anonymouslypublished attack on Wilde,TheGreenCarnation (1894).Suchattention todressat thetime may have been seen aseffeminate (or at leastaristocratic, which oftenconnotedthesamething),butrecent critics such as AlanSinfield have argued thatsuch effeminacy would not

necessarily have telegraphedmale homosexuality, as itwould do in succeedingdecades. During the lateVictorian period, aconceptionofthehomosexualas being a person whoperhaps shared similarbehavioral traits with otherhomosexuals (as opposed tobeing simply any man whohad sexwithothermen)wasin only its initial stages offormation. Many

contemporary heterosexualreaders ofDorianGray maynot have noticed the hintsWilde drops abouthomosexuality in the novel,suggestions that haveappearedtotwentieth-centuryreaders as clear homosexualmarkers, and its gay subtextmay well have remainedsubmerged unless readersbrought their own insights toit. The novel was seen asimmoral on several counts,

notalwayssexualones,anditwas left to Wilde’sforthcomingcriminal trials tomaketheconnectionsplain.At the time of Dorian

Gray’s setting, in spring1884, Wilde was preparingforhisupcomingmarriageonMay 29 to Constance Lloyd,to whom he had becomeengaged the previousNovember. Their house onLondon’s Tite Street,

expensively decorated in anew Aesthetic fashion, sentthecoupleinstantlyintodebt,and by November 1886 thepair had two sons, Cyril andVyvyan. It is believed thataround this time a youngOxford student,RobertRoss,seduced Wilde into havinghomosexual sex for the firsttime.Wilde’sattractiontotheidea of living a secret life,which such indulgencenecessitated,coupledwiththe

disturbing alteration ofConstance’s postpartumbody, have been citedostensibly as reasons forWilde’s decision to begin toindulge in his previouslyunexploredhomosexuality.In1885 the Criminal LawAmendment Act had beenpassed; its LabouchèreAmendment prohibitedconsensual adult homosexual(effectively male-only)intercourse and procuration,

whether in public or private.Other aspects of the Actincluded raising the age ofconsent to sixteen fromthirteen, in an effort tolegislate protection forchildren. Regardless of thisnew law, which widened thescope of punishablehomosexual offenses at thesametimeasitlessenedtheirpenalties (thereby makingsuch acts more likely to beprosecuted),Wilde became a

member of London’shomosexual underworld. Heconsortedwith and bestowedoften-precious gifts uponOxford students,who largelywere fans of his or aspiringwriters themselves, and also,in a concession to LordAlfred Douglas’s tastes, onworking-class youths whomoon-lighted as homosexualhustlersandoften,asaresultoftheAmendmentAct’slongreach,part-timeblackmailers.

Perhaps the most salientepisode of Wilde’s lifeinvolved his three infamouscourt trials in spring 1895.They captivated the Londonpress, much of which wasonly toohappy to seeWilde,of whom it had long beenjealously suspicious, debasedand finally punished for hisallegedcrimesandfordaringto live outside Victoriansocial convention. The firsttrial, in early April 1895,

involved the author’s libelsuit against his loverDouglas’s father, theMarquess of Queensbury(beforethetrials,hewasmostfamous for formulating theQueensbury rulesofboxing).Angry over Wilde’s allegedinfluence upon his son,QueensburyaccusedWildeina note of being a “posingsomdomite” (sic).Queensbury’s defenseattorney even presented The

PictureofDorianGrayasanimmoral, perverted book andasoneofthefifteenpleasforjustification of his client’sclaim (although the justiceatWilde’snexttrialchosenottoruleDorianGrayasevidenceofWilde’s crimes). Thus thenovel took on yet anotherrole: involuntary accomplicetoWilde’s accuser. The libelsuit was not resolved inWilde’sfavor,andduringtheproceedings Queensbury’s

defense provided enoughpotential evidence ofhomosexuality tohaveWildetriedunder theCriminalLawAmendmentAct.FriendsandassociatesurgedWildetofleethe country, as otherhomosexuals on the verge ofbeing outed had done, butwhetherfromstubbornnessofhispositionorindenialofhisvulnerability, he remained inLondon and was arrested onApril5,1895.

After two trialsonchargesof “committing acts of grossindecency with malepersons,” Wilde ultimatelywas found guilty andsentenced to the maximumpenaltyoftwoyearsinprisonwith hard labor. He gaveeloquent testimony on thestand to the legitimacyof, ashe called it, “the love thatdare not speak its name,”whichinlargepartdrivesThePicture of Dorian Gray.

Among many otherdefinitions,Wilde declared it“that deep spiritual affectionthatisaspureasitisperfect.Itdictatesandpervadesgreatworks of art like those ofShakespeare andMichaelangelo. . . . It is thenoblest form of affection.”His words were rewarded,really too late, withspontaneous court-roomapplause. Yet the pressexulted in Wilde’s demise:

“Theaestheticcult,”theNewsof theWorld proclaimed, “initsnastyform,isover.”ThedetailsofWilde’sfinal

fiveyears,spentinprisonandinlonelyexile,aretragic.Theprison labor, which at firstprimarily involved operatinga treadmill for theequivalentof a daily 6,000-foot ascent,physically broke Wilde. HiscreditorsandQueensburyhadforced a bankruptcy sale of

hisproperty,andhisvaluable,carefully collectedpossessions were sold anddisbursed.Hiswife,whohadsought a divorce, died in1898. He would never againsee his sons. From prison,Wildecomposed, in theformof a letter to Douglas, hisapologia De Profundis(posthumously published in1905), whose Latin titlemeans “Out of the Depths,”andwhichtakesitsnameand

religious tenor from Psalm130,which reads, inpart: “Ifthou, Lord, shouldest markiniquities,O Lord,who shallstand? But there isforgiveness with thee, thatthou mayest be feared.” Theprobing, deeply religiousnature of this last work stilldid not bring about Wilde’sCatholic conversion,however. (Douglas wouldconvertin1911.)UnlikeJohnGray, Wilde could not bring

himself to use religion as arefuge from his earthlyproblems.Wilde’sconversioninstead took placewithin thelasttwodaysofhislife,whendesperate friends, theCatholicRobbieRoss amongthem, who had long thoughtWilde insincere when hementioned his desire toconvert, brought in a localpriesttogaugeWilde’sassentto the conversion and toadministerLastRites.

Appropriately,Wilde’slastact was an assent to a finalritual—in this case, one thatsymbolically sealed thesenses that had dictated hislife-long self-creation.Wilde’s only novel, over theyears many things to manypeople, continues to serve asa symbol of its era. Afterexperiencing it, a readermaywant nothing more than tooverride questions of genreand influence, when The

PictureofDorianGray itselftellsuswhatithasbeen:“thetype of what the age issearching for, and what it isafraidithasfound”(p.223).

CamilleCautihasaPh.D.inEnglish from ColumbiaUniversity. Her dissertationconcerns the Catholicconversion trend among the1890s London avant-garde,including such figures as

Wilde, Ernest Dowson, JohnGray, and Michael Field.Otheracademicinterestshaveincluded nineteenth- andtwentieth-century Englishpoetry, in particular JohnKeats, the Pre-Raphaelites,W. B. Yeats and theconnectionsbetweenthem,aswell as Irish literaturegenerally. She has alsopublished on Italian-American studies. Cauti is ateacher, editor, and critic in

NewYork.

ThePreface.

THE artist is the creator ofbeautifulthings.To reveal art and conceal

the artist is art’s aim. Thecritic ishewhocantranslateintoanothermanneroranewmaterial his impression ofbeautifulthings.

The highest as the lowestformofcriticismisamodeofautobiography.Those who find uglymeanings in beautiful thingsare corrupt without beingcharming.Thisisafault.Those who find beautifulmeanings in beautiful thingsare the cultivated. For thesethereishope.They are the elect to whombeautiful things mean only

Beauty. There is no suchthing as a moral or animmoralbook.Booksarewellwritten, or badly written.Thatisall.Thenineteenthcenturydislikeof Realism is the rage ofCalibanaseeinghisown faceinaglass.ThenineteenthcenturydislikeofRomanticismistherageofCaliban not seeing his ownfaceinaglass.

The moral life of man formspart of the subject-matter oftheartist, but themoralityofartconsistsintheperfectuseofanimperfectmedium.No artist desires to proveanything.Eventhingsthataretruecanbeproved.No artist has ethicalsympathies. An ethicalsympathy in an artist is anunpardonable mannerism ofstyle.

No artist is ever morbid.The artist can expresseverything. Thought andlanguage are to the artistinstrumentsofanart.Vice and virtue are to the

artistmaterialsforanart.From the point of view ofform,thetypeofalltheartsistheartofthemusician.bFromthe point of view of feeling,theactor’scraftisthetype.Allartisatoncesurfaceand

symbol.Thosewhogobeneaththesurfacedosoattheirperil.Thosewhoreadthesymbol

dosoattheirperil.It is the spectator, and notlife,thatartreallymirrors.Diversity of opinion about awork of art shows that thework is new, complex, andvital.When critics disagree the

artist is in accord with

himself.We can forgive a man formakingausefulthingaslongashedoesnotadmireit.Theonly excuse for making auseless thing is that oneadmiresitintensely.Allartisquiteuseless.OSCARWILDE.

ChapterI.

Thestudiowasfilledwiththerich odor of roses, andwhenthelightsummerwindstirredamid the trees of the gardenthere came through the opendoor the heavy scent of thelilac, or the more delicateperfume of the pink-

floweringthorn.From the corner of the

divan of Persian saddle-bagson which he was lying,smoking, as was his custom,innumerable cigarettes, LordHenry Wotton could justcatchthegleamofthehoney-sweet and honey-coloredblossoms of a laburnum,cwhose tremulous branchesseemed hardly able to bearthe burden of a beauty so

flame-likeas theirs; andnowand then the fantasticshadows of birds in flightflittedacrossthelongtussore-silk d curtains that werestretched in frontof thehugewindow,producing a kindofmomentary Japanese effect,and making him think ofthose pallid jade-facedpainters of Tokio who,throughthemediumofanartthat is necessarily immobile,

seek to convey the sense ofswiftness and motion.e Thesullen murmur of the beesshoulderingtheirwaythroughthe long unmown grass, orcircling with monotonousinsistenceroundthedustygilthorns of the stragglingwoodbine, seemed to makethestillnessmoreoppressive.Thedim roarofLondonwaslike the bourdonf note of adistantorgan.

In the center of the room,clamped to an upright easel,stood the full-length portraitof a young man ofextraordinary personalbeauty, and in front of it,some little distance away,was sitting the artist himself,Basil Hallward, whosesudden disappearance someyearsagocaused,atthetime,such public excitement, andgave rise to somany strangeconjectures.

Asthepainterlookedatthegraciousandcomelyformhehad so skilfully mirrored inhis art, a smile of pleasurepassed across his face, andseemed about to linger there.But he suddenly started up,and, closing his eyes, placedhis fingers upon the lids, asthoughhesoughttoimprisonwithinhisbrainsomecuriousdream from which he fearedhemightawake.

“Itisyourbestwork,Basil,the best thing you have everdone,” said Lord Henry,languidly. “You mustcertainly send it next year totheGrosvenor.TheAcademyis too large and too vulgar.1Whenever I have gone there,there have been either somany people that I have notbeenable to see thepictures,which was dreadful, or somanypicturesthatIhavenot

been able to see the people,which was worse. TheGrosvenor is really the onlyplace.”“Idon’tthinkIshallsendit

anywhere,” he answered,tossing his head back in thatodd way that used to makehis friends laugh at him atOxford. “No, Iwon’t send itanywhere.”Lord Henry elevated his

eyebrows, and looked at him

in amazement through thethin blue wreaths of smokethatcurledupinsuchfancifulwhorls from his heavyopium-tainted cigarette. “Notsend it anywhere! My dearfellow, why? Have you anyreason?What odd chaps youpaintersare!Youdoanythingin the world to gain areputation. As soon as youhave one, you seem to wanttothrowitaway.Itissillyofyou, for there is only one

thingintheworldworsethanbeingtalkedabout,andthatisnot being talked about. Aportrait like this would setyou far above all the youngmen in England, and makethe old men quite jealous, ifold men are ever capable ofanyemotion.”“I know you will laugh at

me,”he replied, “but I reallycan’texhibitit.Ihaveputtoomuchofmyselfintoit.”

Lord Henry stretchedhimself out on the divan andlaughed.“Yes, I knew you would;

but it is quite true, all thesame.”“Too much of yourself in

it! Upon my word, Basil, Ididn’t know you were sovain; and I really can’t seeany resemblance betweenyou,withyourrugged,strongfaceandyourcoal-blackhair,

and thisyoungAdonis,gwholooks as if he was made ofivory and rose-leaves. Why,my dear Basil, he is aNarcissus, h and you—well,of course, you have anintellectual expression, andall that. But beauty, realbeauty, ends where anintellectualexpressionbegins.Intellectisinitselfamodeofexaggeration, and destroystheharmonyofanyface.The

moment one sits down tothink, one becomes all nose,or all forehead, or somethinghorrid.Lookatthesuccessfulmen in any of the learnedprofessions. How perfectlyhideous they are! Except, ofcourse, in the Church.i ButthenintheChurchtheydon’tthink. A bishop keeps onsaying at the age of eightywhathewastoldtosaywhenhewasaboyofeighteen,and

as a natural consequence healways looks absolutelydelightful. Your mysteriousyoung friend, whose nameyou have never told me, butwhose picture reallyfascinatesme,never thinks. Ifeel quite sure of that. He issome brainless, beautifulcreature, who should bealways here in winter whenwehavenoflowerstolookat,and always here in summerwhen we want something to

chill our intelligence. Don’tflatteryourself,Basil:youarenotintheleastlikehim.”“Youdon’tunderstandme,

Harry,” answered the artist.“OfcourseIamnotlikehim.I know that perfectly well.Indeed, I should be sorry tolook like him. You shrugyour shoulders? I am tellingyou the truth. There is afatalityaboutallphysicalandintellectual distinction, the

sort of fatality that seems todog through history thefaltering steps of kings. It isbetternottobedifferentfromone’s fellows. The ugly andthe stupid have the best of itin thisworld.Theycansit attheir ease and gape at theplay.Iftheyknownothingofvictory, they are at leastspared the knowledge ofdefeat. They live as we allshould live, undisturbed,indifferent, and without

disquiet. They neither bringruin upon others, nor everreceive it from alien hands.Yourrankandwealth,Harry;mybrains,suchastheyare—my art, whatever it may beworth; Dorian Gray’s goodlooks—weshallallsufferforwhat thegodshavegivenus,sufferterribly.”“Dorian Gray? Is that his

name?” asked Lord Henry,walking across the studio

towardBasilHallward.“Yes, that is his name. I

didn’tintendtotellittoyou.”“Butwhynot?”“Oh,Ican’texplain.When

I like people immensely Inever tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering apartofthem.Ihavegrowntolove secrecy. It seems to bethe one thing that can makemodern life mysterious ormarvelous to us. The

commonestthingisdelightfulif one only hides it. When Ileave town now I never tellmypeoplewhereIamgoing.If I did, I would lose allmypleasure. It is a silly habit, Idare say, but somehow itseemstobringagreatdealofromance into one’s life. Isupposeyouthinkmeawfullyfoolishaboutit?”“Notatall,”answeredLord

Henry, “not at all, my dear

Basil.YouseemtoforgetthatI am married, and the onecharm of marriage is that itmakes a life of deceptionabsolutely necessary for bothparties. I never know wheremy wife is, and my wifenever knows what I amdoing. When we meet—wedo meet occasionally, whenwe dine out together, or godown to theDuke’s—we telleach other the most absurdstories with the most serious

faces. My wife is very goodat it—much better, in fact,than I am. She never getsconfusedoverherdates,andIalwaysdo.Butwhenshedoesfind me out, she makes norow at all. I sometimeswishshe would; but she merelylaughsatme.”“I hate the way you talk

about your married life,Harry,” said Basil Hallward,strolling toward thedoor that

ledintothegarden.“Ibelievethat you are really a verygood husband, but that youare thoroughly ashamed ofyourownvirtues.Youareanextraordinary fellow. Younever say amoral thing, andyou never do a wrong thing.Your cynicism is simply apose.”“Being natural is simply a

pose, and the most irritatingpose I know,” cried Lord

Henry, laughing;and the twoyoungmenwentout into thegarden together, andensconced themselves on along bamboo seat that stoodin the shade of a tall laurelbush. The sunlight slippedover the polished leaves. Inthe grass, white daisies weretremulous.After a pause, LordHenry

pulled out his watch. “I amafraidImustbegoing,Basil,”

he murmured, “and before Igo,Iinsistonyouransweringaquestion I put to you sometimeago.”“What is that?” said the

painter, keeping his eyesfixedontheground.“Youknowquitewell.”“Idonot,Harry.”“Well, Iwill tell youwhat

it is.Iwantyoutoexplaintome why you won’t exhibitDorianGray’spicture.Iwant

therealreason.”“I told you the real

reason.”“No,youdidnot.Yousaid

itwas because therewas toomuch of yourself in it.Now,thatischildish.”“Harry,” said Basil

Hallward, looking himstraight in the face, “everyportrait that is painted withfeeling is a portrait of theartist, not of the sitter. The

sitter is merely the accident,theoccasion.Itisnothewhoisrevealedbythepainter;itisratherthepainterwho,onthecolored canvas, revealshimself.ThereasonIwillnotexhibit this picture is that Iam afraid that I have shownin it the secret of my ownsoul.”LordHenry laughed.“And

whatisthat?”heasked.“I will tell you,” said

Hallward; but an expressionof perplexity came over hisface.“I am all expectation,

Basil,” continued hiscompanion,glancingathim.“Oh, there is really very

littletotell,Harry,”answeredthe painter; “and I am afraidyouwillhardlyunderstandit.Perhaps you will hardlybelieveit.”Lord Henry smiled, and,

leaning down, plucked apink-petaled daisy from thegrass,andexaminedit.“Iamquite sure I shall understandit,”hereplied,gazingintentlyat the little golden white-feathered disk, “and as forbelievingthings,Icanbelieveanything, provided that it isincredible.”The wind shook some

blossoms from the trees, andthe heavy lilac-blooms, with

their clustering stars, movedto and fro in the languid air.A grasshopper began tochirrupbythewall,andlikeablue thread a long thindragon-fly floated past on itsbrown gauze wings. LordHenryfeltasifhecouldhearBasil Hallward’s heartbeating, and wondered whatwascoming.“The story is simply this,”

said the painter after some

time. “Two months ago Iwent to a crushj at LadyBrandon’s. You know wepoor artists have to showourselves in society fromtime to time, just to remindthe public that we are notsavages. With an eveningcoat and a white tie, as youtoldme once, anybody, evena stock-broker, can gain areputationforbeingcivilized.Well, after I had been in the

room about ten minutes,talking to huge overdresseddowagers and tediousAcademicians, I suddenlybecame conscious that someone was looking at me. Iturned half-way round, andsawDorianGrayfor thefirsttime. When our eyes met, Ifelt that I was growing pale.A curious sensation of terrorcame overme. I knew that Ihad come face to face withsomeone whose mere

personalitywassofascinatingthat,ifIallowedittodoso,itwould absorb my wholenature, my whole soul, myveryart itself. Ididnotwantany external influence inmylife. You know yourself,Harry,howindependentIambynature.Ihavealwaysbeenmy own master; had at leastalways been so, till I metDorian Gray. Then—But Idon’tknowhowtoexplain ittoyou.Something seemed to

tellmethatIwasonthevergeofaterriblecrisisinmylife.IhadastrangefeelingthatFatehad in store forme exquisitejoys and exquisite sorrows. Igrew afraid, and turned toquit the room. It was notconscience that made me doso:itwasasortofcowardice.I takenocredit tomyself fortryingtoescape.”“Conscience and

cowardicearereallythesame

things, Basil. Conscience isthe trade-name of the firm.2Thatisall.”“I don’t believe that,

Harry, and I don’t believeyou do either. However,whatever was my motive—and it may have been pride,forIusedtobeveryproud—Icertainly struggled to thedoor. There, of course, Istumbled against LadyBrandon. ‘You are not going

to run away so soon, Mr.Hallward?’shescreamedout.Youknowhercuriouslyshrillvoice?”“Yes; she is a peacock in

everything but beauty,” saidLordHenry,pullingthedaisytobitswithhis long,nervousfingers.“Icouldnotget ridofher.

She brought me up toRoyalties, and people withStars and Garters,k and

elderly ladies with gigantictiaras and parrot noses. Shespoke of me as her dearestfriend. I had only met heronce before, but she took itintoherheadto lionizeme.Ibelieve somepictureofminehad made a great success atthe time—at least, had beenchattered about in the pennynewspapers, which is thenineteenth-century standardof immortality. Suddenly Ifound myself face to face

with the young man whosepersonality had so strangelystirred me. We were quiteclose, almost touching. Oureyes met again. It wasreckless of me, but I askedLady Brandon to introducemetohim.Perhapsitwasnotso reckless, after all. It wassimply inevitable.We wouldhave spoken to each otherwithout any introduction. Iam sure of that. Dorian toldmesoafterward.He,too,felt

that we were destined toknoweachother.”“And how did Lady

Brandon describe thiswonderful young man?”asked his companion. “Iknowshegoesinforgivingarapidprécisofallherguests.I remember her bringing meup to a truculent and red-faced old gentleman coveredall over with orders andribbons, and hissing into my

ear,inatragicwhisperwhichmust have been perfectlyaudible to everybody in theroom, the most astoundingdetails.Isimplyfled.Iliketofind out people for myself.ButpoorLadyBrandontreatsher guests exactly as anauctioneer treats his goods.She either explains thementirely away, or tells oneeverythingaboutthemexceptwhatonewantstoknow.”

“Poor LadyBrandon!Youarehardonher,Harry!” saidHallward,listlessly.“My dear fellow, she tried

to found a salon, and onlysucceeded in opening arestaurant.3 How could Iadmireher?Buttellme,whatdidshesayaboutMr.DorianGray?”“Oh, something like,

‘Charming boy—poor dearmother and I absolutely

inseparable. Quite forgetwhat he does—afraid he—doesn’tdoanything—oh,yes,plays the piano—or is it theviolin, dear Mr. Gray?’Neither of us could helplaughing, and we becamefriendsatonce.”“Laughter is not at all a

bad beginning for afriendship, and it is far thebestendingforone,”saidtheyoung lord, plucking another

daisy.Hallward shook his head.

“You don’t understand whatfriendship is, Harry,” hemurmured—“or what enmityis, for that matter. You likeeveryone; that is tosay,youareindifferenttoeveryone.”“How horribly unjust of

you!” cried Lord Henry,tilting his hat back, andlookingupatthelittlecloudsthat, like raveled skeins of

glossy white silk, weredrifting across the hollowturquois of the summer sky.“Yes,horriblyunjustofyou.Imake a great differencebetweenpeople. I choosemyfriends for their good looks,my acquaintances for theirgood characters, and myenemies for their goodintellects. A man cannot betoo careful in the choice ofhis enemies. I have not gotone who is a fool. They are

all men of some intellectualpower,andconsequentlytheyallappreciateme.Isthatveryvainofme?Ithinkitisrathervain.”“I should think it was,

Harry.But according to yourcategoryImustbemerelyanacquaintance.”“My dear old Basil, you

are much more than anacquaintance.”“And much less than a

friend. A sort of brother, Isuppose?”“Oh,brothers! Idon’t care

forbrothers.Myelderbrotherwon’t die, and my youngerbrothers seem never to doanythingelse.”“Harry!” exclaimed

Hallward,frowning.“Mydear fellow, I amnot

quiteserious.ButIcan’thelpdetesting my relations. Isuppose it comes from the

factthatnoneofuscanstandotherpeoplehavingthesamefaults as ourselves. I quitesympathize with the rage ofthe English democracyagainst what they call thevicesoftheupperorders.Themassesfeelthatdrunkenness,stupidity, and immoralityshould be their own specialproperty, and that if any oneofusmakesanassofhimselfhe is poaching on theirpreserves. When poor

Southward got into theDivorce Court, theirindignation was quitemagnificent. And yet I don’tsuppose that ten per cent oftheproletariatlivecorrectly.”“Idon’tagreewithasingle

wordthatyouhavesaid,and,what is more, Harry, I feelsureyoudon’teither.”Lord Henry stroked his

pointed brown beard, andtapped the toe of his patent-

leather boot with a tasseledebony cane. “How Englishyou are, Basil! That is thesecond time you have madethat observation. If one putsforward an idea to a trueEnglishman—always a rashthingtodo—heneverdreamsof considering whether theidea is right or wrong. Theonlythingheconsidersofanyimportance is whether onebelieves it one’s self. Now,the value of an idea has

nothing whatsoever to dowith the sincerityof themanwho expresses it. Indeed, theprobabilitiesarethatthemoreinsincerethemanis,themorepurely intellectual will theideabe,asinthatcaseitwillnot be colored by either hiswants, his desires, or hisprejudices. However, I don’tpropose to discuss politics,sociology, or metaphysicswithyou.Ilikepersonsbetterthan principles, and I like

persons with no principlesbetter than anything else inthe world. Tell me moreaboutMr.DorianGray.Howoftendoyouseehim?”“Every day. I couldn’t be

happy if I didn’t see himevery day. He is absolutelynecessarytome.”“How extraordinary! I

thoughtyouwouldnevercareforanythingbutyourart.”“He is all my art to me

now,” said the painter,gravely. “I sometimes think,Harry,thatthereareonlytwoerasofanyimportanceintheworld’s history. The first isthe appearance of a newmedium for art, and thesecondistheappearanceofanew personality for art also.What the invention of oil-paintingwastoVenetians,thefaceofAntinoüsl was to lateGreeksculpture,and theface

ofDorianGraywillsomedaybetome.ItisnotmerelythatI paint from him, draw fromhim, sketch from him. Ofcourse I have done all that.But he is much more to methan a model or a sitter. Iwon’t tell you that I amdissatisfied with what I havedone of him, or that hisbeautyissuchthatArtcannotexpress it. There is nothingthatArtcannotexpress,andIknow that the work I have

done, since I met DorianGray, is good work, is thebest work of my life. But insomecuriousway—Iwonderwillyouunderstandme?—hispersonality has suggested tomeanentirelynewmannerinart, an entirely newmode ofstyle. Isee thingsdifferently,I think of them differently. Icannowrecreatelifeinawaythat was hidden from mebefore. ‘A dream of form indays of thought:’—who is it

whosaysthat?Iforget;butitiswhatDorianGrayhasbeento me. The merely visiblepresence of this lad—for heseemstomelittlemorethanalad, though he is really overtwenty—his merely visiblepresence—ah! I wonder canyou realize all that thatmeans? Unconsciously hedefines forme the lines of afresh school, a school that istohaveinitallthepassionofthe romantic spirit, all the

perfectionof thespirit that isGreek. The harmony of soulandbody—howmuchthatis!We in our madness haveseparated the two, and haveinvented a realism that isvulgar, an ideality that isvoid.Harry!ifyouonlyknewwhat Dorian Gray is to me!Yourememberthatlandscapeof mine for which Agnewm

offeredmesuchahugeprice,but which I would not part

with? It is one of the bestthings Ihaveeverdone.Andwhyisitso?Because,whileIwas painting it, Dorian Graysat beside me. Some subtleinfluencepassedfromhimtome, and for the first time inmy life I saw in the plainwoodland the wonder I hadalways looked for, andalwaysmissed.”“Basil, this is

extraordinary! I must see

DorianGray.”Hallward got up from the

seat,andwalkedupanddownthe garden. After some timehe came back. “Harry,” hesaid, “Dorian Gray is to mesimply a motive in art. Youmight see nothing in him. Isee everything in him. He isnever more present in mywork thanwhenno imageofhim is there. He is asuggestion,as Ihavesaid,of

a newmanner. I find him inthecurvesofcertain lines, inthe loveliness and subtletiesofcertaincolors.Thatisall.”“Then why won’t you

exhibit his portrait?” askedLordHenry.“Because, without

intendingit,Ihaveputintoitsome expression of all thiscurious artistic idolatry, ofwhich,ofcourse,Ihavenevercared to speak to him. He

knows nothing about it. Heshall never know anythingabout it.But theworldmightguess it; and I will not baremy soul to their shallow,prying eyes. My heart shallnever be put under theirmicroscope. There is toomuch ofmyself in the thing,Harry—toomuchofmyself!”“Poets are not so

scrupulous as you are. Theyknow how useful passion is

for publication. Nowadays abrokenheartwillruntomanyeditions.”“I hate them for it,” cried

Hallward. “An artist shouldcreate beautiful things, butshouldputnothingofhisownlife into them.We live in anagewhenmentreatartasifitwere meant to be a form ofautobiography. We have lostthe abstract sense of beauty.Some day I will show the

worldwhat it is; and for thatreason the world shall neversee my portrait of DorianGray.”“I think you are wrong,

Basil, but Iwon’t arguewithyou. It is only theintellectually lost who everargue. Tell me, is DorianGrayveryfondofyou?”The painter considered for

a few moments. “He likesme,” he answered, after a

pause; “I know he likes me.Of course I flatter himdreadfully. I find a strangepleasure in saying things tohim that I know I shall besorry for having said. As arule, he is charming to me,and we sit in the studio andtalk of a thousand things.Nowandthen,however,heishorribly thoughtless, andseemstotakearealdelightingiving me pain. Then I feel,Harry,thatIhavegivenaway

my whole soul to some onewho treats it as if it were aflowertoputinhiscoat,abitof decoration to charm hisvanity, an ornament for asummer’sday.”“Days in summer, Basil,

are apt to linger,”murmuredLord Henry. “Perhaps youwill tire sooner than hewill.It is a sad thing to think of,but there is no doubt thatGenius lasts longer than

Beauty.Thataccountsforthefact that we all take suchpains to over-educateourselves.Inthewildstrugglefor existence, we want tohave something that endures,andsowefillourmindswithrubbishand facts, in the sillyhope of keeping our place.The thoroughly well-informed man—that is themodern ideal. And the mindof the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful

thing. It is like a bric-à-bracshop, all monsters and dust,with everything priced aboveits proper value. I think youwill tire first, all the same.Some day you will look atyourfriend,andhewillseemto you to be a little out ofdrawing, or you won’t likehis tone of color, orsomething. You will bitterlyreproach him in your ownheart,andseriouslythinkthathehasbehavedverybadlyto

you. The next time he calls,youwillbeperfectlycoldandindifferent. It will be a greatpity, for it will alter you.What you have told me isquite a romance, a romanceof art one might call it, andthe worst of having aromanceofanykindisthatitleavesonesounromantic.”“Harry,don’ttalklikethat.

As long as I live, thepersonality of Dorian Gray

will dominateme.You can’tfeelwhat I feel. You changetoooften.”“Ah,mydearBasil, that is

exactly why I can feel it.Thosewho are faithful knowonlythetrivialsideoflove:itis the faithless who knowlove’s tragedies.” And LordHenry struck a light on adainty silver case, and beganto smoke a cigarette with aself-conscious and satisfied

air, as if he had summed upthe world in a phrase. Therewas a rustle of chirrupingsparrowsinthegreenlacquerleavesoftheivy,andthebluecloud-shadows chasedthemselves across the grasslike swallows. How pleasantit was in the garden! Andhowdelightfulotherpeople’semotions were!—much moredelightful than their ideas, itseemed to him. One’s ownsoul, and the passions of

one’s friends— those werethe fascinating things in life.He pictured to himself withsilent amusement the tediousluncheon that he had missedbystayingsolongwithBasilHallward.Hadhegonetohisaunt’s, he would have beensure tohavemetLordGood-body there, and the wholeconversation would havebeenabout thefeedingof thepoor, and the necessity formodel lodging-houses. Each

class would have preachedthe importance of thosevirtues, for whose exercisetherewasnonecessityintheirown lives. The rich wouldhave spoken on the value ofthrift, and the idle growneloquent over the dignity oflabor. It was charming tohave escaped all that! As hethought of his aunt, an ideaseemed to strike him. Heturned toHallward, and said,“My dear fellow, I have just

remembered.”“Remembered what,

Harry?”“Where I heard the name

ofDorianGray.”“Where was it?” asked

Hallward,withaslightfrown.“Don’t look so angry,

Basil.ItwasatmyauntLadyAgatha’s. She told me shehad discovered a wonderfulyoungman,whowasgoingtohelpherintheEastEnd,nand

that his name was DorianGray.Iamboundtostatethatshe never told me he wasgood-looking. Women havenoappreciationofgoodlooks—at least,goodwomenhavenot.Shesaidthathewasveryearnest, and had a beautifulnature. I at once pictured tomyself a creature withspectacles and lank hair,horribly freckled, andtramping about on huge feet.I wish I had known it was

yourfriend.”“Iamverygladyoudidn’t,

Harry.”“Why?”“I don’t want you tomeet

him.”“You don’t want me to

meethim?”“No.”“Mr.DorianGrayis in the

studio, sir,” said the butler,comingintothegarden.

“You must introduce menow!” cried Lord Henry,laughing.The painter turned to his

servant, who stood blinkingin the sunlight. “Ask Mr.Gray to wait, Parker; I shallbeininafewmoments.”Themanbowed, andwentup thewalk.Then he looked at Lord

Henry. “Dorian Gray is mydearest friend,” he said. “He

has a simple and a beautifulnature. Your aunt was quiterightinwhatshesaidofhim.Don’t spoilhim.Don’t try toinfluencehim.Yourinfluencewould be bad. The world iswide, and has manymarvelouspeopleinit.Don’ttake away from me the oneperson who gives to my artwhatever charm it possesses:my life as an artist dependson him.Mind, Harry, I trustyou.” He spoke very slowly,

and the words seem wrungoutofhimalmostagainsthiswill.“Whatnonsenseyou talk!”

said Lord Henry, smiling,and, taking Hallward by thearm, he almost led him intothehouse.

ChapterII.

As they entered they sawDorian Gray. He was seatedat thepiano,withhisbacktothem, turning over the pagesof a volume of Schumann’s“Forest Scenes.”o “Youmustlend me these, Basil!” hecried. “I want to learn them.

Theyareperfectlycharming.”“That entirely depends on

howyousitto-day,Dorian.”“Oh, I am tired of sitting,

and I don’t want a life-sizedportraitofmyself,” answeredthe lad, swinging round onthe music-stool, in a wilful,petulant manner. When hecaughtsightofLordHenry,afaintblushcoloredhischeeksfor amoment, and he startedup.“Ibegyourpardon,Basil,

but I didn’t know you hadanyonewithyou.”“This is Lord Henry

Wotton, Dorian, an oldOxfordfriendofmine.Ihavejust been telling him what acapital sitter you were, andnow you have spoiledeverything.”“You have not spoiledmy

pleasure inmeeting you,Mr.Gray,” said Lord Henry,stepping forward and

extendinghishand.“Myaunthasoftenspokentomeaboutyou. You are one of herfavorites, and, I am afraid,oneofhervictimsalso.”“I am in Lady Agatha’s

black books at present,”answered Dorian, with afunny look of penitence. “Ipromised to go to a club inWhitechapelp with her lastTuesday, and I really forgotallabout it.Weweretohave

playedaduettogether—threeduets,Ibelieve.Idon’tknowwhatshewillsaytome.Iamfartoofrightenedtocall.”“Oh, I will make your

peace with my aunt. She isquite devoted to you. And Idon’t think it really mattersabout your not being there.The audience probablythought it was a duet.WhenAuntAgathasitsdowntothepianoshemakesquiteenough

noisefortwopeople.”“Thatisveryhorridtoher,

and not very nice to me,”answeredDorian,laughing.LordHenry lookedathim.

Yes, he was certainlywonderfully handsome, withhis finely curved scarlet lips,his frank blue eyes, his crispgold hair. There wassomething in his face thatmade one trust him at once.All the candor of youth was

there, as well as all youth’spassionate purity. One feltthat he had kept himselfunspotted from the world.qNo wonder Basil Hallwardworshipedhim.“You are too charming to

go in for philanthropy, Mr.Gray—far too charming.”And Lord Henry flunghimself down on the divan,andopenedhiscigarette-case.The painter had been busy

mixinghiscolorsandgettinghis brushes ready. He waslookingworried,andwhenheheard Lord Henry’s lastremark he glanced at him,hesitated for a moment, andthen said: “Harry, I want tofinish this picture to day.Would you think it awfullyrude ofme if I asked you togoaway?”Lord Henry smiled, and

lookedatDorianGray.“AmI

togo,Mr.Gray?”heasked.“Oh, please don’t, Lord

Henry. I see that Basil is inoneofhissulkymoods;andIcan’tbearhimwhenhesulks.Besides,Iwantyoutotellmewhy I should not go in forphilanthropy.”“I don’t know that I shall

tell you that, Mr. Gray. It isso tedious a subject that onewould have to talk seriouslyabout it.But I certainly shall

not run away, now that youhave asked me to stop. Youdon’t really mind, Basil, doyou?Youhaveoftentoldmethat you liked your sitters tohavesomeonetochatto.”Hallward bit his lip. “If

Dorian wishes it, of courseyou must stay. Dorian’swhimsarelawstoeverybody,excepthimself.”LordHenrytookuphishat

and gloves. “You are very

pressing, Basil, but I amafraid I must go. I havepromisedtomeetamanattheOrleans.r Good-bye, Mr.Gray.ComeandseemesomeafternooninCurzonStreet.sIamnearly always at home atfive o’clock. Write to mewhen you are coming. Ishouldbesorrytomissyou.”“Basil,”criedDorianGray,

“ifLordHenryWottongoesIshallgo too.Youneveropen

your lips while you arepainting, and it is horriblydull standing on a platformand trying to look pleasant.Askhimtostay.Iinsistuponit.”“Stay, Harry, to oblige

Dorian, and to oblige me,”saidHallward,gazingintentlyathispicture.“Itisquitetrue,I never talk when I amworking, and never listeneither, and it must be

dreadfully tedious for myunfortunate sitters. I beg youtostay.”“Butwhataboutmymanat

theOrleans?”The painter laughed. “I

don’t think therewill be anydifficultyaboutthat.Sitdownagain, Harry. And now,Dorian, get up on theplatform, and don’t moveabout too much, or pay anyattention towhatLordHenry

says. He has a very badinfluenceoverallhis friends,with the single exception ofmyself.”DorianGraysteppedupon

the dais, with the air of ayoung Greek martyr, andmade a little moue t ofdiscontent to Lord Henry, towhom he had rather taken afancy. He was so unlikeBasil.Theymadeadelightfulcontrast. And he had such a

beautiful voice. After a fewmoments he said to him:“Have you really a very badinfluence, Lord Henry? AsbadasBasilsays?”“There is no such thing as

a good influence, Mr. Gray.All influence is immoral—immoral from the scientificpointofview.”“Why?”“Because to influence a

person is to give him one’s

own soul. He does not thinkhis natural thoughts, or burnwithhisnaturalpassions.Hisvirtues are not real to him.His sins, if there are suchthings as sins, are borrowed.Hebecomesanechoofsomeoneelse’smusic,anactorofapart thathasnotbeenwrittenfor him. The aim of life isself-development. To realizeone’s nature perfectly—thatiswhateachofusisherefor.People are afraid of

themselves nowadays. Theyhave forgotten the highest ofall duties, the duty that oneowestoone’sself.Ofcoursetheyarecharitable.Theyfeedthe hungry and clothe thebeggar. But their own soulsstarve, and are naked.Courage has gone out of ourrace.Perhapsweneverreallyhad it. The terror of society,which is the basis ofmorals;theterrorofGod,whichisthesecret of religion—these are

thetwothingsthatgovernus.Andyet—”“Justturnyourheadalittle

moretotheright,Dorian,likeagoodboy,”saidthepainter,deep in his work, andconscious only that a lookhad come into the lad’s facethat he had never seen therebefore.“Andyet,” continuedLord

Henry, in his low, musicalvoice, and with that graceful

wave of the hand that wasalways so characteristic ofhim, and that he had even inhisEtonudays,“Ibelievethatif one man were to live outhis life fully and completely,were to give form to everyfeeling, expression to everythought, reality to everydream—I believe that theworldwouldgainsuchafreshimpulseofjoythatwewouldforget all the maladies of

mediævalism, and return tothe Hellenic idealv—tosomething finer, richer, thantheHellenic ideal, itmaybe.But the bravest man amongus is afraid of himself. Themutilation of the savage hasits tragic survival in the self-denialthatmarsourlives.Wearepunishedforour refusals.Every impulse that we strivetostranglebroodsinthemindandpoisonsus.Thebodysins

once, and has done with itssin, for action is a mode ofpurification.Nothingremainsthenbut the recollectionof apleasure, or the luxury of aregret. The only way to getridofatemptationistoyieldto it.Resist it, and your soulgrows sick with longing forthe things it has forbidden toitself,withdesireforwhatitsmonstrous laws have mademonstrous and unlawful. Ithas been said that the great

eventsoftheworldtakeplaceinthebrain.Itisinthebrain,and the brain only, that thegreat sins of the world takeplace also. You, Mr. Gray,youyourself,withyour rose-redyouthandyourrose-whiteboyhood, you have hadpassions that havemade youafraid, thoughts that havefilled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreamswhose mere memory mightstain your cheek with shame

—”“Stop!” faltered Dorian

Gray, “stop! you bewilderme.Idon’tknowwhattosay.Thereissomeanswertoyou,but I cannot find it. Don’tspeak. Let me think, or,rather, let me try not tothink.”For nearly ten minutes he

stood there, motionless, withpartedlips,andeyesstrangelybright. He was dimly

conscious that entirely freshinfluences were at workwithin him.Yet they seemedto him to have come reallyfromhimself.ThefewwordsthatBasil’sfriendhadsaidtohim—words spoken bychance, no doubt, and withwilful paradox in them—hadtouched some secret chordthat had never been touchedbefore, but that he felt wasnow vibrating and throbbingtocuriouspulses.

Music had stirred him likethat.Music had troubledhimmany times. But music wasnot articulate. It was not anewworld,butratheranotherchaos, that it created in us.Words! Mere words! Howterribletheywere!Howclear,and vivid, and cruel! Onecould not escape from them.Andyetwhat a subtlemagicthere was in them! Theyseemed to be able to give aplastic form to formless

things,andtohaveamusicoftheir own as sweet as that ofviol or of lute. Mere words!Wasthereanythingsorealaswords?Yes; therehadbeen things

in his boyhood that he hadnot understood. Heunderstood them now. Lifesuddenly became fiery-colored to him. It seemed tohimthathehadbeenwalkingin fire. Why had he not

knownit?Withhissubtlesmile,Lord

Henrywatchedhim.Heknewthe precise psychologicalmomentwhentosaynothing.He felt intensely interested.Hewasamazedatthesuddenimpressionthathiswordshadproduced, and, rememberingabookthathehadreadwhenhewassixteen,abookwhichhad revealed to him muchthathehadnotknownbefore,

hewonderedwhetherDorianGray was passing through asimilar experience. He hadmerelyshotanarrowintotheair.Hadithitthemark?Howfascinatingtheladwas!Hallward painted away

with that marvelous, boldtouchofhis thathad the truerefinement and perfectdelicacy that in art, at anyrate, comes only fromstrength.Hewasunconscious

ofthesilence.“Basil, I am tired of

standing!”criedDorianGray,suddenly.“Imustgooutandsit in the garden. The air isstiflinghere.”“My dear fellow, I am so

sorry.When I am painting, Ican’t think of anything else.Butyouneversatbetter.Youwere perfectly still. And Ihave caught the effect Iwanted—the half-parted lips,

and the bright look in theeyes. I don’t know whatHarryhasbeensayingtoyou,buthehascertainlymadeyouhave the most wonderfulexpression. I suppose he hasbeen paying youcompliments. You mustn’tbelieveawordthathesays.”“Hehascertainlynotbeen

paying me compliments.PerhapsthatisthereasonthatI don’t believe anything he

hastoldme.”“You know you believe it

all,”saidLordHenry,lookingat him with his dreamy,languorous eyes. “I will goouttothegardenwithyou.Itis horribly hot in the studio.Basil, let us have somethingicedtodrink,somethingwithstrawberriesinit.”“Certainly, Harry. Just

touch the bell, and whenParker comes I will tell him

whatyouwant. Ihavegot toworkupthisbackground,soIwill join you later on. Don’tkeepDorian too long. I haveneverbeen inbetter formforpainting than I am to-day.This is going to be mymasterpiece. It is mymasterpieceasitstands.”LordHenrywentouttothe

garden, and found DorianGray burying his face in thegreat cool lilac blossoms,

feverishly drinking in theirperfume as if it had beenwine.He came close to him,and put his hand upon hisshoulder.“Youarequiterightto do that,” he murmured.“Nothing can cure the soulbutthesenses,justasnothingcan cure the senses but thesoul.”The lad started and drew

back. He was bareheaded,and the leaveshad tossedhis

rebellious curls and tangledalltheirgildedthreads.Therewasalookoffearinhiseyes,such as people have whenthey are suddenly awakened.His finely chiseled nostrilsquivered, and some hiddennerveshookthescarletofhislipsandleftthemtrembling.“Yes,” continued Lord

Henry, “that is one of thegreat secrets of life—to curethe soul by means of the

senses, and the senses bymeansof the soul.Youareawonderful creation. Youknow more than you thinkyou know, just as you knowlessthanyouwanttoknow.”Dorian Gray frowned and

turned his head away. Hecouldnothelp liking the tall,gracefulyoungmanwhowasstanding by him. Hisromantic olive-colored faceand worn expression

interested him. There wassomethinginhislow,languidvoice that was absolutelyfascinating. His cool, white,flower-likehands,even,hadacurious charm. They moved,as he spoke, like music, andseemedtohavealanguageoftheir own. But he felt afraidofhim,andashamedofbeingafraid. Why had it been leftforastrangertorevealhimtohimself?HehadknownBasilHallward formonths, but the

friendship between them hadnever altered him. Suddenlythere had come some oneacrosshislifewhoseemedtohave disclosed to him life’smystery. And, yet, what wastheretobeafraidof?Hewasnot a schoolboy or a girl. Itwasabsurdtobefrightened.“Let us go and sit in the

shade,” said Lord Henry.“Parker has brought out thedrinks, and if you stay any

longer in this glare you willbe quite spoiled, and Basilwill never paint you again.You really must not allowyourself to become sunburnt.Itwouldbeunbecoming.”“Whatcanitmatter?”cried

DorianGray, laughing, as hesat down on the seat at theendofthegarden.“It should matter

everythingtoyou,Mr.Gray.”“Why?”

“Because you have themost marvelous youth, andyouth is the one thing worthhaving.”“I don’t feel that, Lord

Henry.”“No,youdon’tfeelitnow.

Some day,when you are oldandwrinkledandugly,whenthought has seared yourforehead with its lines, andpassion branded your lipswith its hideous fires, you

will feel it, you will feel itterribly. Now, wherever yougo,youcharmtheworld.Willitalwaysbeso?...Youhavea wonderfully beautiful face,Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. Youhave.AndBeautyisaformofGenius—is higher, indeed,than Genius, as it needs noexplanation. It is of thegreatfacts of the world, likesunlight,orspringtime,orthereflection in dark waters ofthat silver shell we call the

moon. It cannot bequestioned. It has its divinerightofsovereignty.Itmakesprincesof thosewhohave it.You smile? Ah! when youhavelostityouwon’tsmile... .Peoplesaysometimes thatBeauty is only superficial.Thatmaybeso.Butatleastitis not so superficial asThought is.Tome,Beautyisthe wonder of wonders. It isonly shallow people who donot judge by appearances.

Thetruemysteryoftheworldis the visible, not theinvisible. . . .Yes,Mr.Gray,the gods have been good toyou. But what the gods givethey quickly take away.Youhave only a few years inwhichtolivereally,perfectly,and fully. When your youthgoes, your beauty will gowith it, and then you willsuddenly discover that thereare no triumphs left for you,or have to content yourself

with those mean triumphsthat thememoryofyourpastwill make more bitter thandefeats. Every month as itwanes brings you nearer tosomething dreadful. Time isjealous of you, and warsagainst your lilies and yourroses. You will becomesallow, and hollow-cheeked,anddull-eyed.Youwillsufferhorribly....Ah!realizeyouryouth while you have it.Don’t squander the gold of

your days, listening to thetedious,tryingtoimprovethehopeless failure, or givingaway your life to theignorant, the common, andthe vulgar. These are thesickly aims, the false ideals,of our age. Live! Live thewonderful life that is inyou!Letnothingbelostuponyou.Be always searching for newsensations. Be afraid ofnothing....AnewHedonism—that is what our century

wants.4 You might be itsvisible symbol. With yourpersonality there is nothingyou could not do. Theworldbelongstoyouforaseason... . The moment I met you Isaw that you were quiteunconscious of what youreallyare,ofwhatyou reallymightbe.TherewassomuchinyouthatcharmedmethatIfelt that I must tell yousomething about yourself. I

thought how tragic it wouldbe if you were wasted. Forthereissucha little timethatyour youth will last—such alittle time.The commonhill-flowers wither, but theyblossomagain.ThelaburnumwillbeasyellownextJuneasit is now. In a month therewill be purple stars on theclematis,wandyearafteryearthe green night of its leaveswillholditspurplestars.But

wenevergetbackouryouth.Thepulseofjoythatbeatsinus at twenty becomessluggish. Our limbs fail, oursenses rot. We degenerateintohideouspuppets,hauntedby the memory of thepassions of which we weretoo much afraid, and theexquisite temptations thatwehad not the courage to yieldto. Youth! Youth! There isabsolutely nothing in theworldbutyouth!”

Dorian Gray listened,open-eyed and wondering.The spray of lilac fell fromhis hand upon the gravel. Afurry bee came and buzzedround it for amoment. Thenit began to scramble all overthe oval stellatedx globe ofthe tiny blossoms. Hewatched it with that strangeinterest in trivial things thatwetrytodevelopwhenthingsof high import make us

afraid,orwhenwearestirredby some new emotion forwhich we cannot findexpression, or when somethought that terrifies us layssuddensiegetothebrainandcalls on us to yield. After atime the bee flew away. Hesaw it creeping into thestained trumpet of a Tyrianconvolvulus.y The flowerseemed to quiver, and thenswayedgentlytoandfro.

Suddenly the painterappeared at the door of thestudio, and made staccatosigns for them to come in.They turned to each other,andsmiled.“I am waiting!” he cried.

“Do come in. The light isquite perfect, and you canbringyourdrinks.”They rose up, and

sauntered down the walktogether. Two green-and-

whitebutterfliesflutteredpastthem, and in the pear-tree atthe corner of the garden athrushbegantosing.“You are glad you have

metme,Mr.Gray,”saidLordHenry,lookingathim.“Yes, I am glad now. I

wonder shall I always beglad?”“Always! That is a

dreadful word. It makes meshudder when I hear it.

Women are so fond of usingit. They spoil every romanceby trying to make it lastforever. It is a meaninglesswordtoo.Theonlydifferencebetweena caprice anda life-long passion is that thecapricelastsalittlelonger.”As theyentered thestudio,

Dorian Gray put his handupon Lord Henry’s arm. “Inthatcase,letourfriendshipbea caprice,” he murmured,

flushingathisownboldness,then stepped up on theplatform and resumed hispose.Lord Henry flung himself

into a largewicker armchair,andwatchedhim.The sweepand dash of the brush on thecanvas made the only soundthatbrokethestillness,exceptwhen, now and then,Hallward stepped back tolook at his work from a

distance. In the slantingbeams that streamed throughthe open doorway the dustdanced and was golden. Theheavy scent of the rosesseemed to brood overeverything.Afteraboutaquarterofan

hour Hallward stoppedpainting, looked for a longtimeatDorianGray,andthenforalongtimeatthepicture,biting the end of one of his

huge brushes, and frowning.“It is quite finished!” hecried, at last, and stoopingdown he wrote his name inlong vermilion letters on theleft-hand corner of thecanvas.LordHenrycameoverand

examined the picture. It wascertainlyawonderfulworkofart, and awonderful likenessaswell.“My dear fellow, I

congratulate you mostwarmly,” he said. “It is thefinest portrait of moderntimes. Mr. Gray, come overandlookatyourself.”The lad started, as if

awakened from some dream.“Is it really finished?” hemurmured, stepping downfromtheplatform.“Quite finished,” said the

painter. “And you have satsplendidly to-day. I am

awfullyobligedtoyou.”“That is entirely due to

me,” broke in Lord Henry.“Isn’tit,Mr.Gray?”Dorian made no answer,

but passed listlessly in frontof his picture and turnedtoward it.Whenhesawithedrew back, and his cheeksflushed for a moment withpleasure.A lookof joycameinto his eyes, as if he hadrecognized himself for the

first time. He stood theremotionless and in wonder,dimly conscious thatHallward was speaking tohim, but not catching themeaning of his words. Thesenseofhisownbeautycameon him like a revelation. Hehadneverfeltitbefore.BasilHallward’s compliments hadseemed to him to be merelythe charming exaggerationsoffriendship.Hehadlistenedto them, laughed at them,

forgotten them.Theyhadnotinfluenced his nature. ThenhadcomeLordHenryWottonwithhisstrangepanegyriconyouth,his terriblewarningofits brevity. That had stirredhim at the time, and now, ashestoodgazingattheshadowofhisownloveliness,thefullreality of the descriptionflashedacrosshim.Yes,therewouldbeadaywhenhisfacewouldbewrinkledandwizen,his eyes dim and colorless,

thegraceofhisfigurebrokenand deformed. The scarletwould pass away from hislips, and the gold steal fromhis hair. The life thatwas tomakehis soulwouldmarhisbody. He would becomedreadful, hideous, anduncouth.Ashethoughtofit,asharp

pang of pain struck throughhim like a knife, and madeeach delicate fiber of his

nature quiver. His eyesdeepened into amethyst, andacross them came a mist oftears.He felt as if a hand ofice had been laid upon hisheart.“Don’t you like it?” cried

Hallwardatlast,stungalittleby the lad’s silence, notunderstandingwhatitmeant.“Ofcoursehelikesit,”said

Lord Henry. “Who wouldn’tlike it? It is one of the

greatest things inmodernart.Iwill give you anything youliketoaskforit.Imusthaveit.”“It is not my property,

Harry.”“Whosepropertyisit?”“Dorian’s, of course,”

answeredthepainter.“He is a very lucky

fellow.”“Howsaditis!”murmured

Dorian Gray, with his eyes

still fixed upon his ownportrait. “How sad it is! Ishall grow old, and horrible,anddreadful.But thispicturewill remain always young. Itwill never be older than thisparticulardayofJune. . . . Ifitwereonlytheotherway!Ifit were I who was to bealwaysyoung,andthepicturethatwastogrowold!Forthat—for that—I would giveeverything! Yes, there isnothing in thewholeworld I

wouldnotgive!Iwouldgivemysoulforthat!”“Youwouldhardlycarefor

such an arrangement, Basil,”cried Lord Henry, laughing.“Itwouldberatherhardlinesonyourwork.”“I should object very

strongly, Harry,” saidHallward.Dorian Gray turned and

lookedathim.“Ibelieveyouwould, Basil. You like your

art better thanyour friends. Iam no more to you than agreen bronze figure. Hardlyasmuch,Idaresay.”The painter stared in

amazement. It was so unlikeDorian to speak like that.What had happened? Heseemedquite angry.His facewas flushed and his cheeksburning.“Yes,”hecontinued,“Iam

less to you than your ivory

Her mesz or your silverFaun.aa You will like themalways. How long will youlikeme?Till I havemy firstwrinkle, I suppose. I know,now, that when one losesone’s good looks, whateverthey may be, one loseseverything. Your picture hastaught me that. Lord HenryWotton is perfectly right.Youthistheonlythingworthhaving.WhenIfindthatIam

growing old I shall killmyself.”Hallward turned pale, and

caught his hand. “Dorian!Dorian!”hecried,“don’ttalklike that! I have never hadsuch a friend as you, and Ishallneverhavesuchanother.You are not jealous ofmaterial things, are you?—youwhoarefinerthananyofthem!”“Iamjealousofeverything

whose beauty does not die. Iamjealousoftheportraityouhave painted of me. Whyshould it keep what I mustlose? Every moment thatpasses takes something fromme,andgivessomethingtoit.Oh, if it were only the otherway! If the picture couldchange,andIcouldbealwayswhatIamnow!Whydidyoupaint it? It will mock mesome day—mock mehorribly!” The hot tears

welled into his eyes; he torehis hand away, and, flinginghimself on the divan, heburied his face in thecushions, as though he waspraying.“This is your doing,

Harry,” said the painter,bitterly.Lord Henry shrugged his

shoulders. “It is the realDorianGray—thatisall.”“Itisnot.”

“Ifitisnot,whathaveItodowithit?”“You should have gone

awaywhen I asked you,” hemuttered.“I stayed when you asked

me,” was Lord Henry’sanswer.“Harry,Ican’tquarrelwith

my two best friends at once,but between you both youhavemademehatethefinestpiece of work I have ever

done, and I will destroy it.What is it but canvas andcolor? I will not let it comeacrossourthreelivesandmarthem.”Dorian Gray lifted his

goldenhead from thepillow,andwith palid face and tear-stainedeyeslookedathim,ashe walked over to the dealabpainting-table that was setbeneath the high curtainedwindow.What was he doing

there? His fingers werestraying about among thelitter of tin tubes and drybrushes, seeking forsomething.Yes,itwasforthelong palette-knife, with itsthin blade of lithe steel. Hehad found it at last. He wasgoingtoripupthecanvas.With a stifled sob the lad

leaped from the couch, andrushingovertoHallward,toretheknifeoutofhishand,and

flung it to the end of thestudio. “Don’t Basil, don’t!”he cried. “It would bemurder!”“I am glad you appreciate

myworkatlast,Dorian,”saidthe painter, coldly, when hehad recovered from hissurprise.“Ineverthoughtyouwould.”“Appreciate it? I am in

lovewithit,Basil.Itispartofmyself.Ifeelthat.”

“Well, as soon as you aredry, you shall be varnished,and framed, and sent home.Then you can do what youlike with yourself.” And hewalked across the room andrang the bell for tea. “Youwill have tea, of course,Dorian? And so will you,Harry? Or do you object tosuchsimplepleasure?”“Iadoresimplepleasures,”

said Lord Henry. “They are

the last refuge of thecomplex. But I don’t likescenes, except on the stage.Whatabsurdfellowsyouare,bothofyou!Iwonderwhoitwasdefinedmanasarationalanimal. It was the mostpremature definition evergiven. Man is many things,but he is not rational. I amglad he is not, after all:though I wish you chapswould not squabble over thepicture.Youhadmuchbetter

let me have it, Basil. Thissilly boy doesn’t really wantit,andIreallydo.”“Ifyou letanyonehave it

but me, Basil, I shall neverforgive you!” cried DorianGray; “and I don’t allowpeopletocallmeasillyboy.”“You know the picture is

yours,Dorian.Igaveittoyoubeforeitexisted.”“And you know you have

been a little silly, Mr. Gray,

and that you don’t reallyobject tobeingremindedthatyouareextremelyyoung.”“I should have objected

very strongly this morning,LordHenry.”“Ah! this morning! You

havelivedsincethen.”Therecameaknockat the

door, and the butler enteredwithaladentea-trayandsetitdown upon a small Japanesetable. There was a rattle of

cups and saucers and thehissing of a fluted Georgianurn.Twoglobe-shaped chinadishes were brought in by apage.DorianGraywentoverand poured out the tea. Thetwomen sauntered languidlyto the table, and examinedwhatwasunderthecovers.“Letusgotothetheaterto-

night,” said Lord Henry.“There is sure to besomething on, somewhere. I

have promised to dine atWhite’s,ac but it is onlywithan old friend, so I can sendhimawiretosaythatIamill,or that I am prevented fromcoming in consequence of asubsequent engagement. Ithink that would be a ratherniceexcuse:itwouldhaveallthesurpriseofcandor.”“It is such a bore putting

on one’s dress-clothes,”muttered Hallward. “And,

when one has them on, theyaresohorrid.”“Yes,” answered Lord

Henry, dreamily, “thecostume of the nineteenthcentury is detestable. It is sosomber, sodepressing.Sin isthe only real color-elementleftinmodernlife.”“You really must not say

thingslikethatbeforeDorian,Harry.”“Before which Dorian?

The one who is pouring outtea for us, or the one in thepicture?”“Beforeeither.”“I should like to come to

the theater with you, LordHenry,”saidthelad.“Thenyoushallcome;and

you will come too, Basil,won’tyou?”“I can’t, really. I would

sooner not. I have a lot ofworktodo.”

“Well,then,youandIwillgoalone,Mr.Gray.”“I should like that

awfully.”The painter bit his lip and

walked over, cup in hand, tothepicture.“I shall staywiththe real Dorian,” he said,sadly.“Is it the real Dorian?”

cried the original of theportrait, strolling across tohim.“AmIreallylikethat?”

“Yes, you are just likethat.”“Howwonderful,Basil!”“At least you are like it in

appearance.But itwill neveralter,”sighedHallward.“Thatissomething.”“What a fuss peoplemake

about fidelity!” exclaimedLord Henry. “Why, even inloveitispurelyaquestionforphysiology. It has nothing todowithourownwill.Young

menwant to be faithful, andare not; old men want to befaithless, and cannot: that isallonecansay.”“Don’tgotothetheaterto-

night, Dorian,” saidHallward. “Stop and dinewithme.”“Ican’t,Basil.”“Why?”“Because I have promised

Lord Henry Wotton to gowithhim.”

“He won’t like you thebetter for keeping yourpromises. He always breakshisown.Ibegyounottogo.”Dorian Gray laughed and

shookhishead.“Ientreatyou.”The lad hesitated, and

looked over at Lord Henry,whowaswatchingthemfromthe tea-table with an amusedsmile.“I must go, Basil,” he

answered.“Very well,” said

Hallward; and he went overand laiddownhiscupon thetray.“Itisratherlate,and,asyou have to dress, you hadbetter lose no time. Good-bye, Harry; good-bye,Dorian. Come and see mesoon.Cometo-morrow.”“Certainly.”“Youwon’tforget?”“No, of course not,” cried

Dorian.“And...Harry!”“Yes,Basil?”“Remember what I asked

you when we were in thegardenthismorning.”“Ihaveforgottenit.”“Itrustyou.”“I wish I could trust

myself,” said Lord Henry,laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray,myhansomadisoutside,andI

can drop you at your ownplace.Good-bye,Basil.Ithasbeen a most interestingafternoon.”As the door closed behind

them, the painter flunghimselfdownonasofa,andalook of pain came into hisface.

ChapterIII.

At half-past twelve the nextday Lord Henry Wottonstrolled from Curzon Streetover to the Albanyae to callon his uncle,LordFermor, agenial if somewhat rough-mannered old bachelor,whom the outside world

called selfish because itderived no particular benefitfrom him, but who wasconsidered generous bySociety, as he fed the peoplewho amused him. His fatherhad been our ambassador atMadrid when Isabella wasyoung, and Primaf unthoughtof, but had retired from theDiplomatic Service in acapricious moment ofannoyance on not being

offered the embassy at Paris,aposttowhichheconsideredthat he was fully entitled byreason of his birth, hisindolence, the good Englishof his dispatches, and hisinordinate passion forpleasure. The son, who hadbeen his father’s secretary,had resigned along with hischief, somewhat foolishly, aswas thought at the time, andon succeeding some monthslater to the title, had set

himselftotheseriousstudyofthe great aristocratic art ofdoing absolutely nothing.Hehad two large town houses,but preferred to live inchambers as it was lesstrouble, and tookmostofhismeals at his club. He paidsome attention to themanagement of his collieriesin the Midland counties,excusinghimselfforthistaintofindustryonthegroundthatthe one advantage of having

coal was that it enabled agentleman to afford thedecency of burning wood onhisownhearth.Inpoliticshewas a Tory,ag except whenthe Tories were in office,during which period heroundly abused them forbeingapackofRadicals.Hewas a hero to his valet, whobullied him, and a terror tomost of his relations, whomhe bullied in turn. Only

Englandcouldhaveproducedhim, and he always said thatthe countrywas going to thedogs.Hisprincipleswereoutofdate,but therewasagooddeal to be said for hisprejudices.When Lord Henry entered

the room he found his unclesitting in a rough shooting-coat,smokingacherootahandgrumbling over The Times.“Well, Harry,” said the old

gentleman, “what brings youout so early? I thought youdandiesai never got up tilltwo, andwere not visible tillfive.”“Pure family affection, I

assure you, Uncle George. Iwant toget somethingoutofyou.”“Money, I suppose,” said

Lord Fermor, making a wryface.“Well,sitdownandtellme all about it. Young

people, nowadays, imaginethatmoneyiseverything.”“Yes,” murmured Lord

Henry,settlinghisbuttonholein his coat; “and when theygrowolder theyknow it.ButIdon’twantmoney.Itisonlypeople who pay their billswhowantthat,UncleGeorge,and I never paymine.Creditis the capital of a youngerson,andonelivescharminglyupon it. Besides, I always

deal with Dartmoor’sajtradesmen, and consequentlytheyneverbotherme.WhatIwant is information: notusefulinformation,ofcourse;uselessinformation.”“Well, I can tell you

anythingthatisinanEnglishBlue-book,akHarry,althoughthosefellowsnowadayswritealotofnonsense.WhenIwasin the Diplomatic, thingsweremuchbetter.But I hear

they let them in now byexamination. What can youexpect?Examinations,sir,arepurehumbug frombeginningto end. If a man is agentleman, he knows quiteenough, and if he is not agentleman, whatever heknowsisbadforhim.”“Mr.DorianGraydoesnot

belong to Blue-books, UncleGeorge,” said Lord Henry,languidly.

“Mr.DorianGray?Whoishe?” asked Lord Fermor,knitting his bushy whiteeyebrows.“That iswhat Ihavecome

to learn, Uncle George. Or,rather, Iknowwhohe is.Heis the last Lord Kelso’sgrandson. His mother was aDevereux, Lady MargaretDevereux. I want you to tellme about this mother. Whatwas she like?Whomdid she

marry? You have knownnearly everybody in yourtime, so you might haveknown her. I am very muchinterested in Mr. Gray atpresent. I have only justmethim.”“Kelso’s grandson!”

echoed the old gentleman—“Kelso’sgrandson! . . .Ofcourse....Iknewhismotherintimately. I believe Iwas ather christening. She was an

extraordinarily beautiful girl,Margaret Devereux, andmade all the men frantic byrunning away with apenniless young fellow, amerenobody,asubalterninafoot regiment, or somethingof that kind. Certainly. Iremember thewhole thingasif ithappenedyesterday.Thepoorchapwaskilledinaduelat Spaal a few months afterthe marriage. There was an

uglystoryaboutit.TheysaidKelso got some rascallyadventurer, some Belgianbrute, toinsulthisson-in-lawinpublic,paidhim,sir, todoit, paid him, and that thefellowspittedthemanasifhehadbeenapigeon.Thethingwas hushed up, but, egad,Kelso ate his chop alone atthe club for some timeafterward. He brought hisdaughter back with him, Iwastold,andsheneverspoke

tohimagain.Oh,yes; itwasa bad business.The girl diedtoo, died within a year. Soshe lefta son,didshe? Ihadforgotten that. What sort ofboy is he? If he is like hismother he must be a good-lookingchap.”“Heisverygood-looking,”

assentedLordHenry.“I hope he will fall into

proper hands,” continued theold man. “He should have a

potofmoneywaitingforhimifKelsodidtherightthingbyhim. His mother had moneytoo. All the Selby propertycame to her, through hergrandfather. Her grandfatherhated Kelso, thought him ameandog.Hewas,too.Cameto Madrid once when I wasthere.Egad,Iwasashamedofhim. The Queen used to askme about the English noblewho was always quarrelingwith the cabmen about their

fares. They made quite astoryofit.Ididn’tdareshowmyfaceatCourtforamonth.Ihopehetreatedhisgrandsonbetter than he did thejarvies.”am

“I don’t know,” answeredLordHenry.“Ifancythattheboywillbewelloff.Heisnotof age yet. He has Selby, Iknow.Hetoldmeso.And...his mother was verybeautiful?”

“Margaret Devereux wasoneoftheloveliestcreaturesIever saw, Harry. What onearth induced her to behaveas she did, I never couldunderstand. She could havemarried anybody she chose.Carlingtonwasmadafterher.She was romantic, though.All thewomenof thatfamilywere. The men were a poorlot, but, egad! the womenwere wonderful. Carlingtonwentonhiskneestoher.Told

mesohimself.Shelaughedathim,andtherewasn’tagirlinLondon at the time whowasn’t afterhim.Andby theway, Harry, talking aboutsilly marriages, what is thishumbug your father tells meabout Dartmoor wanting tomarry an American? Ain’tEnglishgirlsgoodenoughforhim?”“It is rather fashionable to

marry Americans just now,

UncleGeorge.”“I’ll back English women

against the world, Harry,”saidLordFermor,strikingthetablewithhisfist.“The betting is on the

Americans.”“They don’t last, I am

told,”mutteredhisuncle.“A long engagement

exhausts them, but they arecapital at a steeplechase.They take things flying. I

don’t think Dartmoor has achance.”“Who are her people?”

grumbled the old gentleman.“Hasshegotany?”Lord Henry shook his

head. “American girls are asclever at concealing theirparentsasEnglishwomenareat concealing their past,” hesaid,risingtogo.“They are pork-packers, I

suppose.”

“I hope so, Uncle George,for Dartmoor’s sake. I amtoldpork-packingis themostlucrative profession inAmerica,afterpolitics.”“Isshepretty?”“Shebehavesasifshewas

beautiful. Most Americanwomendo. It is the secretoftheircharm.”“Why can’t these

American women stay intheir own country? They are

alwaystellingusthatitistheParadiseforwomen.”“It is. That is the reason

why, like Eve, they are soexcessivelyanxioustogetoutof it,” said Lord Henry.“Good-bye, Uncle George. IshallbelateforlunchifIstopanylonger.Thanksforgivingme the information Iwanted.I always like to knoweverything about my newfriends,andnothingaboutmy

oldones.”“Where are you lunching,

Harry?”“AtAuntAgatha’s. I have

asked myself and Mr. Gray.Heisherlatestprotégé.”“Hump! tell your Aunt

Agatha, Harry, not to botherme any more with charityappeals. I am sick of them.Why,thegoodwomanthinksthat I havenothing to dobuttowrite cheques forher silly

fads.”“All right, Uncle George,

I’ll tellher,butitwon’thaveany effect. Philanthropicpeople lose all sense ofhumanity. It is theirdistinguishingcharacteristic.”Theoldgentlemangrowled

approvingly,andrangthebellfor his servant. Lord HenrypassedupthelowarcadeintoBurlingtonStreet, and turnedhis steps in the direction of

BerkeleySquare.an

So that was the story ofDorian Gray’s parentage.Crudelyasithadbeentoldtohim,ithadyetstirredhimbyits suggestion of a strange,almost modern romance. Abeautiful woman riskingeverythingforamadpassion.A few wild weeks ofhappiness cut short by ahideous, treacherous crime.Months of voiceless agony,

andthenachildborninpain.Themothersnatchedawaybydeath,theboylefttosolitudeandthetyrannyofanoldandlovelessman. Yes, it was aninteresting background. Itposedthelad,madehimmoreperfect as it were. Behindevery exquisite thing thatexisted, there was somethingtragic. Worlds had to be intravail, that the meanestflowermight blow. . . . Andhowcharminghehadbeenat

dinner the night before, aswith startled eyes and lipsparted in frightened pleasurehehadsatopposite tohimattheclub,theredcandleshadesstaining to a richer rose thewakeningwonderofhisface.Talking to him was likeplaying upon an exquisiteviolin.He answered to everytouchandthrillofthebow.... There was somethingterribly enthralling in theexercise of influence. No

other activity was like it. Toproject one’s soul into somegraciousform,andletittarrythere for a moment; to hearone’s own intellectual viewsechoed back to one with allthe added music of passionand youth; to convey one’stemperament into another, asthough it were a subtle fluidor a strange perfume: therewas a real joy in that—perhaps the most satisfyingjoy left to us in an age so

limited and vulgar as ourown,anagegrosslycarnalinits pleasures, and grosslycommon in its aims. . . . Hewas a marvelous type, too,this lad,whomby so curiousa chance he had met inBasil’s studio, or could befashioned into a marveloustype, at any rate. Grace washis, and the white purity ofboyhood, and beauty such asold Greek marbles kept forus. There was nothing that

one could not do with him.HecouldbemadeaTitanaooratoy.Whatapityitwasthatsuch beauty was destined tofade! . . .AndBasil?Fromapsychological point of view,how interesting he was! Thenewmanner in art, the freshmode of looking at life,suggestedsostrangelybythemerely visible presence ofonewhowas unconscious ofit all; the silent spirit that

dwelt in dim woodland, andwalked unseen in open field,suddenly showing herself,Dryad-likeap and not afraid,because in his soul whosoughtforhertherehadbeenawakened that wonderfulvision to which alone arewonderful things revealed;the mere shapes and patternof things becoming, as itwere, refined, and gaining akind of symbolical value, as

though theywere themselvespatterns of some other andmore perfect form whoseshadow theymade real: howstrange it all was! Herememberedsomethinglikeitin history. Was it not Plato,thatartistinthought,whohadfirst analyzed it?5Was it notBuonarottiaq who had carvedit in thecoloredmarblesofasonnet-sequence? But in ourowncenturyitwasstrange...

. Yes, he would try to be toDorian Gray what, withoutknowingit,theladwastothepainterwhohadfashionedthewonderfulportrait.Hewouldseek to dominate him—hadalready,indeed,halfdoneso.He would make thatwonderful spirit his own.There was somethingfascinating in this son ofLoveandDeath.Suddenly he stopped, and

glanced up at the houses.Hefound that he had passed hisaunt’s some distance, and,smiling to himself, turnedback. When he entered thesomewhat somber hall, thebutler told him that they hadgoneintolunch.Hegaveoneof the footmen his hat andstick, and passed into thedining-room.“Late, as usual, Harry,”

cried his aunt, shaking her

headathim.He invented a facile

excuse, and having taken thevacant seat next to her,lookedroundtoseewhowasthere. Dorian bowed to himshyly from the end of thetable, a flush of pleasurestealing into his cheek.Oppositewas theDuchessofHarley, a lady of admirablegoodnatureandgoodtemper,muchlikedbyeveryonewho

knewher,andofthoseamplearchitectural proportions thatin women who are notDuchesses are described bycontemporary historians asstoutness.Next toher sat,onherright,SirThomasBurdon,a Radical member ofParliament,whofollowedhisleader in public life, and inprivate life followed the bestcooks,diningwith theToriesand thinking with theLiberals,inaccordancewitha

wise and well-known rule.The post on her left wasoccupied by Mr. Erskine ofTreadley,anoldgentlemanofconsiderable charm andculture, who had fallen,however, into bad habits ofsilence, having, as heexplained once to LadyAgatha, said everything thathe had to say before he wasthirty.HisownneighborwasMrs. Vandeleur, one of hisaunt’soldestfriends,aperfect

saint among women, but sodreadfully dowdy that shereminded one of a badlybound hymn-book.Fortunately for him she hadontheothersideLordFaudel,a most intelligent middle-agedmediocrity, asbaldasaMinisterial statement in theHouse of Commons, withwhomshewas conversing inthat intensely earnestmannerwhich is the oneunpardonable error, as he

remarked once himself, thatall really good people fallinto,andfromwhichnoneofthemeverquiteescape.“Wearetalkingaboutpoor

Dartmoor,LordHenry,”criedthe Duchess, noddingpleasantly to him across thetable. “Do you think he willreally marry this fascinatingyoungperson?”“Ibelieveshehasmadeup

her mind to propose to him,

Duchess.”“How dreadful!”

exclaimed Lady Agatha.“Really, some one shouldinterfere.”“I am told, on excellent

authority, that her fatherkeepsanAmericandry-goodsstore,” said Sir ThomasBurdon,lookingsupercilious.“My uncle has already

suggested pork-packing, SirThomas.”

“Dry-goods! What areAmerican dry-goods?” askedtheDuchess,raisingherlargehands in wonder, andaccentuatingtheverb.“American novels,”

answered Lord Henry,helping himself to somequail.The Duchess looked

puzzled.“Don’t mind him, my

dear,” whispered Lady

Agatha. “He never meansanythingthathesays.”“When Americaar was

discovered,” said theRadicalmember,andhebegantogivesome wearisome facts. Likeallpeoplewho try toexhausta subject, he exhausted hislisteners. The Duchesssighed, and exercised herprivilege of interruption. “Iwishtogoodnessitneverhadbeen discovered at all!” she

exclaimed. “Really, our girlshave no chance nowadays. Itismostunfair.”“Perhaps, after all,

America never has beendiscovered,” said Mr.Erskine; “I myself wouldreally say that it had merelybeendetected.”“Oh! but I have seen

specimensoftheinhabitants,”answered the Duchess,vaguely. “Imustconfess that

most of them are extremelypretty. And they dress well,too.TheygetalltheirdressesinParis.IwishIcouldaffordtodothesame.”“They say thatwhen good

Americans die they go toParis,” chuckledSirThomas,whohada largewardrobeofHumor’scast-offclothes.“Really!Andwheredobad

Americans go to when theydie?”inquiredtheDuchess.

“They go to America,”murmuredLordHenry.SirThomasfrowned.“Iam

afraid that your nephew isprejudiced against that greatcountry,” he said to LadyAgatha. “I have traveled allover it, in cars provided bythe directors, who, in suchmatters,areextremelycivil.Iassure you that it is aneducationtovisitit.”“But must we really see

Chicago in order to beeducated?” asked Mr.Erskine, plaintively. “I don’tfeeluptothejourney.”Sir Thomas waved his

hand. “Mr. Erskine ofTreadleyhastheworldonhisshelves. We practical menliketoseethings,not toreadabout them. The Americansare an extremely interestingpeople. They are absolutelyreasonable. I think that is

their distinguishingcharacteristic. Yes, Mr.Erskine, an absolutelyreasonable people. I assureyou there is no nonsenseabouttheAmericans.”“How dreadful!” cried

Lord Henry. “I can standbrute force, but brute reasonis quite unbearable. There issomething unfair about itsuse. It is hitting below theintellect.”

“Idonotunderstandyou,”said Sir Thomas, growingratherred.“I do, Lord Henry,”

murmured Mr. Erskine, withasmile.“Paradoxes are all very

well in their way. . . .”rejoinedtheBaronet.“Was that a paradox!”

askedMr.Erskine.“Ididnotthink so. Perhaps it was.Well,thewayofparadoxesis

the way of truth. To testRealitywemustseeitonthetight-rope.When theVeritiesbecome acrobats we canjudgethem.”“Dear me!” said Lady

Agatha,“howyoumenargue!I am sure I never can makeout what you are talkingabout.Oh!Harry, I amquitevexedwithyou.Whydoyoutry to persuade our niceMr.Dorian Gray to give up the

East End? I assure you hewould be quite invaluable.They would love hisplaying.”“Iwanthimtoplaytome,”

cried Lord Henry, smiling,andhelookeddownthetableandcaughtabrightansweringglance.“But they are so unhappy

in Whitechapel,” continuedLadyAgatha.“I can sympathize with

everything,exceptsuffering,”said Lord Henry, shrugginghis shoulders. “I cannotsympathizewiththat.Itistoougly, too horrible, toodistressing. There issomething terribly morbid inthe modern sympathy withpain.One should sympathizewiththecolor,thebeauty,thejoyoflife.Thelesssaidaboutlife’ssoresthebetter.”“Still, the East End is a

very important problem,”remarkedSirThomas,withagraveshakeofthehead.“Quite so,” answered the

younglord.“Itistheproblemofslavery,andwetrytosolveitbyamusingtheslaves.”The politician looked at

himkeenly.“Whatchangedoyoupropose,then?”heasked.Lord Henry laughed. “I

don’t desire to changeanything in England except

theweather,”heanswered.“Iam quite content withphilosophic contemplation.But,asthenineteenthcenturyhasgonebankruptthroughanover-expenditure ofsympathy, I would suggestthat we should appeal toScience to put us straight.The advantage of theemotions is that they lead usastray, and the advantage ofScience is that it is notemotional.”

“But we have such graveresponsibilities,” venturedMrs.Vandeleur,timidly.“Terribly grave,” echoed

LadyAgatha.LordHenry lookedoverat

Mr.Erskine.“Humanitytakesitself too seriously. It is theworld’s original sin. If thecaveman had known how tolaugh, History would havebeendifferent.”“You are really very

comforting,” warbled theDuchess. “I have always feltrather guilty when I came toseeyourdearaunt, for I takeno interest at all in the EastEnd.For thefutureIshallbeable to look her in the facewithoutablush.”“Ablushisverybecoming,

Duchess,” remarked LordHenry.“Onlywhenoneisyoung,”

she answered. “When an old

womanlikemyselfblushes,itis a very bad sign.Ah! LordHenry, Iwishyouwould tellme how to become youngagain.”He thought for a moment.

“Canyourememberanygreaterror that you committed inyour early days, Duchess?”he asked, looking at heracrossthetable.“Agreatmany,Ifear,”she

cried.

“Then commit them overagain,” he said, gravely. “Togetbackone’syouthonehasmerely to repeat one’sfollies.”“A delightful theory!” she

exclaimed.“Imustputitintopractise.”“A dangerous theory!”

camefromSirThomas’stightlips. Lady Agatha shook herhead, but could not helpbeing amused. Mr. Erskine

listened.“Yes,” he continued, “that

is one of the great secrets oflife. Nowadays most peopledie of a sort of creepingcommon sense, and discoverwhen it is too late that theonly thingsonenever regretsareone’smistakes.”A laugh ran round the

table.He played with the idea,

andgrewwilful;tosseditinto

theairandtransformedit; letit escape and recaptured it;madeitiridescentwithfancy,and winged it with paradox.The praise of folly, as hewent on, soared into aphilosophy, and Philosophyherself became young, andcatching the mad music ofPleasure,wearing, onemightfancy, her wine-stained robeand wreath of ivy, dancedlike a Bacchanteas over the

hills of life, and mocked theslow Silenusat for beingsober. Facts fled beforeherlike frightened forest things.Her white feet trod the hugepress at which wise Omarausits, till the seething grape-juice rose round her barelimbs in waves of purplebubbles, or crawled in redfoam over the vat’s black,dripping,slopingsides.Itwasan extraordinary

improvisation.Hefeltthattheeyes of Dorian Gray werefixed on him, and theconsciousnessthatamonghisaudience there was onewhose temperament hewished to fascinate, seemedtogivehiswit keenness, andto lend color to hisimagination.Hewasbrilliant,fantastic, irresponsible. Hecharmed his listeners out ofthemselves, and they

followed his pipe laughing.avDorian Gray never took hisgazeoffhim,butsatlikeoneunder a spell, smiles chasingeach other over his lips, andwonder growing grave in hisdarkeningeyes.At last, liveried in the

costume of the age, Realityenteredtheroomintheshapeof a servant to tell theDuchessthathercarriagewaswaiting.Shewrungherhands

in mock despair. “Howannoying!”shecried.“Imustgo. I have to call for myhusband at the club, to takehim to some absurd meetingat Willis’s Rooms,aw whereheisgoingtobeinthechair.If I am late he is sure to befurious,andIcouldn’thaveascene in this bonnet. It is fartoo fragile. A harsh wordwould ruin it.No, Imustgo,dearAgatha.Good-bye,Lord

Henry, you are quitedelightful, and dreadfullydemoralizing. I am sure Idon’tknowwhattosayaboutyour views. You must comeanddinewithus somenight.Tuesday?AreyoudisengagedTuesday!”“For you I would throw

overanybody,Duchess,”saidLordHenry,withabow.“Ah! that isverynice,and

very wrong of you,” she

cried; “so mind you come;”and she swept out of theroom, followed by LadyAgathaandtheotherladies.When Lord Henry had sat

down again, Mr. Erskinemoved round, and taking achairclosetohim,placedhishanduponhisarm.“Youtalkbooksaway,”he

said; “why don’t you writeone?”“I am too fond of reading

books to care to write them,Mr. Erskine. I should like towrite a novel certainly, anovelthatwouldbeaslovelyas a Persian carpet and asunreal.Butthereisnoliterarypublic in England foranything except newspapers,primers, and encyclopædias.OfallpeopleintheworldtheEnglish have the least senseofthebeautyofliterature.”“I fear you are right,”

answered Mr. Erskine. “Imyself used to have literaryambitions,butIgavethemuplong ago.Andnow,mydearyoung friend, if you willallowmetocallyouso,mayI ask if you really meant allthatyousaidtousatlunch?”“IquiteforgetwhatIsaid,”

smiled Lord Henry. “Was itallverybad?”“Verybadindeed.Infact,I

consider you extremely

dangerous, and if anythinghappenstoourgoodDuchesswe shall all look on you asbeing primarily responsible.But I should like to talk toyouaboutlife.Thegenerationinto which I was born wastedious.Someday,whenyouare tired of London, comedown to Treadley, andexpound to me yourphilosophy of pleasure oversome admirable Burgundy Iam fortunate enough to

possess.”“Ishallbecharmed.Avisit

toTreadleywouldbe agreatprivilege. It has a perfecthost,andaperfectlibrary.”“You will complete it,”

answered the old gentleman,with a courteous bow. “Andnow I must bid good-bye toyourexcellentaunt.Iamdueat the Athenæum.ax It is thehourwhenwesleepthere.”“Allofyou,Mr.Erskine?”

“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs.We are practising foran English Academy ofLetters.”Lord Henry laughed, and

rose. “I am going to thePark,”hecried.As he was passing out of

the door, Dorian Graytouchedhimonthearm.“Letme come with you,” hemurmured.“But I thought you had

promised Basil Hallward togo and see him,” answeredLordHenry.“Iwouldsoonercomewith

you; yes, I feel Imust comewithyou.Doletme.Andyouwillpromiseto talktomeallthe time? No one talks sowonderfullyasyoudo.”“Ah! I have talked quite

enoughforto-day,”saidLordHenry, smiling. “All I wantnow is to look at life. You

maycomeandlookatitwithme,ifyoucareto.”

ChapterIV.

Oneafternoon,amonthlater,DorianGraywasreclining ina luxurious arm-chair, in thelittle library of LordHenry’shouse in Mayfair. It was, inits way, a very charmingroom, with its high paneledwainscoting of olive-stained

oak, its cream-colored friezeand ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brickdust feltcarpet strewnwith silk long-fringed Persian rugs. On atiny satinwood table stood astatuette by Clodion, andbeside it lay a copy of “LesCent Nouvelles,” bound forMargaretofValoisbyClovisEve, and powdered with thegilt daisies that queen hadselected for her device.6

Some large blue china jarsand parrot-tulips werearrangedon themantel-shelf,and through the small leadedpanes of the windowstreamed the apricot-coloredlight of a summer day inLondon.Lord Henry had not yet

come in.Hewas always lateon principle, his principlebeing that punctuality is thethief of time. So the ladwas

looking rather sulky, as withlistlessfingersheturnedoverthe pages of an elaboratelyillustrated edition of “ManonLescaut”ay that he had foundin one of the bookcases.Theformalmonotonoustickingofthe Louis Quatorzeaz clockannoyed him. Once or twicehethoughtofgoingaway.At last he heard a step

outside,andthedooropened.“How late you are, Harry!”

hemurmured.“IamafraiditisnotHarry,

Mr. Gray,” answered a shrillvoice. He glanced quicklyround,androsetohisfeet.“Ibeg your pardon. I thought—”“You thought it was my

husband. It is only his wife.You must let me introducemyself.Iknowyouquitewellby your photographs. I thinkmy husband has got

seventeenofthem.”“Not seventeen, Lady

Henry?”“Well, eighteen, then.And

Isawyouwithhimtheothernight at the Opera.” Shelaughed nervously as shespoke,andwatchedhimwithher vague forget-me-notbaeyes. She was a curiouswoman, whose dressesalways looked as if they hadbeen designed in a rage and

puton ina tempest.Shewasusually in love withsomebody, and, as herpassion was never returned,shehadkeptallherillusions.Shetriedtolookpicturesque,but only succeeded in beinguntidy. Her name wasVictoria, and she had aperfect mania for going tochurch.“That was at

‘Lohengrin,’bbLadyHenry, I

think.”“Yes, it was at dear

‘Lohengrin.’ I likeWagner’smusic better than anybody’s.Itissoloudthatonecantalkthewhole timewithout otherpeoplehearingwhatonesays.That is a great advantage:don’t you think so, Mr.Gray?”The samenervous staccato

laugh broke from her thinlips,andherfingersbeganto

playwithalongtortoise-shellpaper-knife.Dorian smiled, and shook

hishead.“IamafraidIdon’tthinkso,LadyHenry.Inevertalk during music—at least,during good music. If onehears bad music, it is one’sduty to drown it inconversation.”“Ah!thatisoneofHarry’s

views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? Ialways hear Harry’s views

fromhisfriends.Itistheonlyway I get to know of them.But you must not think Idon’tlikegoodmusic.Iadoreit, but I am afraid of it. Itmakes me too romantic. Ihave simply worshipedpianists—two at a time,sometimes, Harry tells me. Idon’t know what it is aboutthem. Perhaps it is that theyare foreigners. They all are,ain’t they? Even those thatare born in England become

foreigners after a time, don’tthey? It is socleverof them,andsuchacomplimenttoart.Makes it quite cosmopolitan,doesn’t it? You have neverbeen to any of my parties,have you, Mr. Gray? Youmust come. I can’t affordorchids, but I spare noexpense in foreigners. Theymake one’s rooms look sopicturesque. But here isHarry!—Harry, I came in tolook for you, to ask you

something—I forget what itwas—and I found Mr. Grayhere. We have had such apleasant chat about music.We have quite the sameideas. No; I think our ideasarequitedifferent.Buthehasbeen most pleasant. I am sogladI’veseenhim.”“I am charmed, my love,

quite charmed,” said LordHenry, elevating his darkcrescent-shaped eyebrows

andlookingatthembothwithanamusedsmile. “Sosorry Iam late, Dorian. I went tolook after a piece of oldbrocade inWardour Street,bcand had to bargain for hoursforit.Nowadayspeopleknowthe price of everything, andthevalueofnothing.”bd

“I am afraid I must begoing,” exclaimed LadyHenry, breaking an awkwardsilence with her silly sudden

laugh. “I have promised todrive with the Duchess.Good-bye, Mr. Gray. Good-bye, Harry. You are diningout, I suppose? So am I.Perhaps I shall see you atLadyThornbury’s?”“Idaresay,mydear,”said

LordHenry,shuttingthedoorbehindher,as, looking likeabird-of-paradisethathadbeenout all night in the rain, sheflitted out of the room,

leaving a faint odor offrangipanni.be Then he lit acigarette, and flung himselfdownonthesofa.“Never marry a woman

with straw-colored hair,Dorian,” he said, after a fewpuffs.“Why,Harry?”“Because they are so

sentimental.”“But I like sentimental

people.”

“Never marry at all,Dorian. Men marry becausethey are tired; women,because they are curious;botharedisappointed.”“Idon’tthinkIamlikelyto

marry,Harry. I am toomuchin love. That is one of youraphorisms. I am putting itinto practise, as I doeverythingyousay.”“Who are you in love

with?” asked Lord Henry,

afterapause.“With an actress,” said

DorianGray,blushing.Lord Henry shrugged his

shoulders. “That is a rathercommonplacedébut.”“You would not say so if

yousawher,Harry.”“Whoisshe?”“HernameisSibylVane.”“Neverheardofher.”“No one has. People will

some day, however. She is agenius.”“My dear boy, no woman

is a genius. Women are adecorative sex. They neverhaveanythingtosay,buttheysay it charmingly. Womenrepresent the triumph ofmatterovermind,justasmenrepresentthetriumphofmindovermorals.”“Harry,howcanyou?”“MydearDorian,itisquite

true. I am analyzing womenat present, so I ought toknow. The subject is not soabstruseasIthoughtitwas.Ifindthat,ultimately,thereareonlytwokindsofwomen,theplain and the colored. Theplainwomenareveryuseful.If you want to gain areputation for respectability,youhavemerelytotakethemdown to supper. The otherwomen are very charming.They commit one mistake,

however.Theypaint inorderto try and look young. Ourgrand-mothers painted inorder to try and talkbrilliantly.Rougeandespritbfused to go together. That isall over now. As long as awoman can look ten yearsyounger than her owndaughter, she is perfectlysatisfied.Asforconversation,thereareonly fivewomen inLondonworth talking to,and

twoofthesecan’tbeadmittedintodecentsociety.However,tell me about your genius.How long have you knownher?”“Ah! Harry, your views

terrifyme.”“Never mind that. How

longhaveyouknownher?”“Aboutthreeweeks.”“Andwhere did you come

acrossher?”“Iwill tell you,Harry;but

youmustn’tbeunsympatheticabout it. After all, it neverwouldhavehappenedifIhadnot met you. You filled mewith a wild desire to knoweverything about life. Fordays after I met you,somethingseemedtothrobinmyveins.AsIloungedinthePark, or strolled downPiccadilly,bgIusedtolookatevery one who passed me,and wonder, with a mad

curiosity, what sort of livesthey led. Some of themfascinated me. Others filledmewith terror.Therewasanexquisite poison in the air. Ihadapassionforsensations... . Well, one evening aboutseveno’clockIdeterminedtogo out in search of someadventure.Ifeltthatthisgrey,monstrous London of ours,withitsmyriadsofpeople,itssordid sinners, and itssplendid sins, as you once

phrased, must havesomething in store for me. Ifancied a thousand things.The mere danger gave me asense of delight. Iremembered what you hadsaid tomeon thatwonderfulevening when we first dinedtogether,about thesearchforbeautybeingtherealsecretoflife. I don’t know what Iexpected, but Iwent out andwandered eastward, soonlosingmyway in a labyrinth

of grimy streets and black,grasslesssquares.Abouthalf-past eight I passed by anabsurd little theater, withgreat flaring gas-jets andgaudy play-bills. A hideousJew, in the most amazingwaistcoatIeverbeheldinmylife, was standing at theentrance, smoking a vilecigar.Hehadgreasyringlets,and an enormous diamondblazed in the center of asoiled shirt. ‘’Aveabox,my

lord?’ he said, when he sawme, and he took off his hatwith an act of gorgeousservility. There wassomething about him, Harry,thatamusedme.Hewassuchamonster.Youwill laugh atme,Iknow,butIreallywentin andpaid awholeguineabhfor the stage-box. To thepresent day I can’tmake outwhy I did so; and yet if Ihadn’t—my dear Harry, if I

hadn’t, I would have missedthe greatest romance of mylife.Iseeyouarelaughing.Itishorridofyou!”“Iamnotlaughing,Dorian

—at least, I am not laughingat you. But you should notsay the greatest romance ofyourlife.Youshouldsaythefirst romance of your life.You will always be loved,and you will always be inlove with love. A grande

passion is the privilege ofpeople who have nothing todo.Thatistheoneuseoftheidle classes of a country.Don’t be afraid. There areexquisite things in store foryou. This is merely thebeginning.”“Do you think my nature

so shallow?” cried DorianGray,angrily.“No;Ithinkyournatureso

deep.”

“Howdoyoumean?”“My dear boy, the people

who love only once in theirlives are really the shallowpeople. What they call theirloyalty, and their fidelity, Icall either the lethargy ofcustom or their lack ofimagination. Faithfulness isto the emotional life whatconsistency is to the life ofthe intellect—simply aconfession of failure.

Faithfulness! I must analyzeit some day. The passion forproperty is in it. There aremany things that we wouldthrow away if we were notafraid that others might pickthemup.But Idon’twant tointerrupt you. Go on withyourstory.”“Well, I found myself

seatedinahorridlittleprivatebox,withavulgardrop-scenestaring me in the face. I

looked out from behind thecurtain, and surveyed thehouse.Itwasatawdryaffair,all cupids and cornucopias,like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pitwere fairly full, but the tworows of dingy stalls werequite empty, and there washardly a person in what Isupposetheycalledthedress-circle. Women went aboutwithorangesandgingerbeer,and there was a terrible

consumption of nuts goingon.”“Itmusthavebeenjustlike

thepalmydaysof theBritishDrama.”“Just like, I should fancy,

and very depressing. I beganto wonder what on earth Ishould do, when I caughtsightoftheplay-bill.Whatdoyou think the play was,Harry?”“I should think ‘The Idiot

Boy; or, Dumb butInnocent.’bi Our fathers usedto like that sort of piece, Ibelieve. The longer I live,Dorian,themorekeenlyIfeelthat whatever was goodenough for our fathers is notgoodenoughforus.Inart,asinpolitics,lesgrandpèresonttoujourstort.”bj

“This play was goodenough for us, Harry. It was‘Romeo and Juliet.’ I must

admit that I was ratherannoyedat theideaofseeingShakespeare done in such awretched hole of a place.Still,Ifeltinterested,inasortof way. At any rate, Idetermined to wait for thefirstact.Therewasadreadfulorchestra, presided over by ayoung Hebrew who sat at acracked piano, that nearlydrovemeaway,butatlastthedrop-scene was drawn up,and the play began. Romeo

was a stout elderlygentleman, with corkedbkeyebrows, a husky tragedyvoice, and a figure like abeer-barrel. Mercutiobl wasalmostasbad.Hewasplayedby the low comedian, whohad introduced gags of hisownandwasonmostfriendlytermswiththepit.Theywereboth as grotesque as thescenery,andthatlookedasifit had come out of a country

booth. But Juliet! Harry,imagine a girl, hardlyseventeenyearsofage,withalittleflower-likeface,asmallGreekheadwithplaitedcoilsof dark-brownhair, eyes thatwere violet wells of passion,lips that were like the petalsof a rose.7 She was theloveliestthingIhadeverseenin my life. You said to meonce that pathos left youunmoved, but that beauty,

mere beauty, could fill youreyes with tears. I tell you,Harry,Icouldhardlyseethisgirl for themist of tears thatcame across me. And hervoice—I never heard such avoice.Itwasverylowatfirst,with deepmellow notes, thatseemed to fall singly uponone’s ear. Then it became alittlelouder,andsoundedlikeafluteoradistanthautboy.bmIn thegardenscene ithadall

thetremulousecstasythatonehears just before dawnwhennightingales are singing.There were moments, lateron, when it had the wildpassionofviolins.Youknowhow a voice can stir one.Your voice and the voice ofSibyl Vane are two thingsthat I shall never forget.WhenIclosemyeyes,Ihearthem, and each of them sayssomething different. I don’tknow which to follow. Why

should Inot loveher?Harry,I do love her. She iseverything to me in life.Night after night I go to seeher play.One evening she isRosalind, and the nexteveningsheisImogen.Ihaveseen her die in the gloom ofan Italian tomb, sucking thepoisonfromherlover’slips.Ihave watched her wanderingthrough the forest of Arden,disguised as a pretty boy inhose and doublet and dainty

cap. She has been mad, andhascomeintothepresenceofa guilty king, and given himrue to wear, and bitter herbsto taste of. She has beeninnocent,andtheblackhandsof jealousy have crushed herreed-like throat.8 I have seenherineveryageandineverycostume. Ordinary womennever appear to one’simagination.Theyarelimitedto their century. No glamour

ever transfigures them. Oneknows their minds as easilyas one knows their bonnets.One can always find them.Thereisnomysteryinanyofthem.TheyrideintheParkinthe morning, and chatter attea-parties in the afternoon.They have their stereotypedsmile and their fashionablemanner. They are quiteobvious.Butanactress!Howdifferentanactressis!Harry!why didn’t you tell me that

theonlythingworthlovingisanactress?”“Because I have loved so

manyofthem,Dorian.”“Oh, yes; horrid people

with dyed hair and paintedfaces.”“Don’trundowndyedhair

andpaintedfaces.Thereisanextraordinary charm in them,sometimes,”saidLordHenry.“IwishnowIhadnot told

youaboutSibylVane.”

“You could not havehelpedtellingme,Dorian.Allthroughyourlifeyouwilltellmeeverythingyoudo.”“Yes,Harry, I believe that

is true. I cannot help tellingyou things. You have acurious influenceoverme. IfI ever did a crime, I wouldcome and confess it to you.Youwouldunderstandme.”“People like you—the

wilful sunbeams of life—

don’tcommitcrimes,Dorian.But I am much obliged forthecompliment,allthesame.And now tell me—reach methematches,likeagoodboy:thanks—what areyour actualrelationswithSibylVane?”Dorian Gray leaped to his

feet,with flushedcheeksandburning eyes. “Harry, SibylVaneissacred!”“Itisonlythesacredthings

that are worth touching,

Dorian,” said Lord Henry,withastrangetouchofpathosinhisvoice.“Butwhyshouldyou be annoyed? I supposeshe will belong to you someday.Whenoneisinlove,onealways begins by deceivingone’s self, and one alwaysends by deceiving others.Thatiswhattheworldcallsaromance. You know her, atanyrate,Isuppose?”“OfcourseIknowher.On

the first night I was at thetheater, the horrid old Jewcame round to the box afterthe performance was over,andofferedtotakemebehindthe scenes and introduce meto her. I was furious withhim, and told him that Juliethad been dead for hundredsof years, and that her bodywaslyinginamarbletombinVerona.bn I think, from hisblank look of amazement,

that he was under theimpression that I had takentoo much champagne, orsomething.”“Iamnotsurprised.”“Then he asked me if I

wrote for any of thenewspapers. I told him Inever even read them. Heseemed terribly disappointedat that, and confided to methat all the dramatic criticswere in a conspiracy against

him,andthattheywereeveryoneofthemtobebought.”“I shouldnotwonder ifhe

wasquiteright there.But,onthe other hand, judging fromtheir appearance, most ofthem cannot be at allexpensive.”“Well, he seemed to think

theywerebeyondhismeans,”laughed Dorian. “By thistime, however, the lightswere being put out in the

theater, and I had to go. Hewantedmetotrysomecigarsthat he stronglyrecommended. I declined.The next night, of course, Iarrived at the place again.Whenhesawmehemademea low bow, and assured methatIwasamunificentpatronof art. He was a mostoffensive brute, though hehad an extraordinary passionfor Shakespeare. He told meonce,withanairofpride,that

his five bankruptcies wereentirelydueto‘TheBard,’asheinsistedoncallinghim.Heseemed to think it adistinction.”“It was a distinction, my

dear Dorian—a greatdistinction. Most peoplebecome bankrupt throughhavinginvestedtooheavilyinthe prose of life. To haveruined one’s self over poetryisanhonor.Butwhendidyou

first speak to Miss SibylVane?”“The third night. She had

been playing Rosalind. Icouldnothelpgoinground.Ihadthrownhersomeflowers,andshehadlookedatme—atleast, I fancied that she had.The old Jew was persistent.He seemed determined totake me behind, so Iconsented. Itwascuriousmynot wanting to know her,

wasn’tit?”“No,Idon’tthinkso.”“MydearHarry,why?”“Iwill tellyousomeother

time. Now I want to knowaboutthegirl.”“Sibyl? Oh, she was so

shy, and so gentle. There issomething of a child abouther.HereyesopenedwideinexquisitewonderwhenI toldher what I thought of herperformance,andsheseemed

quite unconscious of herpower. I thinkwewere bothrather nervous. The old Jewstoodgrinningatthedoorwayof the dusty greenroom,making elaborate speechesaboutusboth,whilewestoodlooking at each other likechildren. He would insist oncalling me ‘My Lord,’ so IhadtoassureSibylthatIwasnotanythingof thekind.Shesaid, quite simply to me,‘Youlookmorelikeaprince.

I must call you PrinceCharming.’”“Upon my word, Dorian,

MissSibylknowshowtopaycompliments.”“Youdon’tunderstandher,

Harry. She regarded memerelyasaperson inaplay.She knows nothing of life.She lives with her mother, afaded, tired woman whoplayed Lady Capuletbo in asort of magenta dressing-

wrapper on the first night,and looks as if she had seenbetterdays.”“I know that look. It

depresses me,” murmuredLord Henry, examining hisrings.“TheJewwantedtotellme

her history, but I said it didnotinterestme.”“You were quite right.

There is always somethinginfinitely mean about other

people’stragedies.”“Sibyl is the only thing I

care about.What is it to mewhere she came from? Fromher little head to her littlefeet, she is absolutely andentirelydivine.Everynightofmy life I go to see her act,and every night she is moremarvelous.”“That is the reason, I

suppose, that you never dinewith me now. I thought you

must have some curiousromance on hand.You have;but it is not quite what Iexpected.”“MydearHarry,we either

lunch or sup together everyday, and I have been to theOpera with you severaltimes,” said Dorian, openinghisblueeyesinwonder.“You always come

dreadfullylate.”“Well,Ican’thelpgoingto

see Sibyl play,” he cried,“evenifitisonlyasingleact.Igethungryforherpresence;and when I think of thewonderfulsoul that ishiddenawayinthatlittleivorybody,Iamfilledwithawe.”“Youcandinewithmeto-

night,Dorian,can’tyou?”He shook his head. “To-

night she is Imogen,” heanswered, “and to-morrownightshewillbeJuliet.”

“WhenissheSibylVane?”“Never.”“Icongratulateyou.”“How horrid you are! She

isallthegreatheroinesoftheworld in one. She is morethan an individual. Youlaugh, but I tell you she hasgenius.Iloveher,andImustmakeher loveme.You,whoknow all the secrets of life,tell me how to charm SibylVane to love me! I want to

make Romeo jealous. I wantthe dead lovers of the worldto hear our laughter, andgrow sad. Iwant a breath ofour passion to stir their dustinto consciousness, to waketheir ashes into pain. MyGod, Harry, how I worshipher!”Hewaswalkingupanddown the room as he spoke.Hecticspotsofredburnedonhis cheeks. He was terriblyexcited.

Lord Henry watched himwith a subtle sense ofpleasure. How different hewas now from the shy,frightenedboyhehadmet inBasil Hallward’s studio! Hisnature had developed like aflower, had borne blossomsof scarlet flame. Out of itssecret hiding-place had crepthis Soul, and Desire hadcometomeetitontheway.“Andwhatdoyoupropose

to do?” said Lord Henry, atlast.“I want you and Basil to

comewithmesomenightandsee her act. I have not theslightest fear of the result.You are certain toacknowledge her genius.Thenwemust get her out oftheJew’shands.Sheisboundto him for three years—atleast, for twoyearsandeightmonthsfromthepresenttime.

I shall have to pay himsomething, of course. Whenall that is settled, I shall takea West End theaterbp andbring her out properly. Shewill make the world as madasshehasmademe.”“Thatwouldbeimpossible,

mydearboy!”“Yes,shewill.Shehasnot

merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she haspersonality also; and you

have often told me that it ispersonalities, not principles,thatmovetheage.”“Well,whatnightshallwe

go?”“Let me see. To-day is

Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow.”“All right. The Bristol at

eight o’clock; and I will getBasil.”“Not eight, Harry, please.

Half-past six. We must betherebefore thecurtain rises.Youmust seeher in the firstact, where she meetsRomeo.”“Half-past six! What an

hour! Itwillbe likehavingameat-tea bq or reading anEnglish novel. It must beseven. No gentleman dinesbefore seven. Shall you seeBasil between this and then?OrshallIwritetohim?”

“DearBasil!Ihavenotlaideyesonhimforaweek. It isratherhorridofme,ashehassent me my portrait in themost wonderful frame,specially designed byhimself, and, though I am alittlejealousofthepictureforbeingawholemonthyoungerthanIam,ImustadmitthatIdelightinit.Perhapsyouhadbetter write to him. I don’twant to see him alone. Hesaysthingsthatannoyme.He

givesmegoodadvice.”Lord Henry smiled.

“People are very fond ofgiving away what they needmost themselves. It iswhat Icallthedepthofgenerosity.”“Oh, Basil is the best of

fellows, but he seems to metobejustabitofaPhilistine.Since I have known you,Harry, I have discoveredthat.”“Basil, my dear boy, puts

everythingthatischarminginhim into his work. Theconsequence is that he hasnothing left for life but hisprejudices,hisprinciples,andhis common sense. The onlyartistsIhaveeverknownwhoare personally delightful arebad artists.Good artists existsimply in what they make,and consequently areperfectly uninteresting inwhattheyare.Agreatpoet,areally great poet, is themost

unpoetical of all creatures.But inferior poets areabsolutely fascinating. Theworse their rhymes are, themore picturesque they look.The mere fact of havingpublished a book of second-rate sonnets makes a manquiteirresistible.Helivesthepoetry that he cannot write.The others write the poetrythattheydarenotrealize.”“Iwonderis thatreallyso,

Harry?” said Dorian Gray,putting some perfume on hishandkerchief out of a largegold-topped bottle that stoodon the table. “It must be, ifyousayit.AndnowIamoff.Imogen is waiting for me.Don’t forget about to-morrow.Good-bye.”As he left the room, Lord

Henry’s heavy eyelidsdrooped, and he began tothink. Certainly few people

had ever interested him somuchasDorianGray,andyetthe lad’s mad adoration ofsomeoneelsecausedhimnotthe slightest pang ofannoyance or jealousy. Hewas pleased by it. It madehimamore interestingstudy.He had been alwaysenthralled by themethods ofnatural science, but theordinary subject-matter ofthat science had seemed tohim trivial and of no import.

And so he had begun byvivisectinghimself,ashehadended by vivisecting others.Humanlife—thatappearedtohim the one thing worthinvestigating.Compared to ittherewasnothingelseofanyvalue. Itwas true thatasonewatched life in its curiouscrucibleofpainandpleasure,onecouldnotwearoverone’sfaceamaskofglass,norkeepthe sulphurous fumes fromtroubling the brain and

making the imaginationturbidwithmonstrousfanciesandmisshapendreams.Therewerepoisonssosubtlethattoknowtheirpropertiesonehadtosickenofthem.Thereweremaladies so strange that onehad to pass through them ifone sought to understandtheir nature. And yet what agreat reward one received!How wonderful the wholeworldbecametoone!Tonotethe curious hard logic of

passion, and the emotionalcolored lifeof the intellect—to observe where they met,and where they separated, atwhat point they were inunison,andatwhatpointtheywereatdiscord—therewasadelight in that! What matterwhatthecostwas?Onecouldneverpaytoohighapriceforanysensation.Hewasconscious—andthe

thought brought a gleam of

pleasureintohisbrownagateeyes—that it was throughcertainwords of his,musicalwords said with musicalutterance, thatDorianGray’ssoul had turned to thiswhitegirl and bowed in worshipbeforeher.Toa largeextent,theladwashisowncreation.Hehadmadehimpremature.That was something.Ordinary people waited tilllife disclosed to them itssecrets,but to thefew, to the

elect, the mysteries of lifewere revealedbefore theveilwas drawn away. Sometimesthiswastheeffectofart,andchieflyoftheartofliterature,whichdealtimmediatelywiththepassionsandtheintellect.Butnowand then a complexpersonalitytooktheplaceandassumedtheofficeofart,wasindeed,initsway,arealworkof art, Life having itselaborate masterpieces, justaspoetryhas,orsculpture,or

painting.Yes, the lad was

premature. He was gatheringhis harvest while it was yetspring.Thepulseandpassionofyouthwere inhim,buthewasbecomingself-conscious.It was delightful to watchhim. With his beautiful faceandhisbeautifulsoul,hewasa thing to wonder at. It wasnomatterhowitallended,orwas destined to end.Hewas

like one of those graciousfiguresinapageantoraplay,whosejoysseemtoberemotefromone,butwhose sorrowsstirone’ssenseofbeauty,andwhose wounds are like redroses.br

Soul and body, body andsoul—how mysterious theywere! There was animalisminthesoul,andthebodyhadits moments of spirituality.The senses could refine, and

the intellect could degrade.Who could say where thefleshlyimpulseceased,orthepsychical impulse began?How shallow were thearbitrary definitions ofordinary psychologists! Andyet how difficult to decidebetween the claims of thevariousschools!Wasthesoulashadowseated in thehouseofsin?Orwasthebodyreallyin the soul, as Giordano

Bruno thought?9 Theseparation of spirit frommatterwasamystery,andtheunion of spirit with matterwasamysteryalso.He began to wonder

whether he could ever makepsychology so absolute ascience that each little springof life would be revealed tous. As it was, we alwaysmisunderstoodourselves,andrarely understood others.

Experiencewas of no ethicalvalue.Itwasmerelythenamemengave to theirmistakes.bsMoralists had, as a rule,regarded it as a mode ofwarning,hadclaimed for it acertain ethical efficacy in theformation of character, hadpraised it as something thattaught uswhat to follow andshoweduswhattoavoid.Buttherewasnomotivepowerinexperience. Itwas as littleof

anactivecauseasconscienceitself. All that it reallydemonstrated was that ourfuture would be the same asour past, and that the sinwehad done once, and withloathing, wewould domanytimes,andwithjoy.Itwascleartohimthatthe

experimentalmethodwas theonly method by which onecould arrive at any scientificanalysis of the passions; and

certainly Dorian Gray was asubjectmadetohishand,andseemed to promise rich andfruitful results. His suddenmadloveforSibylVanewasa psychological phenomenonof no small interest. Therewas no doubt that curiosityhad much to do with it—curiosity and the desire fornew experiences; yet it wasnotasimplebutratheraverycomplex passion.What therewas in it of the purely

sensuous instinct of boyhoodhad been transformed by theworkings of the imagination,changed into something thatseemed to the lad himself tobe remote from sense, andwas for that very reason allthe more dangerous. It wasthe passions about whoseoriginwe deceived ourselvesthat tyrannizedmost stronglyoverus.Ourweakestmotiveswere those of whose naturewe were conscious. It often

happened that when wethought we wereexperimenting on others wewere really experimentingonourselves.While Lord Henry sat

dreaming on these things, aknock came to the door, andhis valet entered, andreminded him it was time todress for dinner. He got upandlookedoutintothestreet.The sunset had smitten into

scarlet gold the upperwindows of the housesopposite. The panes glowedlike plates of heated metal.The sky above was like afadedrose.Hethoughtofhisfriend’s young fiery-coloredlife,andwonderedhowitwasallgoingtoend.When he arrived home,

about half-past twelveo’clock, he saw a telegramlying on the hall table. He

opened it and found it wasfrom Dorian Gray. It was totell him that hewas engagedtobemarriedtoSibylVane.

ChapterV.

“Mother, mother, I am sohappy!” whispered the girl,buryingherfaceinthelapofthe faded, tired-lookingwoman who, with backturned to the shrill intrusivelight, was sitting in the onearm-chair that their dingy

sitting-roomcontained.“Iamsohappy!”sherepeated,“andyoumustbehappytoo!”Mrs.Vanewinced,andput

her thin bismuth-whitenedbthandsonherdaughter’shead.“Happy!” she echoed, “I amonlyhappy,Sibyl,whenIseeyou act. You must not thinkof anything but your acting.Mr. Isaacs has been verygood to us, andwe owe himmoney.”

The girl looked up andpouted. “Money, mother!”shecried.“Whatdoesmoneymatter? Love is more thanmoney.”“Mr. Isaacs has advanced

usfiftypoundstopayoffourdebts, and to get a properoutfit for James. You mustnot forget that, Sibyl. Fiftypounds is a very large sum.Mr. Isaacs has been mostconsiderate.”

“He is not a gentleman,mother,andIhatethewayhetalks to me,” said the girl,rising to her feet, and goingovertothewindow.“I don’t know how we

could manage without him,”answered the elder woman,querulously.SibylVanetossedherhead

andlaughed.“Wedon’twanthimanymore,mother.PrinceCharming rules life for us

now.” Then she paused. Arose shook in her blood, andshadowed her cheeks. Quickbreathpartedthepetalsofherlips. They trembled. Somesouthern wind of passionswept over her, and stirredthe dainty folds of her dress.“I love him,” she said,simply.“Foolish child! foolish

child!”was the parrot-phraseflung in answer. Thewaving

of crooked, false-jeweledfingers gave an addedgrotesquenesstothewords.Thegirllaughedagain.The

joyofacagedbirdwasinhervoice. Her eyes caught themelody, and echoed it inradiance: then closed for amoment, as though to hidetheir secret. When theyopened, the mist of a dreamhadpassedacrossthem.Thin-lippedWisdomspoke

at her from the worn chair,hinted at prudence, quotedfrom that book of cowardicewhose author apes the nameofcommonsense.Shedidnotlisten. She was free in herprisonofpassion.Herprince,Prince Charming, was withher. She had called onMemory to remake him. Shehadsenthersoultosearchforhim, and it had brought himback. His kiss burned againupon her mouth. Her eylids

werewarmwithhisbreath.Then Wisdom altered its

method and spoke of espialand discovery. This youngman might be rich. If so,marriage should be thoughtof. Against the shell of herear broke the waves ofworldly cunning. The arrowsofcraft shotbyher.Shesawthe thin lips moving, andsmiled.Suddenly she felt the need

to speak. The wordy silencetroubled her. “Mother!mother!” she cried, “whydoes he loveme somuch? Iknowwhy I lovehim. I lovehim because he is like whatLove himself should be. Butwhatdoesheseeinme?Iamnotworthyofhim.Andyet—why, I cannot tell—though Ifeel so much beneath him, Idon’t feel humble. I feelproud,terriblyproud.Mother,did you love my father as I

lovePrinceCharming?”The elder woman grew

pale beneath the coarsepowder that daubed hercheeks, and her dry lipstwitched with a spasm ofpain. Sibyl rushed to her,flung her arms around herneck, and kissed her.“Forgiveme,mother. Iknowitpainsyou to talkaboutourfather. But it only pains youbecause you loved him so

much. Don’t look so sad. Iam as happy to-day as youwere twenty years ago. Ah!letmebehappyforever!”“My child, you are far too

young to think of falling inlove. Besides, what do youknow of this young man?You don’t even know hisname. The whole thing ismostinconvenient,andreally,whenJamesisgoingawaytoAustralia,andIhavesomuch

to think of, I must say thatyoushouldhaveshownmoreconsideration. However, as Isaidbefore,ifheisrich...”“Ah! mother, mother, let

mebehappy!”Mrs. Vane glanced at her,

and with one of those falsetheatrical gestures that sooften become a mode ofsecond nature to a stage-player, clasped her in herarms. At this moment the

dooropened,andayoungladwith rough brown hair cameinto the room.Hewas thick-set of figure, and his handsand feet were large, andsomewhat clumsy inmovement. He was not sofinely bred as his sister.Onewould hardly have guessedthe close relationship thatexisted between them. Mrs.Vane fixed her eyes on him,andintensifiedhersmile.Shementally elevated her son to

the dignity of an audience.She felt sure that the tableauwasinteresting.“You might keep some of

your kisses for me, Sibyl, Ithink,” said the lad, with agood-naturedgrumble.“Ah! but you don’t like

beingkissed,Jim,”shecried.“You are a dreadful oldbear.”Andsheranacrosstheroomandhuggedhim.JamesVanelookedintohis

sister’s face with tenderness.“Iwantyoutocomeoutwithme for awalk,Sibyl. I don’tsuppose I shall ever see thishorrid London again. I amsureIdon’twantto.”“My son, don’t say such

dreadful things,” murmuredMrs. Vane, taking up atawdrytheatricaldress,withasigh, and beginning to patchit. She felt a littledisappointed that he had not

joined the group. It wouldhave increased the theatricalpicturesqueness of thesituation.“Whynot,mother? Imean

it.”“You pain me, my son. I

trust you will return fromAustralia in a position ofaffluence. I believe there isno societyof anykind in theColonies, nothing that Iwould call society; so when

you have made your fortuneyou must come back andassertyourselfinLondon.”“Society!” muttered the

lad. “I don’t want to knowanything about that. I shouldlike tomake somemoney totake you and Sibyl off thestage.Ihateit!”“Oh, Jim!” said Sibyl,

laughing, “how unkind ofyou!Butareyoureallygoingforawalkwithme?Thatwill

be nice! I was afraid youwere going to say good-byeto some of your friends—toTom Hardy, who gave youthat hideous pipe, or NedLangton, who makes fun ofyouforsmoking it. It isverysweet of you to let me haveyour last afternoon. Whereshallwego?LetusgotothePark.”“I am too shabby,” he

answered, frowning. “Only

swellpeoplegotothePark.”“Nonsense, Jim,” she

whispered, stroking thesleeveofhiscoat.Hehesitatedforamoment.

“Very well,” he said at last,“but don’t be too longdressing.” She danced out ofthe door.One could hear hersinging as she ran up-stairs.Her little feet patteredoverhead.He walked up and down

the room two or three times.Then he turned to the stillfigure in the chair. “Mother,are my things ready?” heasked.“Quite ready, James,” she

answered, keeping her eyeson her work. For somemonthspastshehadfeltillateasewhenshewasalonewiththis rough, stern son of hers.Her shallow, secret naturewas troubledwhen theireyes

met.Sheusedtowonderifhesuspected anything. Thesilence,forhemadenootherobservation, becameintolerable to her. She beganto complain. Women defendthemselves by attacking, justas they attackby suddenandstrange surrenders. “I hopeyouwillbecontented,James,withyour seafaring life,” shesaid. “You must rememberthat it is your own choice.You might have entered a

solicitor’s office. Solicitorsbuare a very respectable class,and in thecountryoftendinewiththebestfamilies.”“I hate offices, and I hate

clerks,” he replied. “But youarequiteright.Ihavechosenmy own life. All I say is,watch over Sibyl. Don’t lether come to any harm.Mother,youmustwatchoverher.”“James, you really talk

very strangely. Of course IwatchoverSibyl.”“Ihearagentlemancomes

everynighttothetheater,andgoesbehind to talk toher. Isthatright?Whataboutthat?”“You are speaking about

things you don’t understand,James. In the profession weare accustomed to receive agreat deal of most gratifyingattention. I myself used toreceivemanybouquetsatone

time. That was when actingwasreallyunderstood.AsforSibyl, I do not know atpresent whether herattachment is serious or not.Butthereisnodoubtthattheyoung man in question is aperfect gentleman. He isalways most polite to me.Besides, he has theappearanceofbeingrich,andthe flowers he sends arelovely.”

“Youdon’tknowhisname,though,”saidthelad,harshly.“No,” answered his

mother, with a placidexpression on her face. “Hehas not yet revealed his realname. I think it is quiteromantic of him. He isprobably a member of thearistocracy.”James Vane bit his lip.

“Watch over Sibyl, mother!”hecried,“watchoverher!”

“My son, you distress mevery much. Sibyl is alwaysunder my special care. Ofcourse, if this gentleman iswealthy, there is no reasonwhy she should not contractan alliance with him. I trusthe is one of the aristocracy.He has all the appearance ofit, I must say. It might be amost brilliant marriage forSibyl. They would make acharming couple. His goodlooks are really quite

remarkable; everybodynoticesthem.”The lad muttered

something to himself, anddrummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers.He had just turned round tosaysomething,whenthedooropened,andSibylranin.“How serious you both

are!” she cried. “What is thematter?”“Nothing,”heanswered.“I

suppose one must be serioussometimes. Good-bye,mother;Iwillhavemydinnerat fiveo’clock.Everything ispacked, except my shirts, soyouneednottrouble.”“Good-bye, my son,” she

answered, with a bow ofstrainedstateliness.She was extremely

annoyed at the tone he hadadopted with her, and therewas something in his look

thathadmadeherfeelafraid.“Kissme,mother,”saidthe

girl. Her flower-like lipstouched the withered cheek,andwarmeditsfrost.“My child! my child!”

cried Mrs. Vane, looking upto the ceiling in searchof animaginarygallery.“Come, Sibyl,” said her

brother,impatiently.Hehatedhismother’saffectations.They went out into the

flickering wind-blown sun-light, and strolled down thedreary Euston Road.bv Thepassers-byglancedinwonderat the sullen, heavy youth,who, in coarse, ill-fittingclothes, was in the companyof such a graceful, refined-looking girl. He was like acommon gardener walkingwitharose.Jim frowned from time to

time when he caught the

inquisitive glance of somestranger. He had that dislikeof being stared at whichcomesongeniuseslateinlife,and never leaves thecommonplace. Sibyl,however, was quiteunconsciousof theeffect shewasproducing.Her lovewastrembling in laughter on herlips. She was thinking ofPrince Charming, and, thatshemightthinkofhimallthemore,shedidnottalkofhim,

butprattledonabouttheshipin which Jim was going tosail, about the gold he wascertain to find, about thewonderful heiress whose lifehe was to save from thewicked, red-shirtedbushrangers.bw For he wasnot to remain a sailor, or asupercargo,bxorwhateverhewas going to be. Oh, no! Asailor’s existence wasdreadful.Fancybeingcooped

up in a horrid ship, with thehoarse, humpbacked wavestrying to get in, and a blackwind blowing the mastsdown, and tearing the sailsinto long, screaming ribands!Hewas to leave thevesselatMelbourne,bidapolitegood-byetothecaptain,andgooffat once to the gold-fields.Before a week was over hewas to come across a largenugget of pure gold, thelargest nugget that had ever

beendiscovered, andbring itdowntothecoastinawagonguarded by six mountedpolicemen. The bushrangerswere to attack them threetimes, and be defeated withimmense slaughter. Or, no.Hewasnottogotothegold-fieldsatall.Theywerehorridplaces, where men gotintoxicated, and shot eachother in barrooms, and usedbadlanguage.Hewastobeanice sheep-farmer, and one

evening, as he was ridinghome, he was to see thebeautifulheiressbeingcarriedoff by a robber on a blackhorse, and give chase, andrescue her. Of course shewould fall in love with him,and he with her, and theywould get married and comehome,andliveinanimmensehouse in London. Yes, thereweredelightfulthingsinstoreforhim.Buthemustbeverygoodandnotlosehistemper,

orspendhismoneyfoolishly.She was only a year olderthanhewas,butsheknewsomuch more of life. He mustbe sure, also, to write to herbyeverymail,and tosayhisprayers each night before hewent to sleep.Godwas verygood, and would watch overhim.Shewouldprayforhim,too, and in a few years hewould come back quite richandhappy.

The lad listened sulkily toher,andmadenoanswer.Hewas heart-sick at leavinghome.Yet it was not this alone

that made him gloomy andmorose. Inexperiencedthoughhewas,hehad still astrongsenseof thedangerofSibyl’s position. This youngdandywhowasmaking loveto her could mean her nogood. He was a gentleman,

and he hated him for that,hated him through somecurious race-instinct forwhich he could not account,andwhichforthatreasonwasallthemoredominantinhim.Hewasconsciousalsoof theshallownessandvanityofhismother’s nature, and in thatsaw infinite peril for Sibyland Sibyl’s happiness.Children begin by lovingtheir parents; as they growolder they judge them;

sometimes they forgivethem.by

His mother! He hadsomethingonhismindtoaskofher,somethingthathehadbroodedon formanymonthsof silence. A chance phrasethat he had heard at thetheater, a whispered sneerthathad reachedhisearsonenightashewaitedatthestagedoor had set loose a train ofhorrible thoughts. He

remembered it as if it hadbeen the lash of a hunting-crop across his face. Hisbrows knit together into awedge-likefurrow,andwithatwitchofpainhebithisunderlip.“Youarenot listening toa

wordIamsaying,Jim,”criedSibyl, “and I ammaking themostdelightfulplansforyourfuture.Dosaysomething.”“What do youwantme to

say?”“Oh, that you will be a

goodboy,andnotforgetus,”sheanswered,smilingathim.Heshruggedhisshoulders.

“You are more likely toforgetmethanIamtoforgetyou,Sibyl.”Sheflushed.“Whatdoyou

mean,Jim?”sheasked.“You have a new friend, I

hear. Who is he? Why haveyou not told me about him?

Hemeansyounogood.”“Stop, Jim!” she

exclaimed.“Youmustnotsayanything about him. I lovehim.”“Why, you don’t even

know his name,” answeredthelad.“Whoishe?Ihavearighttoknow.”“He is called Prince

Charming.Don’tyoulikethename?Oh!yousillyboy!youshouldnever forget it. If you

only saw him, you wouldthinkhimthemostwonderfulperson in the world. Somedayyouwillmeethim:whenyou come back fromAustralia. You will like himso much. Everybody likeshim, and I . . . love him. Iwish you could come to thetheater to-night. He is goingtobe there, and I am toplayJuliet.Oh!howIshallplayit!Fancy,Jim, tobein loveandplay Juliet! To have him

sitting there! To play for hisdelight! I am afraid I mayfrighten the company—frighten or enthrall them. Tobe in love is tosurpassone’sself.PoordreadfulMr.Isaacswill be shouting ‘Genius!’ tohis loafers at thebar.Hehaspreachedmeas adogma; to-nighthewillannouncemeasarevelation.Ifeelit.Anditisall his, his only, PrinceCharming, my wonderfullover,mygodofgraces.ButI

am poor beside him. Poor?Whatdoesthatmatter?Whenpovertycreepsinatthedoor,love flies in through thewindow. Our proverbs wantrewriting.Theyweremadeinwinter,anditissummernow;springtimeforme,I think—avery dance of blossoms inblueskies.”“He is a gentleman,” said

thelad,suddenly.“A Prince!” she cried,

musically. “What more doyouwant?”“Hewantstoenslaveyou.”“Ishudderatthethoughtof

beingfree.”“I want you to beware of

him.”“To see him is to worship

him, to know him is to trusthim.”“Sibyl, you aremad about

him.”She laughed, and took his

arm. “Youdear old Jim, youtalkasifyouwereahundred.Somedayyouwillbeinloveyourself.Thenyouwillknowwhat it is. Don’t look sosulky. Surely you should begladtothinkthat,thoughyouaregoingaway,youleavemehappierthanIhaveeverbeenbefore.Lifehasbeenhardforus both—terribly hard anddifficult. But it will bedifferentnow.Youaregoingto a new world, and I have

found one. Here are twochairs;letussitdownandseethesmartpeoplegoby.”They took their seatsamid

a crowd of watchers. Thetulip-bed across the roadflamedlikethrobbingringsoffire.Awhite dust, tremulouscloud of orris-rootbz itseemed, hung in the pantingair. The brightly coloredparasols danced and dippedlikemonstrousbutterflies.

She made her brother talkof himself, his hopes, hisprospects. He spoke slowlyandwith effort. They passedwordstoeachotherasplayersatagamepasscounters.Sibylfelt oppressed.She couldnotcommunicateherjoy.Afaintsmile curving that sullenmouth was all the echo shecould win. After some timeshe became silent. Suddenlyshe caught a glimpse ofgoldenhairandlaughinglips,

and in an open carriagewithtwoladiesDorianGraydrovepast.She started to her feet.

“Thereheis!”shecried.“Who?”saidJimVane.“Prince Charming,” she

answered, looking after thevictoria.ca

He jumped up, and seizedher roughly by the arm.“Show him to me. Which ishe?Pointhimout.Imustsee

him!” he exclaimed. But atthat moment the Duke ofBerwick’s four-in-hand cb

came between, and when ithad left the space clear, thecarriagehadsweptoutof thePark.“He is gone,” murmured

Sibyl,sadly.“Iwishyouhadseenhim.”“IwishIhad,forassureas

thereisaGodinheaven,ifheever does you any wrong, I

shallkillhim.”She looked at him in

horror. He repeated hiswords.Theycuttheairlikeadagger. The people roundbegan to gape. A ladystandingclosetohertittered.“Come away, Jim; come

away,” she whispered. Hefollowedherdoggedlyasshepassedthroughthecrowd.Hefeltgladatwhathehadsaid.When they reached the

Achilles Statuecc she turnedround. Therewas pity in hereyes thatbecame laughteronher lips. She shook her headathim.“Youarefoolish,Jim,utterly foolish; a bad-temperedboy,thatisall.Howcan you say such horriblethings?Youdon’tknowwhatyou are talking about. Youare simply jealous andunkind.Ah!Iwishyouwouldfall in love. Love makes

people good, and what yousaidwaswicked.”“I am sixteen,” he

answered,“andIknowwhatIam about.Mother is no helpto you. She doesn’tunderstand how to look afteryou. I wish now that I wasnotgoingtoAustraliaatall.Ihave a great mind to chuckthewhole thing up. Iwould,if my articles hadn’t beensigned.”

“Oh, don’t be so serious,Jim. You are like one of theheroes of those sillymelodramas mother used tobe so fondof acting in. I amnotgoingtoquarrelwithyou.I have seen him, and oh! tosee him is perfect happiness.We won’t quarrel. I knowyou would never harm anyoneIlove,wouldyou?”“Not as long as you love

him, I suppose,” was the

sullenanswer.“I shall love him forever,”

shecried.“Andhe?”“Forever,too!”“Hehadbetter.”Sheshrankfromhim.Then

shelaughedandputherhandonhisarm.Hewasmerelyaboy.At theMarbleArchcd they

hailedanomnibus,whichleft

them close to their shabbyhome in the Euston Road. Itwas after five o’clock, andSibyl had to lie down for acoupleofhoursbeforeacting.Jim insisted that she shoulddo so.He said thathewouldsooner part with her whentheirmotherwasnotpresent.Shewouldbesure tomakeascene,andhedetestedscenesofeverykind.In Sibyl’s own room they

parted.Therewasjealousyinthe lad’s heart, and a fierce,murderous hatred of thestrangerwho,as itseemedtohim,hadcomebetweenthem.Yet, when her arms wereflungroundhisneck,andherfingers strayed through hishair, he softened, and kissedherwithrealaffection.Therewere tears in his eyes as hewentdown-stairs.Hismotherwaswaitingfor

him below. She grumbled athis unpunctuality as heentered.Hemadenoanswer,but sat down to his meagermeal.The fliesbuzzed roundthe table, and crawled overthestainedcloth.Throughtherumble of om nibuses, andthe clatter of street-cabs, hecould hear the droning voicedevouring each minute thatwaslefttohim.After some time he thrust

away his plate, and put hisheadinhishands.Hefeltthathe had a right to know. Itshouldhavebeen told tohimbefore, if it was as hesuspected. Leaden with fear,his mother watched him.Words droppedmechanicallyfromher lips.A tattered lacehandkerchief twitched in herfingers. When the clockstruck six, he got up, andwent to the door. Then heturned back, and looked at

her. Their eyes met. In hershe saw a wild appeal formercy.Itenragedhim.“Mother, Ihavesomething

toaskyou,”hesaid.Hereyeswandered vaguely about theroom. She made no answer.“Tell me the truth. I have aright to know. Were youmarriedtomyfather?”She heaved a deep sigh. It

was a sigh of relief. Theterriblemoment, themoment

thatnightandday,forweeksandmonths,shehaddreaded,hadcomeat last,andyetshefeltnoterror.Indeed,insomemeasure it was adisappointment to her. Thevulgar directness of thequestion called for a directanswer.Thesituationhadnotbeen gradually led up to. Itwascrude.Itremindedherofabadrehearsal.“No,” she answered,

wondering at the harshsimplicityoflife.“My father was a

scoundrel, then!” cried thelad,clenchinghisfists.She shook her head. “I

knew he was not free. Weloved each other very much.If he had lived, he wouldhave made provision for us.Don’t speak against him,myson.Hewasyour father, anda gentleman. Indeed, he was

highlyconnected.”An oath broke from his

lips. “I don’t care formyself!” he exclaimed, “butdon’t let Sibyl . . . It is agentleman, isn’t it,who is inlovewith her, or says he is?Highly connected too, Isuppose?”For a moment a hideous

sense of humiliation cameover the woman. Her headdrooped. Shewiped her eyes

with shaking hands. “Sibylhasamother,”shemurmured;“Ihadnone.”The lad was touched. He

went toward her, andstoopingdownhekissedher.“I am sorry if I have painedyou by asking about myfather,” he said, “but I couldnot help it. I must go now.Good-bye. Don’t forget thatyouwill have only one childnowtolookafter,andbelieve

me that if this man wrongsmysister,Iwillfindoutwhohe is, track him down, andkill him like a dog. I swearit.”The exaggerated folly of

the threat, the passionategesture that accompanied it,themadmelodramaticwords,madelifeseemmorevividtoher.Shewasfamiliarwiththeatmosphere. She breathedmore freely, and for the first

time for many months shereally admired her son. Shewould have liked to havecontinued the scene on thesame emotional scale, but hecut her short. Trunks had tobecarrieddown,andmufflerslooked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in andout.Therewasthebargainingwith the cabman. Themoment was lost in vulgardetails.Itwaswitharenewedfeelingofdisappointmentthat

she waved the tattered lacehandkerchief from thewindow as her son droveaway.Shewasconsciousthata great opportunity had beenwasted. She consoled herselfby tellingSibylhowdesolateshe felt her life would be,now that she had only onechild to look after. Sheremembered the phrase. Ithadpleasedher.Ofthethreatshe said nothing. It wasvividly and dramatically

expressed. She felt that theywould all laugh at it someday.

ChapterVI.

Isupposeyouhaveheardthenews, Basil?” said LordHenry that evening, asHallward was shown into alittle private room at theBristol, where dinner hadbeenlaidforthree.“No,Harry,” answered the

artist,givinghishatandcoatto the bowing waiter. “Whatisit?Nothingaboutpolitics,Ihope?Theydon’tinterestme.There is hardly a singleperson in the House ofCommons worth painting,though many of them wouldbe the better for a littlewhitewashing.”“DorianGrayisengagedto

bemarried,”saidLordHenry,watchinghimashespoke.

Hallward started, and thenfrowned. “Dorian engaged tobe married!” he cried.“Impossible!”“Itisperfectlytrue.”“Towhom?”“To some little actress or

other.”“I can’t believe it. Dorian

isfartoosensible.”“Dorianisfar toowisenot

to do foolish things now andthen,mydearBasil.”

“Marriageishardlyathingthatonecandonowandthen,Harry.”“Except in America,”

rejoined Lord Henry,languidly. “But I didn’t saythathewasmarried.Isaidhewas engaged to be married.There is a great difference. Ihave a distinct remembranceof being married, but I havenorecollectionatallofbeingengaged. I am inclined to

think that I never wasengaged.”“But think of Dorian’s

birth, and position, andwealth.Itwouldbeabsurdforhim to marry so muchbeneathhim.”“Ifyouwanthim tomarry

this girl, tell him that, Basil.He is sure to do it, then.Whenever a man does athoroughly stupid thing, it isalways from the noblest

motives.”“I hope the girl is good,

Harry. I don’t want to seeDorian tied to some vilecreature who might degradehis nature and ruin hisintellect.”“Oh, she is better than

good—she is beautiful,”murmured Lord Henry,sipping a glass of vermouthand orange bitters. “Doriansayssheisbeautiful,andheis

not oftenwrong about thingsof that kind.Your portrait ofhim has quickened hisappreciation of the personalappearanceofotherpeople.Ithas had that excellent effect,among others.We are to seeher to-night, if that boydoesn’t forget hisappointment.”“Areyouserious?”“Quite serious, Basil. I

should be miserable if I

thoughtIshouldeverbemoreserious than I am at thepresentmoment.”“Butdoyouapproveof it,

Harry?” asked the painter,walking up and down theroom,andbitinghislip.“Youcan’t approve of it, possibly.Itissomesillyinfatuation.”“I never approve, or

disapprove, of anything now.Itisanabsurdattitudetotaketoward life. We are not sent

into the world to air ourmoralprejudices.Inevertakeany notice of what commonpeople say, and I neverinterferewithwhat charmingpeople do. If a personalityfascinatesme,whatevermodeofexpression thatpersonalityselectsisabsolutelydelightfulto me. Dorian Gray falls inlovewithabeautifulgirlwhoacts Juliet, and proposes tomarry her. Why not? If he

weddedMessalinacehewouldbe none the less interesting.You know I am not achampion of marriage. Thereal drawback to marriage isthat it makes one unselfish.And unselfish people arecolorless. They lackindividuality. Still, there arecertain temperaments thatmarriage makes morecomplex. They retain theiregotism, and add to it many

otheregos.Theyareforcedtohavemorethanonelife.Theybecome more highlyorganized, and to be highlyorganized is, I should fancy,theobjectofman’sexistence.Besides, every experience isof value, and, whatever onemay say against marriage, itis certainly an experience. Ihope that Dorian Gray willmake this girl his wife,passionatelyadoreherforsixmonths, and then suddenly

become fascinated by someone else. He would be awonderfulstudy.”“You don’t mean a single

word of all that, Harry, youknow you don’t. If DorianGray’s life were spoiled, noone would be sorrier thanyourself.Youaremuchbetterthanyoupretendtobe.”LordHenry laughed. “The

reasonweall like to thinksowell of others is that we are

all afraid for ourselves. Thebasis of optimism is sheerterror. We think that we aregenerous because we creditour neighbor with thepossession of those virtuesthatare likely tobeabenefitto us. We praise the bankerthat we may overdraw ouraccount, and find goodqualities in the highwaymaninthehopethathemayspareour pockets. I meaneverything that I have said. I

have the greatest contemptforoptimism.Asforaspoiledlife,nolifeisspoiledbutonewhose growth is arrested. Ifyouwanttomaranature,youhavemerely to reform it. Asfor marriage, of course thatwould be silly, but there areother and more interestingbonds between men andwomen. I will certainlyencourage them. They havethe charm of beingfashionable. But here is

Dorian himself. He will tellyoumorethanIcan.”“My dear Harry, my dear

Basil, you must bothcongratulate me!” said thelad, throwingoff his eveningcape with its satin-linedwings, and shaking each ofhis friends by the hand inturn. “I have never been sohappy.Ofcourseitissudden:allreallydelightfulthingsare.Andyet itseemstometobe

the one thing I have beenlooking for all my life.” Hewas flushed with excitementand pleasure, and lookedextraordinarilyhandsome.“Ihopeyouwillalwaysbe

very happy, Dorian,” saidHallward, “but I don’t quiteforgiveyoufornothavingletme know of yourengagement. You let Harryknow.”“And I don’t forgive you

for being late for dinner,”broke inLordHenry, puttinghis hand on the lad’sshoulder, and smiling as hespoke.“Come,letussitdownand try what the new chefhereislike,andthenyouwilltellushowitallcameabout.”“There is really not much

to tell,”criedDorian,as theytook their seats at the smallround table. “Whathappenedwas simply this. After I left

youyesterdayevening,Harry,Idressed,hadsomedinneratthat little Italian restaurant inRupert Streetcf youintroduced me to, and wentdown at eight o’clock to thetheater. Sibyl was playingRosalind.cg Of course thescenerywasdreadful,andtheOrlandoch absurd. But Sibyl!You should have seen her!When she came on in herboy’s clothes she was

perfectly wonderful. Shewore a moss-colored velvetjerkinwithcinnamonsleeves,slim brown cross-garteredhose,adaintylittlegreencapwith a hawk’s feather caughtin a jewel, and a hoodedcloaklinedwithdullred.Shehadneverseemedtomemoreexquisite. She had all thedelicate grace of thatTanagraci figurine that youhave in your studio, Basil.

Her hair clustered round herface likedark leaves roundapalerose.Asforheracting—well, you shall see her to-night. She is simply a bornartist. I sat in the dingy boxabsolutelyenthralled.Iforgotthat I was in London and inthe nineteenth century. Iwasawaywithmyloveinaforestthat no man had ever seen.After the performance wasoverIwentbehindandspoketo her. As we were sitting

together,suddenlytherecameintohereyesalookthatIhadnever seen there before. Mylips moved toward hers. Wekissed each other. I can’tdescribe toyouwhat I felt atthatmoment.Itseemedtomethat all my life had beennarrowedtooneperfectpointof rose-colored joy. Shetrembled all over, and shooklike a white narcissus. Thensheflungherselfonherkneesand kissed my hands. I feel

that I should not tell you allthis, but I can’t help it. Ofcourse our engagement is adeadsecret.Shehasnoteventold her ownmother. I don’tknowwhatmyguardianswillsay.LordRadleyissuretobefurious. I don’t care. I shallbeofage in less thanayear,andthenIcandowhatIlike.I have been right, Basil,haven’tI,totakemyloveoutofpoetry,andtofindmywifein Shakespeare’s plays? Lips

that Shakespeare taught tospeak have whispered theirsecret in my ear. I have hadthe arms of Rosalind aroundme, and kissed Juliet on themouth.”“Yes, Dorian, I suppose

you were right,” saidHallward,slowly.“Have you seen her to-

day?”askedLordHenry.Dorian Gray shook his

head. “I left her in the forest

of Arden, I shall find her inanorchardinVerona.”Lord Henry sipped his

champagne in a meditativemanner. “At what particularpoint did you mention theword marriage, Dorian? andwhat did she say in answer?Perhaps you forgot all aboutit.”“My dear Harry, I did not

treat it as a businesstransaction, and I did not

make any formal proposal. Itoldher that I lovedher, andshe said she was not worthyto be my wife. Not worthy!Why, the whole world isnothingtomecomparedwithher.”“Women are wonderfully

practical,” murmured LordHenry—“much morepractical than we are. Insituations of that kind weoften forget to say anything

about marriage, and theyalwaysremindus.”Hallward laid his hand

uponhis arm. “Don’t,Harry.You have annoyed Dorian.He is not like othermen.Hewould never bring miseryupon any one. His nature istoofineforthat.”Lord Henry looked across

the table. “Dorian is neverannoyed with me,” heanswered. “I asked the

question for the best reasonpossible, for the only reason,indeed, that excuses one forasking any question—simplecuriosity.Ihaveatheorythatit is always the women whopropose to us, and not wewhoproposetothewomen—except, of course, inmiddle-classlife.Butthenthemiddleclassesarenotmodern.”Dorian Gray laughed, and

tossed his head. “You are

quite incorrigible, Harry; butIdon’tmind.It is impossibleto be angry with you.Whenyou see Sibyl Vane youwillfeel that the man who couldwrongherwouldbeabeast—a beast without a heart. Icannot understand how anyone can wish to shame thething he loves. I love SibylVane.Iwanttoplaceheronapedestal of gold, and to seetheworldworshipthewomanwho is mine. What is

marriage? An irrevocablevow.Youmockatitforthat.Ah! don’t mock. It is anirrevocablevowthatIwanttotake. Her trust makes mefaithful, her beliefmakesmegood.When I amwithher, Iregretallthatyouhavetaughtme. I become different fromwhat you have knownme tobe. I am changed, and themere touch of Sibyl Vane’shand makes me forget youand all your wrong,

fascinating, poisonous,delightfultheories.”“And those are . . . ?”

asked Lord Henry, helpinghimselftosomesalad.“Oh, your theories about

life,yourtheoriesaboutlove,your theories about pleasure.All your theories, in fact,Harry.”“Pleasure is the only thing

worthhavingatheoryabout,”he answered, in his slow,

melodious voice. “But I amafraid I cannot claim mytheoryasmyown.ItbelongstoNature,nottome.Pleasureis Nature’s test, her sign ofapproval.Whenwearehappywe are always good, butwhenwearegoodwearenotalwayshappy.”“Ah! but what do you

mean by good?” cried BasilHallward.“Yes,” echoed Dorian,

leaningbackinhischair,andlooking at Lord Henry overthe heavy clusters of purple-lipped irises that stood in thecenter of the table, “what doyoumeanbygood,Harry?”“To be good is to be in

harmonywithone’s self,” hereplied, touching the thinstem of his glass with hispale, fine pointed fingers.“Discordistobeforcedtobein harmony with others.

One’s own life—that is theimportant thing. As for thelives of one’s neighbors, ifonewishes to be a prig or aPuritan, one can flaunt one’smoral views about them, butthey are not one’s concern.Besides, Individualism hasreallythehigheraim.Modernmoralityconsistsinacceptingthe standard of one’s age. Iconsider that for anyman ofculturetoacceptthestandardof his age is a form of the

grossestimmorality.”“But, surely, if one lives

merely for one’s self, Harry,one pays a terrible price fordoing so?” suggested thepainter.“Yes, we are overcharged

for everything nowadays. Ishould fancy that the realtragedy of the poor is thatthey can afford nothing butself-denial. Beautiful sins,like beautiful things, are the

privilegeoftherich.”“One has to pay in other

waysbutmoney.”“What sort of ways,

Basil?”“Oh! I should fancy in

remorse, in suffering, in . . .well, in the consciousness ofdegradation.”Lord Henry shrugged his

shoulders. “My dear fellow,mediævalartischarming,butmediævalemotionsareoutof

date. One can use them infiction, of course. But thenthe only things that one canuse in fiction are the thingsthat onehas ceased to use infact.Believeme,nocivilizedman ever regrets a pleasure,and no uncivilized man everknowswhatapleasureis.”“Iknowwhatpleasureis!”

cried Dorian Gray. “It is toadoresomeone.”“That is certainly better

than being adored,” heanswered, toying with somefruits. “Being adored is anuisance.Womentreatusjustas Humanity treats its gods.They worship us, and arealways bothering us to dosomethingforthem.”“I should have said that

whatever they ask for theyhad first given to us,”murmured the lad, gravely.“They create Love in our

natures.Theyhave a right todemanditback.”“That is quite true,

Dorian,”criedHallward.“Nothing is ever quite

true,”saidLordHenry.“This is,” interrupted

Dorian. “You must admit,Harry, that women give tomen the very gold of theirlives.”“Possibly,”hesighed,“but

they invariably want it back

in such very small change.Thatistheworry.Women,assome witty Frenchman onceput it, inspire us with thedesiretodomasterpieces,andalways prevent us fromcarryingthemout.”“Harry,youaredreadful!I

don’tknowwhyIlikeyousomuch.”“Youwill always likeme,

Dorian,” he replied. “Willyou have some coffee, you

fellows?—Waiter, bringcoffee, and fine-champagne,cj and some cigarettes. No,don’t mind the cigarettes; Ihave some.—Basil, I can’tallow you to smoke cigars.Youmusthaveacigarette.Acigaretteistheperfecttypeofa perfect pleasure. It isexquisite, and it leaves oneunsatisfied. What more canone want? Yes, Dorian, youwill always be fond ofme. I

represent to you all the sinsyou have never had thecouragetocommit.”“What nonsense you talk,

Harry!”criedthelad,takingalight from a fire-breathingsilver dragon that the waiterhadplacedon the table. “Letus go down to the theater.When Sibyl comes on thestage you will have a newideal of life. She willrepresent something to you

thatyouhaveneverknown.”“I have known

everything,”saidLordHenry,with a tired look in his eyes,“but I amalways ready for anew emotion. I am afraid,however, that, for me at anyrate, there is no such thing.Still,yourwonderfulgirlmaythrillme.Iloveacting.Itissomuchmorerealthanlife.Letusgo.Dorian,youwillcomewithme.Iamsosorry,Basil,

butthereisonlyroomfortwoin thebrougham.ckYoumustfollowusinahansom.”They got up and put on

their coats, sipping theircoffee standing. The painterwas silent and preoccupied.Therewasagloomoverhim.He could not bear thismarriage,andyetitseemedtohim to be better than manyother things that might havehappened. After a few

minutes, they all passeddown-stairs.He drove off byhimself, as had beenarranged, and watched theflashing lights of the littlebrougham in front of him.Astrange sense of loss cameoverhim.Hefelt thatDorianGraywouldneveragainbetohimallthathehadbeeninthepast. Life had come betweenthem.. . .Hiseyesdarkened,and the crowded, flaringstreets became blurred to his

eyes.When the cab drew upatthetheateritseemedtohimthat he had grown yearsolder.

ChapterVII.

For some reasonorother thehouse was crowded thatnight, and the fat Jewmanagerwhometthematthedoorwasbeamingfromeartoear with an oily, tremuloussmile. He escorted them totheir box with a sort of

pompous humility, wavinghis fat jeweled hands, andtalkingatthetopofhisvoice.Dorian Gray loathed himmore than ever.He felt as ifhe had come to look forMirandaandhadbeenmetbyCaliban. cl LordHenry, uponthe other hand, rather likedhim (at least, he declared hedid), and insisted on shakinghimbythehand,andassuringhim that he was proud to

meet a man who haddiscovered a real genius andgone bankrupt over a poet.Hallward amused himselfwithwatchingthefacesinthepit. The heat was terriblyoppressive, and the hugesunlight flamed like amonstrous dahlia with petalsof yellow fire.The youths inthegalleryhadtakenofftheircoats and waistcoats andhung them over the side.They talked to each other

acrossthetheater,andsharedtheirorangeswiththetawdrygirls who sat beside them.Some women were laughingin the pit; their voices werehorriblyshrillanddiscordant.The sound of the popping ofcorkscamefromthebar.“Whataplacetofindone’s

divinityin!”saidLordHenry.“Yes,” answered Dorian

Gray. “It was here I foundher,andsheisdivinebeyond

all living things. When sheacts you will forgeteverything. These common,rough people, with theircoarse faces and brutalgestures, become quitedifferent when she is on thestage. They sit silently andwatch her. They weep andlaughasshewillsthemtodo.She makes them asresponsive as a violin. Shespiritualizes them, and onefeelsthattheyareofthesame

fleshandbloodasone’sself.”“Thesamefleshandblood

asone’sself!Oh,Ihopenot!”exclaimed Lord Henry, whowas scanning the occupantsof the gallery through hisopera-glass.“Don’tpayanyattentionto

him, Dorian,” said thepainter. “I understand whatyou mean, and I believe inthis girl. Any one you lovemust be marvelous, and any

girl that has the effect youdescribe must be fine andnoble. To spiritualize one’sage—that issomethingworthdoing. If this girl can give asoul to thosewhohave livedwithoutone,ifshecancreatethesenseofbeauty inpeoplewhoseliveshavebeensordidandugly,ifshecanstripthemof their selfishness and lendthem tears for sorrows thatare not their own, she isworthy of all your adoration,

worthyoftheadorationoftheworld.Thismarriage is quiteright. I did not think so atfirst, but I admit it now.Thegods made Sibyl Vane foryou. Without her you wouldhavebeenincomplete.”“Thanks, Basil,” answered

Dorian Gray, pressing hishand.“Iknewthatyouwouldunderstand me. Harry is socynical, he terrifies me. Buthere is the orchestra. It is

quite dreadful, but it onlylasts for about five minutes.Then the curtain rises, andyouwillseethegirltowhomIamgoingtogiveallmylife,to whom I have giveneverything that is good inme.”A quarter of an hour

afterward, amid anextraordinary turmoil ofapplause,SibylVanesteppedon to thestage.Yes,shewas

certainly lovely to look at—oneoftheloveliestcreatures,Lord Henry thought, that hehad ever seen. There wassomethingof the fawn inhershygraceandstartledeyes.Afaint blush, like the shadowofaroseinamirrorofsilver,came to her cheeks as sheglanced at the crowded,enthusiastic house. Shesteppedbackafewpaces,andher lips seemed to tremble.Basil Hallward leaped to his

feet and began to applaud.Motionless, and as one in adream, sat Dorian Gray,gazing at her. Lord Henrypeered through his glasses,murmuring, “Charming!charming!”The scene was the hall of

Capulet’s house, and Romeoin his pilgrim’s dress hadenteredwithMercutioandhisother friends.Theband,suchasitwas,struckupafewbars

of music, and the dancebegan.Through thecrowdofungainly, shabbily dressedactors,SibylVanemovedlikeacreaturefromafinerworld.Her body swayed, while shedanced, as a plant swayed inthe water. The curves of herthroat were the curves of awhite lily.Herhands seemedtobemadeofcoolivory.Yet she was curiously

listless. She showed no sign

of joy when her eyes restedon Romeo. The few wordsshe had to speak—with thebrief dialogue that follows,were spoken in a thoroughlyartificial manner. The voicewas exquisite, but from thatpoint of view of tone it wasabsolutelyfalse.Itwaswrongin color. It took away all thelife from the verse. It madethepassionunreal.Good pilgrim, you do wrong

yourhandtoomuch,Which mannerly devotionshowsinthis;For saints have hands thatpilgrims’handsdotouch,And palm to palm is holypalmers’kiss—Dorian Gray grew pale as

he watched her. He waspuzzled and anxious.Neitherof his friends dared to sayanything to him.She seemedto them to be absolutely

incompetent. They werehorriblydisappointed.Yet they felt that the true

test of any Juliet is in thebalcony scene of the secondact. They waited for that. Ifshe failed there, there wasnothinginher.She looked charming as

she came out in themoonlight.Thatcouldnotbedenied. But the staginess ofher acting was unbearable,

and grew worse as she wenton. Her gestures becameabsurdly artificial. Sheoveremphasized everythingthat she had to say. Thebeautiful passage— wasdeclaimed with the painfulprecisionofaschool-girlwhohas been taught to recite bysomesecond-rateprofessorofelocution. When she leanedoverthebalconyandcametothose wonderful lines—shespoke the words as though

theyconveyednomeaningtoher. It was not nervousness.Indeed, so far from beingnervous, she was absolutelyself-contained. It was simplybad art. She was a completefailure.AlthoughIjoyinthee,Ihaveno joyof thiscontractto-night:It is too rash, too unadvised,toosudden;Too like the lightning, which

dothceasetobeEre one can say, “Itlightens.”Sweet,good-night!Thisbudoflovebysummer’sripeningbreathMay prove a beauteousflowerwhennextwemeet—Thou knowest the mask ofnightisonmyface,Else would a maiden blushbepaintmycheekFor that which thou hastheardmespeakto-night—

Even the common,uneducated audience of thepit and gallery lost theirinterest in theplay.Theygotrestless, and began to talkloudly and to whistle. TheJew manager, who wasstanding at the back of thedress-circle, stamped andswore with rage. The onlyperson unmovedwas the girlherself.When the second act was

over there came a storm ofhisses,andLordHenrygotupfromhischairandputonhiscoat. “She is quite beautiful,Dorian,” he said, “but shecan’tact.Letusgo.”“Iamgoingtoseetheplay

through,”answeredthelad,ina hard, bitter voice. “I amawfully sorry that I havemade you waste an evening,Harry. I apologize to youboth.”

“MydearDorian, I shouldthink Miss Vane was ill,”interrupted Hallward. “Wewillcomesomeothernight.”“I wish she was ill,” he

rejoined. “But she seems tome to be simply callous andcold.Shehasentirelyaltered.Last night she was a greatartist. This evening she ismerely a commonplace,mediocreactress.”“Don’t talk like that about

any one you love, Dorian.Love is a more wonderfulthingthanArt.”“They are both simply

formsofimitation,”remarkedLord Henry. “But do let usgo.Dorian,youmustnotstayhereanylonger.Itisnotgoodfor one’s morals to see badacting. Besides, I don’tsuppose you will want yourwife to act. So what does itmatter if sheplays Juliet like

a wooden doll? She is verylovely, and if she knows aslittle about life as she doesabout acting, she will be adelightful experience. Thereare only twokinds of peoplewho are really fascinating—people who know absolutelyeverything, and people whoknow absolutely nothing.Good heavens, my dear boy,don’t look so tragic! Thesecret of remaining young isnevertohaveanemotionthat

is unbecoming. Come to theclub with Basil and myself.Wewillsmokecigarettesanddrink to the beauty of SibylVane. She is beautiful.Whatmorecanyouwant?”“Go away, Harry,” cried

the lad, “I want to be alone!Basil,youmustgo.Ah!can’tyou see that my heart isbreaking?” The hot tearscame to his eyes. His lipstrembled, and, rushing to the

backofthebox,heleanedupagainst the wall, hiding hisfaceinhishands.“Let us go, Basil,” said

Lord Henry, with a strangetenderness in his voice, andthe two young men passedouttogether.A few moments afterward

the footlights flared up, andthe curtain rose on the thirdact.DorianGraywentbacktohis seat.He lookedpale, and

proud, and indifferent. Theplaydraggedon, and seemedinterminable. Half of theaudience went out, trampinginheavyboots,andlaughing.Thewholethingwasafiasco.The last act was played toalmost empty benches. Thecurtainwentdownonatitter,andsomegroans.As soon as it was over,

Dorian Gray rushed behindthe scenes into the

greenroom. The girl wasstanding there alone, with alook of triumph on her face.Her eyes were lit with anexquisite fire. There was aradiance about her. Herparted lipsweresmilingoversomesecretoftheirown.When he entered she

looked at him, and anexpression of infinite joycameoverher.“HowbadlyIacted to-night, Dorian!” she

cried.“Horribly!” he answered,

gazing at her in amazement—“horribly! It was dreadful.Areyouill?Youhavenoideawhatitwas.YouhavenoideawhatIsuffered.”The girl smiled. “Dorian,”

she answered, lingering overhis name with long-drawnmusicinhervoice,asthoughitweresweeterthanhoneytothe red petals of her mouth

—“Dorian, you should haveunderstood. But youunderstandnow,don’tyou?”“Understand what?” he

asked,angrily.“Why I was so bad to-

night.Why I shall always bebad. Why I shall never actwellagain.”Heshruggedhisshoulders.

“Youareill,Isuppose.Whenyouare ill you shouldn’t act.You make yourself

ridiculous. My friends werebored.Iwasbored.”Sheseemednottolistento

him. She was transfiguredwith joy. An ecstasy ofhappinessdominatedher.“Dorian, Dorian,” she

cried, “before I knew you,actingwas the one reality ofmy life. It was only in thetheater that I lived. I thoughtthat it was all true. I wasRosalind one night, and Por

tia the other. The joy ofBeatricewasmyjoy,andthesorrows of Cordelia weremine also.cm I believed ineverything. The commonpeople who acted with meseemed tome tobegod-like.The painted scenes were myworld. I knew nothing butshadows, and I thought themreal. You came—oh, mybeautiful love!—and youfreed my soul from prison.

You taught me what realityreally is. To-night, for thefirst time in my life, I sawthrough the hollowness, thesham, the silliness of theemptypageantinwhichIhadalways played. To-night, forthe first time, I becameconscious that the Romeowas hideous, and old, andpainted,thatthemoonlightintheorchardwasfalse,thatthescenery was vulgar, and thatthewordsIhadtospeakwere

unreal, were not my words,were not what I wanted tosay. You had brought mesomething higher, somethingof which all art is but areflection.Youhadmademeunderstand what love reallyis.My love!my love!PrinceCharming! Prince of life! Ihave grown sick ofshadows.10 You are more tome than all art can ever be.What have I to do with the

puppets of a play? When Icame on to-night I could notunderstand how it was thateverythinghadgonefromme.I thought that Iwasgoing tobe wonderful. I found that Icoulddonothing.Suddenlyitdawnedonmysoulwhatitallmeant. The knowledge wasexquisitetome.Iheardthemhissing, and I smiled. Whatcouldtheyknowoflovesuchas ours? Take me away,Dorian—take me away with

you, where we can be quitealone. I hate the stage. Imightmimic a passion that Ido not feel, but I cannotmimiconethatburnsmelikefire.Oh,Dorian,Dorian,youunderstand now what itsignifies? Even if I could doit,itwouldbeprofanationforme to play at being in love.Youhavemademeseethat.”He flung himself down on

thesofa,andturnedawayhis

face. “You have killed mylove,”hemuttered.She looked at him in

wonder, and laughed. Hemade no answer. She cameacross to him, and with herlittle fingers stroked his hair.She knelt down and pressedhishandstoherlips.Hedrewthemaway,andashudderranthroughhim.Then he leaped up, and

went to the door. “Yes,” he

cried, “you have killed mylove! You used to stir myimagination. Now you don’teven stir my curiosity. Yousimply produce no effect. Iloved you because you weremarvelous, because you hadgenius and intellect, becauseyou realized the dreams ofgreat poets and gave shapeandsubstancetotheshadowsofart.Youhavethrownitallaway. You are shallow andstupid. My God! howmad I

wastoloveyou!WhatafoolIhavebeen!Youarenothingto me now. I will never seeyou again. Iwill never thinkof you. I will never mentionyour name. You don’t knowwhat you were to me, once.Why, once . . . Oh, I can’tbear to think of it! I wish Ihadneverlaideyesuponyou!You have spoiled theromance of my life. Howlittleyoucanknowofloveifyou say it mars your art!

Without your art you arenothing. I would have madeyou famous, splendid,magnificent. The worldwould have worshiped you,and you would have bornemyname.Whatareyounow?A third-rate actress with aprettyface.”The girl grew white, and

trembled. She clenched herhandstogether,andhervoiceseemedtocatchinherthroat.

“You are not serious,Dorian?” she murmured.“Youareacting.”“Acting! I leave that to

you. You do it so well,” heanswered,bitterly.She rose from her knees,

and,withapiteousexpressionof pain in her face, cameacross the room to him. Sheput her hand upon his arm,and looked into his eyes.Hethrustherback.“Don’t touch

me!”hecried.A low moan broke from

her, and she flung herself athis feet, and lay there like atrampled flower. “Dorian,Dorian, don’t leaveme!” shewhispered. “I am so sorry Ididn’tactwell.Iwasthinkingofyouallthetime.ButIwilltry—indeed, I will try. Itcame so suddenly acrossme,my love for you. I think Ishouldneverhaveknownitif

youhadnotkissedme—ifwehad not kissed each other.Kiss me again, my love.Don’t go away from me. Icouldn’tbearit.Oh!don’tgoawayfromme.Mybrother... No; never mind. He didn’tmean it. Hewas in jest. . . .But you, oh! can’t youforgivemeforto-night?Iwillwork so hard, and try toimprove. Don’t be cruel tome,becauseIloveyoubetterthan anything in the world.

Afterall,itisonlyoncethatIhave not pleased you. Butyouarequite right,Dorian. Ishould have shown myselfmore of an artist. It wasfoolish of me; and yet Icouldn’t help it. Oh, don’tleaveme,don’tleaveme!”Afit of passionate sobbingchokedher.She crouchedonthe floor like a woundedthing, andDorianGray,withhis beautiful eyes, lookeddownather,andhischiseled

lips curled in exquisitedisdain. There is alwayssomething ridiculous aboutthe emotion of peoplewhomonehasceased to love.SibylVane seemed to him to beabsurdly melodramatic. Hertearsandsobsannoyedhim.“I am going,” he said at

last, in his calm, clear voice.“I don’t wish to be unkind,butIcan’tseeyouagain.Youhavedisappointedme.”

She wept silently, andmade no answer, but creptnearer. Her little handsstretched blindly out, andappeared to be seeking forhim. He turned on his heel,and left the room. In a fewmoments he was out of thetheater.Wherehewenttohehardly

knew. He rememberedwandering through dimly litstreets, past gaunt, black-

shadowedarchwaysandevil-lookinghouses.Womenwithhoarse voices and harshlaughterhadcalledafterhim.Drunkards had reeled bycursing, and chattering tothemselves like monstrousapes. He had seen grotesquechildren huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks andoathsfromgloomycourts.As the dawn was just

breaking he found himself

close to Covent Garden.cnThe darkness lifted, andflushed with faint fires, thesky hollowed itself into aperfect pearl. Huge cartsfilled with nodding liliesrumbled slowly down thepolishedemptystreet.Theairwas heavy with the perfumeof the flowers, and theirbeauty seemed to bring himan anodyne for his pain. Hefollowedintothemarket,and

watched the men unloadingtheir wagons. A white-smocked carter offered himsome cherries. He thankedhim, wondered why herefused to accept anymoneyfor them, and began to eatthem listlessly. They hadbeenpluckedatmidnight,andthecoldnessofthemoonhadenteredintothem.Alonglineof boys carrying crates ofstriped tulips, and of yellowandredroses,defiledinfront

of him, threading their waythrough the huge jade-greenpilesofvegetables.Undertheportico, with its gray sun-bleached pillars, loitered atroopofdraggledbareheadedgirls, waiting for the auctionto be over. Others crowdedround the swinging doors ofthe coffee-house in thePiazza.Theheavycart-horsesslippedandstampedupontherough stones, shaking theirbells and trappings. Some of

the driverswere lying asleepon a pile of sacks. Iris-necked, and pink-footed, thepigeons ranaboutpickingupseeds.After a little while he

hailed a hansom, and drovehome.Forafewmomentsheloitered upon the doorstep,looking round at the silentSquare,with itsblank, close-shuttered windows and itsstaring blinds. The sky was

pure opal now, and the roofsof the houses glistened likesilver against it. From somechimney opposite a thinwreath of smoke was rising.It curled, a violet riband,through the nacre-coloredcoair.In the huge gilt Venetian

lantern, spoil of someDoge’scp barge, that hungfrom the ceiling of the greatoak-paneled hall of entrance,

lightswerestillburningfromthreeflickeringjets:thinbluepetals of flame they seemed,rimmed with white fire. Heturned them out, and, havingthrown his hat and cape onthe table, passed through thelibrarytowardthedoorofhisbedroom, a large octagonalchamber on the ground floorthat, in his new-born feelingfor luxury, he had just haddecorated for himself, andhung with some curious

Renaissance tapestries thathadbeendiscoveredstoredina disused attic at SelbyRoyal.cq As he was turningthe handle of the door hiseyes fell upon the portraitBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim.He started back as if insurprise. Then he went oninto his own room, lookingsomewhat puzzled. After hehadtakenthebutton-holeoutof his coat, he seemed to

hesitate. Finally he cameback, went over to thepicture, and examined it. Inthe dim arrested light thatstruggled through the cream-colored silk blinds, the faceappeared tohim tobea littlechanged. The expressionlooked different. One wouldhave said that there was atouchofcrueltyinthemouth.Itwascertainlystrange.He turned round, and,

walking to thewindow,drewup the blinds. The brightdawn flooded the room, andswept the fantastic shadowsintodustycorners,wheretheylay shuddering. But thestrangeexpressionthathehadnoticed in the face of theportrait seemed to lingerthere, to be more intensifiedeven. The quivering, ardentsunlightshowedhimthelinesofcrueltyroundthemouthasclearly as if he had been

lookingintoamirrorafterhehad done some dreadfulthing.Hewinced, and, taking up

from the table an oval glassframed in ivory Cupids, oneof Lord Henry’s manypresents to him, glancedhurriedly into its polisheddepths. No line like thatwarpedhisredlips.Whatdiditmean?He rubbed his eyes, and

cameclosetothepicture,andexamined it again. Therewere no signs of any changewhen he looked into theactual painting, andyet therewas no doubt that the wholeexpressionhadaltered.Itwasnotamere fancyofhisown.The thing was horriblyapparent.He threw himself into a

chair, and began to think.Suddenlythereflashedacross

hismindwhathehadsaid inBasil Hallward’s studio theday the picture had beenfinished.Yes,herememberedit perfectly.He had uttered amad wish that he himselfmight remain young and theportrait grow old; that hisown beauty might beuntarnished, and the face onthecanvasbeartheburdenofhispassionsandhissins;thatthe painted image might beseared with the lines of

suffering and thought, andthat he might keep all thedelicatebloomandlovelinessof his then just consciousboyhood.Surelyhiswishhadnot been fulfilled? Suchthings were impossible. Itseemed monstrous even tothink of them.And yet therewas the picture before him,with the touch of cruelty inthemouth.Cruelty! Had he been

cruel? It was the girl’s fault,not his. He had dreamed ofherasagreatartist,hadgivenhislovetoherbecausehehadthought her great. Then shehad disappointed him. Shehad been shallow andunworthy. And yet a feelingof infinite regret came overhimashethoughtofherlyingathisfeetsobbinglikealittlechild. He remembered withwhat callousness he hadwatched her. Why had he

been made like that? Whyhadsuchasoulbeengiventohim? But he had sufferedalso.Duringthethreeterriblehoursthattheplayhadlastedhehadlivedcenturiesofpain,eon upon eon of torture. Hislifewaswellworthhers.Shehad marred him for amoment, if he had woundedher for an age. Besides,women were better suited tobear sorrow than men. Theylivedontheiremotions.They

only thought of theiremotions. When they tooklovers, itwasmerely tohavesome one with whom theycould have scenes. LordHenryhad toldhim that, andLord Henry knew whatwomenwere.Whyshouldhetrouble about Sibyl Vane?Shewasnothingtohimnow.But thepicture?Whatwas

he to say of that? It held thesecretofhislife,andtoldhis

story. It had taught him tolovehisownbeauty.Woulditteach him to loathe his ownsoul?Wouldheeverlookatitagain?No; it was merely an

illusion wrought on thetroubled senses. The horriblenight that he had passed hadleft phantoms behind it.Suddenly there had fallenupon his brain that tinyscarletspeck thatmakesmen

mad. The picture had notchanged.Itwasfollytothinkso.Yet it was watching him,

withitsbeautifulmarredfaceand its cruel smile. Its brighthair gleamed in the earlysunlight.Itsblueeyesmethisown.Asenseof infinitepity,not for himself, but for thepainted image of himself,cameoverhim.Ithadalteredalready, and would alter

more. Its gold would witherinto gray. Its red and whiteroseswoulddie.Foreverysinthat he committed, a stainwould fleck and wreck itsfairness. But he would notsin. The picture, changed orunchanged, would be to himthe visible emblem ofconscience. He would resisttemptation.HewouldnotseeLord Henry any more—would not, at any rate, listento those subtle, poisonous

theories that in BasilHallward’s garden had firststirredwithinhimthepassionfor impossible things. HewouldgobacktoSibylVane,makeheramends,marryher,try to love her again.Yes, itwas his duty to do so. Shemusthavesufferedmorethanhe had. Poor child! He hadbeen selfish andcruel toher.The fascination that she hadexercised over him wouldreturn.Theywouldbehappy

together. His life with herwouldbebeautifulandpure.He got up from his chair,

anddrewa largescreenrightin front of the portrait,shuddering as he glanced atit. “How horrible!” hemuttered to himself, and hewalkedacross to thewindowand opened it. When hesteppedoutontothegrass,hedrewadeepbreath.Thefreshmorning air seemed to drive

awayallhissombrepassions.He thought only of Sibyl. Afaint echo of his love cameback tohim.He repeatedhername over and over again.Thebirdsthatweresinginginthe dew-drenched gardenseemed to be telling theflowersabouther.

ChapterVIII.

It was long past noon whenheawoke.Hisvalethadcreptseveral times on tiptoe intothe room to see if he wasstirring, and had wonderedwhatmade his youngmastersleep so late. Finally his bellsounded, andVictor came in

softlywithacupofteaandapileof lettersona small trayof old Sévrescr china, anddrew back the olive-satincurtains, with theirshimmering blue lining, thathunginfrontof thethreetallwindows.“Monsieur has well slept

this morning,” he said,smiling.“What o’clock is it,

Victor?” asked Dorian Gray,

drowsily.“One hour and a quarter,

monsieur.”Howlateitwas!Hesatup,

and, having sipped some tea,turnedoverhisletters.Oneofthem was from Lord Henry,andhadbeenbroughtbyhandthatmorning.Hehesitatedfora moment, and then put itaside. The others he openedlistlessly.They contained theusual collection of cards,

invitations to dinner, ticketsfor private views, programsof charity concerts, and thelike, that are showered onfashionableyoungmeneverymorning during the season.csTherewasaratherheavybillfor a chased silver LouisQuinzecttoilet-setthathehadnot yet had the courage tosendontohisguardians,whowereextremelyold-fashionedpeopleanddidnotrealizethat

we live in an age whenunnecessary things are ouronly necessities; and therewereseveralverycourteouslyworded communicationsfromJermynStreetmoney-lenders,offering to advance any sumof money at a moment’snotice and at the mostreasonableratesofinterest.Afterabout tenminuteshe

got up, and, throwing on anelaborate dressing-gown of

silk-embroidered cashmerewool, passed into the onyx-paved bathroom. The coolwater refreshed him after hislong sleep. He seemed tohaveforgottenallthathehadgonethrough.Adimsenseofhaving taken part in somestrange tragedy came to himonce or twice, but there wastheunrealityofadreamaboutit.Assoonashewasdressed,

he went into the library andsat down to a light Frenchbreakfast that had been laidout forhimona small roundtable close to the openwindow. It was an exquisiteday. The warm air seemedladenwithspices.Abeeflewin, and buzzed around theblue-dragon bowl that, filledwith sulphur-yellow roses,stood before him. He feltperfectlyhappy.

Suddenly his eye fell onthe screen thathehadplacedinfrontoftheportrait,andhestarted.“Too cold for monsieur?”

asked his valet, putting anomelet on the table. “I shutthewindow.”Dorian shook his head. “I

amnotcold,”hemurmured.Was it all true? Had the

portrait really changed? Orhad it been simply his own

imagination that had madehim see a lookof evilwheretherehadbeenalookofjoy?Surelyapaintedcanvascouldnot alter? The thing wasabsurd. It would serve as atale to tellBasilsomeday. Itwouldmakehimsmile.Andyethowvividwashis

recollection of the wholething! First in the dimtwilight, and then in thebright dawn, he had seen the

touch of cruelty round thewarped lips. He almostdreaded his valet leaving theroom.Heknew thatwhenhewas alone he would have toexamine the portrait.Hewasafraid of certainty.When thecoffee and cigarettes hadbeen brought and the manturned to go, he felt a wilddesire to tell him to remain.As the door was closingbehind him he called himback.Theman stoodwaiting

for his orders.Dorian lookedat him for a moment. “I amnot at home to any one,Victor,” he said,with a sigh.Themanbowedandretired.Then he rose from the

table,litacigarette,andflunghimself down on aluxuriously cushioned couchthat stood facing the screen.Thescreenwasanoldoneofgilt Spanish leather, stampedand wrought with a rather

floridLouisQuatorzepattern.He scanned it curiously,wondering if ever before ithadconcealed the secretofaman’slife.Should he move it aside,

after all?Why not let it staythere? What was the use ofknowing? If the thing wastrue, itwas terrible. If itwasnot true, why trouble aboutit?Butwhat if, by some fateordeadlierchance,eyesother

than his spied behind, andsaw the horrible change?What should he do if BasilHallward came and asked tolookathisownpicture?Basilwouldbesuretodothat.No;thethinghadtobeexamined,and at once.Anythingwouldbe better than this dreadfulstateofdoubt.Hegotupand lockedboth

doors; at least he would bealone when he looked upon

themask of his shame.Thenhedrewthescreenaside,andsaw himself face to face. Itwas perfectly true. Theportraithadaltered.As he often remembered

afterward,andalwayswithnosmall wonder, he foundhimself at first gazing at theportrait with a feeling ofalmostscientificinterest.Thatsuch a change should havetakenplacewas incredible to

him. And yet it was a fact.Was there some subtleaffinitybetweenthechemicalatoms, that shapedthemselves into form andcolor on the canvas, and thesoul that was within him?Coulditbethatwhatthatsoulthought, they realized?—thatwhat it dreamed, they madetrue? Or was there someother, more terrible reason?Heshudderedand felt afraid,and,goingbacktothecouch,

lay there, gazing at thepictureinsickenedhorror.Onething,however,hefelt

that it had done for him: ithadmadehimconscioushowunjust, how cruel, he hadbeentoSibylVane.Itwasnottoo late to make reparationforthat.Shecouldstillbehiswife. His unreal and selfishlove would yield to somehigher influence, would betransformedintosomenobler

passion, and the portrait thatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhimwouldbeaguide tohimthroughlife,wouldbetohimwhatholinessistosome,andconscience to others, and thefear of God to us all. Therewere opiates for remorse,drugsthatcouldlullthemoralsensetosleep.Butherewasavisible symbol of thedegradation of sin.Herewasan ever-present sign of theruin men brought upon their

souls.Three o’clock struck, and

four, and the half-hour rangits double chime, but DorianGray did not stir. He wastryingtogatherupthescarletthreads of life, and toweavethem into a pattern; to findhiswaythroughthesanguinelabyrinth of passion throughwhichhewaswandering.Hedid not know what to do orwhat to think. Finally, he

went over to the table andwrote a passionate letter tothe girl he loved, imploringherforgiveness,andaccusinghimself of madness. Hecovered page after pagewithwild words of sorrow, andwilderwordsofpain.Thereisa luxury in self-reproach.Whenweblameourselveswefeel that no one else has aright to blame us. It is theconfession,notthepriest,thatgives us absolution. When

DorianGrayhadfinished theletter,hefeltthathehadbeenforgiven.Suddenly there came a

knock at the door, and heheard Lord Henry’s voiceoutside.“Mydearboy,Imustseeyou.Letme inatonce. Ican’t bear your shuttingyourselfuplikethis.”Hemadenoansweratfirst,

but remained quite still. Theknocking still continued, and

grew louder. Yes, it wasbetter to let Lord Henry in,andtoexplaintohimthenewlife he was going to lead, toquarrelwithhimif itbecamenecessary to quarrel, to part,if parting was inevitable. Hejumped up, drew the screenhastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor.“I am sorry for it all,

Dorian,” saidLordHenry, asheentered.“Butyoumustnot

thinktoomuchaboutit.”“DoyoumeanaboutSibyl

Vane?”askedthelad.“Yes,ofcourse,”answered

Lord Henry, sinking into achair, and slowly pulling offhis yellow gloves. “It isdreadful, from one point ofview, but it was not yourfault. Tell me, did you gobehind and see her after theplaywasover?”“Yes.”

“I felt sure you had. Didyoumakeascenewithher?”“I was brutal, Harry—

perfectly brutal. But it is allrightnow. Iamnot sorry foranythingthathashappened.Ithastaughtmetoknowmyselfbetter.”“Ah,Dorian, I am so glad

youtakeitinthatway!Iwasafraid I would find youplunged in remorse, andtearingthatnicecurlyhairof

yours.”“I have got through all

that,” said Dorian, shakinghis head, and smiling. “I amperfectly happy now. I knowwhat conscience is, to beginwith. It is not what you toldme it was. It is the divinestthing inus.Don’t sneerat it,Harry, any more—at least,not before me. I want to begood.Ican’tbear theideaofmysoulbeinghideous.”

“A very charming artisticbasis for ethics, Dorian! Icongratulate you on it. Buthowareyougoingtobegin?”“BymarryingSibylVane.”“Marrying Sibyl Vane!”

cried Lord Henry, standingup, and looking at him inperplexed amazement. “But,mydearDorian—”“Yes, Harry, I know what

you are going to say.Something dreadful about

marriage.Don’t say it.Don’teversaythingsofthatkindtome again. Two days ago IaskedSibyltomarryme.Iamnot going to break my wordtoher.Sheistobemywife.”“Your wife! Dorian! . . .

Didn’t you get my letter? Iwrote to you this morning,andsentthenotedownbymyownman.”“Your letter? Oh, yes, I

remember. I have not read it

yet,Harry. Iwasafraid theremightbe something in it thatI wouldn’t like. You cut lifeto pieces with yourepigrams.”“Youknownothing,then?”“Whatdoyoumean?”Lord Henry walked across

the room, and, sitting downbyDorianGray,tookbothhishands in his own, and heldthem tightly. “Dorian,” hesaid, “my letter—don’t be

frightened—was to tell youthatSibylVaneisdead.”A cry of pain broke from

the lad’s lips, and he leapedto his feet, tearing his handsaway from Lord Henry’sgrasp. “Dead! Sibyl dead! Itisnottrue!Itisahorriblelie!Howdareyousayit?”“It is quite true, Dorian,”

saidLordHenry,gravely. “Itisinallthemorningpapers.Iwrotedowntoyoutoaskyou

nottoseeanyonetillIcame.There will have to be aninquest, of course, and youmust not be mixed up in it.Things like thatmake amanfashionable in Paris. But inLondon people are soprejudiced. Here, one shouldnevermake one’sdebut withascandal.Oneshouldreservethat to give an interest toone’soldage.Isupposetheydon’tknowyournameat thetheater. If theydon’t, it isall

right. Did any one see yougoing round to her room?Thatisanimportantpoint.”Doriandidnotanswerfora

fewmoments.Hewas dazedwith horror. Finally hestammered,inastifledvoice:“Harry, did you say aninquest?What did youmeanby that? Did Sibyl—Oh,Harry I can’t bear it! But bequick. Tell me everything atonce.”

“Ihavenodoubtitwasnotanaccident,Dorian,thoughitmustbeputinthatwaytothepublic. It seems that as shewas leaving the theater withher mother, about half-pasttwelveorso,shesaidshehadforgottensomethingup-stairs.They waited some time forher, but she did not comedown again. They ultimatelyfound her lying dead on thefloor of her dressing-room.She had swallowed

something by mistake, somedreadful thing they use attheaters.Idon’tknowwhatitwas, but it had either prussicacidcu or white lead in it. Ishould fancy it was prussicacid, and she seems to havediedinstantaneously.”“Harry, Harry, it is

terrible!”criedthelad.“Yes, it is very tragic, of

course, but youmust not getyourselfmixedup in it. I see

byTheStandardthatshewasseventeen. I should havethought she was almostyoungerthanthat.Shelookedsuch a child, and seemed toknow so little about acting.Dorian, you mustn’t let thisthinggetonyournerves.Youmustcomeanddinewithme,andafterwardwewilllookinat the Opera. It is a Patticvnight, and everybodywill bethere. You can come to my

sister’sbox.Shehasgotsomesmartwomenwithher.”“SoIhavemurderedSibyl

Vane,”saidDorianGray,halftohimself—“murderedherassurelyasifIhadcutherlittlethroat with a knife. Yet theroses are not less lovely forallthat.Thebirdssingjustashappily in my garden. Andto-night I am to dine withyou, and then go on to theOpera,andsupsomewhere, I

suppose, afterward. Howextraordinarily dramatic lifeis! If I had read all this in abook,Harry, I think Iwouldhaveweptover it.Somehow,now that it has happenedactually, and tome, it seemsfar too wonderful for tears.Here is the first passionatelove-letterIhaveeverwrittenin my life. Strange, that myfirst passionate love-lettershould have been addressedtoadeadgirl.Cantheyfeel,I

wonder, those white silentpeople we call the dead?Sibyl!Canshefeel,orknow,or listen? Oh, Harry, how Iloved her once! It seemsyearsagotomenow.Shewaseverything tome.Thencamethat dreadful night—was itreallyonlylastnight?—whenshe played so badly, andmyheart almost broke. Sheexplained it all tome. Itwasterribly pathetic. But I wasnotmovedabit.Ithoughther

shallow.Suddenly somethinghappened that made meafraid.Ican’ttellyouwhatitwas,butitwasterrible.IsaidIwouldgobacktoher.IfeltIhad done wrong. And nowshe is dead. My God! myGod!Harry,what shall I do?Youdon’tknowthedanger Iamin,andthereisnothingtokeep me straight. She wouldhave done that for me. Shehadnoright tokillherself. Itwasselfishofher.”

“My dear Dorian,”answeredLordHenry, takingacigarettefromhiscase,andproducing a gold-lattencwmatch-box, “the only way awoman can ever reform aman is by boring him socompletely that he loses allpossibleinterestinlife.Ifyouhad married this girl youwould have been wretched.Of course, you would havetreated her kindly. One can

always be kind to peopleabout whom one caresnothing. But shewould havesoonfoundoutthatyouwereabsolutely indifferent to her.Andwhenawomanfindsthatout about her husband, sheeither becomes dreadfullydowdy, or wears very smartbonnets that some otherwoman’s husbandhas to payfor. I say nothing about thesocial mistake, which wouldhave been abject, which, of

course, I would not haveallowed,butIassureyouthatin any case the whole thingwould have been an absolutefailure.”“I suppose it would,”

muttered the lad,walking upand down the room, andlooking horribly pale. “But Ithought itwasmy duty. It isnotmy fault that this terribletragedy has prevented mydoing what was right. I

remember your saying oncethat there is a fatality aboutgood resolutions—that theyare always made too late.Minecertainlywere.”“Good resolutions are

useless attempts to interferewith scientific laws. Theirorigin is pure vanity. Theirresult is absolutely nil. Theygive us, now and then, someof those luxurious sterileemotions that have a certain

charm for the weak. That isall that canbe said for them.Theyaresimplychequesthatmen draw on a bank wheretheyhavenoaccount.”“Harry,” cried Dorian

Gray,comingoverandsittingdown beside him, “why is itthatIcannotfeelthistragedyasmuchasIwantto?Idon’tthink I am heartless. Doyou?”“You have done toomany

foolish things during the lastfortnighttobeentitledtogiveyourself that name, Dorian,”answered Lord Henry, withhissweet,melancholysmile.The lad frowned. “I don’t

like that explanation,Harry,”he rejoined, “but I am gladyou don’t think I amheartless.Iamnothingofthekind. I know I am not. Andyet I must admit that thisthing that has happened does

not affectme as it should. Itseemstometobesimplylikea wonderful ending to awonderfulplay. It has all theterrible beauty of a Greektragedy, a tragedy inwhich Itook a great part, but bywhich I have not beenwounded.”“It is an interesting

question,” said Lord Henry,who found an exquisitepleasure in playing on the

lad’s unconscious egotism—“an extremely interestingquestion.Ifancythatthetrueexplanation is this. It oftenhappens that the realtragediesoflifeoccurinsuchan inartisticmanner that theyhurt us by their crudeviolence, their absoluteincoherence, their absurdwant ofmeaning, their entirelack of style. They affect usjust as vulgarity affects us.Theygiveusanimpressionof

sheer brute force, and werevolt against that.Sometimes, however, atragedy thatpossessesartisticelements of beauty crossesourlives.Iftheseelementsofbeauty are real, the wholething simply appeals to oursense of dramatic effect.Suddenlywefindthatweareno longer the actors, but thespectators of the play; or,rather,weareboth.Wewatchourselves, and the mere

wonder of the spectacleenthralls us. In the presentcase,whatisitthathasreallyhappened? Some one haskilledherselfforloveofyou.I wish that I had ever hadsuch an experience. It wouldhave made me in love withlove for the rest of my life.The peoplewho have adoredme—therehavenotbeenverymany, but there have beensome—have always insistedon livingon, longafter Ihad

ceased to care for them, orthey to care for me. Theyhave become stout andtedious, and when I meetthem they go in at once forreminiscences. That awfulmemory of woman! What afearful thing it is! And whatanutterintellectualstagnationitreveals!Oneshouldabsorbthe color of life, but oneshould never remember itsdetails. Details are alwaysvulgar.”

“I must sow poppiescx inmygarden,”sighedDorian.“There is no necessity,”

rejoinedhiscompanion.“Lifehas always poppies in herhands. Of course, now andthen things linger. I oncewore nothing but violets allthroughoneseason,asaformof artistic mourning for aromance that would not die.Ultimately, however, it diddie. I forget what killed it. I

think itwasherproposing tosacrifice thewholeworld forme.Thatisalwaysadreadfulmoment. It fills onewith theterror of eternity. Well—would you believe it?—aweek ago, at LadyHampshire’s, I found myselfseated at dinner next to thelady in question, and sheinsisted on going over thewhole thing again, anddigging up the past, andraking up the future. I had

buried my romance in a bedofasphodel.cyShedragged itout again, and assured methat I had spoiled her life. Iamboundtostatethatsheatean enormous dinner, so I didnotfeelanyanxiety.Butwhata lack of taste she showed!Theone charmof the past isthatitisthepast.Butwomenneverknowwhen thecurtainhas fallen.Theyalwayswantasixthact,andassoonasthe

interestoftheplayisentirelyovertheyproposetocontinueit. If theywere allowed theirown way, every comedywould have a tragic ending,and every tragedy wouldculminateinafarce.Theyarecharminglyartificial,buttheyhavenosenseofart.Youaremore fortunate than I am. Iassure you, Dorian, that notone of the women I haveknown would have done forme what Sibyl Vane did for

you.Ordinarywomenalwaysconsole themselves. Some ofthem do it by going in forsentimental colors. Nevertrust a woman who wearsmauve,cz whatever her agemay be, or a woman overthirty-five who is fond ofpinkribbons.Italwaysmeansthat they have a history.Others find a greatconsolation in suddenlydiscoveringthegoodqualities

oftheirhusbands.Theyflaunttheirconjugalfelicityinone’sface, as if it were the mostfascinating of sins. Religionconsoles some. Its mysterieshave all the charm of aflirtation, awomanonce toldme; and I can quiteunderstand it. Besides,nothingmakesonesovainasbeingtoldthatoneisasinner.Consciencemakesegotistsofus all.Yes, there is reallynoend to the consolations that

women find in modern life.Indeed, Ihavenotmentionedthemostimportantone.”“Whatisthat,Harry?”said

thelad,listlessly.“Oh, the obvious

consolation.Takingsomeoneelse’sadmirerwhenonelosesone’s own. In good societythat always whitewashes awoman. But really, Dorian,how different Sibyl Vanemust have been from all the

women one meets! There issomething to me quitebeautiful about her death. Iam glad I am living in acentury when such wondershappen. They make onebelieve in the reality of thethingswe all playwith, suchas romance, passion, andlove.”“Iwasterriblycrueltoher.

Youforgetthat.”“I am afraid that women

appreciate cruelty, downrightcruelty, more than anythingelse. They have wonderfullyprimitive instincts. We haveemancipated them, but theyremain slaves looking fortheir masters, all the same.Theylovebeingdominated.Iamsureyouwere splendid. Ihave never seen you reallyand absolutely angry, but Icanfancyhowdelightfulyoulooked. And, after all, yousaidsomethingtometheday

before yesterday that seemedtomeatthetimetobemerelyfanciful, but that I see nowwas absolutely true, and itholdsthekeytoeverything.”“Whatwasthat,Harry?”“YousaidtomethatSibyl

Vane represented to you allthe heroines of romance—that shewasDesdemona onenight, andOphelia the other;that if she died as Juliet, shecametolifeasImogen.”

“She will never come tolifeagainnow,”muttered thelad, burying his face in hishands.“No, she will never come

tolife.Shehasplayedherlastpart. But you must think ofthat lonely death in thetawdry dressing-room simplyas a strange lurid fragmentfromsomeJacobean tragedy,as a wonderful scene fromWebster, or Ford, or Cyril

Tourneur.11 The girl neverreally lived, and so she hasnever really died. To you atleastshewasalwaysadream,aphantomthatflittedthroughShakespeare’s plays and leftthemlovelierforitspresence,a reed through whichShakespeare’smusicsoundedricher and more full of joy.The moment she touchedactual life,shemarredit,andit marred her, and so she

passed away. Mourn forOphelia,ifyoulike.Putasheson your head becauseCordelia was strangled. Cryout against Heaven becausethe daughter of Brabantiodadied. But don’t waste yourtears over Sibyl Vane. Shewaslessrealthantheyare.”There was a silence. The

evening darkened in theroom. Noiselessly, and withsilver feet, the shadowscrept

in from the garden. Thecolors faded wearily out ofthings.After some time Dorian

Gray looked up. “You haveexplained me to myself,Harry,” he murmured, withsomethingofa sighof relief.“I felt all thatyouhave said,but somehow Iwas afraid ofit, and I could not express itto myself. How well youknow me! But we will not

talk again of what hashappened. It has been amarvelousexperience.Thatisall.Iwonderiflifehasstillinstore for me anything asmarvelous.”“Life has everything in

store for you, Dorian. Thereisnothingthatyou,withyourextraordinary good looks,willnotbeabletodo.”“But suppose, Harry, I

becamehaggard,andold,and

wrinkled?Whatthen?”“Ah, then,” said Lord

Henry, rising to go—“then,my dear Dorian, you wouldhave to fight for yourvictories. As it is, they arebroughttoyou.No,youmustkeep your good looks. Welive in an age that reads toomuch to be wise, and thatthinks too much to bebeautiful. We can not spareyou.Andnowyouhadbetter

dress, and drive down to theclub.Weare rather late,as itis.”“I think I shall joinyou at

the Opera, Harry. I feel tootiredtoeatanything.What isthe number of your sister’sbox?”“Twenty-seven, I believe.

It is on the grand tier. Youwillseehernameonthedoor.But I am sorry you won’tcomeanddine.”

“Idon’tfeelupto it,”saidDorian, listlessly. “But I amawfullyobligedtoyouforallthatyouhavesaidtome.Youare certainly my best friend.No one has ever understoodmeasyouhave.”“We are only at the

beginning of our friendship,Dorian,” answered LordHenry, shaking him by thehand. “Good-bye. I shall seeyoubeforenine-thirty,Ihope.

Remember,Pattiissinging.”As he closed the door

behind him, Dorian Graytouchedthebell,andinafewminutesVictorappearedwiththelampsanddrewtheblindsdown.Hewaited impatientlyfor him to go. The manseemed to take aninterminable time overeverything.As soon as he had left, he

rushed to the screen, and

drew it back. No; there wasno further change in thepicture. It had received thenews of Sibyl Vane’s deathbefore he had known of ithimself. It was conscious ofthe events of life as theyoccurred.Theviciouscrueltythat marred the fine lines ofthe mouth had, no doubt,appearedat theverymomentthat the girl had drunk thepoison, whatever it was. Orwas it indifferent to results?

Diditmerelytakecognizanceof what passed within thesoul? He wondered, andhoped that some day hewould see the change takingplace before his very eyes,shudderingashehopedit.Poor Sibyl! what a

romance it had all been!Shehadoftenmimickeddeathonthestage.ThenDeathhimselfhad touched her, and takenher with him. How had she

played that dreadful lastscene?Hadshecursedhimasshe died? No; she had diedfor love of him, and lovewouldalwaysbeasacramentto him now. She had atonedforeverythingbythesacrificeshe hadmade of her life.Hewould not think anymore ofwhat she had made him gothroughonthathorriblenightat the theater. When hethoughtofher,itwouldbeasawonderfultragicfiguresent

on to the world’s stage toshow the supreme reality ofLove. A wonderful tragicfigure? Tears came to hiseyes as he remembered herchildlike look and winsomefanciful ways and shytremulous grace. He brushedthem away hastily, andlookedagainatthepicture.He felt that the time had

really come for making hischoice. Or had his choice

alreadybeenmade?Yes, lifehad decided that for him—life, and his own infinitecuriosity about life. Eternalyouth, infinite passion,pleasures subtle and secret,wildjoysandwildersins—hewas to have all these things.The portrait was to bear theburdenofhisshame;thatwasall.Afeelingofpaincreptover

him as he thought of the

desecration that was in storefor the fair face on thecanvas. Once, in boyishmockeryofNarcissus,hehadkissed, or feigned to kiss,those painted lips that nowsmiled so cruelly at him.Morning after morning hehad sat before the portraitwondering at its beauty,almost enamored of it, as itseemed tohimat times.Wasit to alter now with everymood to which he yielded?

Wasittobecomeamonstrousand loathsome thing, to behidden away in a lockedroom,tobeshutoutfromthesunlight that had so oftentouched to brighter gold thewaving wonder of its hair?Thepityofit!thepityofit!For a moment he thought

of praying that the horriblesympathy that existedbetween him and the picturemight cease. It had changed

inanswertoaprayer;perhapsinanswertoaprayeritmightremain unchanged. And yetwho that knew anythingabout Life would surrenderthe chance of remainingalways young, howeverfantastic that chance mightbe, or with what fatefulconsequences it might befraught?Besides,wasitreallyunder his control? Had itindeed been prayer that hadproduced the substitution?

Might there not be somecuriousscientificreasonforitall? If thoughtcouldexerciseits influence upon a livingorganism, might not thoughtexercise an influence upondead and inorganic things?Nay, without thought orconscious desire, might notthings external to ourselvesvibrate in unison with ourmoods and passions, atomcallingtoatom,insecretloveor strange affinity? But the

reasonwasofnoimportance.He would never again temptby a prayer any terriblepower. If the picture was toalter,itwastoalter.Thatwasall. Why inquire too closelyintoit?For there would be a real

pleasure in watching it. Hewould be able to follow hismind into its secret places.Thisportraitwouldbetohimthe most magical of mirrors.

Asithadrevealed tohimhisownbody,soitwouldrevealto him his own soul. Andwhenwintercameuponit,hewouldstillbestandingwherespring trembles on the vergeof summer. When the bloodcrept from its face, and leftbehindapallidmaskofchalkwith leaden eyes, he wouldkeeptheglamourofboyhood.Not one blossom of hisloveliness would ever fade,not one pulse of his life

would everweaken.Like thegodsoftheGreeks,hewouldbe strong, and fleet, andjoyous. What did it matterwhathappenedtothecoloredimage on the canvas? Hewould be safe. That waseverything.He drew the screen back

into its former place in frontof the picture, smiling as hedid so, and passed into hisbedroom,wherehisvaletwas

already waiting for him. Anhour later he was at theOpera, and Lord Henry wasleaningoverhischair.

ChapterIX.

Ashewassittingatbreakfastnextmorning,BasilHallwardwas shown into the room. “IamsogladIhavefoundyou,Dorian,” he said, gravely. “Icalledlastnight,andtheytoldmeyouwereattheOpera.Ofcourse, I knew that was

impossible. But I wish youhad leftwordwhereyouhadreally gone to. I passed adreadful evening, half afraidthat one tragedy might befollowed by another. I thinkyou might have telegraphedformewhen you heard of itfirst. I read of it quite bychanceinalateeditionoftheGlobe that Ipickedupat theclub.Icamehereatonce,andwas miserable at not findingyou. I can’t tell you how

heart-broken I am about thewholething.Iknowwhatyoumust suffer. But where wereyou? Did you go down andsee the girl’s mother? For amoment I thought offollowing you there. Theygavetheaddressinthepaper.Somewhere in the EustonRoad, isn’t it? But I wasafraid of intruding upon asorrow that I could notlighten.Poorwoman!Whatastateshemustbein!Andher

onlychild,too!Whatdidshesayaboutitall?”“My dear Basil, how do I

know?” murmured DorianGray, sipping some pale-yellow wine from a delicategold-beaded bubble ofVenetian glass, and lookingdreadfully bored. “I was atthe Opera. You should havecome on there. I met LadyGwendolen, Harry’s sister,forthefirsttime.Wewerein

her box. She is perfectlycharming; and Patti sungdivinely. Don’t talk abouthorridsubjects.Ifonedoesn’ttalkaboutathing,ithasneverhappened. It is simplyexpression, as Harry says,that gives reality to things. Imaymentionthatshewasnotthe woman’s only child.There is a son, a charmingfellow, I believe. But he isnot on the stage. He is asailor, or something. And

now, tell me about yourselfandwhatyouarepainting.”“Youwent to the Opera?”

saidHallward, speaking veryslowly, and with a strainedtouch of pain in his voice.“YouwenttotheOperawhileSibylVanewaslyingdeadinsome sordid lodging? Youcan talk to me of otherwomen being charming, andof Patti singing divinely,before thegirl you lovedhas

even the quiet of a grave tosleepin?Why,man,therearehorrors in store for that littlewhitebodyofhers!”“Stop, Basil! I won’t hear

it!” cried Dorian, leaping tohis feet. “You must not tellme about things. What isdone isdone.What ispast ispast.”“You call yesterday the

past?”“Whathas theactual lapse

oftimegottodowithit?Itisonly shallow people whorequire years to get rid of anemotion. A man who ismaster of himself can end asorrow as easily as he caninvent a pleasure. I don’twanttobeatthemercyofmyemotions.Iwanttousethem,to enjoy them, and todominatethem.”“Dorian, this is horrible!

Something has changed you

completely.Youlookexactlythesamewonderfulboywho,day after day, used to comedown tomy studio to sit forhis picture. But you weresimple, natural, andaffectionate then. You werethemostunspoiledcreatureinthe whole world. Now, Idon’t know what has comeover you.You talk as if youhad no heart, no pity in you.It is all Harry’s influence. Iseethat.”

The lad flushed up, andgoing to the window lookedfor a few moments on thegreen, flickering, sun-lashedgarden.“IoweagreatdealtoHarry, Basil,” he said at last—“more than I owe to you.You only taught me to bevain.”“Well, I am punished for

that, Dorian—or shall besomeday.”“I don’t know what you

mean, Basil,” he exclaimed,turning round. “I don’t knowwhatyouwant.Whatdoyouwant?”“I want the DorianGray I

usedtopaint,”saidtheartist,sadly.“Basil,”saidthelad,going

over to him, and putting hishand on his shoulder, “youhave come too late.Yesterday,when I heard thatSibylVanehadkilledherself

—”“Killed herself! Good

heavens! is there no doubtabout that?” cried Hallward,looking up at him with anexpressionofhorror.“MydearBasil!Surelyyou

don’t think it was a vulgaraccident?Ofcourseshekilledherself.”The elder man buried his

face in his hands. “Howfearful!” he muttered, and a

shudderranthroughhim.“No,” said Dorian Gray,

“thereisnothingfearfulaboutit. It is one of the greatromantictragediesoftheage.Asarule,peoplewhoactleadthemost commonplace lives.They are good husbands, orfaithful wives, or somethingtedious. You know what Imean—middle-class virtue,and all that kind of thing.HowdifferentSibylwas!She

lived her finest tragedy. Shewas always a heroine. Thelast night she played—thenightyousawher—sheactedbadlybecauseshehadknownthe realityof love.Whensheknew its unreality, she died,asJulietmighthavedied.Shepassed again into the sphereof art. There is something ofthe martyr about her. Herdeath has all the patheticuselessnessofmartyrdom,allits wasted beauty. But, as I

was saying, you must notthink I have not suffered. Ifyouhadcomeinyesterdayata particular moment—abouthalf-past five, perhaps, or aquarter to six—you wouldhavefoundmeintears.EvenHarry, who was here—whobroughtme the news, in fact—had no idea what I wasgoing through. I sufferedimmensely. Then it passedaway. I cannot repeat anemotion. No one can, except

sentimentalists. And you areawfully unjust, Basil. Youcome down here to consoleme.That ischarmingofyou.You find me consoled, andyou are furious. How like asympathetic person! Youremind me of a story Harrytold me about a certainphilanthropist who spenttwenty years of his life intrying to get some grievanceredressed,orsomeunjustlawaltered—Iforgetexactlywhat

it was. Finally he succeeded,andnothingcouldexceedhisdisappointment. He hadabsolutely nothing to do,almost died of ennui, andbecame a confirmedmisanthrope. And, besides,my dear old Basil, if youreally want to console me,teachmerathertoforgetwhathas happened, or to see itfromaproperartisticpointofview.WasitnotGautierwhoused to write about la

consolation des arts?12 Iremember picking up a littlevellum-covered book in yourstudio one day and chancingon that delightful phrase.Well,Iamnotlikethatyoungmanyoutoldmeofwhenwewere down at Marlowetogether, theyoungmanwhoused to say that yellow satincould console one for all themiseries of life. I lovebeautiful things that one can

touch and handle. Oldbrocades, green bronzes,lacquer-work, carved ivories,exquisite surroundings,luxury,pomp—there ismuchto be got from all these. Butthe artistic temperament thatthey create, or at any ratereveal,isstillmoretome.Tobecomethespectatorofone’sown life, asHarry says, is toescape the sufferingof life. Iknowyouaresurprisedatmytalking to you like this. You

havenot realizedhowIhavedeveloped.Iwasaschoolboywhen you knew me. I am aman now. I have newpassions, new thoughts, newideas. Iamdifferent,butyoumust not like me less. I amchanged,butyoumustalwaysbemyfriend.Ofcourse,Iamvery fond of Harry. But Iknow you are better than heis.Youarenotstronger—youare toomuchafraidof life—but you are better. And how

happyweusedtobetogether!Don’t leave me, Basil, anddon’t quarrel with me. I amwhat I am. There is nothingmoretobesaid.”The painter felt strangely

moved.Theladwasinfinitelydear to him, and hispersonalityhadbeenthegreatturning-point in his art. Hecould not bear the idea ofreproaching him any more.Afterall,hisindifferencewas

probablymerely amood thatwould pass away. Therewasso much in him that wasgood, so much in him thatwasnoble.“Well,Dorian,”he said, at

length, with a sad smile, “Iwon’t speak to you againaboutthishorriblethingafterto-day.Ionlytrustyournamewon’t be mentioned inconnection with it. Theinquest is to take place this

afternoon. Have theysummonedyou?”Dorianshookhishead,and

a look of annoyance passedover his face at the mentionof theword “inquest.” Therewas something so crude andvulgar about everything ofthe kind. “They don’t knowmyname,”heanswered.“Butsurelyshedid?”“Only my Christian name,

and that, Iamquitesure,she

never mentioned to anyone.She told me once that theywere all rather curious tolearnwhoIwas,andthatsheinvariablytoldthemmynamewas PrinceCharming. Itwasprettyofher.Youmustdomea drawing of Sibyl, Basil. Ishouldliketohavesomethingmoreofherthanthememoryof a few kisses and somebroken,patheticwords.”“I will try and do

something, Dorian, if itwould please you. But youmust come and sit to meyourself again. I can’t getonwithoutyou.”“I can never sit to you

again, Basil. It isimpossible!” he exclaimed,startingback.The painter stared at him.

“My dear boy, whatnonsense!”hecried.“Doyoumean to say you don’t like

what I did of you?Where isit?Why have you pulled thescreen in front of it? Letmelookatit.ItisthebestthingIhave ever done. Do take thescreen away, Dorian; it issimply disgraceful of yourservant hiding my work likethat. I felt the room lookeddifferentasIcamein.”“Myservanthasnothingto

do with it, Basil. You don’timagineI lethimarrangemy

room for me? He settles myflowers for me sometimes—thatisall.No;Ididitmyself.The light was too strong ontheportrait.”“Too strong! Impossible,

my dear fellow! It is anadmirableplaceforit.Letmeseeit.”AndHallwardwalkedtoward the corner of theroom.Acryof terrorbroke from

Dorian Gray’s lips, and he

rushed between the painterand the screen. “Basil,” hesaid, looking very pale, “youmust not look at it. I don’twishyouto.”“Notlookatmyownwork!

You are not serious. Whyshouldn’t I look at it?”exclaimed Hallward,laughing.“If you try to look at it,

Basil,onmywordofhonorIwillneverspeaktoyouagain

as long as I live. I am quiteserious. I don’t offer anyexplanation, and you are notto ask for any. But,remember, if you touch thisscreen, everything is overbetweenus.”Hallward was

thunderstruck. He looked atDorian Gray in absoluteamazement. He had neverseenhimlikethisbefore.Thelad was actually pallid with

rage. His hands wereclenched, and the pupils ofhis eyes were like disks ofblue fire. He was tremblingallover.“Dorian!”“Don’tspeak!”“Butwhatisthematter?Of

course, I won’t look at it ifyou don’t want me to,” hesaid,rathercoldly,turningonhis heel, and going overtoward the window. “But,

really, it seems rather absurdthat I shouldn’t see my ownwork, especially as I amgoing toexhibit it inParis inthe autumn. I shall probablyhavetogiveitanothercoatofvarnishbeforethat,soImustseeitsomeday,andwhynotto-day?”“Toexhibitit!Youwantto

exhibitit?”exclaimedDorianGray,astrangesenseofterrorcreeping over him. Was the

world going to be shown hissecret? Were people to gapeat the mystery of his life?That was impossible.Something—hedidnotknowwhat—had to be done atonce.“Yes; I don’t suppose you

will object to that. GeorgesPetitdb is going to collect allmybestpicturesforaspecialexhibitionintheRuedeSèze,which will open the first

weekinOctober.Theportraitwillonlybeawayamonth. Ishouldthinkyoucouldeasilyspare it for that time. In fact,you are sure to be out oftown. And if you keep italways behind a screen, youcan’tcaremuchaboutit.”Dorian Gray passed his

handoverhisforehead.Therewere beads of perspirationthere.He felt that hewas onthebrinkofahorribledanger.

“You told me a month agothat youwould never exhibitit,”he cried. “Whyhaveyouchanged your mind? Youpeople who go in for beingconsistent have just as manymoods as others have. Theonly difference is that yourmoods are rathermeaningless. You can’t haveforgottenthatyouassuredmemostsolemnlythatnothinginthe world would induce youto send it to any exhibition.

You told Harry exactly thesame thing.” He stoppedsuddenly, and a gleam oflight came into his eyes. Heremembered thatLordHenryhad said to him once, halfseriously and half in jest: “Ifyou want to have a strangequarter of an hour, get Basilto tell you why he won’texhibit your picture. He toldme why he wouldn’t, and itwasarevelationtome.”Yes,perhaps Basil, too, had his

secret.Hewouldaskhimandtry.“Basil,” he said, coming

over quite close and lookinghim straight in the face, “wehave each of us a secret. Letme know yours, and I shalltellyoumine.Whatwasyourreason for refusing toexhibitmypicture?”The painter shuddered in

spiteofhimself.“Dorian, ifItold you, you might like me

less than you do, and youwouldcertainlylaughatme.Icould not bear your doingeither of those two things. Ifyouwishmenevertolookatyour picture again, I amcontent.Ihavealwaysyoutolook at. If youwish the bestwork I have ever done to behidden from the world, I amsatisfied. Your friendship isdearertomethananyfameorreputation.”

“No, Basil, you must tellme,”insistedDorianGray.“IthinkIhavearighttoknow.”His feeling of terror hadpassed away, and curiosityhad taken its place. He wasdetermined to find out BasilHallward’smystery.“Let us sit down,Dorian,”

said the painter, lookingtroubled. “Let us sit down.And just answer me onequestion.Haveyounoticedin

the picture somethingcurious?—something thatprobablyatfirstdidnotstrikeyou,butthatrevealeditselftoyousuddenly?”“Basil!” cried the lad,

clutching the arms of hischair with trembling hands,and gazing at himwithwild,startledeyes.“I see you did. Don’t

speak.WaittillyouhearwhatI have to say. Dorian, from

the moment I met you, yourpersonality had the mostextraordinary influence overme. I was dominated, soul,brain, and power, by you.Youbecametomethevisibleincarnation of that unseenideal whose memory hauntsus artists like an exquisitedream. I worshiped you. Igrew jealous of every one towhomyouspoke.Iwantedtohaveyouall tomyself. Iwasonly happywhen Iwaswith

you. When you were awayfrom me you were stillpresent in my art. . . . Ofcourse, I never let you knowanything about this. Itwouldhave been impossible. Youwouldnothaveunderstoodit;Ihardlyunderstooditmyself.I only knew that I had seenperfection face to face, andthat the world had becomewonderful to my eyes—toowonderful, perhaps; for insuch mad worships there is

peril,theperiloflosingthem,no less than the peril ofkeepingthem....Weeksandweeks went on, and I grewmore and more absorbed inyou. Then came a newdevelopment. I had drawnyou as Parisdc in daintyarmor, and as Adonis withhuntsman’s cloak andpolishedboar-spear.Crownedwith heavy lotus-blossoms,you had sat on the prow of

Adrian’s barge,dd gazingacross the green turbid Nile.Youhad leanedover the stillpool of some Greekwoodland, and seen in thewater’s silent silver themarvelofyourownface;andithadallbeenwhatartshouldbe—unconscious, ideal, andremote.Oneday—afatalday,I sometimes think—Idetermined to paint awonderful portrait of you as

you actually are, not in thecostume of dead ages, but inyour own dress and in yourowntime.WhetheritwastheRealismofthemethod,orthemere wonder of your ownpersonality, thus directlypresented tomewithoutmistor veil, I can not tell. But Iknow that as I worked at itevery flake and filmof colorseemed to me to reveal mysecret. I grew afraid thatothers would know of my

idolatry. I felt,Dorian, that Ihadtoldtoomuch, thatIhadput too much of myself intoit.ThenitwasthatIresolvednever to allow the picture tobe exhibited. You were alittle annoyed, but then youdid not realize all that itmeanttome.Harry,towhomI talked about it, laughed atme. But I did notmind that.When the picture wasfinished,and I satalonewithit, I felt that Iwas right. . . .

Well, after a few days thething left my studio, and assoon as I had got rid of theintolerable fascination of itspresenceitseemedtomethatI had been foolish inimagining that I had seenanythinginit,morethanthatyou were extremely good-lookingandthatIcouldpaint.Even now I can not helpfeeling that it is amistake tothink that the passion onefeelsincreationiseverreally

shown in the work onecreates. Art is always moreabstract thanwe fancy.Formandcolor tell usof formandcolor—that is all. It oftenseemstomethatartconcealstheartistfarmorecompletelythaniteverrevealshim.AndsowhenIgot thisoffer fromParis I determined to makeyour portrait the principalthing in my exhibition. Itneveroccurredtomethatyouwould refuse. I see now that

you were right. The picturecannot be shown. You mustnotbeangrywithme,Dorian,forwhatIhavetoldyou.AsIsaid to Harry once, you aremadetobeworshiped.”Dorian Gray drew a long

breath. The color came backto his cheeks, and a smileplayed about his lips. Theperil was over. He was safeforthetime.Yethecouldnothelp feeling infinite pity for

thepainterwhohadjustmadethis strange confession tohim, and wondered if hehimself would ever be sodominated by the personalityof a friend. Lord Henry hadthe charm of being verydangerous. But that was all.He was too clever and toocynical to be really fond of.Would there ever be someonewhowould fill himwitha strange idolatry? Was thatoneofthethingsthatlifehad

instore?“It is extraordinary to me,

Dorian,” saidHallward, “thatyou should have seen this inthe portrait. Did you reallyseeit?”“Isawsomethinginit,”he

answered—“something thatseemedtobeverycurious.”“Well, youdon’tmindmy

lookingatthethingnow?”Dorian shook his head.

“You must not ask me that,

Basil.Icouldnotpossiblyletyou stand in front of thatpicture.”“You will some day,

surely?”“Never.”“Well, perhaps you are

right. And now good-bye,Dorian. You have been theonepersoninmylifewhohasreally influenced my art.Whatever I havedone that isgood, I owe to you.Ah!you

don’tknowwhatitcostmetotell you all that I have toldyou.”“My dear Basil,” said

Dorian, “what have you toldme?Simplythatyoufelt thatyou admired me too much.That is not even acompliment.”“It was not intended as a

compliment. It was aconfession. Now that I havemade it, something seems to

havegoneoutofme.Perhapsone should never put one’sworshipintowords.”“It was a very

disappointingconfession.”“Why, what did you

expect, Dorian? You didn’tsee anything else in thepicture, did you? There wasnothingelsetosee?”“No,therewasnothingelse

tosee.Whydoyouask?Butyou mustn’t talk about

worship. It is foolish. Youand I are friends, Basil, andwemustalwaysremainso.”“YouhavegotHarry,”said

thepainter,sadly.“Oh,Harry!”criedthelad,

with a ripple of laughter.“Harry spends his days insayingwhatisincredible,andhiseveningsindoingwhat isimprobable. Just the sort oflife Iwould like to lead.Butstill I don’t think Iwouldgo

toHarryifIwereintrouble.Iwould sooner go to you,Basil.”“Youwillsittomeagain?”“Impossible!”“You spoil my life as an

artistbyrefusing,Dorian.Noman came across two idealthings. Few come acrossone.”“I can’t explain it to you,

Basil, but Imust never sit toyouagain.Thereissomething

fatalaboutaportrait. Ithasalife of its own. I will comeand have tea with you. Thatwillbejustaspleasant.”“Pleasanter for you, I am

afraid,” murmured Hallward,regretfully. “And now good-bye.Iamsorryyouwon’tletme look at the picture onceagain. But that can’t behelped. I quite understandwhatyoufeelaboutit.”Ashelefttheroom,Dorian

Gray smiled to himself. PoorBasil! how little he knew ofthe true reason. And howstrangeitwasthat,insteadofhaving been forced to revealhis own secret, he hadsucceeded,almostbychance,inwresting a secret from hisfriend! How much thatstrange confession explainedto him! The painter’s absurdfits of jealousy, his wilddevotion, his extravagantpanegyrics, his curious

reticences—he understoodthem all now, and he feltsorry.Thereseemedtohimtobe something tragic in afriendship so colored byromance.Hesighed,andtouchedthe

bell. The portrait must behidden away at all costs. Hecould not run such a risk ofdiscovery again. It had beenmad of him to have allowedthe thing to remain, even for

an hour, in a room to whichanyofhisfriendshadaccess.

ChapterX.

Whenhis servantentered,helookedathimsteadfastly,andwonderedifhehadthoughtofpeering behind the screen.Themanwasquiteimpassive,and waited for his orders.Dorian lit a cigarette, andwalked over to the glass and

glanced into it.He could seethereflectionofVictor’sfaceperfectly.Itwaslikeaplacidmask of servility. There wasnothing to be afraid of there.Yethethoughtitbesttobeonhisguard.Speaking very slowly, he

told him to tell thehousekeeper that he wantedto see her, and then to go totheframe-makerandaskhimtosendtwoofhismenround

atonce.Itseemedtohimthatas theman left the room hiseyes wandered in thedirection of the screen. Orwas that merely his ownfancy?After a few moments, in

herblacksilkdress,withold-fashioned threadmittensdeonher wrinkled hands, Mrs.Leaf bustled into the library.He asked her for the key oftheschoolroom.

“The old schoolroom, Mr.Dorian!” she exclaimed.“Why,itisfullofdust.Imustget it arranged and putstraightbeforeyougointoit.Itisnotfitforyoutosee,sir.Itisnot,indeed.”“I don’t want it put

straight,Leaf.Ionlywantthekey.”“Well, sir, you’ll be

coveredwith cobwebs if yougointoit.Why,ithasn’tbeen

opened for nearly five years—not since his lordshipdied.”He winced at the mention

of his grandfather. He hadhateful memories of him.“That does not matter,” heanswered. “I simply want tosee the place—that is all.Givemethekey.”“Andhere is the key, sir,”

said the old lady, going overthe contents of her bunch

with tremulously uncertainhands. “Here is the key. I’llhave it off the bunch in amoment.Butyoudon’t thinkof living up there, sir, andyousocomfortablehere?”“No, no!” he cried,

petulently.“Thankyou,Leaf.Thatwilldo.”She lingered for a few

moments, and was garrulousover some detail of thehousehold. He sighed, and

told her to manage things asshe thoughtbest.She left theroom,wreathedinsmiles.Asthedoorclosed,Dorian

put thekey inhispocketandlooked round the room. Hiseye fell on a large purplesatin coverlet heavilyembroidered with gold, asplendid piece of lateseventeenth-centuryVenetianworkthathisgrandfatherhadfound in a convent near

Bologna. Yes, that wouldserve to wrap the dreadfulthing in. It had, perhaps,servedoften as a pall for thedead. Now it was to hidesomething that had acorruption of its own, worsethan the corruption of deathitself—something that wouldbreed horrors and yet wouldnever die. What the wormwas to the corpse, his sinswouldbetothepaintedimageon the canvas. They would

mar its beauty, and eat awayits grace. They would defileit,andmakeitshameful.Andyet the thing would still liveon.Itwouldbealwaysalive.He shuddered, and for a

moment he regretted that hehad not told Basil the truereasonwhyhehadwished tohide the picture away. Basilwould have helped him toresistLordHenry’sinfluence,and the still more poisonous

influencesthatcamefromhisown temperament. The lovethat he bore him—for it wasreallylove—hadnothinginitthat was not noble andintellectual. It was not thatmere physical admiration ofbeauty that is born of thesenses,andthatdieswhenthesensestire.dfItwassuchloveas Michael Angelo hadknown,andMontaigne,dgandWinckelmann,dh and

Shakespeare himself. Yes,Basil could have saved him.But itwas too late now.Thepast could always beannihilated; regret, denial, orforgetfulness could do that.Butthefuturewasinevitable.There were passions in himthat would find their terribleoutlet, dreams that wouldmaketheshadowoftheirevilreal.Hetookupfromthecouch

the great purple-and-goldtexture that covered it, and,holdingitinhishands,passedbehind the screen. Was theface on the canvas viler thanbefore?Itseemedtohimthatitwasunchanged;andyethisloathingof itwas intensified.Gold hair, blue eyes, androse-red lips—they all werethere. It was simply theexpression that had altered.That was horrible in itscruelty.Comparedtowhathe

sawinitofcensureorrebuke,how shallow Basil’sreproaches about Sibyl Vanehadbeen!—howshallow,andof what little account? Hisown soul was looking out athim from the canvas andcalling him to judgment. Alookofpaincameacrosshim,andheflungtherichpalloverthe picture. As he did so, aknock came to the door. Hepassed out as his servantentered.

“The persons are here,monsieur.”He felt that the man must

begotridofatonce.Hemustnotbeallowedtoknowwherethe picture was being takento. There was something slyabout him, and he hadthoughtful, treacherous eyes.Sitting down at the writing-table, he scribbled a note toLord Henry, asking him tosendhimroundsomething to

read, and remindinghim thatthey were to meet at eight-fifteenthatevening.“Wait for an answer,” he

said, handing it to him, “andshowthemeninhere.”In two or three minutes

therewasanotherknock,andMr. Hubbard himself, thecelebrated frame-maker ofSouthAudleyStreet,cameinwith a somewhat rough-looking young assistant. Mr.

Hubbard was a florid, red-whiskered little man, whoseadmiration for art wasconsiderably temperedby theinveterate impecuniosity ofmostof theartistswhodweltwithhim.Asarule,heneverleft his shop. He waited forpeopletocometohim.Buthealwaysmade an exception infavor of Dorian Gray. Therewas something about Dorianthat charmed everybody. Itwas a pleasure even to see

him.“What can I do for you,

Mr. Gray?” he said, rubbinghis fat, freckled hands. “IthoughtIwoulddomyselfthehonor of coming round inperson. I have just got abeautyofaframe,sir.Pickeditupatasale.OldFlorentine.Came from Fonthill,di Ibelieve.Admirablysuitedfora religious subject, Mr.Gray.”

“I am so sorry you havegiven yourself the trouble ofcoming round,Mr. Hubbard.I shall certainly drop in andlook at the frame—though Idon’t go in much at presentforreligiousart—butto-dayIonlywantapicturecarriedtothetopofthehouseforme.Itisratherheavy,soIthoughtIwould ask you to lend me acoupleofyourmen.”“No trouble at all, Mr.

Gray.Iamdelightedtobeofany service to you.Which istheworkofart,sir?”“This,” replied Dorian,

movingthescreenback.“Canyoumoveit,coveringandall,justasitis?Idon’twantittoget scratched going up-stairs.”“There will be no

difficulty,sir,”saidthegenialframe-maker,beginning,withthe aid of his assistant, to

unhook the picture from thelongbrasschainsbywhichitwas suspended. “And nowwhere shall we carry it to,Mr.Gray?”“Iwill show you theway,

Mr. Hubbard, if you willkindly followme;orperhapsyou had better go in front. Iamafraiditisrightatthetopof the house.Wewill go upby the front staircase,as it iswider.”

He held the door open forthem, and they passed outinto the hall and began theascent. The elaboratecharacter of the frame hadmade the picture extremelybulky, and now and then, inspite of the obsequiousprotestsofMr.Hubbard,whohad a true tradesman’sspirited dislike of seeing agentleman doing anythinguseful,Dorianputhishandtoitsoastohelpthem.

“Something of a load tocarry, sir,” gasped the littleman, when they reached thetoplanding.Andhewipedhisshinyforehead.“I am afraid it is rather

heavy,”murmuredDorian,ashe unlocked the door thatopenedintotheroomthatwasto keep for him the curioussecretofhis lifeandhidehissoulfromtheeyesofmen.He had not entered the

placeformorethanfouryears—not, indeed, since he hadused it first as a playroomwhenhewasachild,andthenas a study when he grewsomewhat older. It was alarge, well-proportionedroom, which had beenspecially built by the lastLordKelsofor theuseof thelittle grandsonwhom, for hisstrange likeness to hismother, and also for otherreasons, hehad alwayshated

and desired to keep at adistance. It appeared toDorian to have but littlechanged.Therewas thehugeItalian cassone,dj with itsfantastically painted panelsand its tarnished giltmoldings,inwhichhehadsooftenhiddenhimselfasaboy.There the satinwoodbookcase filledwithhisdog-eared schoolbooks. On thewall behind it was hanging

the same ragged Flemishtapestry where a faded kingandqueenwereplayingchessinagarden,whileacompanyof hawkers rode by, carryinghooded birds on theirgauntleted wrists. How wellhe remembered it all! Everymoment of his lonelychildhood came back to himas he looked round. Herecalledthestainlesspurityofhisboyishlife,anditseemedhorrible to him that it was

here the fatal portrait was tobehiddenaway.Howlittlehehad thought, in those deaddays, of all thatwas in storeforhim!But there was no other

place in the house so securefrom prying eyes as this. Hehad the key, and no one elsecould enter it. Beneath itspurple pall the face paintedon the canvas could growbestial, sodden, and unclean.

What did it matter? No onecould see it. He himselfwouldnotseeit.Whyshouldhe watch the hideouscorruption of his soul? Hekept his youth—that wasenough. And, besides, mightnot his nature grow finer,afterall?Therewasnoreasonthat the future should be sofull of shame. Some lovemight come across his life,and purify him, and shieldhim from those sins that

seemed to be already stirringin spirit and in flesh—thosecurious, unpic tured sinswhoseverymysterylentthemtheirsubtletyandtheircharm.Perhaps some day the cruellookwouldhavepassedawayfrom the scarlet sensitivemouth,andhemightshowtothe world Basil Hallward’smasterpiece.No; that was impossible.

Hour by hour and week by

week the thing upon thecanvas was growing old. Itmightescape thehideousnessofsin,butthehideousnessofage was in store for it. Thecheekswouldbecomeholloworflaccid.Yellowcrow’s-feetwouldcreeproundthefadingeyesandmakethemhorrible.The hair would lose itsbrightness, the mouth wouldgape or droop, would befoolish or gross, as themouthsofoldmenare.There

wouldbethewrinkledthroat,the cold, blue-veined hands,the twisted body, that heremembered in thegrandfatherwho had been sostern to him in his boyhood.The picture had to beconcealed.Therewasnohelpforit.“Bring it in,Mr.Hubbard,

please,” he said, wearily,turning round. “I am sorry Ikept you so long. I was

thinkingofsomethingelse.”“Always glad to have a

rest,Mr.Gray,”answeredtheframe-maker, who was stillgasping for breath. “Whereshallweputit,sir?”“Oh, anywhere. Here, this

will do. Idon’twant tohaveithungup.Justleanitagainstthewall.Thanks.”“Might one look at the

workofart,sir?”Dorian started. “It would

not interest you, Mr.Hubbard,” he said, keepinghis eye on the man. He feltready to leap upon him andflinghim to theground if hedared lift the gorgeoushanging that concealed thesecret of his life. “I sha’n’ttrouble you anymore now. Iam much obliged for yourkindnessincominground.”“Not at all, not at all,Mr.

Gray. Ever ready to do

anything for you, sir.” AndMr. Hubbard tramped down-stairs, followed by theassistant,whoglancedbackatDorian with a look of shywonder in his rough,uncomelyface.Hehadneverseenanyonesomarvelous.When the sound of their

footsteps had died away,Dorian locked the door andput thekey inhispocket.Hefelt safe now.No onewould

ever look upon the horriblething. No eye but his wouldeverseehisshame.On reaching the library he

found that it was just afterfive o’clock, and that the teahadbeenalreadybroughtup.On a little table of dark,perfumed wood, thicklyincrusted with nacre, apresent from Lady Radley,his guardian’s wife, a prettyprofessionalinvalid,whohad

spent theprecedingwinter inCairo,was lying a note fromLordHenry,andbesideitwasa book bound in yellowpaper, the cover slightly tornand the edges soiled.AcopyofthethirdeditionofTheSt.James’s Gazette had beenplacedon the tea-tray. Itwasevident that Victor hadreturned. He wondered if hehadmetthemeninthehallasthey were leaving the house,andhadwormedoutof them

whattheyhadbeendoing.Hewould be sure to miss thepicture—hadnodoubtmissedit already,whilehehadbeenlaying the tea-things. Thescreenhadnotbeensetback,and the blank space wasvisible on the wall. Perhapssomenighthemightfindhimcreeping up-stairs and tryingtoforcethedooroftheroom.Itwasaterriblethingtohaveaspy inone’shouse.Hehadheard of rich men who had

been blackmailed all theirlives by some servant whohadreadaletter,oroverheardaconversation,orpickedupacard with an address, orfound beneath a pillow awitheredflowerorashredofcrumpledlace.He sighed, and, having

pouredhimself out some tea,openedLordHenry’snote. Itwassimplytosaythathesenthim round the evening paper

andabookthatmightinteresthim, and thathewouldbeatthe club at eight-fifteen. Heopened The St. James’slanguidly,andlookedthroughit. A red pencil-mark on thefifth page caught his eye. Itdrew attention to thefollowingparagraph:INQUEST ON ANACTRESS.—An inquestwasheld thismorning at theBellTavern,HoxtonRoad,byMr.

Danby, the District Coroner,on thebodyofSibylVane,ayoung actress recentlyengagedattheRoyalTheater,Holborn. A verdict of deathby misadventure wasreturned. Considerablesympathy was expressed forthe mother of the deceased,who was greatly affectedduring thegivingofherownevidence and that of Dr.Birrell, who had made thepost-mortem examination of

thedeceased.He frowned, and, tearing

thepaperintwo,wentacrosstheroomandflungthepiecesaway. How ugly it all was!And how horribly realuglinessmadethings!Hefelta little annoyed with LordHenryforhavingsenthimthereport. And it was certainlystupidofhimtohavemarkedit with red pencil. Victormight have read it. Theman

knew more than enoughEnglishforthat.Perhapshehadreadit,and

had begun to suspectsomething.Andyet,whatdidit matter? What had DorianGraytodowithSibylVane’sdeath? There was nothing tofear. Dorian Gray had notkilledher.His eye fell on the yellow

book that Lord Henry hadsent him. What was it? he

wondered. He went towardthe little pearl-coloredoctagonal stand, that hadalwayslookedtohimlikethework of some strangeEgyptianbeesthatwroughtinsilver, and taking up thevolume,flunghimselfintoanarm chair, and began to turnover the leaves. After a fewminuteshebecameabsorbed.Itwasthestrangestbookthathehadeverread.dk It seemed

to him that in exquisiteraiment, and to the delicatesoundofflutes,thesinsoftheworld were passing in dumbshowbeforehim.Thingsthathe had dimly dreamed ofwere suddenly made real tohim.Thingsofwhichhehadnever dreamed weregraduallyrevealed.It was a novel without a

plot, and with only onecharacter, being, indeed,

simply a psychological studyof a certain young Parisian,who spent his life trying torealize in the nineteenthcentury all the passions andmodes of thought thatbelonged to every centuryexcept his own, and to sumup, as itwere, in himself thevariousmoodsthroughwhichthe world-spirit had everpassed, loving for theirmereartificiality thoserenunciations that men have

unwisely called virtue asmuch as those naturalrebellions thatwisemen stillcallsin.Thestyleinwhichitwas written was that curiousjeweled style, vivid andobscure at once, full ofargotdl and of archaisms, oftechnical expressions and ofelaborate paraphrases, thatcharacterizes the work ofsome of the finest artists ofthe French school of

Symbolistes.13Therewereinitmetaphors asmonstrous asorchids, and as subtle incolor. The life of the senseswasdescribedinthetermsofmystical philosophy. Onehardlyknewattimeswhetheronewas reading the spiritualecstasies of some mediævalsaint or the morbidconfessions of a modernsinner. It was a poisonousbook. The heavy odor of

incenseseemedtoclingaboutits pages and to trouble thebrain. The mere cadence ofthe sentences, the subtlemonotony of their music, sofull as it was of complexrefrains and movementselaborately repeated,produced in the mind of thelad,ashepassedfromchapterto chapter, a formof reverie,a malady of dreaming, thatmadehimunconsciousofthefalling day and the creeping

shadows.Cloudless, and pierced by

one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed throughthe windows. He read on byitswanlighttillhecouldreadnomore.Then,afterhisvalethad reminded him severaltimes of the lateness of thehour, he got up, and, goingintothenextroom,placedthebook on the little Florentinetable thatalwaysstoodathis

bedside, and began to dressfordinner.Itwas almost nine o’clock

before he reached the club,where he found Lord Henrysittingalone, in themorning-room, looking very muchbored.“I am so sorry,Harry,” he

cried,“butreallyitisentirelyyour fault. That book yousentmesofascinatedmethatI forgot how the time was

going.”“Yes?Ithoughtyouwould

like it,” replied his host,risingfromhischair.“I didn’t say I liked it,

Harry.Isaiditfascinatedme.Thereisagreatdifference.”“Ah, you have discovered

that?”murmuredLordHenry.And they passed into thedining-room.

ChapterXI.

For yearsDorianGray couldnot free himself from theinfluence of this book; orperhaps it would be moreaccurate to say that he neversoughttofreehimselffromit.He procured from Paris noless than nine large-paper

copiesofthefirstedition,andhad them bound in differentcolors,sothattheymightsuithis various moods and thechanging fancies of a natureover which he seemed, attimes,tohavealmostentirelylost control. The hero, thewonderful young Parisian, inwhom the romantic and thescientific temperament weresostrangelyblended,becameto him a kind of prefiguringtypeofhimself.And, indeed,

the whole book seemed tohimtocontainthestoryofhislife, written before he hadlivedit.In one point he was more

fortunate than the novel’sfantastichero.Heneverknew—never, indeed, had anycause to know—thatsomewhatgrotesquedreadofmirrors, and polished metalsurfaces, and still water,which came upon the young

Parisian so early in his life,and was occasioned by thesuddendecayofabeautythathadonce,apparently,beensoremarkable. It was with analmost cruel joy—andperhaps in nearly every joy,ascertainlyineverypleasure,crueltyhas itsplace—thatheused to read the latterpartofthe book, with its reallytragic, if somewhat over-emphasized, account of thesorrow and despair of one

whohadhimself lostwhat inothers, and in the world, hehadmostdearlyvalued.For the wonderful beauty

that had so fascinated BasilHallward, and many othersbesideshim,seemednevertoleave him. Even those whohadheardthemostevilthingsagainsthim(andfromtimetotimestrangerumorsabouthismode of life crept throughLondon and became the

chatteroftheclubs)couldnotbelieve anything to hisdishonorwhentheysawhim.He had always the look ofone who had kept himselfunspotted from the world.Men who talked grosslybecame silent when DorianGrayenteredtheroom.Therewas something in the purityofhisfacethatrebukedthem.Hismerepresenceseemed torecall tothemthememoryofthe innocence that they had

tarnished. They wonderedhow one so charming andgracefulashewascouldhaveescaped the stain of an agethat was at once sordid andsensual.Often, on returning home

fromoneofthosemysteriousand prolonged absences thatgave rise to such strangeconjecture among those whowere his friends, or thoughtthat theywere so, hehimself

would creep up-stairs to thelocked room, open the doorwith the key that never lefthim now, and stand, with amirror,infrontoftheportraitthat Basil Hallward hadpainted of him, looking nowat the evil and aging face onthe canvas, and now at thefair young face that laughedbackathimfromthepolishedglass. The very sharpness ofthe contrast used to quickenhis sense of pleasure. He

grew more and moreenamoredof his ownbeauty,more and more interested inthe corruption of his ownsoul.Hewouldexaminewithminute care, and sometimeswithamonstrousandterribledelight, thehideouslinesthatsearedthewrinklingforeheadorcrawledaround theheavy,sensual mouth, wonderingsometimes which were themorehorrible,thesignsofsinorthesignsofage.Hewould

place his white hands besidethe coarse, bloated hands ofthe picture, and smile. Hemocked the misshapen bodyandthefailinglimbs.There were moments,

indeed, at night, when, lyingsleepless in his owndelicately scented chamber,or in the sordid room of thelittleill-famedtavernneartheDocks, which, under anassumed name, and in

disguise, it was his habit tofrequent, he would think oftheruinhehadbroughtuponhis soul,withapity thatwasallthemorepoignantbecauseit was purely selfish. Butmoments such as these wererare.Thatcuriosityabout lifewhich Lord Henry had firststirred in him, as they sattogetherinthegardenoftheirfriend, seemed to increasewith gratification. The moreheknew,themorehedesired

toknow.Hehadmadhungersthat grew more ravenous ashefedthem.Yet he was not really

reckless, at any rate, in hisrelations to society. Once ortwiceeverymonthduringthewinter, and on eachWednesdayeveningwhiletheseasonlasted,hewouldthrowopen to the world hisbeautifulhouse,andhave themost celebratedmusicians of

the day to charm his guestswiththewondersof theirart.His little dinners, in thesettlingofwhichLordHenryalways assisted him, werenotedasmuchforthecarefulselectionandplacingofthoseinvited as for the exquisitetasteshownin thedecorationof the table, with its subtlesymphonic arrangements ofexotic flowers, andembroidered cloths, andantique plate of gold and

silver. Indeed, there weremany, especially among theveryyoungmen,whosaw,orfancied that they saw, inDorian Gray the truerealizationofatypeofwhichthey had often dreamed inEtonorOxforddays—a typethat was to combinesomething of the real cultureof the scholar with all thegrace and distinction andperfectmannerofacitizenofthe world. To them he

seemedtobeofthecompanywhom Dante describes ashaving sought to “makethemselves perfect by theworship of beauty.”14 LikeGautier, he was one forwhom “the visible worldexisted.”15

And,certainly, tohimLifeitself was the first, thegreatest,ofthearts,andforitalltheotherartsseemedtobebutapreparation.Fashion,by

whichwhatisreallyfantasticbecomes for a momentuniversal, and Dandyism,which, in its ownway, is anattempt toassert theabsolutemodernity of beauty, had, ofcourse, their fascination forhim. His mode of dressing,and the particular styles thatfromtimetotimeheaffected,hadtheirmarkedinfluenceonthe young exquisites of theMayfairballsandPallMalldm

club windows, who copiedhimineverythingthathedid,and tried to reproduce theaccidental charm of hisgraceful, though to him onlyhalf-seriousfopperies.For while he was but too

ready to accept the positionthat was almost immediatelyofferedtohimonhiscomingof age, and found, indeed, asubtlepleasureinthethoughtthat he might really become

totheLondonofhisowndaywhat to imperial NeronianRome the author of the“Satyricon”dn once had been,yet in his inmost heart hedesiredtobesomethingmorethan a mere arbiterelegantiarum,do to beconsultedonthewearingofajewel, or the knotting of anecktie, or the conduct of acane. He sought to elaboratesomenewschemeoflifethat

would have its reasonedphilosophy and its orderedprinciples, and find in thespiritualizingofthesensesitshighestrealization.The worship of the senses

has often, and with muchjustice, been decried, menfeeling a natural instinct ofterror about passions andsensations that seem strongerthanthemselves,andthattheyareconsciousofsharingwith

the less highly organizedforms of existence. But itappeared toDorianGray thatthe true nature of the senseshad never been understood,and that they had remainedsavage and animal merelybecausetheworldhadsoughtto starve them intosubmissionortokillthembypain, instead of aiming atmaking them elements of anew spirituality, of which afineinstinctforbeautywasto

be the dominantcharacteristic. As he lookedback upon man movingthrough History, he washaunted by a feeling of loss.So much had beensurrendered!andtosuchlittlepurpose! There had beenmad, wilful rejections,monstrous forms of self-tortureandself-denial,whoseorigin was fear, and whoseresult was a degradationinfinitely more terrible than

thatfancieddegradationfromwhich, in their ignorance,they had sought to escape,Nature, in her wonderfulirony, driving out theanchorite to feed with thewildanimalsofthedesertandgivingtothehermitthebeastsof the field as hiscompanions.Yes, there was to be, as

LordHenryhadprophesied,anew Hedonism that was to

recreate life, and to save itfrom that harsh, uncomelyPuritanism that is having, inour own day, its curiousrevival. It was to have itsservice of the intellect,certainly; yet itwas never toaccept any theory or systemthat would involve thesacrifice of any mode ofpassionate experience. Itsaim, indeed, was to beexperience itself, and not thefruitsofexperience, sweetor

bitter as theymight be.dp Ofthe asceticism that deadensthe senses, as of the vulgarprofligacy that dulls them, itwas to know nothing. But itwas to teach man toconcentrate himself upon themomentsofalifethatisitselfbutamoment.There are few of us who

havenot sometimeswakenedbefore dawn, either after oneofthosedreamlessnightsthat

make us almost enamored ofdeath, or one of those nightsof horror andmisshapen joy,when through the chambersof the brain sweep phantomsmore terrible than realityitself, and instinct with thatvivid life that lurks in allgrotesques, and that lends toGothic art its enduringvitality, this art being, onemightfancy,especiallytheartof those whose minds havebeen troubled with the

malady of reverie. Graduallywhite fingers creep throughthe curtains, and they appeartotremble.Inblack,fantasticshapes, dumb shadows crawlinto the corners of the room,and crouch there. Outside,there is the stirring of birdsamong the leaves, or thesound of men going forth totheir work, or the sigh andsobofthewindcomingdownfrom the hills andwanderinground the silent house, as

though it feared to wake thesleepers, and yet must needscall forth Sleep from herpurplecave.Veilafterveilofthin, dusky gauze is lifted,andbydegreestheformsandcolors of things are restoredto them, and we watch thedawn remaking the world inits antique pattern. The wanmirrors get back their mimiclife. The flameless tapersstandwherewehadleftthem,andbesidethemliesthehalf-

cut book that we had beenstudying,or thewired flowerthatwehadwornat theball,or the letter we had beenafraidtoread,or thatwehadreadtoooften.Nothingseemsto us changed. Out of theunreal shadows of the nightcomes back the real life thatwe had known. We have toresume it where we had leftoff,andtherestealsoverusaterriblesenseofthenecessityforthecontinuanceofenergy

inthesamewearisomeroundof stereotyped habits, or awild longing, it may be, thatour eyelidsmight open somemorning upon a world thathadbeenrefashionedanewinthedarknessforourpleasure,a world in which thingswould have fresh shapes andcolors, and be changed, orhaveothersecrets,aworldinwhich the past would havelittle or no place, or survive,at any rate, in no conscious

form of obligation or regret,theremembranceevenof joyhaving its bitterness, and thememories of pleasure theirpain.Itwas thecreationof such

worlds as these that seemedtoDorianGraytobethetrueobject, or among the trueobjects, of life; and in hissearch for sensations thatwould be at once new anddelightful, and possess that

elementofstrangenessthatisso essential to romance, hewould often adopt certainmodes of thought that heknewtobereallyalientohisnature, abandon himself totheir subtle influences, andthen, having, as it were,caught their color andsatisfied his intellectualcuriosity, leave them withthat curious indifference thatis not incompatible with areal ardor of temperament,

andthat,indeed,accordingtocertainmodernpsychologists,isoftenaconditionofit.Itwasrumoredofhimonce

that hewas about to join theRomanCatholic communion;and certainly the Romanritual had always a greatattraction for him. The dailysacrifice, more awful reallythan all the sacrifices of theantiqueworld, stirred him asmuch by its superb rejection

of the evidenceof the sensesasbytheprimitivesimplicityofitselementsandtheeternalpathos of the human tragedythat it sought to symbolize.He loved to kneel down onthe cold marble pavement,and watch the priest, in hisstiff, flowered dalmatic,slowly andwith white handsmoving aside the veil of thetabernacle,orraisingaloftthejeweled lantern-shapedmonstrance with that pallid

wafer that at times, onewould fain think, is indeedthe “panis coelestis,” thebread of angels, or robed inthegarmentsofthePassionofChrist,breakingtheHostintothe chalice, and smiting hisbreast for his sins. Thefumingcensers,thatthegraveboys,intheirlaceandscarlet,tossed into the air like greatgilt flowers, had their subtlefascination for him. As hepassed out, he used to look

with wonder at the blackconfessionals, and long to sitin the dim shadow of one ofthem and listen to men andwomen whispering throughthe worn grating the truestoryoftheirlives.But he never fell into the

error of arresting hisintellectual development byany formal acceptance ofcreed or system, or ofmistaking, for a house in

which to live, an inn that isbutsuitableforthesojournofanight,orforafewhoursofanight inwhich therearenostars and the moon is intravail. Mysticism, with itsmarvelous power of makingcommonthingsstrangetous,and the subtleantinomianismdq that alwaysseems to accompany it,movedhimfora season;andforaseasonheinclinedtothe

materialistic doctrines of the“Darwinismus”dr movementin Germany, and found acuriouspleasureintracingthethoughtsandpassionsofmento some pearly cell in thebrain,orsomewhitenerveinthe body, delighting in theconception of the absolutedependence of the spirit oncertain physical conditions,morbidor healthy, normal ordiseased. Yet, as has been

saidofhimbefore,notheoryoflifeseemedtohimtobeofany importance comparedwithlifeitself.Hefeltkeenlyconscious of how barren allintellectual speculation iswhen separated from actionandexperiment.Heknewthatthe senses, no less than thesoul, have their spiritualmysteriestoreveal.And so he would now

study perfumes, and the

secrets of their manufacture,distillingheavilyscentedoils,and burning odorous gumsfrom the East. He saw thatthere was no mood of themind that had not itscounterpart in the sensuouslife, and set himself todiscover their true relations,wonderingwhat therewas infrankincense that made onemystical, and in ambergristhat stirred one’s passions,and in violets that woke the

memory of dead romances,andinmuskthattroubledthebrain, and in champakds thatstained the imagination; andseeking often to elaborate areal psychology of perfumes,and to estimate the severalinfluences of sweet-smellingroots, and scented pollen-laden flowers, of aromaticbalms, and of dark andfragrant woods, of spikenardthat sickens, of hovenia that

makesmenmad,andofaloesthat are said to be able toexpel melancholy from thesoul.Atanothertimehedevoted

himself entirely to music,16and in a long, latticed room,with a vermilion-and-goldceiling and walls of olive-greenlacquer,heusedtogivecurious concerts in whichmad gypsies tore wildmusicfrom little zithers, or grave

yellow-shawled Tunisianspluckedatthestrainedstringsof monstrous lutes, whilegrinning negroes beatmonotonously upon copperdrums, and, crouching uponscarlet mats, slim turbanedIndians blew through longpipes of reed or brass, andcharmed,orfeignedtocharm,great hooded snakes andhorrible horned adders. Theharsh intervals and shrilldiscords of barbaric music

stirred him at times whenSchubert’s grace andChopin’s beautiful sorrowsand themighty harmonies ofBeethoven himself fellunheeded on his ear. Hecollected together from allparts of the world thestrangest instruments thatcould be found, either in thetombs of dead nations oramong the few savage tribesthat have survived contactwith Western civilizations,

and loved to touch and trythem.He had themysteriousjuruparis of the Rio NegroIndians, that women are notallowed to look at, and thateven youths may not see tillthey have been subjected tofastingandscourging,andtheearthen jars of the Peruviansthat have the shrill cries ofbirds, and flutes of humanbones such as Alfonso deOvalleheardinChili,andthesonorous green jaspers that

are found near Cuzco andgive forth a note of singularsweetness. He had paintedgourds filled with pebblesthat rattled when they wereshaken;thelongclarinoftheMexicans, into which theperformerdoesnotblow,butthroughwhich he inhales theair; the harsh ture of theAmazon tribes, that issoundedbythesentinelswhosit all day long inhigh trees,andcanbeheard,itissaid,at

a distance of three leagues;the teponaztli, that has twovibrating tongues of wood,and isbeatenwith sticks thatare smeared with an elasticgumobtainedfromthemilkyjuice of plants; the yotl-bellsoftheAztecs,thatarehunginclusters like grapes; and ahuge cylindrical drum,covered with the skins ofgreat serpents, like the onethat Bernal Diazdt saw when

hewent with Cortes into theMexican temple, and ofwhose doleful sound he hasleftus sovividadescription.The fantastic character ofthese instruments fascinatedhim, and he felt a curiousdelight in the thought thatArt, like Nature, has hermonsters—things of bestialshape and with hideousvoices.Yet, after some time,he wearied of them, andwould sit in his box at the

Opera, either alone or withLordHenry, listening in raptpleasure to “Tannhäuser,”and seeing in the prelude tothat great work of art apresentationofthetragedyofhisownsoul.17

On one occasion he tookup the study of jewels, andappearedatacostumeballasAnnedeJoyeuse,AdmiralofFrance, in a dress coveredwith five hundred and sixty

pearls.18This taste enthralledhim for years, and, indeed,maybesaidnevertohavelefthim.Hewouldoftenspendawhole day settling andresettling in their cases thevarious stones that he hadcollected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turnsred by lamplight, thecymophanewith itswire-likeline of silver, the pistachio-coloredperidot,rose-pinkand

wine-yellow topazes,carbuncles of fiery scarletwith tremulous four-rayedstars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violetspinels, and amethysts withtheir alternate layers of rubyand sapphire. He loved theredgoldof thesunstone,andthe moonstone’s pearlywhiteness, and the brokenrainbowofthemilkyopal.Heprocured from Amsterdamthree emeralds of

extraordinary size andrichness of color, and had aturquoisde la vieille rocheduthat was the envy of all theconnoisseurs.He discovered wonderful

stories, also, about jewels. InAlphonso’s “ClericalisDisciplina” a serpent wasmentioned with eyes of realjacinth, and in the romantichistory of Alexander, theconqueror of Emathia was

saidtohavefoundinthevaleof Jordon snakes “withcollars of real emeraldsgrowing on their backs.”Therewasageminthebrainof the dragon, Philostratustold us, and “by theexhibition of golden lettersand a scarlet robe” themonstercouldbethrownintoa magical sleep, and slain.According to the greatalchemist,PierredeBoniface,the diamond rendered a man

invisible, and the agate ofIndiamadehimeloquent.Thecornelianappeasedanger,andthe hyacinth provoked sleep,and theamethystdroveawaythefumesofwine.Thegarnetcast out demons, and thehydropicus deprived theMoon of her color. Theselenite waxed and wanedwith the moon, and themeloceus, that discoversthieves, could be affectedonly by the blood of kids.

LeonardusCamillushadseenawhite stone taken from thebrain of a newly killed toadthat was a certain antidoteagainstpoison.Thebezoar,dvthatwasfoundintheheartofthe Arabian deer, was acharm that could cure theplague. In the nests ofArabian birds was theaspilates, that, according toDemocritus, kept the wearerfromanydangerbyfire.19

TheKingofCeilandw rodethrough his city with a largeruby in his hand, at theceremony of his coronation.The gates of the palace ofJohnthePriestwere“madeofsardius, with the horn of thehorned snake inwrought, sothat no man might bringpoison within.” Over thegable were “two goldenapples, in which were twocarbuncles,” so that the gold

might shine by day and thecarbuncles by night. InLodge’sstrangeromance,“AMargariteofAmerica,”itwasstated that in the chamber ofthe queen one could behold“all the chaste ladies of theworld, inchasedoutofsilver,looking through fair mirrorsof chryso lites, carbuncles,sapphires, and greeneemeraults.” Marco Polo hadseen the inhabitants ofZipangu place rose-colored

pearls in the mouths of thedead.Aseamonsterhadbeenenamoredofthepearlthatthediver brought to KingPerozes, and had slain thethief, andmourned for sevenmoonsoveritsloss.WhentheHuns lured the king into thegreat pit, he flung it away—Procopiustellsthestory—norwas it ever found again,though the EmperorAnastasius offered fivehundred-weight of gold

pieces for it. The King ofMalabar had shown to acertain Venetian a rosary ofthreehundredandfourpearls,one for every god that heworshiped.20

When the Duke deValentinois,sonofAlexanderVI., visited Louis XII. ofFrance, his horsewas loadedwithgoldleaves,accordingtoBrantôme, and his cap haddouble rows of rubies that

threw out a great light.Charles of England hadridden in stirrups hung withfour hundred and twenty-onediamonds. Richard II. had acoat,valuedatthirtythousandmarks, which was coveredwith balas-rubies. HalldescribedHenryVIII.,onhiswaytotheTowerprevioustohiscoronation, aswearing“ajacket of raised gold, theplacard embroidered withdiamonds and other rich

stones, and a greatbauderikedxabouthisneckoflargebalasses.”Thefavoritesof James I. wore earrings ofemeraldssetingoldfiligrane.Edward II. gave to PiersGaveston a suit of red-goldarmorstuddedwithjacinths,acollar of gold roses set withturquois stones, and a skull-cap parsemé dy with pearls.Henry II. wore jeweledglovesreachingtotheelbow,

and had a hawk-glove sewnwith twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducalhat of Charles the Rash, thelastDukeofBurgundyofhisrace, was hung with pear-shaped pearls, and studdedwithsapphires.21

How exquisite life hadonce been!How gorgeous inits pomp and decoration!Eventoreadof the luxuryofthedeadwaswonderful.

Then he turned hisattentiontoembroideries,andto the tapestries thatperformed the office offrescos in the chill rooms ofthe northern nations ofEurope. As he investigatedthe subject—and he alwayshad an extraordinary facultyof becoming absolutelyabsorbed for the moment inwhateverhetookup—hewasalmost saddened by thereflection of the ruin that

Time brought on beautifuland wonderful things. He, atany rate, had escaped that.Summer followed summer,and the yellow jonquilsbloomed and died manytimes, and nights of horrorrepeated the story of theirshame, but he wasunchanged.Nowintermarredhisfaceorstainedhisflower-like bloom. How different itwas with material things!Where had they passed to?

Where was the great crocus-colored robe, on which thegods fought against thegiants, that had beenworkedby brown girls for thepleasureofAthena?dzWhere,thehugevelariumthatNeroeahad stretched across theColosseum at Rome, thatTitansailofpurpleonwhichwasrepresentedthestarryskyandApolloebdrivingachariotdrawn by white gilt-reined

steeds?He longed to see thecurious table-napkinswrought for the Priest of theSun,onwhichweredisplayedall the dainties and viandsthat could be wanted for afeast; the mortuary cloth ofKingChilperic,with its threehundred golden bees; thefantastic robes that excitedthe indignationof theBishopof Pontus, and were figuredwith “lions, panthers, bears,dogs, forests, rocks, hunters

—all, in fact, that a paintercan copy from nature”; andthe coat that Charles ofOrleans once wore, on thesleeves of which wereembroidered the verses of asong beginning “Madame, jesuistoutjoyeux,” themusicalaccompaniment of the wordsbeingwroughtingoldthread,and each note, of squareshape in those days, formedwith four pearls. He read oftheroomthatwaspreparedat

the palace at Rheims for theuse of Queen Joan ofBurgundy,andwasdecoratedwith “thirteen hundred andtwenty-one parrots, made inbroidery, and blazoned withthe king’s arms, and fivehundred and sixty-onebutterflies,whosewingsweresimilarlyornamentedwiththearmsof thequeen, thewholeworkedingold.”CatherinedeMédicis had a mourning-bedmade for her of black velvet

powdered with crescents andsuns. Its curtains were ofdamask, with leafy wreathsand garlands, figured upon agold and silver ground, andfringed along the edges withbroideries of pearls, and itstood in a room hung withrows of the queen’s devicesincutblackvelvetuponclothofsilver.LouisXIV.hadgoldembroidered caryatidesfifteen feet high in hisapartment. The state bed of

Sobieski, King of Poland,was made of Smyrna goldbrocade embroidered inturquoises with verses fromthe Koran. Its supports wereof silver gilt, beautifullychased,andprofuselysetwithenameled and jeweledmedallions.IthadbeentakenfromtheTurkishcampbeforeVienna, and the standard ofMohammed had stoodbeneath the tremulous gilt of

itscanopy.22

And so, for a whole year,he sought to accumulate themostexquisitespecimensthathe could find of textile andembroidered work, gettingthe dainty Delhi muslins,finely wrought, with gold-thread palmates,ec andstitched over with iridescentbeetles’ wings; the Daccagauzes, that from theirtransparencyareknowninthe

East as “woven air,” and“running water,” and“evening dew”; strangefigured cloths from Java;elaborate yellow Chinesehangings; books bound intawnysatinsorfairbluesilks,and wrought with fleurs-de-lys, birds, and images; veilsoflacisedworked inHungarypoint; Sicilian brocades, andstiff Spanish velvets;Georgian work with its gilt

coins, and JapaneseFoukousaseewiththeirgreen-toned golds and theirmarvelouslyplumagedbirds.He had a special passion,

also, for ecclesiasticalvestments, as indeed he hadforeverythingconnectedwiththe service of theChurch. Inthe long cedar chests thatlined the west gallery of hishouse he had stored awaymany rare and beautiful

specimens of what is reallythe raiment of the Bride ofChrist,whomustwearpurpleandjewelsandfinelinenthatshe may hide the pallidmacerated body that is wornbythesufferingthatsheseeksfor, and wounded by self-inflictedpain.Hepossessedagorgeouscopeofcrimsonsilkand gold-thread damask,figured with a repeatingpattern of goldenpomegranates set in six-

petaled formal blossoms,beyondwhich,oneitherside,was the pineapple devicewrought in seed-pearls. Theorphreysef were divided intopanels representing scenesfrom the life of the Virgin,and the coronation of theVirginwasfiguredincoloredsilksuponthehood.ThiswasItalian work of the fifteenthcentury.Anothercopewasofgreen velvet, embroidered

with heart-shaped groups ofacanthus leaves, from whichspread long-stemmed whiteblossoms,thedetailsofwhichwere picked out with silverthread and colored crystals.The morse bore a seraph’shead in gold-thread raisedwork. The orphreys werewoven in a diapereg of redand gold silk, and werestarred with medallions ofmany saints and martyrs,

among whom was St.Sebastian.23 He hadchasubles, also, of amber-coloredsilk,andbluesilkandgoldbrocade,andyellowsilkdamask and cloth of gold,figured with representationsof the Passion andCrucifixion of Christ, andembroidered with lions andpeacocksandotheremblems;dalmatics of white satin andpink silk damask, decorated

with tulips and dolphins andfleurs-de-lys;altarfrontalsofcrimson velvet and bluelinen; and many corporals,ehchaliceveils,andsudaria.eiInthe mystic offices to whichsuch things were put therewassomethingthatquickenedhisimagination.For these treasures, and

everything that he collectedin his lovely house, were tobe to him means of

forgetfulness, modes bywhich he could escape, for aseason, from the fear thatseemed tohimat times tobealmost too great to be borne.Upon thewalls of the lonelylocked room where he hadspentsomuchofhisboyhoodhe had hung with his ownhands the terrible portraitwhose changing featuresshowed him the realdegradationofhislife,andinfront of it had draped the

purple-and-gold pall as acurtain. For weeks he wouldnotgothere,wouldforgetthehideouspaintedthing,andgetback his light heart, hiswonderful joyousness, hispassionateabsorptioninmereexistence. Then, suddenly,some night he would creepoutof thehouse,godown todreadful places near BlueGate Fields, and stay there,day after day, until he wasdrivenaway.Onhisreturnhe

would sit in front of thepicture,sometimesloathingitand himself, but filled, atothertimes,withthatprideofindividualism that is half thefascination of sin, andsmiling,with secret pleasure,at themisshapenshadowthathad to bear the burden thatshouldhavebeenhisown.Aftera fewyearshecould

not endure to be long out ofEngland, and gave up the

villa that he had shared atTrouvilleej with Lord Henry,as well as the little whitewalled-in house at Algiersekwhere they had more thanonce spent the winter. Hehatedtobeseparatedfromthepicturethatwassuchapartofhis life, and was also afraidthat during his absence someonemight gain access to theroom,inspiteoftheelaboratebars thathehadcaused tobe

placeduponthedoor.He was quite conscious

that this would tell themnothing. It was true that theportrait still preserved, underall the foulness and uglinessof the face, its markedlikeness to himself; butwhatcould they learn from that?He would laugh at any onewho tried to taunt him. Hehadnot painted it.Whatwasittohimhowvileandfullof

shame it looked? Even if hetoldthem,wouldtheybelieveit?Yet he was afraid.

Sometimes when he wasdown at his great house inNottinghamshire,entertainingthefashionableyoungmenofhis own rank who were hischief companions, andastounding the countyby thewanton luxury and gorgeoussplendor of hismode of life,

he would suddenly leave hisguestsandrushback to townto see that the door had notbeen tampered with and thatthe picture was still there.What if it should be stolen?The mere thought made himcold with horror. Surely theworldwould knowhis secretthen. Perhaps the worldalreadysuspectedit.For, while he fascinated

many, there were not a few

who distrusted him. He wasvery nearly blackballed at aWest End club of which hisbirthandsocialpositionfullyentitled him to become amember, and itwas said thaton one occasion, when hewas brought by a friend intothe smoking-room of theChurchill,el the Duke ofBerwick and anothergentlemangotupinamarkedmannerandwentout.Curious

stories became current abouthim after he had passed histwenty-fifth year. It wasrumored that he had beenseen brawling with foreignsailors in a low den in thedistant parts of Whitechapel,and that he consorted withthievesandcoinersandknewthe mysteries of their trade.His extraordinary absencesbecamenotorious, and,whenhe used to reappear again insociety, men would whisper

to each other in corners, orpasshimwithasneer,orlookat him with cold, searchingeyes, as though they weredetermined to discover hissecret.Of such insolences and

attempted slights he, ofcourse,tooknonotice,andinthe opinion of most peoplehisfrank,debonnairmanner,his charming, boyish smile,and the infinite grace of that

wonderful youth that seemednever to leave him, were inthemselves a sufficientanswer to the calumnies (forso they termed them) thatwere circulated about him. Itwas remarked, however, thatsome of thosewho had beenmost intimate with himappeared,afteratime,toshunhim.Womenwhohadwildlyadored him, and for his sakehad braved all social censureand set convention at

defiance, were seen to growpallidwithshameorhorrorifDorian Gray entered theroom.Yet these whispered

scandalsonlyincreasedintheeyesofmanyhisstrangeanddangerous charm. His greatwealthwas a certain elementof security. Society, civilizedsocietyat least, isneververyready to believe anything tothe detriment of those who

areboth richand fascinating.It feels instinctively thatmanners are of moreimportance thanmorals, and,in its opinion, the highestrespectability isofmuch lessvaluethanthepossessionofagoodchef.And,afterall,itisaverypoorconsolationtobetold that the man who hasgiven one a bad dinner, orpoor wine, is irreproachablein his private life. Even thecardinalvirtuescannotatone

forhalf-coldentrées,asLordHenry remarked once, in adiscussiononthesubject;andthere is possibly a good dealto be said for his views. Forthe canons of good societyare,orshouldbe,thesameasthe canons of art. Form isabsolutely essential to it. Itshould have the dignity of aceremony, as well as itsunreality, and shouldcombine the insincerecharacter of a romantic play

with the wit and beauty thatmakes such plays delightfulto us. Is insincerity such aterriblething?Ithinknot.Itismerelyamethodbywhichwecan multiply ourpersonalities.Such, at any rate, was

Dorian Gray’s opinion. Heusedtowonderattheshallowpsychology of those whoconceivetheEgoinmanasathing simple, permanent,

reliable, and of one essence.To him, man was a beingwithmyriadlivesandmyriadsensations, a complexmultiform creature that borewithin itself strange legaciesof thought and passion, andwhose very fleshwas taintedwith the monstrous maladiesofthedead.Helovedtostrollthrough the gaunt, coldpicture-galleryofhiscountry-houseandlookatthevariousportraits of those whose

blood flowed in his veins.Here was Philip Herbert,described by FrancisOsborne, inhis“Memoirsonthe Reigns of QueenElizabeth and King James,”asonewhowas“caressedbythe court for his handsomeface,whichkepthimnotlongcompany.” Was it youngHerbert’s life that hesometimes led? Had somestrangepoisonousgermcreptfrombody to body till it had

reached his own? Was itsomedimsenseofthatruinedgrace that had made him sosuddenly,andalmostwithoutcause,giveutterance,inBasilHallward’sstudio,tothemadprayer that had so changedhis life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet,jeweled sur coat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands,stood Sir Anthony Sherard,with his silver-and-blackarmor piled at his feet.What

had this man’s legacy been?HadtheloverofGiovannaofNaplesbequeathedhimsomeinheritanceofsinandshame?Werehisownactionsmerelythedreamsthatthedeadmanhad not dared to realize?Here,fromthefadingcanvas,smiled Lady ElizabethDevereux,inhergauzehood,pearl stomacher,em and pinkslashedsleeves.Aflowerwasinherrighthand,andherleft

claspedanenameledcollarofwhiteanddamaskroses.Onatable by her side lay amandolinandanapple.Therewere large green rosettesuponher little pointed shoes.He knew her life, and thestrange stories thatwere toldabout her lovers. Had hesomething of hertemperament in him? Theseoval, heavy-lidded eyesseemed to look curiously athim. What of George

Willoughby, with hispowdered hair and fantasticpatches?Howevilhelooked!The face was saturnine andswarthy, and the sensual lipsseemed to be twisted withdisdain. Delicate lace rufflesfell over the lean yellowhands thatwere sooverladenwith rings. He had been amacaronien of the eighteenthcentury,andthefriend,inhisyouth, ofLord Ferrars.What

of the second LordBeckenham, the companionof the Prince Regent in hiswildest days, and one of thewitnesses at the secretmarriage with Mrs.Fitzherbert? How proud andhandsome he was, with hischestnut curls and insolentpose! What passions had hebequeathed? The world hadlookeduponhimasinfamous.He had led the orgies atCarlton House. The star of

the Garter glittered upon hisbreast. Beside him hung theportrait of his wife, a pallid,thin-lipped woman in black.Herblood,also,stirredwithinhim. How curious it allseemed!Andhismother,withherLadyHamiltonfaceeoandhermoist,wine-dashedlips—he knew what he had gotfromher.Hehadgotfromherhisbeautyandhispassionforthe beauty of others. She

laughed at him in her looseBacchante dress. There werevine leaves in her hair. Thepurple spilled from the cupshe was holding. Thecarnationsofthepaintinghadwithered, but the eyes werestill wonderful in their depthand brilliancy of color. Theyseemed to follow himwhereverhewent.24

Yet one had ancestors inliterature, aswell as in one’s

own race, nearer perhaps intype and temperament,manyofthem,andcertainlywithaninfluence of which one wasmore absolutely conscious.There were times when itappeared toDorianGray thatthe whole of history wasmerely the recordofhisownlife, not as he has lived it inact and circumstance, but ashisimaginationhadcreateditforhim,as ithadbeen inhisbrain and inhispassions.He

felt that he had known themall, those strange, terriblefiguresthathadpassedacrossthe stage of the world andmade sin so marvelous andevil so full of subtlety. Itseemed to him that in somemysterious way their liveshadbeenhisown.The hero of thewonderful

novel that had so influencedhis life had himself knownthis curious fancy. In the

seventh chapter he tells how,crowned with laurel, lestlightningmightstrikehim,hehad sat, as Tiberius, in agarden at Capri, reading theshameful books ofElephantis, while dwarfs andpeacocks strutted round himand the flute-player mockedthe swinger of the censer;and, as Caligula, hadcaroused with the green-shirted jockeys in theirstables, and supped in an

ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, asDomitian, had wanderedthrough a corridor linedwithmarble mirrors, lookinground with haggard eyes forthe reflection of the daggerthatwas toendhisdays,andsick with that ennui, thatterrible tœdium vitœ,ep thatcomeson those towhom lifedenies nothing; and hadpeered through a clear

emerald at the red shamblesof the Circus, and then, in alitter of pearl and purpledrawn by silver-shod mules,been carried through theStreet of Pomegranates to aHouse of Gold, and heardmencryonNeroCæsarashepassed by; and, asElagabalus, had painted hisfacewithcolors,andpliedthedistaff among the women,and brought the Moon fromCarthage, and given her in

mysticmarriagetotheSun.25

Over and over againDorian used to read thisfantasticchapter,andthetwochapters immediatelyfollowing, in which, as insome curious tapestries orcunningly wrought enamels,were pictured the awful andbeautiful forms of thosewhom Vice and Blood andWeariness had mademonstrous or mad: Filippo,

DukeofMilan,whoslewhiswife, and painted her lipswitha scarletpoison thatherlover might suck death fromthe dead thing he fondled;Pietro Barbi, the Venetian,known as Paul the Second,who sought in his vanity toassumethetitleofFormosus,and whose tiara, valued attwohundredthousandflorins,was bought at the price of aterrible sin; Gian MariaVisconti,whousedhoundsto

chase livingmen, andwhosemurdered body was coveredwith roses by a harlot whohadlovedhim;theBorgiaonhis white horse, withFratricide riding beside him,and his mantle stained withthe blood of Per-otto; PietroRiario, the young CardinalArchbishopofFlorence,childand minion of Sixtus IV.,whose beauty was equaledonly by his debauchery, andwho received Leonora of

Aragoninapavilionofwhiteand crimson silk, filled withnymphs and centaurs, andgilded a boy that he mightserve at the feast asGanymedeeq or Hylas;erEzzelin, whose melancholycould be cured only by thespectacle of death, and whohad a passion for red blood,as other men have for redwine—the son of the Fiend,aswasreported,andonewho

hadcheatedhisfatheratdicewhen gambling with him forhis own soul; Gi ambattistaCibo, who in mockery tookthe name of Innocent, andinto whose torpid veins theblood of three lads wasinfused by a Jewish doctor;Sigismondo Malatesta, theloverofIsotta,andthelordofRimini, whose effigy wasburnedatRomeastheenemyof God and man, whostrangled Polyssena with a

napkin, and gave poison toGinevra d’Este in a cup ofemerald, and in honor of ashameful passion built apagan church for Christianworship; Charles VI., whohad so wildly adored hisbrother’swifethataleperhadwarned him of the insanitythatwascomingonhim,andwho, when his brain hadthickenedandgrownstrange,could only be soothed bySaracen cards painted with

theimagesofLoveandDeathand Madness; and, in histrimmed jerkin and jeweledcap and acanthus-like curls,Grifonetto Baglioni, whoslew Astorre with his bride,andSimonettowithhispage,and whose comeliness wassuch that, as he lay dying intheyellowpiazzaofPerugia,those who had hated himcould not choose but weep,andAtalanta,whohadcursed

him,blessedhim.26

There was a horriblefascination in them all. Hesaw them at night, and theytroubled his imagination inthe day. The Renaissanceknew of strange manners ofpoisoning—poisoning by ahelmetandalightedtorch,byan embroidered glove and ajeweled fan, by a gildedpomander and by an amberchain.DorianGray had been

poisoned by a book. Therewere moments when helooked on evil simply as amodethroughwhichhecouldrealize his conception of thebeautiful.

ChapterXII.

It was on the 9th ofNovember,theeveofhisownthirty-eighth birthday, as heoftenrememberedafterward.He was walking home

about eleven o’clock fromLord Henry’s, where he hadbeen dining, and was

wrappedinheavyfurs,asthenightwascoldandfoggy.Atthe corner of GrosvenorSquare and South AudleyStreet a man passed him inthe mist, walking very fast,andwiththecollarofhisgreyulsterturnedup.Hehadabagin his hand. Dorianrecognized him. It was BasilHallward.A strange senseoffear, for which he could notaccount, came over him. Hemade no sign of recognition,

and went on quickly in thedirectionofhisownhouse.But Hallward had seen

him. Dorian heard him firststopping on the pavement,and then hurrying after him.In a few moments his handwasuponhisarm.“Dorian! What an

extraordinarypieceofluck!Ihavebeenwaiting foryou inyour library ever since nineo’clock.FinallyItookpityon

your tired servant, and toldhimtogotobed,asheletmeout. I am off to Paris by themidnight train, and IparticularlywantedtoseeyoubeforeI left. I thought itwasyou,or, rather,your furcoat,as you passed me. But Iwasn’tquitesure.Didn’tyourecognizeme?”“Inthisfog,mydearBasil?

Why, I can’t even recognizeGrosvenor Square. I believe

myhouseissomewhereabouthere, but I don’t feel at allcertain about it. I am sorryyouaregoingaway,asIhavenot seen you for ages. But Isuppose you will be backsoon?”“No, I am going to be out

of England for sixmonths. Iintend to take a studio inParis,andshutmyselfuptillIhavefinishedagreatpictureIhaveinmyhead.However,it

wasn’taboutmyselfIwantedto talk. Here we are at yourdoor. Let me come in for amoment. Ihavesomething tosaytoyou.”“I shall be charmed. But

won’t you miss your train?”said Dorian Gray, languidly,ashepassedupthestepsandopened the door with hislatch-key.The lamplight struggled

out through the fog, and

Hallwardlookedathiswatch.“I have heaps of time,” heanswered. “The train doesn’tgotilltwelve-fifteen,anditisonlyjusteleven.Infact,IwasonmywaytotheclubtolookforyouwhenImetyou.Yousee, I shan’t have any delayabout luggage,as Ihavesenton my heavy things. All Ihave with me is in this bag,and I can easily get toVictoriaintwentyminutes.”

Dorian looked at him andsmiled. “What a way for afashionable painter to travel!A Gladstone bages and anulster!et Come in, or the fogwill get into the house. Andmind you don’t talk aboutanything serious. Nothing isserious nowadays—at least,nothingshouldbe.”Hallwardshookhisheadas

he entered, and followedDorianintothelibrary.There

was a bright wood fireblazing in the large openhearth. The lamps were lit,and an open Dutch silverspirit-case stood, with somesiphons of soda-water andlargecut-glasstumblers,onalittlemarqueterieeutable.“You see your servant

made me quite at home,Dorian. He gave meeverything I wanted,including your best gold-

tippedcigarettes.Heisamosthospitablecreature.Ilikehimmuch better than theFrenchmanyouusedtohave.What has become of theFrenchman,bythebye?”Dorian shrugged his

shoulders. “I believe hemarriedLadyRadley’smaid,and has established her inParis as an Englishdressmaker. Anglomanie isvery fashionable over there

now, Ihear. It seems sillyoftheFrench,doesn’t it?But—doyouknow?—hewasnotatallabadservant.Ineverlikedhim, but I had nothing tocomplain about. One oftenimaginesthingsthatarequiteabsurd. He was really verydevoted to me, and seemedquite sorry when he wentaway. Have another brandy-and-soda?Orwouldyou likehockev-and-seltzer? I always

take hock-and-seltzermyself.There is sure to be some inthenextroom.”“Thanks, I won’t have

anything more,” said thepainter, taking his cap andcoat off, and throwing themonthebagthathehadplacedin the corner. “Andnow,mydear fellow, I want to speaktoyouseriously.Don’tfrownlike that. You make it somuchmoredifficultforme.”

“What is it all about?”cried Dorian, in his petulantway, flinging himself downon the sofa. “I hope it is notabout myself. I am tired ofmyself to-night. I should liketobesomebodyelse.”“It is about yourself,”

answered Hallward, in hisgrave, deep voice, “and Imust say it to you. I shallonlykeepyouhalfanhour.”Dorian sighed, and lit a

cigarette. “Half an hour!” hemurmured.“It is not much to ask of

you,Dorian,anditisentirelyfor your own sake that I amspeaking. I think it right thatyou should know that themost dreadful things arebeing said against you inLondon.”“I don’t wish to know

anything about them. I lovescandals about other people,

but scandals about myselfdon’t interestme. They havenotgotthecharmofnovelty.”“They must interest you,

Dorian. Every gentleman isinterested in his good name.Youdon’twantpeopletotalkofyouas somethingvileanddegraded. Of course, youhave your position, and yourwealth, and all that kind ofthing.Butpositionandwealtharenoteverything.Mindyou,

I don’t believe these rumorsatall—atleast,Ican’tbelievethemwhenIseeyou.Sinisathing thatwrites itself acrossa man’s face. It cannot beconcealed. People talksometimes of secret vices.Therearenosuchthings.Ifawretched man has a vice, itshowsitselfinthelinesofhismouth, the droop of hiseyelids, the molding of hishands even. Somebody—Iwon’tmention his name, but

you know him—came to melast year to have his portraitdone. I had never seen himbefore, and had never heardanything about him at thetime, though I have heard agood deal since. He offeredan extravagant price. Irefused him. There wassomethingintheshapeofhisfingers that I hated. I knownow that Iwas quite right inwhatIfanciedabouthim.Hislife is dreadful. But you,

Dorian, with your pure,bright, innocent face, andyour marvelous, untroubledyouth—I can’t believeanythingagainstyou.AndyetI see you very seldom, andyou never come down to thestudio now, and when I amawayfromyou,andIhearallthese hideous things thatpeople are whispering aboutyou, I don’t know what tosay.Whyis it,Dorian, thatamanliketheDukeofBerwick

leaves the room of a clubwhenyou enter it?Why is itthat so many gentlemen inLondon will neither go toyour house nor invite you totheirs? You used to be afriendofLordStaveley.Imethimatdinnerlastweek.Yournamehappenedtocomeupinconversation, in connectionwith theminiaturesyouhavelent to the exhibition at theDudley.ewStaveleycurledhis

lip, and said that you mighthave the most artistic tastes,but that you were a manwhom no pure-minded girlshould be allowed to know,and whom no chaste womanshould sit in the same roomwith. I reminded him that Iwas a friend of yours, andaskedhimwhathemeant.Hetoldme.Hetoldmerightoutbefore everybody. It washorrible! Why is yourfriendship so fatal to young

men? There was thatwretched boy in the Guardswho committed suicide. Youwere his great friend. Therewas Sir Henry Ashton, whohad to leaveEngland,with atarnished name. You and hewereinseparable.WhataboutAdrian Singleton and hisdreadful end? What aboutLordKent’sonlyson,andhiscareer? I met his fatheryesterday in St. James’sStreet. He seemed broken

withshameandsorrow.Whatabout the young Duke ofPerth? What sort of life hashegotnow?Whatgentlemanwouldassociatewithhim?”“Stop, Basil! You are

talkingaboutthingsofwhichyou know nothing,” saidDorian Gray, biting his lips,and with a note of infinitecontempt in his voice. “YouaskmewhyBerwickleavesaroom when I enter it. It is

because I know everythingabouthis life,notbecauseheknows anything about mine.Withsuchbloodashehas inhis veins, how could hisrecordbeclean?Youaskmeabout Henry Ashton andyoung Perth. Did I teach theonehisvicesandtheotherhisdebauchery? If Kent’s sillyson takes his wife from thestreets,what is that tome?IfAdrian Singleton writes hisfriend’s name across a bill,

amIhiskeeper?Iknowhowpeople chatter in England.The middle classes air theirmoral prejudices over theirgross dinner-tables, andwhisper aboutwhat they callthe profligacies of theirbetters in order to try andpretendthattheyareinsmartsociety,andonintimatetermswith the people they slander.In this country it is enoughfor aman tohavedistinctionandbrainsforeverycommon

tongue to wag against him.And what sort of lives dothese people, who pose asbeing moral, leadthemselves?My dear fellow,you forget thatwe are in thenativelandofthehypocrite.”“Dorian,” cried Hallward,

“that is not the question!England is bad enough, Iknow, and English society isallwrong. That is the reasonwhy I want you to be fine.

Youhavenotbeen fine.Onehasaright to judgeofamanby the effect he has over hisfriends. Yours seem to loseall sense of honor, ofgoodness,ofpurity.Youhavefilled them with a madnessforpleasure.Theyhavegonedownintothedepths.Youledthemthere.Yes,youledthemthere; and yet you can smileasyouare smilingnow.Andthereisworsebehind.Iknowyou and Harry are

inseparable. Surely for thatreason, iffornoneother,youshould not have made hissister’snameabyword.”“Take care, Basil. You go

toofar.”“I must speak, and you

must listen. You shall listen.When you met LadyGwendolen, not a breath ofscandalhadevertouchedher.Is there a single decentwoman in London now who

would drive with her in thePark?Why,evenherchildrenare not allowed to live withher. Then there are otherstories—storiesthatyouhavebeen seen creeping at dawnout of dreadful houses andslinking in disguise into thefoulest dens in London. Arethey true? Can they be true?When I first heard them Ilaughed. I hear them now,and they make me shudder.What about your country-

house,and the life that is ledthere? Dorian, you don’tknowwhatissaidaboutyou.I won’t tell you that I don’twant to preach to you. IrememberHarry saying oncethat every man who turnedhimself into an amateurcurateforthemomentalwaysbegan by saying that, andthen proceeded to break hisword. I dowant to preach toyou.Iwantyoutoleadsuchalife as will make the world

respect you. I want you tohavea cleannameanda fairrecord. Iwant you to get ridof the dreadful people youassociate with. Don’t shrugyour shoulders like that.Don’t be so indifferent. Youhave a wonderful influence.Let it be for good, not forevil. They say that youcorrupteveryonewithwhomyoubecomeintimate,andthatitisquitesufficientforyoutoenter a house for shame of

some kind to follow after. Idon’tknowwhetheritissoornot.HowshouldIknow?Butit is said of you. I am toldthings that it seemsimpossible to doubt. LordGloucester was one of mygreatestfriendsatOxford.Heshowed me a letter that hiswifehadwrittentohimwhenshe was dying alone in hervilla atMentone.Your namewas implicated in the mostterrible confession I ever

read. I told him that it wasabsurd—that I knew youthoroughly,andthatyouwereincapable of anything of thekind.Knowyou?IwonderdoI know you? Before I couldanswer that I should have toseeyoursoul.”“To see my soul!”

muttered Dorian Gray,startingup from the sofaandturning almost white withfear.

“Yes,”answeredHallward,gravely, andwith deep-tonedsorrow in his voice—“to seeyour soul. But onlyGod candothat.”A bitter laugh of mockery

broke from the lips of theyoungerman. “You shall seeityourselfto-night!”hecried,seizingalampfromthetable.“Come, it is your ownhandiwork. Why shouldn’tyou look at it? You can tell

the world all about itafterward if you choose.Nobodywouldbelieveyou.Ifthey did believe you, theywould like me all the betterfor it. I know the age betterthanyoudo, thoughyouwillprate about it so tediously.Come, I tell you. You havechattered enough aboutcorruption. Now you shaltlookonitfacetoface.”There was the madness of

pride in every word heuttered. He stamped his footupon the ground in hisboyish, insolent manner. Hefelt a terrible joy at thethought that some one elsewas to share his secret, andthatthemanwhohadpaintedtheportraitthatwastheoriginof all his shame was to beburdened for the rest of hislifewiththehideousmemoryofwhathehaddone.

“Yes,” he continued,coming closer to him, andlooking steadfastly into hisstern eyes, “I shall showyoumy soul. You shall see thethingthatyoufancyonlyGodcansee.”Hallward started back.

“This isblasphemy,Dorian!”he cried. “You must not saythings like that. They arehorrible,andtheydon’tmeananything.”

“You think so?” Helaughedagain.“I know so.As forwhat I

said to you to-night, I said itfor your good. You know Ihave been always a stanchfriendtoyou.”“Don’t touch me. Finish

whatyouhavetosay.”Atwistedflashofpainshot

across the painter’s face. Hepaused for a moment, and awildfeelingofpitycameover

him.Afterall,whatrighthadhe to pry into the life ofDorianGray? If hehaddonea tithe of what was rumoredabout him, how much hemust have suffered! Then hestraightened himself up, andwalked over to the fireplace,and stood there, looking atthe burning logs with theirfrostlike ashes and theirthrobbingcoresofflame.“Iamwaiting,Basil,” said

the young man, in a hard,clearvoice.He turned round. “What I

have tosay is this,”hecried.“You must give me someanswer to these horriblechargesthataremadeagainstyou. If you tellme that theyare absolutely untrue frombeginning to end, I shallbelieveyou.Denythem,Doriian,denythem!Can’tyouseewhatIamgoingthrough?My

God! don’t tell me that youare bad and corrupt andshameful!”DorianGraysmiled.There

wasacurlofcontemptinhislips. “Comeup-stairs,Basil,”he said, quietly. “I keep adiary ofmy life from day today, and it never leaves theroominwhich it iswritten. Ishall show it to you if youcomewithme.”“I shall come with you,

Dorian,ifyouwishit.IseeIhave missed my train. Thatmakesnomatter.Icangoto-morrow.Butdon’taskme toread anything to-night. All Iwant isaplainanswer tomyquestion.”“Thatshallbegiventoyou

up-stairs. I could not give ithere. You will not have toreadlong.”

ChapterXIII.

He passed out of the room,and began the ascent, BasilHallward following closebehind. They walked softly,as men do instinctively atnight.Thelampcastfantasticshadows on the wall andstaircase.Arisingwindmade

someofthewindowsrattle.Whentheyreachedthetop

landing, Dorian set the lampdownonthefloor,andtakingout the key turned it in thelock.“Youinsistonknowing,Basil?” he asked, in a lowvoice.“Yes.”“I am delighted,” he

answered, smiling. Then headded, somewhat harshly:“You are the oneman in the

worldwhoisentitledtoknoweverything about me. Youhavehadmoretodowithmylife than you think.” And,takingupthelamp,heopenedthedoorandwent in.Acoldcurrent of air passed them,and the light shot up for amoment in a flameofmurkyorange. He shuddered. “Shutthe door behind you,” hewhispered, as he placed thelamponthetable.

Hallward glanced roundhim with a puzzledexpression.The room lookedas if it had not been lived infor years. A faded Flemishtapestry, a curtained picture,anoldItaliancassone,andanalmostemptybookcase—thatwas all that it seemed tocontainbesides a chair andatable. As Dorian Gray waslighting a half-burned candlethat was standing on themantel-shelf, he saw that the

wholewascoveredwithdust,and that the carpet was inholes.Amouse ran shufflingbehind the wainscoting.There was a damp odor ofmildew.“Soyouthinkthatitisonly

Godwhoseesthesoul,Basil?Draw that curtain back, andyouwillseemine.”The voice that spoke was

coldandcruel.“Youaremad,Dorian, or playing a part,”

mutteredHallward,frowning.“You won’t? Then I must

do itmyself,” said theyoungman; and he tore the curtainfrom its rod, and flung it ontheground.An exclamation of horror

broke from the painter’s lipsashesawinthedimlightthehideous face on the canvasgrinning at him. There wassomething in its expressionthat filled him with disgust

and loathing. Good heavens!it was Dorian Gray’s ownface that he was looking at!The horror, whatever it was,had not yet entirely spoiledthatmarvelous beauty.Therewas still some gold in thethinninghairandsomescarleton the sensual mouth. Thesodden eyes had keptsomethingofthelovelinessoftheir blue, the noble curveshadnotyetcompletelypassedaway from chiseled nostrils

and from plastic throat. Yes,it was Dorian himself. Butwhohaddone it?Heseemedto recognize his own brush-work, and the framewas hisown design. The idea wasmonstrous, yet he felt afraid.He seized the lighted candle,and held it to the picture. Inthe left-hand corner was hisown name, traced in longlettersofbrightvermilion.It was some foul parody,

some infamous, ignoblesatire. He had never donethat. Still, it was his ownpicture. He knew it, and hefelt as if his blood hadchanged in a moment fromfire to sluggish ice. His ownpicture! What did it mean?Why had it altered? Heturned, and looked atDorianGraywith the eyes of a sickman.Hismouthtwitched,andhis parched tongue seemedunable to articulate. He

passed his hand across hisforehead. It was dank withclammysweat.The young man was

leaning against the mantel-shelf,watchinghimwith thatstrange expression that onesees on the faces of thosewho are absorbed in a playwhen some great artist isacting.Therewasneitherrealsorrow in it nor real joy.Therewassimplythepassion

ofthespectator,withperhapsa flicker of triumph in hiseyes.Hehadtakentheflowerout of his coat, and wassmelling it, or pretending todoso.“What does this mean?”

cried Hallward, at last. Hisownvoicesoundedshrillandcuriousinhisears.“Years ago, when I was a

boy,” said Dorian Gray,crushing the flower in his

hand, “youmetme, flatteredme,andtaughtmetobevainof my good looks. One dayyouintroducedmetoafriendof yours, who explained tome thewonderofyouth, andyou finished a portrait ofmethat revealed to me thewonder of beauty. In a madmoment, that, even now, Idon’t know whether I regretor not, I made a wish—perhaps you would call it aprayer...”

“I remember it!—oh, howwell I remember it! No; thethingisimpossible.Theroomisdamp.Mildewhasgotintothecanvas.Thepaints Iusedhad some wretched mineralpoisonin them.I tellyouthethingisimpossible.”“Ah, what is impossible?”

murmured the young man,going over to the window,and leaning his foreheadagainst the cold,mist-stained

glass.“You told me you had

destroyedit.”“I was wrong. It has

destroyedme.”“I don’t believe it is my

picture.”“Can’t you see your ideal

init?”saidDorianbitterly.“Myideal,asyoucallit..

.”“Asyoucalledit.”

“Therewasnothingevil init, nothing shameful. YouweretomesuchanidealasIshall never meet again. Thisisthefaceofasatyr.”“Itisthefaceofmysoul.”“Christ! what a thing I

must have worshiped! It hastheeyesofadevil.”“Each of us has Heaven

andHellinhim,Basil!”criedDorian,withawildgestureofdespair.

Hallward turned again tothe portrait, and gazed at it.“My God! if it is true,” heexclaimed, “and this is whatyouhavedonewithyourlife,why, you must be worse,even, than those who talkagainstyoufancyyoutobe!”Heheld the lightupagain tothe canvas, and examined it.The surface seemed to bequite undisturbed and as hehadleftit.Itwasfromwithin,apparently, that the foulness

and horror had come.Through some strangequickening of inner life theleprosies of sin were slowlyeating the thing away. Therottingofacorpseinawaterygravewasnotsofearful.His hand shook, and the

candlefellfromitssocketonthe floor, and lay theresputtering.Heplacedhisfooton it and put it out. Then heflunghimself into therickety

chairthatwasstandingbythetable and buried his face inhishands.“GoodGod,Dorian,whata

lesson! what an awfullesson!” There was noanswer,buthecouldheartheyoung man sobbing at thewindow. “Pray, Dorian,pray,” he murmured. “Whatisitthatonewastaughttosayin one’s boyhood? ‘Lead usnot into temptation. Forgive

us our sins. Wash away ouriniquities.’ Let us say thattogether. The prayer of yourpridehasbeenanswered.Theprayer of your repentancewill be answered also. Iworshiped you too much. Iam punished for it. Youworshipedyourselftoomuch.Wearebothpunished.”DorianGray turned slowly

around, and looked at himwith tear-dimmedeyes. “It is

toolate,Basil,”hefaltered.“It is never too late,

Dorian. Let us kneel downand try if we can notremember a prayer. Isn’tthere a verse somewhere,‘Though your sins be asscarlet, yet Iwillmake themaswhiteassnow’?”ex

“Those words meannothingtomenow.”“Hush!don’tsaythat.You

have done enough evil in

yourlife.MyGod!don’tyousee that accursed thingleeringatus?”DorianGrayglancedatthe

picture, and suddenly anuncontrollable feeling ofhatred for Basil Hallwardcame over him, as though ithadbeensuggestedtohimbythe image on the canvas,whispered into his ear bythose grinning lips. Themadpassions of a hunted animal

stirred within him, and heloathed the man who wasseated at the tablemore thaninhiswhole life hehad everloathedanything.Heglancedwildly around. Somethingglimmered on the top of thepainted chest that faced him.His eye fell on it. He knewwhat it was. It was a knifethathehadbroughtup,somedaysbefore, tocutapieceofcord, and had forgotten totake away with him. He

moved slowly toward it,passing Hallward as he didso.Assoonashegotbehindhim, he seized it, and turnedround.Hallwardstirredinhischair as if he was going torise. He rushed at him, anddug the knife into the greatvein that is behind the ear,crushing the man’s headdown on the table, andstabbingagainandagain.There was a stifled groan

and the horrible sound ofsomeonechokingwithblood.Three times the outstretchedarms shot up convulsively,waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air.Hestabbed him twice more, butthe man did not move.Somethingbegantotrickleonthe floor. He waited for amoment, still pressing thehead down. Then he threwthe knife on the table andlistened.

He could hear nothing butthe drip, drip on thethreadbarecarpet.Heopenedthedoorandwentouton thelanding. The house wasabsolutelyquiet.Noonewasabout. For a few seconds hestood bending over thebalustrade,andpeeringdowninto the black, seething wellofdarkness.Thenhetookoutthe key and returned to theroom, locking himself in ashedidso.

The thing was still seatedinthechair,strainingoverthetable with bowed head, andhumped back, and long,fantastic arms. Had it notbeen for the red, jagged tearin the neck, and the clottedblack pool that was slowlywidening on the table, onewouldhavesaidthatthemanwassimplyasleep.Howquicklyithadallbeen

done!He felt strangelycalm,

and, walking over to thewindow, opened it, andstepped out on the balcony.Thewind had blown the fogaway,and theskywas likeamonstrous peacock’s tail,starred with myriads ofgolden eyes. He lookeddown,andsawthepolicemangoinghisroundsandflashingthe long beam of his lanternon the doors of the silenthouses.Thecrimsonspotofaprowling hansom gleamed at

thecornerandthenvanished.A woman in a flutteringshawlwascreepingslowlybytherailings,staggeringasshewent. Now and then shestopped and peered back.Once she began to sing in ahoarse voice. The policemanstrolled over and saidsomething to her. Shestumbled away, laughing. Abitter blast swept across theSquare. The gas-lampsflickered and became blue,

and the leafless trees shooktheir black iron branches toandfro.Heshiveredandwentback, closing the windowbehindhim.Having reached the door,

heturnedthekey,andopenedit.He did not even glance atthe murdered man. He feltthat the secret of the wholething was not to realize thesituation.Thefriendwhohadpainted the fatal portrait to

whichallhismiseryhadbeendue had gone out of his life.Thatwasenough.Then he remembered the

lamp. Itwas a rather curiousone of Moorishworkmanship, made of dullsilver, inlaidwith arabesquesof burnished steel andstudded with coarseturquoises. Perhaps it mightbemissedbyhisservant,andquestionswouldbeasked.He

hesitated for amoment, thenhe turned back and took itfrom the table. He could nothelp seeing the dead thing.How still it was! Howhorriblywhitethelonghandslooked!Itwaslikeadreadfulwaximage.Having locked the door

behind him, he crept quietlydown-stairs. The woodworkcreaked, and seemed to cryout as if in pain.He stopped

several times, and waited.No; everything was still. Itwas merely the sound of hisownfootsteps.When he reached the

library he saw the bag andcoatinthecorner.Theymustbe hidden away somewhere.He unlocked a secret presseythatwasinthewainscoting,apress in which he kept hisown curious disguises, andput them into it. He could

easily burn them afterward.Thenhepulledouthiswatch.Itwastwentyminutestotwo.He sat down and began to

think. Every year—everymonth, almost—men werestrangledinEnglandforwhathehaddone.Therehadbeena madness of murder in theair. Some red star had cometooclosetotheearth....Andyet what evidence was thereagainst him? Basil Hallward

had left the house at eleven.Noonehadseenhimcomeinagain. Most of the servantswere at Selby Royal. Hisvalet had gone to bed. . . .Paris!Yes.ItwastoParisthatBasil had gone, and by themidnight train, as he hadintended. With his curious,reserved habits, it would bemonthsbeforeanysuspicionswould be aroused. Months!Everything could bedestroyedlongbeforethen.

A sudden thought struckhim. He put on his fur coatandhat,andwentoutintothehall.Therehepaused,hearingthe slow, heavy tread of thepoliceman on the pavementoutside, and seeing the flashofthebull’seyeezreflectedinthe window. He waited, andheldhisbreath.After a few moments he

drew back the latch andslippedout,shutting thedoor

verygentlybehindhim.Thenhe began ringing the bell. Inabout five minutes his valetappeared, half dressed, andlookingverydrowsy.“Iamsorry tohavehad to

wake you up, Francis.” hesaid, stepping in; “but I hadforgottenmylatch-key.Whattimeisit?”“Ten minutes past two,

sir,” answered the man,looking at the clock and

blinking.“Ten minutes past two?

Howhorribly late!Youmustwakemeatnineto-morrow.Ihavesomeworktodo.”“Allright,sir.”“Did any one call this

evening?”“Mr. Hallward, sir. He

stayed here till eleven, andthen he went away to catchhistrain.”“Oh! I am sorry I didn’t

see him. Did he leave anymessage?”“No, sir, except that he

would write to you fromParis,ifhedidnotfindyouattheclub.”“That will do, Francis.

Don’t forget to call me atninetomorrow.”“No,sir.”The man shambled down

thepassageinhisslippers.Dorian Gray threw his hat

and coat upon the table, andpassed into the library. For aquarterofanhourhewalkedupanddowntheroombitinghis lip and thinking.Thenhetook down the Blue Bookfafrom one of the shelves, andbegantoturnovertheleaves.“Alan Campbell, 152,Hertford Street, Mayfair.”Yes; that was the man hewanted.

ChapterXIV.

At nine o’clock the nextmorning his servant came inwith a cup of chocolate on atray,andopenedtheshutters.Dorian was sleeping quitepeacefully, lying on his rightside, with one handunderneath his cheek. He

looked like a boy who hadbeen tired out with play orstudy.Themanhad to touchhim

twice on the shoulder beforehe woke, and as he openedhis eyes a faint smile passedacross his lips, as though hehad been lost in somedelightful dream.Yet he hadnot dreamed at all.His nighthad been untroubled by anyimagesofpleasureorofpain.

Butyouthsmileswithoutanyreason.Itisoneofitschiefestcharms.He turned round, and,

leaning upon his elbow,began to sip his chocolate.The mellow November suncame streaming into theroom. The sky was bright,and there was a genialwarmth in the air. It wasalmost like a morning inMay.

Graduallytheeventsofthepreceding night crept withsilent blood-stained feet intohis brain, and reconstructedthemselvestherewithterribledistinctness.Hewincedatthememory of all that he hadsuffered, and for a momentthe same curious feeling ofloathing for Basil Hallwardthathadmadehimkillhimashesat in thechaircamebacktohim,andhegrewcoldwithpassion. The dead man was

still sitting there, too, and inthe sunlight now. Howhorrible that was! Suchhideous things were for thedarkness,notfortheday.He felt that if he brooded

onwhathehadgonethroughhe would sicken or growmad. There were sins whosefascination was more in thememory than in the doing ofthem, strange triumphs thatgratified the pridemore than

the passions, and gave to theintellectaquickenedsenseofjoy,greaterthananyjoytheybrought, or could ever bring,tothesenses.Butthiswasnotoneofthem.Itwasathingtobedrivenoutof themind, tobe drugged with poppies, tobe strangled lest it mightstrangleoneitself.When the half-hour struck

hepassedhishandacrosshisforehead, and then got up

hastily, and dressed himselfwithevenmorethanhisusualcare, giving a good deal ofattention to the choice of hisnecktie and scarf-pin, andchanginghis ringsmore thanonce. He spent a long timealso over breakfast, tastingthe various dishes, talking tohis valet about some newliveries that he was thinkingof getting made for theservants at Selby, and goingthrough his correspondence.

At some of the letters hesmiled. Three of them boredhim. One he read severaltimes over, and then tore upwith a slight look ofannoyance in his face. “Thatawful thing, a woman’smemory!”asLordHenryhadoncesaid.Afterhehaddrunkhiscup

ofblackcoffee,hewipedhislips slowly with a napkin,motioned to his servant to

wait, and, going over to thetable,satdownandwrotetwoletters. One he put in hispocket,theotherhehandedtothevalet.“Take this round to 152,

Hertford Street, Francis, andif Mr. Campbell is out oftown,gethisaddress.”Assoonashewasalonehe

lit a cigarette, and begansketching upon a piece ofpaper, drawing first flowers

and bits of architecture, andthen human faces. Suddenlyhe remarked that every facethathedrewseemedtohaveafantastic likeness to BasilHallward. He frowned, and,getting up, went over to thebookcase and took out avolume at hazard. He wasdeterminedthathewouldnotthink about what hadhappened until it becameabsolutely necessary that heshoulddoso.

When he had stretchedhimselfonthesofahelookedat the title-page of the book.It was Gautier’s “Émaux etCamées,” Charpentier’sJapanese paper edition, withthe Jacquemart etching. Thebinding was of citron-greenleather, with a design of gilttrelliswork and dottedpomegranates. It had beengiven to him by AdrianSingleton.As he turned overthe pages his eye fell upon

the poem about the hand ofLacenaire, the cold, yellowhand“dusuppliceencoremallavée,” with its downy redhairs and its “doigts defaune.”Heglancedathisownwhite taper fingers,shudderingslightlyinspiteofhimself,andpassedontillhecame to those lovely stanzesuponVenice:Surunegammechromatique,Leseindeperlesruisselant,

LaVénusdel’AdriatiqueSort de l’eau son corps roseetblanc.Les dômes, sur l’azur desondesSuivant la phrase au purcontour,S’enflent comme des gorgesrondesQue soulève un soupird’amour.

L’esquifabordeetmedépose,Jetantsonamarreaupilier,Devantunefaçaderose,Surlemarbred’unescalier.27

How exquisite they were!As one read them, oneseemed to be floating downthe green waterways of thepinkandpearl city, seated ina black gondola with silverprow and trailing curtains.Themerelineslookedtohimlike those straight lines of

turquois-blue that follow oneas one pushes out to theLido.fbThesuddenflashesofcolor reminded him of thegleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutterround the tall honeycombedCampanile,fc or stalk, withsuch stately grace, throughthedim,dust-stainedarcades.Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept sayingoverandovertohimself:

Devantunefaçaderose,Surlemarbred’unescalier.The whole of Venice was

in those two lines. Heremembered the autumn thathe had passed there, and awonderful love that hadstirredhimtomad,delightfulfollies.Therewasromanceineveryplace.ButVenice, likeOxford, had kept thebackgroundforromance,and,to the true romantic,

background was everything,or almost everything. Basilhadbeenwithhimpartofthetime,andhadgonewildoverTintoret.fdPoorBasil!whatahorriblewayforamantodie!Hesighed,andtookupthe

volume again, and tried toforget. He read of theswallows that fly in and outof the little café at Smyrna,where the Hadjisfe sitcounting their amber beads,

and the turbaned merchantssmoke their long tasseledpipesandtalkgravelytoeachother;hereadoftheObeliskffin the Place de la Concordethatweeps tearsofgranite inits lonely sunless exile, andlongs to be back by the hotlotus-covered Nile, wherethere areSphinxes, and rose-red ibises,andwhitevultureswith gilded claws, andcrocodiles, with small beryl

eyes, that crawl over thegreen steaming mud; hebegan to brood over thoseverseswhich, drawingmusicfromkiss-stainedmarble, tellof that curious statue thatGautier compares to acontralto voice, the “monstrecharmant”thatcouchesintheporphyry-room of theLouvre.28Butafteratimethebook fell from his hand. Hegrew nervous, and a horrible

fit of terror came over him.What if Alan Campbellshould be out of England?Dayswould elapse before hecouldcomeback.Perhapshemight refuse to come. Whatcould he do then? Everymoment was of vitalimportance.They had been great

friends once, five yearsbefore—almost inseparable,indeed. Then the intimacy

hadcomesuddenlytoanend.When they met in societynow,itwasonlyDorianGraywho smiled: Alan Campbellneverdid.He was an extremely

cleveryoungman, thoughhehad no real appreciation ofthevisiblearts,andwhateverlittle sense of the beauty ofpoetry he possessed he hadgained entirely from Dorian.His dominant intellectual

passion was for science. AtCambridge he had spent agreatdealofhistimeworkingin the Laboratory, and hadtaken a good class in theNatural Science Triposfg ofhis year. Indeed, hewas stilldevoted to the study ofchemistry, and had alaboratory of his own, inwhichheusedtoshuthimselfupalldaylong,greatlytotheannoyanceofhismother,who

had set her heart on hisstanding for Parliament, andhad a vague idea that achemist was a person whomade up prescriptions. Hewas an excellent musician,however, aswell, andplayedboth theviolin and thepianobetter thanmostamateurs; infact, it was music that hadfirst brought him andDorianGray together—music andthatindefinableattractionthatDorian seemed to be able to

exercisewheneverhewished,and indeed exercised oftenwithoutbeingconsciousofit.They had met at LadyBerkshire’s the night thatRubinsteinfhplayedthere,andafter that used to be alwaysseen together at the Opera,and wherever good musicwas going on. For eighteenmonths their intimacy lasted.Campbell was always eitherat Selby Royal or in

GrosvenorSquare.Tohim,astomany others,DorianGraywas the type of everythingthat is wonderful andfascinatinginlife.Whetherornotaquarrelhad takenplacebetween them no one everknew. But suddenly peopleremarked that they scarcelyspoke when they met, andthatCampbellseemedalwaysto go away early from anyparty at which Dorian Graywaspresent.Hehadchanged,

too—was strangelymelancholy at times,appeared almost to dislikehearing music, and wouldnever himself play, giving ashis excuse, when he wascalled upon, that he was soabsorbed in science that hehad no time left in which topractise. And this wascertainly true. Every day heseemed to become moreinterested in biology, andhisnameappearedonceor twice

in some of the scientificreviews in connection withcertaincuriousexperiments.This was the man Dorian

Gray was waiting for. Everysecondhekeptglancingattheclock. As the minutes wentby he became horriblyagitated. At last he got up,and began to pace up anddowntheroom,lookinglikeabeautiful caged thing. Hetook long, stealthy strides.

His hands were curiouslycold.The suspense became

unbearable. Time seemed tohim to be crawlingwith feetof lead, while he bymonstrous winds was beingswepttowardthejaggededgeof some black cleft orprecipice.Heknewwhatwaswaitingforhimthere—sawit,indeed; and, shuddering,crushed with dank hands his

burning lids, as though hewould have robbed the verybrain of sight and driven theeyeballsback into their cave.Itwasuseless.Thebrainhadits own food on which itbattened,andtheimagination,made grotesque by terror,twisted and distorted as aliving thing by pain, dancedlike some foul puppet on astand, and grinned throughmoving masks. Then,suddenly, Time stopped for

him. Yes, that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled nomore, and horrible thoughts,Time being dead, racednimbly on in front, anddragged a hideous futurefromitsgrave,andshoweditto him. He stared at it. Itsveryhorrormadehimstone.At last the door opened,

and his servant entered. Heturnedglazedeyesuponhim.“Mr. Campbell, sir,” said

theman.Asighofreliefbrokefrom

hisparchedlips,andthecolorcamebacktohischeeks.“Ask him to come in at

once,Francis.”Hefeltthathewashimself again.Hismoodof cowardice had passedaway.The man bowed, and

retired. In a few momentsAlan Campbell walked in,looking very stern and rather

pale, his pallor beingintensified by his coal-blackhairanddarkeyebrows.“Alan!thisiskindofyou.I

thankyouforcoming.”“I had intended never to

enteryourhouseagain,Gray.But you said it was amatterof life and death.” His voicewashard andcold.He spokewithslowdeliberation.Therewasalookofcontemptinthesteady,searchinggazethathe

turnedonDorian.Hekepthishands in the pockets of hisAstrakhanfi coat, and seemednot to have noticed thegesture with which he hadbeengreeted.“Yes, it is amatter of life

anddeath,Alan,and tomorethanoneperson.Sitdown.”Campbell took a chair by

the table, and Dorian satopposite to him. The twomen’s eyes met. In Dorian’s

there was infinite pity. Heknewthatwhathewasgoingtodowasdreadful.Afterastrainedmomentof

silence, he leaned across andsaid, very quietly, butwatching the effect of eachworduponthefaceofhimhehad sent for: “Alan, in alockedroomatthetopofthishouse, a room to whichnobody but myself hasaccess, a deadman is seated

at a table. He has been deadtenhoursnow.Don’tstir,anddon’t look at me like that.Whothemanis,whyhedied,howhedied,arematters thatdo not concern you. Whatyouhavetodoisthis—”“Stop, Gray. I don’t want

to know anything further.Whether what you have toldmeis trueornot truedoesn’tconcernme.Ientirelydeclineto be mixed up in your life.

Keepyourhorrible secrets toyourself. They don’t interestmeanymore.”“Alan, they will have to

interest you. This one willhave to interest you. I amawfully sorry for you, Alan.But I can’t helpmyself.Youare the onemanwho is ableto save me. I am forced tobring you into the matter. Ihavenooption.Alan,youarescientific. You know about

chemistry, and things of thatkind. You have madeexperiments. What you havegot to do is to destroy thething that is up-stairs—todestroyitsothatnotavestigeofitwillbeleft.Nobodysawthis person come into thehouse. Indeed, at the presentmomenthe issupposed tobein Paris. He will not bemissed formonths.When heis missed, there must be notraceofhimfoundhere.You,

Alan, you must change him,and everything that belongsto him, into a handful ofashesthatImayscatterintheair.”“Youaremad,Dorian.”“Ah!Iwaswaitingforyou

tocallmeDorian.”“Youaremad,Itellyou—

mad to imagine that I wouldraise a finger to help you,mad to make this monstrousconfession. I will have

nothing to do with thismatter,whateveritis.Doyouthink I amgoing to perilmyreputationforyou?Whatisittomewhatdevil’sworkyouareupto?”“Itwasasuicide,Alan.”“Iamgladofthat.Butwho

drovehimtoit?You,Ishouldfancy.”“Do you still refuse to do

thisforme?”“Of course I refuse. I will

haveabsolutelynothingtodowith it. I don’t care whatshame comes on you. Youdeserveitall.Ishouldnotbesorry to see you disgraced,publiclydisgraced.Howdareyouaskme,ofallmenintheworld, to mix myself up inthis horror? I should havethoughtyouknewmoreaboutpeople’s characters. Yourfriend Lord Henry Wottoncan’t have taught you muchabout psychology, whatever

else he has taught you.Nothingwillinducemetostira step tohelpyou.Youhavecome to the wrong man. Goto some of your friends.Don’tcometome.”“Alan, it was murder. I

killed him. You don’t knowwhathehadmademesuffer.Whatever my life is, he hadmore to do with the makingorthemarringofitthanpoorHarry has had. He may not

have intended it, the resultwasthesame.”“Murder! Good God,

Dorian,isthatwhatyouhavecome to? I shall not informupon you. It is not mybusiness.Besides,withoutmystirringinthematter,youarecertaintobearrested.Nobodyevercommitsacrimewithoutdoingsomethingstupid.ButIwill have nothing to dowithit.”

“Youmusthavesomethingto do with it. Wait, wait amoment; listen to me. Onlylisten,Alan.All I askofyouis to perform a certainscientificexperiment.Yougotohospitals anddead-houses,and the horrors that you dothere don’t affect you. If insome hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory youfound this man lying on aleaden table with red guttersscoopedoutinitfortheblood

to flow through, you wouldsimply look upon him as anadmirablesubject.Youwouldnot turn a hair. You wouldnot believe that you weredoinganythingwrong.Onthecontrary,youwouldprobablyfeel that youwere benefitingthehumanrace,orincreasingthe sumof knowledge in theworld, or gratifyingintellectual curiosity, orsomethingof thatkind.WhatI want you to do is merely

what you have often donebefore. Indeed, to destroy abodymustbefarlesshorriblethan what you areaccustomed towork at. And,remember,itistheonlypieceofevidenceagainstme.Ifitisdiscovered,Iamlost;anditissure to be discovered unlessyouhelpme.”“I have no desire to help

you. You forget that. I amsimply indifferent to the

wholething.Ithasnothingtodowithme.”“Alan,Ientreatyou.Think

of the position I am in. Justbefore you came I almostfaintedwith terror.Youmayknow terror yourself someday. No! don’t think of that.Look at the matter purelyfrom the scientific point ofview. You don’t inquirewhere the dead things onwhich you experiment come

from. Don’t inquire now. Ihave toldyou toomuch as itis.ButIbegofyoutodothis.Wewerefriendsonce,Alan.”“Don’t speak about those

days,Dorian;theyaredead.”“The dead linger

sometimes.Themanup-stairswillnotgoaway.Heissittingat the tablewithbowedheadand outstretched arms. Alan!Alan! if you don’t come tomy assistance I am ruined.

Why, they will hang me,Alan!Don’t you understand?TheywillhangmeforwhatIhavedone.”“There is no good in

prolonging this scene. Iabsolutely refuse to doanything in the matter. It isinsaneofyoutoaskme.”“Yourefuse?”“Yes.”“Ientreatyou,Alan.”“Itisuseless.”

The same look of pitycame into Dorian Gray’seyes. Then he stretched outhis hand, took a piece ofpaper, and wrote somethingon it. He read it over twice,folded it carefully, andpushed it across the table.Having done this, he got up,andwentovertothewindow.Campbell lookedathimin

surprise,andthentookupthepaper and opened it. As he

read it his face becameghastlypale,andhefellbackinhis chair.Ahorrible senseof sickness came over him.He felt as if his heart wasbeatingitselftodeathinsomeemptyhollow.After twoor threeminutes

of terrible silence Dorianturned round, and came andstoodbehindhim,puttinghishanduponhisshoulder.“I am so sorry for you,

Alan,” he murmured, “butyouleavemenoalternative.Ihave a letter written already.Here it is. You see theaddress.Ifyoudon’thelpme,I must send it. If you don’thelp me, I will send it. Youknowwhat theresultwillbe.Butyouaregoingtohelpme.It is impossible for you torefuse now. I tried to spareyou. You will do me thejustice to admit that. Youwere stern, harsh, offensive.

Youtreatedmeasnomanhasever dared to treat me—nolivingman,atanyrate.Iboreit all. Now it is for me todictateterms.”Campbellburiedhisfacein

his hands, and a shudderpassedthroughhim.“Yes, it is my turn to

dictate terms, Alan. Youknow what they are. Thething is quite simple. Come,don’t work yourself into this

fever. The thing has to bedone.Faceit,anddoit.”A groan broke from

Campbell’s lips, and heshiveredallover.Thetickingof the clock on themantelpieceseemedtohimtobe dividing Time intoseparateatomsofagony,eachof which was too terrible tobeborne.Hefeltasifanironring was being slowlytightened roundhis forehead,

as if thedisgracewithwhichhewasthreatenedhadalreadycome upon him. The handupon his shoulder weighedlike a hand of lead. It wasintolerable.Itseemedtocrushhim.“Come, Alan, you must

decideatonce.”“I cannot do it,” he said,

mechanically, as thoughwordscouldalterthings.“You must. You have no

choice.Don’tdelay.”Hehesitatedamoment.“Is

there a fire in the room upstairs?”“Yes, there is a gas-fire

withasbestos.”“I shall have to go home

andgetsomethingsfromthelaboratory.”“No, Alan, you must not

leavethehouse.Writeoutona sheet of note-paper whatyou want, and my servant

will take a cab andbring thethingsbacktoyou.”Campbell scrawled a few

lines, blotted them, andaddressed an envelope to hisassistant. Dorian took thenoteup and read it carefully.Then he rang the bell, andgave it to his valet, withorders to return as soon aspossible, and to bring thethingswithhim.As the hall door shut,

Campbell started nervously,and, having got up from thechair, went over to thechimneypiece. He wasshivering with a kind ofague.fj For nearly twentyminutes neither of the menspoke. A fly buzzed noisilyabout the room, and theticking of the clockwas likethebeatofahammer.As the chime struck one,

Campbell turned round, and,

looking at Dorian Gray, sawthathiseyeswere filledwithtears.Therewassomethinginthe purity and refinement ofthat sad face that seemed toenrage him. “You areinfamous, absolutelyinfamous!”hemuttered.“Hush, Alan, you have

savedmylife,”saidDorian.“Your life?Goodheavens!

what a life that is!Youhavegone from corruption to

corruption,andnowyouhaveculminatedincrime.Indoingwhat I am going to do,whatyou forceme to do, it is notof your life that I amthinking.”“Ah, Alan,” murmured

Dorian, with a sigh, “I wishyouhad a thousandth part ofthepityformethatIhaveforyou.” He turned away as hespoke, and stood looking outatthegarden.Campbellmade

noanswer.After about ten minutes a

knock came to the door, andtheservantentered,carryingalarge mahogany chest ofchemicals,withalongcoilofsteel and platinum wire, andtwo rather curiously shapedironclamps.“Shall I leave the things

here, sir?” he askedCampbell.“Yes,”saidDorian.“AndI

amafraid,Francis,thatIhaveanothererrand foryou.Whatis the name of the man atRichmond who suppliesSelbywithorchids?”“Harden,sir.”“Yes—Harden. You must

go down to Richmondfk atonce, see Harden personally,and tellhim to send twiceasmany orchids as I ordered,andtohaveasfewwhiteonesas possible—in fact, I don’t

want any white ones. It is alovely day, Francis, andRichmond is a very prettyplace, otherwise I wouldn’tbotheryouaboutit.”“No trouble, sir. At what

timeshallIbeback?”Dorian looked at

Campbell. “How long willyourexperimenttake,Alan?”hesaid,inacalm,indifferentvoice.Thepresenceofathirdpersonintheroomseemedto

give him extraordinarycourage.Campbell frowned, andbit

hislip.“Itwilltakeaboutfivehours,”heanswered.“It will be time enough,

then, if you are back at half-pastseven,Francis—or,stay:just leave my things out fordressing. You can have theevening toyourself. I amnotdiningathome,soIshallnotwantyou.”

“Thank you, sir,” said theman,leavingtheroom.“Now,Alan, there is not a

moment to be lost. Howheavythischestis!I’lltakeitfor you. You bring the otherthings.” He spoke rapidly,and in an authoritativemanner. Campbell feltdominated by him. They lefttheroomtogether.Whentheyreachedthetop

landing, Dorian took out the

keyand turned it in the lock.Then he stopped, and atroubled look came into hiseyes. He shuddered. “I don’tthink I can go in, Alan,” hemurmured.“Itisnothingtome.Idon’t

require you,” said Campbell,coldly.Dorian half opened the

door.Ashedidsohesawtheface of his portrait leering inthe sunlight. On the floor in

frontofitthetorncurtainwaslying. He remembered thatthe night before he hadforgotten,forthefirsttimeinhis life, to hide the fatalcanvas,andwasabouttorushforward, when he drew backwithashudder.What was that loathsome

red dew that gleamed, wetand glistening, on one of thehands, as though the canvashad sweated blood? How

horrible it was!—morehorrible,itseemedtohimforthe moment, than the silentthing that he knew wasstretchedacrossthetable, thething whose grotesque,misshapen shadow on thespotted carpet showed himthatithadnotstirred,butwasstillthere,ashehadleftit.He heaved a deep breath,

openedthedooralittlewider,and, with half-closed eyes

and averted head, walkedquicklyin,determinedthathewould not look even onceupon the dead man. Then,stoopingdown,andtakingupthe gold-and-purple hanging,he flung it right over thepicture.There he stopped, feeling

afraid to turn round, and hiseyes fixed themselves on theintricacies of the patternbefore him. He heard

Campbell bringing in theheavy chest, and the irons,and the other things that herequired for his dreadfulwork.Hebegan towonder ifhe and Basil Hallward hadevermet,and,ifso,whattheyhadthoughtofeachother.“Leave me now,” said a

sternvoicebehindhim.He turned andhurriedout,

just conscious that the deadmanhadbeenthrustbackinto

the chair, and that Campbellwas gazing into a glistening,yellowface.Ashewasgoingdown-stairs he heard the keybeingturnedinthelock.It was long after seven

when Campbell came backinto the library.Hewaspale,but absolutely calm. “I havedone what you asked me todo,” hemuttered. “Andnow,good-bye. Let us never seeeachotheragain.”

“You have savedme fromruin, Alan. I cannot forgetthat,”saidDorian,simply.As soon as Campbell had

left he went up-stairs. Therewasahorrible smellofnitricacidfl in the room. But thething that had been sitting atthetablewasgone.

ChapterXV.

That evening, at eight-thirty,exquisitely dressed, andwearingalargebuttonholeofParmaviolets,fmDorianGraywas ushered into LadyNarborough’s drawing-roomby bowing servants. Hisforehead was throbbing with

maddenednerves,andhefeltwildly excited, but hismanner as he bent over hishostess’s hand was as easyandgracefulasever.Perhapsone never seems so much atone’seaseaswhenonehastoplay a part.Certainly no onelooking at Dorian Gray thatnightcouldhavebelievedthathe had passed through atragedy as horrible as anytragedy of our age. Thosefinely shaped fingers could

never have clutched a knifeforsin,northosesmilinglipshave cried out on God andgoodness. He himself couldnot help wondering at thecalm of his de meanor, andfor amoment felt keenly theterrible pleasure of a doublelife.Itwasasmallparty,gotup

rather in a hurry by LadyNarborough,whowas a veryclever woman, with what

Lord Henry used to describeas the remains of reallyremarkableugliness.Shehadproved an excellent wife toone of our most tediousambassadors, and havingburied her husband properlyin a marble mausoleum,which she had herselfdesigned,andmarriedoffherdaughterstosomerich,ratherelderly men, she devotedherself now to the pleasuresof French fiction, French

cookery, andFrenchesprit—whenshecouldgetit.Dorian was one of her

especial favorites, and shealways told him she wasextremely glad she had notmet him in early life. “Iknow,mydear,1shouldhavefallen madly in love withyou,” she used to say, “andthrownmy bonnet right overthe mills for your sake. It ismost fortunate that youwere

notthoughtofatthetime.Asit was, our bonnets were sounbecoming, and the millsfnweresooccupiedintryingtoraise the wind, that I neverhad even a flirtation withanybody. However, that wasall Narborough’s fault. Hewas dreadfully short-sighted,and there is no pleasure intaking in a husband whoneverseesanything.”Her guests this evening

were rather tedious. The factwas, as she explained toDorian,behindaveryshabbyfan, one of her marrieddaughters had come up quitesuddenly to stay with her,and, to make matters worse,had actually brought herhusbandwith her. “I think itis most unkind of her, mydear,” she whispered. “Ofcourse, I go and stay withthem every summer after I

come from Homburg,fo butthen an old woman like memust have fresh airsometimes, and, besides, Ireally wake them up. Youdon’tknowwhatanexistencethey lead down there. It ispure, unadulterated countrylife. They get up early,becausetheyhavesomuchtodo, and go to bed earlybecause theyhaveso little tothink about. There has not

been a scandal in theneighborhood since the timeof Queen Elizabeth, andconsequently they all fallasleep after dinner. Yousha’n’tsitnexteitherofthem.You shall sit by me, andamuseme.”Dorian murmured a

graceful compliment, andlooked round the room. Yes,it was certainly a tediousparty. Two of the people he

had never seen before, andtheothersconsistedofErnestHarrowden, one of thosemiddle-aged mediocrities socommon in London clubswhohavenoenemies,butarethoroughly disliked by theirfriends; Lady Ruxton, anoverdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose,whowasalwaystryingtogetherselfcompromised,butwassopeculiarlyplainthattohergreat disappointment no one

would ever believe anythingagainst her; Mrs. Erlynne, apushing nobody, with adelightful lisp, andVenetian-red hair; Lady AliceChapman, his hostess’sdaughter, a dowdy dull girl,with one of thosecharacteristic British facesthat, once seen, are neverremembered; and herhusband, a red-cheeked,white-whiskered creaturewho, like so many of his

class, was under theimpression that inordinatejoviality can atone for anentirelackofideas.Hewasrathersorryhehad

come, till Lady Narborough,looking at the great ormulofpgilt clock that sprawled ingaudy curves on the mauve-draped mantel-shelf,exclaimed: “How horrid ofHenryWottontobesolate!Isent round to him this

morning on chance, and hepromised faithfully not todisappointme.”It was some consolation

that Harry was to be there,and when the door openedandheheardhisslowmusicalvoice lending charm to someinsincere apology, he ceasedtofeelbored.But at dinner he could not

eatanything.Plateafterplatewent away untasted. Lady

Narborough kept scoldinghim for what she called “aninsult to poor Adolphe, whoinvented the menu speciallyfor you,” and now and thenLord Henry looked across athim,wonderingathissilenceand abstractedmanner. Fromtime to time the butler filledhisglasswithchampagne.Hedrank eagerly, and his thirstseemedtoincrease.“Dorian,”saidLordHenry,

at last, as the chaudfroid fqwas being handed round,“what is thematterwith youto-night?Youarequiteoutofsorts.”“I believe he is in love,”

criedLadyNarborough,“andthatheisafraidtotellmeforfearIshouldbejealous.Heisquite right. I certainlyshould.”“Dear Lady Narborough,”

murmuredDorian,smiling,“I

have not been in love for awhole week—not, in fact,since Madame de Ferrol lefttown.”“Howyoumen can fall in

love with that woman!”exclaimed the old lady. “Ireallycannotunderstandit.”“It is simply because she

remembered you when youwere a little girl, LadyNarborough,” said LordHenry. “She is the one link

between us and your shortfrocks.”“She does not remember

my short frocks at all, LordHenry. But I remember hervery well at Vienna thirtyyears ago, and howdécolletéefrshewasthen.”“Sheisstilldécolletée,”he

answered, taking an olive inhis long fingers; “and whenshe is in a very smart gownshe looks like an édition de

luxe of a bad French novel.She is really wonderful, andfullofsurprises.Hercapacityfor family affection isextraordinary.Whenherthirdhusbanddied,herhair turnedquitegoldfromgrief.”fs

“How can you, Harry!”criedDorian.“It is a most romantic

explanation,” laughed thehostess. “But her thirdhusband, Lord Henry! You

don’tmean tosay thatFerrolisthefourth?”“Certainly, Lady

Narborough.”“I don’t believe aword of

it.”“Well,askMr.Gray.Heis

one of her most intimatefriends.”“Isittrue,Mr.Gray?”“She assures me so, Lady

Narborough,” saidDorian. “Iasked her whether, like

Marguerite de Navarre,ft shehad their hearts embalmedand hung at her girdle. Shetold me she didn’t, becausenone of them had had anyheartsatall.”“Four husbands!Uponmy

word,thatistropdezèle.”fu

“Trop d’audace,fv I tellher,”saidDorian.“Oh! she is audacious

enough for anything, mydear.AndwhatisFerrollike?

Idon’tknowhim.”“The husbands of very

beautiful women belong tothe criminal classes,” saidLordHenry,sippinghiswine.Lady Narborough hit him

with her fan. “LordHenry, Iam not at all surprised thatthe world says that you areextremelywicked.”“But what world says

that?” asked Lord Henry,elevating his eyebrows. “It

can only be the next world.This world and I are onexcellentterms.”“Everybody I know says

you are very wicked!” criedthe old lady, shaking herhead.LordHenry looked serious

for some moments. “It isperfectlymonstrous,”hesaid,at last, “the way people goaboutnowadayssayingthingsagainstonebehindone’sback

that are absolutely andentirelytrue.”“Isn’t he incorrigible?”

criedDorian,leaningforwardinhischair.“I hope so,” said his

hostess, laughing. “But,really, if you all worshipMadame de Terrol in thisridiculousway,Ishallhavetomarryagainsoastobeinthefashion.”“You will never marry

again, Lady Narborough,”broke in Lord Henry. “Youwere far too happy. When awoman marries again, it isbecauseshedetestedher firsthusband. When a manmarriesagain,itisbecauseheadoredhis firstwife.Womentry their luck; men risktheirs.”“Narborough wasn’t

perfect,”criedtheoldlady.“Ifhehadbeen,youwould

not have loved him,mydearlady,” was the rejoinder.“Women love us for ourdefects.Ifwehaveenoughofthem, they will forgive useverything, even ourintellects.Youwillneveraskme to dinner again, aftersayingthis,Iamafraid,LadyNarborough; but it is quitetrue.”“Of course it is true, Lord

Henry. Ifwewomen did not

love you for your defects,wherewouldyouallbe?Notone of you would ever bemarried.Youwould be a setofunfortunatebachelors.Not,however,thatthatwouldalteryoumuch. Nowadays all themarried men live likebachelors, and all thebachelorslikemarriedmen.”“Finde siècle,”murmured

LordHenry.“Finduglobe,”fwanswered

hishostess.“I wish it were fin du

globe,” said Dorian, with asigh. “Life is a greatdisappointment.”“Ah,mydear,”criedLady

Narborough, putting on hergloves“don’ttellmethatyouhaveexhaustedLife.Whenamansaysthat,oneknowsthatLifehasexhaustedhim.LordHenry is very wicked, and Isometimes wish that I had

been;butyouaremadetobegood—you look so good. Imust find you a nice wife.Lord Henry, don’t you thinkthat Mr. Gray should getmarried?”“I am always telling him

so, Lady Narborough,” saidLordHenry,withabow.“Well, we must look out

forasuitablematchforhim.Ishall go through Debrettfxcarefully to-night, and draw

out a list of all the eligibleyoungladies.”“With their ages, Lady

Narborough?”askedDorian.“Ofcourse,withtheirages,

slightly edited. But nothingmust be done in a hurry. Iwant it to be what TheMorningPostcallsasuitablealliance,andIwantyoubothtobehappy.”“What nonsense people

talk about happymarriages!”

exclaimed Lord Henry. “Aman can be happy with anywoman, as long as he doesnotloveher.”“Ah! what a cynic you

are!” cried the old lady,pushing back her chair, andnodding to Lady Ruxton.“You must come and dinewithme soonagain.Youarereally an admirable tonic,much better than what SirAndrew prescribes for me.

Youmusttellmewhatpeopleyou would like to meet,though. I want it to be adelightfulgathering.”“I like men who have a

futureandwomenwhohaveapast,” he answered. “Or doyou think thatwouldmake itapetticoatparty?”“I fear so,” she said,

laughing,asshestoodup.“Athousand pardons, my dearLady Ruxton,” she added, “I

didn’tseeyouhadn’tfinishedyourcigarette.”“Never mind, Lady

Narborough. I smoke a greatdeal toomuch.Iamgoingtolimitmyselfforthefuture.”“Praydon’t,LadyRuxton,”

said Lord Henry.“Moderation is a fatal thing.Enough is as bad as a meal.More thanenough isasgoodasafeast.”Lady Ruxton glanced at

him curiously. “You mustcome and explain that tomesome afternoon, LordHenry.It sounds a fascinatingtheory,” she murmured, asshesweptoutoftheroom.“Now,mindyoudon’tstay

too long over your politicsand scandal,” cried LadyNarborough from the door.“If you do, we are sure tosquabbleup-stairs.”Themen laughed,andMr.

Chapman got up solemnlyfromthefootofthetableandcame up to the top. DorianGray changed his seat, andwent and sat byLordHenry.Mr.Chapmanbegantotalkina loud voice about thesituation in the House ofCommons. He guffawed athis adversaries. The worddoctrinaire—word full ofterror to the British mind—reappearedfromtime to timebetween his explosions. An

alliterativeprefixservedasanornament of oratory. HehoistedtheUnionJackonthepinnacles of Thought. Theinheritedstupidityoftherace—sound English commonsense,hejoviallytermedit—was shown to be the properbulwarkofSociety.A smile curved Lord

Henry’s lips, and he turnedroundandlookedatDorian.“Are you better, my dear

fellow?” he asked. “Youseemed rather out of sorts atdinner.”“I am quite well, Harry. I

amtired.Thatisall.”“You were charming last

night. The little Duchess isquite devoted to you. ShetellsmesheisgoingdowntoSelby.”“Shehaspromisedtocome

onthetwentieth.”“Is Monmouth to be there

too?”“Oh,yes,Harry.”“He bores me dreadfully,

almost as much as he boresher. She is very clever, toocleverforawoman.Shelacksthe indefinable charm ofweakness.Itisthefeetofclaythat make the gold of imageprecious.fy Her feet are verypretty,buttheyarenotfeetofclay—whiteporcelain feet, ifyou like. They have been

throughthefire,andwhatfiredoes not destroy it hardens.Shehashadexperiences.”“How long has she been

married?”askedDorian.“Aneternity,shetellsme.I

believe, according to thepeerage, it is ten years, butten years with Monmouthmust have been like eternity,with time thrown in. Whoelseiscoming?”“Oh, the Willoughbys,

LordRugbyandhiswife,ourhostess,GeoffreyClouston—the usual set. I have askedLordGrotrian.”“I like him,” said Lord

Henry.“Agreatmanypeopledon’t, but I find himcharming. He atones forbeing occasionally somewhatoverdressed by being alwaysabsolutely overedu cated.Heisaverymoderntype.”“Idon’tknowifhewillbe

able tocome,Harry.Hemayhave to go to Monte Carlowithhisfather.”“Ah, what a nuisance

people’s people are! Try andmakehimcome.Bytheway,Dorian,youranoffveryearlylast night. You left beforeeleven. What did you doafterward? Did you gostraighthome?”Dorian glanced at him

hurriedly, and frowned. “No,

Harry,”hesaidat last,“Ididnot get home till nearlythree.”“Didyougototheclub?”“Yes,” he answered. Then

he bit his lip. “No, I don’tmean that. I didn’t go to theclub.Iwalkedabout.Iforgetwhat I did. . . . Howinquisitive you are, Harry!You always want to knowwhat one has been doing. Ialwayswant to forgetwhat I

havebeendoing.Icameinathalf-past two, if youwish toknow the exact time. I hadleft my latch-key at home,andmyservanthadtoletmein. If you want anycorroborativeevidenceonthesubjectyoucanaskhim.”Lord Henry shrugged his

shoulders. “My dear fellow,as if Icared!Letusgoup tothe drawing-room.—Nocherry,fz thank you, Mr.

Chapman.—Something hashappenedtoyou,Dorian.Tellme what it is. You are notyourselfto-night.”“Don’t mind me, Harry. I

am irritable and out oftemper. I shall come roundand see you to-morrow ornext day. Make my excusestoLadyNarborough. Ishan’tgoup-stairs.Ishallgohome.Imustgohome.”“All right, Dorian. I dare

sayIshallseeyouto-morrowat tea-time. The Duchess iscoming.”“I will try to be there,

Harry,” he said, leaving theroom.AsDorianGraydroveback

to his own house, he wasconscious that the sense ofterror he thought he hadstrangled had come back tohim. Lord Henry’s casualquestioning had made him

lose his nerve for themoment, and he wanted hisnerve still. Things that weredangerous had to bedestroyed. He winced. Hehated the idea of eventouching them. Yet it had tobedone.Herealizedthat,andwhenhehad locked thedoorof his library, he opened thesecretpressintowhichhehadthrust Basil Hallward’s coatand bag. A huge fire wasblazing.Hepiledanother log

on it. The smell of thesingeing clothes and burningleather was horrible. It tookhimthree-quartersofanhourtoconsumeeverything.Attheendhefeltfaintandsick,andhaving lit some Algerianpastillesgainapiercedcopperbrazier, he bathed his handsand forehead with a coolmusk-scentedvinegar.Suddenly he started. His

eyes grew strangely bright,

and he gnawed nervously athisunder-lip.Betweentwoofthe windows stood a largeFlorentine cabinet, made outof ebony, and inlaid withivory and blue lapis. Hewatcheditasthoughitwereathingthatcouldfascinateandmakeafraid,asthoughitheldsomething that he longed forand yet almost loathed. Hisbreath quickened. A madcravingcameoverhim.Helita cigarette, and then threw it

away.Hiseyelidsdroopedtillthe long, fringed lashesalmosttouchedhischeek.Buthe still watched the cabinet.At last he got up from thesofa on which he had beenlying, went over to it, and,having unlocked it, touchedsome hidden spring. Atriangular drawer passedslowlyout.Hisfingersmovedinstinctivelytowardit,dippedin, and closed on something.ItwasasmallChineseboxof

black and gold-dust lacquer,elaboratelywrought,thesidespatternedwithcurvedwaves,and the silken cords hungwith round crystals andtasseled with plaited metalthreads. He opened it. Insidewasagreenpaste,gbwaxy inluster, the odor curiouslyheavyandpersistent.He hesitated for some

moments, with a strangelyimmobilesmileuponhisface.

Then shivering, though theatmosphere of the room wasterribly hot, he drew himselfup, and glanced at the clock.It was twenty minutes totwelve.Heput theboxback,shutting the cabinet doors ashe did so, and went into hisbedroom.As midnight was striking

bronzeblowsupontheduskyair, Dorian Gray, dressedcommonly, and with a

muffler wrapped around histhroat,creptquietlyoutofhishouse. In Bond Street hefound a hansomwith a goodhorse. He hailed it, and in alow voice gave the driver anaddress.The man shook his head.

“It is too far for me,” hemuttered.“Here is a sovereign for

you,” saidDorian. “Youwillhave another if you drive

fast.”“All right, sir,” answered

theman,“youwillbethereinan hour.” And after his faregot in he turned his horseround, and drove rapidlytowardtheriver.

ChapterXVI.

Acoldrainbegantofall,andthe blurred street-lampslookedghastlyinthedrippingmist.Thepublic-houseswerejustclosing,anddimmenandwomen were clustering inbroken groups round theirdoors.Fromsomeofthebars

came the sound of horriblelaughter. Inothers,drunkardsbrawledandscreamed.Lyingback in thehansom,

with his hat pulled over hisforehead, Dorian Graywatchedwithlistlesseyesthesordid shame of the greatcity, and now and then herepeatedtohimselfthewordsthat Lord Henry had said tohimon thefirstday theyhadmet: “To cure the soul by

means of the senses, and thesensesbymeansofthesoul.”Yes, that was the secret. Hehad often tried it, andwouldtry it again now. Therewereopium-dens,whereonecouldbuyoblivion—densofhorror,wherethememoryofoldsinscould be destroyed by themadness of sins that werenew.Themoonhung lowin the

sky,likeayellowskull.From

time to time a hugemisshapen cloud stretched along arm across and hid it.The gas-lamps grew fewer,and the streets more narrowand gloomy. Once the manlosthisway,andhadtodriveback half a mile. A steamrose from the horse as itsplashedup thepuddles.Theside-windows of the hansomwere clogged with a greyflannelmist.

“Tocurethesoulbymeansof the senses, and the sensesbymeans of the soul!” Howthe words rang in his ears!His soul, certainly, was sickto death.Was it true that thesensescouldcureit?Innocentblood had been spilt. Whatcould atone for that?Ah! forthat therewas no atonement;but though forgiveness wasimpossible, forgetfulnesswaspossible still, and he wasdeterminedtoforget,tostamp

the thing out, to crush it asone would crush the adderthat had stung one. Indeed,what right had Basil to havespoken to him as he haddone?Who had made him ajudge over others? He hadsaidthingsthatweredreadful,horrible,nottobeendured.On and on plodded the

hansom, going slower, itseemed to him, at each step.He thrust up the trap,gc and

called to the man to drivefaster.Thehideoushungerforopiumbegantognawathim.His throat burned, and hisdelicate hands twitchednervouslytogether.Hestruckat the horse madly with hisstick.Thedriverlaughed,andwhipped up. He laughed inanswer, and the man wassilent.The way seemed

interminable, and the streets

like the black web of somesprawling spider. Themonotony becameunbearable, and, as the mistthickened,hefeltafraid.Thentheypassedbylonely

brick-fields. The fog waslighterhere,andhecouldseethe strange, bottle-shapedkilns, with their orange fan-like tongues of fire. A dogbarked as they went by, andfarawayinthedarknesssome

wanderingsea-gullscreamed.The horse stumbled in a rut,thenswervedaside,andbrokeintoagallop.After some time they left

the clay road, and rattledagain over rough-pavenstreets.Most of thewindowswere dark, but now and thenfantastic shadows weresilhouetted against somelamp-lit blind. He watchedthem curiously. They moved

like monstrous marionettes,and made gestures like livethings.Hehatedthem.Adullragewasinhisheart.Astheyturned a corner a womanyelled something at themfrom an open door, and twomenranafter thehansomforabout a hundred yards. Thedriver beat at them with hiswhip.It is said that passion

makes one think in a circle.

Certainly with hideousiteration the bitten lips ofDorian Gray shaped andreshaped those subtle wordsthatdealtwithsoulandsense,till he had found in them thefullexpression,as itwere,ofhis mood, and justified, byintellectualapproval,passionsthatwithoutsuchjustificationwould still have dominatedhis temper. From cell to cellof his brain crept the onethought; and the wild desire

to live, most terrible of allman’s appetites, quickenedinto force each tremblingnerveandfiber.Uglinessthathadoncebeenhateful tohimbecause it made things real,became dear to him now forthat very reason. Uglinesswas the one reality. Thecoarse brawl, the loathsomeden, the crude violence ofdisordered life, the veryvileness of thief and outcast,were more vivid, in their

intense actuality ofimpression, than all thegracious shapes of Art, thedreamy shadows of Song.They were what he neededfor forgetfulness. In threedayshewouldbefree.Suddenlythemandrewup

withajerkatthetopofadarklane.Over the low roofs andjagged chimney-stacks of thehouses rose the black mastsof ships. Wreaths of white

mist clung like ghostly sailstotheyards.“Somewhere about here,

sir, ain’t it?” he asked,huskily,throughthetrap.Dorian started, and peered

round. “This will do,”gd heanswered,and,havinggotouthastily, and given the driverthe extra fare he hadpromised him, he walkedquicklyinthedirectionofthequay.Hereandtherealantern

gleamedat the sternof somehugemerchantman.The lightshook and splintered in thepuddles. A red glare camefrom an outward-boundsteamerthatwascoaling.Theslimypavementlookedlikeawetmackintosh.He hurried on toward the

left, glancing back now andthen to see if he was beingfollowed. In about seven oreight minutes he reached a

small,shabbyhouse,thatwaswedgedinbetweentwogauntfactories. In one of the topwindows stood a lamp. Hestopped, and gave a peculiarknock.Aftera little timeheheard

steps in the passage and thechain being unhooked. Thedoor opened quietly, and hewent in without saying aword to the squat,misshapenfigurethatflatteneditselfinto

the shadow as he passed. Atthe end of the hall hung atattered green curtain thatswayed and shook in thegusty wind which hadfollowed him in from thestreet. He dragged it aside,andenteredalong,lowroom,whichlookedasifithadoncebeen a third-rate dancingsaloon.Shrill flaringgas-jets,dulled and distorted in thefly-blown mirrors that facedthem,were ranged round the

walls. Greasy reflectors ofribbed tin backed them,making quivering discs oflight. The floor was coveredwith ocher-colored sawdust,trampled here and there intomud, and stained with darkrings of spilt liquor. SomeMalays were crouching by alittle charcoal stove playingwith bone counters, andshowing their white teeth astheychattered.Inonecorner,with his head buried in his

arms,asailorsprawledoveratable, and by the tawdrilypainted bar, that ran acrossonecomplete side, stood twohaggard women mocking anold man who was brushingthesleevesofhiscoatwithanexpression of disgust. “Hethinks he’s got red ants onhim,”laughedoneofthem,asDorian passed by. The manlooked at her in terror, andbegantowhimper.

At the end of the roomthere was a little staircase,leading to a darkenedchamber. As Dorian hurriedup its three rickety steps, theheavy odor of opium methim. He heaved a deepbreath, and his nostrilsquiveredwithpleasure.Whenheentered,ayoungmanwithsmoothyellowhair,whowasbending over a lamp lightingalong,thinpipe,lookedupathim, and nodded in a

hesitatingmanner.“You here, Adrian?”

mutteredDorian.“Where else should I be?”

heanswered,listlessly.“Noneofthechapswillspeaktomenow.”“I thought you had left

England.”“Darlingtonisnotgoingto

doanything.Mybrotherpaidthebillatlast.Georgedoesn’tspeak to me, either. . . . I

don’tcare,”headded,withasigh.“Aslongasonehasthisstuff, one doesn’t wantfriends.IthinkIhavehadtoomanyfriends.”Dorianwinced,andlooked

roundat thegrotesque thingsthat lay in such fantasticpostures on the raggedmattresses.Thetwistedlimbs,the gaping mouths, thestaring, lusterless eyes,fascinated him. He knew in

what strange heavens theyweresuffering,andwhatdullhells were teaching them thesecretofsomenewjoy.Theywere better off than he was.He was prisoned in thought.Memory, like a horriblemalady, was eating his soulaway. From time to time heseemed to see the eyes ofBasil Hallward looking athim.Yethefelthecouldnotstay. The presence ofAdrianSingleton troubled him. He

wanted to be where no onewouldknowwhohewas.Hewanted to escape fromhimself.“Iamgoingontotheother

place,”hesaid,afterapause.“Onthewharf?”“Yes.”“Thatmad-catissuretobe

there.Theywon’thaveherinthisplacenow.”Dorian shrugged his

shoulders. “I am sick of

women who love one.Women who hate one aremuch more interesting.Besides,thestuffisbetter.”“Muchthesame.”“I like it better.Come and

have something to drink. Imusthavesomething.”“I don’t want anything,”

murmuredtheyoungman.“Nevermind.”Adrian Singleton rose up

wearily,andfollowedDorian

to the bar. A half-caste, in aragged turban and a shabbyulster, grinned a hideousgreeting as he thrust a bottleofbrandyandtwotumblersinfront of them. The womensidled up, and began tochatter. Dorian turned hisback on them, and saidsomething in a low voice toAdrianSingleton.A crooked smile, like a

Malay crease,writhed across

thefaceofoneofthewomen.“Weareveryproudto-night,”shesneered.“ForGod’ssake,don’ttalk

to me!” cried Dorian,stamping his foot on theground. “What doyouwant?Money?Hereitis.Don’tevertalktomeagain.”Tworedsparksflashedfor

a moment in the woman’ssodden eyes, then flickeredout, and left them dull and

glazed. She tossed her head,and raked the coins off thecounter with greedy fingers.Her companion watched herenviously.“It’s no use,” sighed

Adrian Singleton. “I don’tcaretogoback.Whatdoesitmatter? I am quite happyhere.”“You will write to me if

you want anything, won’tyou?” said Dorian, after a

pause.“Perhaps.”“Good-night,then.”“Good-night,” answered

the young man, passing upthe steps, and wiping hisparched mouth with ahandkerchief.Dorianwalked to the door

with a look of pain in hisface. As he drew the curtainaside a hideous laugh brokefrom the painted lips of the

woman who had taken hismoney. “There goes thedevil’s bargain,” shehiccoughed, in a hoarsevoice.“Curse you,” he answered,

“don’tcallmethat.”She snapped her fingers.

“Prince Charming is whatyou like to be called, ain’tit?”sheyelledafterhim.The drowsy sailor leaped

to his feet as she spoke, and

looked wildly round. Thesound of the shutting of thehall door fell on his ear. Herushedout,asifinpursuit.DorianGray hurried along

thequaythroughthedrizzlingrain.HismeetingwithAdrianSingleton had strangelymovedhim,andhewonderedif the ruin of the young lifewas really to be laid at hisdoor, as Basil Hallward hadsaidtohimwithsuchinfamy

of insult. He bit his lip, andfor a few seconds his eyesgrewsad.Yet, afterall,whatdid it matter to him? One’sdays were too brief to taketheburdenofanother’serrorsonone’sshoulders.Eachmanlived his own life, and paidhis own price for living it.Theonlypitywasonehadtopaysooftenforasinglefault.Onehadtopayoverandoveragain,indeed.Inherdealingswith man, Destiny never

closedheraccounts.There are moments,

psychologists tell us, whenthe passion for sin, or forwhat the world calls sin, sodominatesanaturethateveryfiber of the body, as everycellof thebrain,seems tobeinstinctwithfearfulimpulses.Men and women at suchmoments lose thefreedomoftheirwill.Theymovetotheirterrible end as automatons

move. Choice is taken fromthem,andconscienceiseitherkilled, or, if it lives, at all,lives but to give rebellion itsfascination and disobedienceits charm. For all sins, astheologians weary not ofreminding us, are sins ofdisobedience.Whenthathighspirit, that morning star ofevil, fell fromheaven, itwasasarebelthathefell.ge

Callous, concentrated on

evil, with stained mind, andsoul hungry for rebellion,Dorian Gray hastened on,quickening his step as hewent. But as he darted asideinto a dim archway that hadserved him often as a shortcut to the ill-famed placewhere he was going, he felthimselfsuddenlyseizedfrombehind, and before he hadtimetodefendhimselfhewasthrust back against the wall,with a brutal hand round his

throat.He struggled madly for

life, and by a terrible effortwrenched the tighteningfingers away. In a second heheard the clickof a revolver,and saw the gleam of apolished barrel pointingstraight at his head, and thedusky formof a short, thick-setmanfacinghim.“What do you want?” he

gasped.

“Keepquiet,”saidtheman.“Ifyoustir,Ishootyou.”“Youaremad.WhathaveI

donetoyou?”“You wrecked the life of

SibylVane,”wastheanswer,“and Sibyl Vane was mysister. She killed herself. Iknow it.Herdeath isatyourdoor.IsworeIwouldkillyouin return. For years I havesoughtyou.Ihadnoclue,notrace. The two people who

could have described youweredead.Iknewnothingofyoubutthepetnamesheusedtocallyou.Ihearditto-nightby chance.Make your peacewithGod,forto-nightyouaregoingtodie.”Dorian Gray grew sick

withfear.“Ineverknewher,”hestammered.“Ineverheardofher.Youaremad.”“You had better confess

your sin, for as sure as I am

JamesVaneyouaregoing todie.” There was a horriblemoment.Doriandidnotknowwhat tosayordo.“Downonyour knees!” growled theman. “I give youoneminuteto make your peace—nomore. I go on board to-nightfor India, and I must do myjob first. One minute. That’sall.”Dorian’s arms fell to his

side.Paralyzedwithterror,he

did not know what to do.Suddenlyawildhopeflashedacross his brain. “Stop!” hecried. “How long ago is itsinceyoursisterdied.Quick,tellme!”“Eighteen years,” said the

man. “Why do you ask me?Whatdoyearsmatter?”“Eighteen years,” laughed

DorianGray,witha touchoftriumph in his voice.“Eighteen years! Set me

under the lamp and look atmyface!”JamesVanehesitatedfora

moment, not understandingwhat was meant. Then heseized Dorian Gray anddragged him from thearchway.Dim and wavering as was

the wind-blown light, yet itserved to show him thehideous error, as it seemed,intowhich he had fallen, for

the face of the man he hadsought to kill had all thebloom of boyhood, all theunstainedpurityofyouth.Heseemed littlemore thana ladof twenty summers, hardlyolder, if older indeed at all,thanhissisterhadbeenwhenthey had parted so manyyearsago.Itwasobviousthatthiswasnotthemanwhohaddestroyedherlife.He loosened his hold and

reeled back. “My God! myGod!”hecried,“andIwouldhavemurderedyou!”Dorian Gray drew a long

breath. “You have been onthe brink of committing aterrible crime, my man,” hesaid, looking at him sternly.“Letthisbeawarningtoyounot to take vengeance intoyourownhands.”“Forgiveme,sir,”muttered

JamesVane,“Iwasdeceived.

AchancewordIhadheardinthat damned den set me onthewrongtrack.”“You had better go home

and put that pistol away, oryou may get into trouble,”said Dorian, turning on hisheel and going slowly downthestreet.James Vane stood on the

pavement in horror. He wastrembling from head to foot.After a little while a black

shadow that had beencreeping along the drippingwallmovedoutintothelight,and came close to him withstealthy footsteps. He felt ahand laid on his arm, andlooked round with a start. Itwas one of the women whohadbeendrinkingatthebar.“Whydidn’tyoukillhim?”

she hissed out, putting herhaggard face quite close tohis. “I knew you were

following him when yourushed out fromDaly’s.Youfool!You should have killedhim. He has lots of money,andhe’sasbadasbad.”“He is not the man I’m

looking for,” he exclaimed,“andIwantnoman’smoney.Iwantaman’s life.Themanwhose life I want must benearly fortynow.Thisone islittlemorethanaboy.ThankGod,Ihavenotgothisblood

uponmyhands.”The woman gave a bitter

laugh. “Little more than aboy!” she sneered. “Why,man, it’s nigh on eighteenyears since Prince CharmingmademewhatIam.”“You lie!” cried James

Vane.She raised her hand up to

heaven. “Before God I amtellingthetruth!”shecried.“BeforeGod?”

“Strikemedumbif itain’tso. He is the worst one thatcomes here.They say he hassoldhimselftothedevilforapretty face. It’s nigh oneighteen years since I methim.Hehasn’tchangedmuchsince then. I have, though,”sheadded,withasicklyleer.“Youswearthis?”“I swear it,” came in a

hoarse echo from her flatmouth. “But don’t give me

awaytohim,”shewhined;“Iam afraid of him. Let mehave some money for mynight’slodging.”Hebrokefromherwithan

oath,andrushedtothecornerofthestreet;butDorianGrayhad disappeared. When helooked back, thewoman hadvanishedalso.

ChapterXVII.

A week later Dorian Graywas sitting in theconservatory at Selby Royaltalking to the prettyDuchessof Monmouth, who with herhusband,ajaded-lookingmanof sixty, was among hisguests. It was tea-time, and

themellow light of the hugelace-covered lamp that stoodonthetablelitupthedelicatechinaandhammeredsilverofthe service at which theDuchess was presiding. Herwhite hands were movingdaintily among the cups, andher full red lipsweresmilingat something thatDorianhadwhisperedtoher.LordHenrywas lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair lookingat them. On a peach-colored

divan sat Lady Narborough,pretending to listen to theDuke’sdescriptionofthelastBrazilian beetle that he hadaddedtohiscollection.Threeyoung men in elaboratesmoking-suits were handingtea-cakes to some of thewomen. The house-partyconsisted of twelve people,andthereweremoreexpectedtoarriveonthenextday.“Whatareyou two talking

about?” said Lord Henry,strollingovertothetable,andputtinghiscupdown.“IhopeDorianhastoldyouaboutmyplan for rechristeningeverything, Gladys. It is adelightfulidea.”“But I don’t want to be

rechristened,Harry,”rejoinedthe Duchess, looking up athimwithherwonderfuleyes.“Iamquitesatisfiedwithmyownname,andIamsureMr.

Grayshouldbesatisfiedwithhis.”“My dearGladys, Iwould

not alter either name for theworld.Theyarebothperfect.I was thinking chiefly offlowers. Yesterday I cut anorchid for my buttonhole. Itwas a marvelous spottedthing, as effective as theseven deadly sins. In athoughtless moment I askedone of my gardeners what it

wascalled.Hetoldmeitwasa fine specimen ofRobinsoniana, or somethingdreadful of that kind. It is asadtruth,butwehavelostthefaculty of giving lovelynames to things. Names areeverything. I never quarrelwith actions.My one quarrelis with words. That is thereason I hate vulgar realismin literature. The man whocould call a spade a spadeshould be compelled to use

one. It is theonly thinghe isfitfor.”“Thenwhatshouldwecall

you,Harry?”sheasked.“His name is Prince

Paradox,”saidDorian.“I recognize him in a

flash!” exclaimed theDuchess.“I won’t hear of it,”

laughed Lord Henry, sinkinginto a chair. “From a labelthereisnoescape.Irefusethe

title.”“Royalties may not

abdicate,” fell as a warningfromprettylips.“You wish me to defend

mythrone,then?”“Yes.”“I give the truths of to-

morrow.”“Ipreferthemistakesofto-

day,”sheanswered.“Youdisarmme,Gladys!”

he cried, catching the

wilfulnessofhermood.“Ofyourshield,Harry;not

ofyourspear.”“I never tilt against

Beauty,”hesaidwithawaveofhishand.“That is your error,Harry,

believeme.Youvaluebeautyfartoomuch.”“How can you say that? I

admit that I think that it isbetter to be beautiful than tobe good. But, on the other

hand, no one is more readythanIamtoacknowledgethatit isbettertobegoodthantobeugly.”“Ugliness is one of the

seven deadly sins, then?”cried the Duchess. “Whatbecomesofyoursimileabouttheorchid?”“Ugliness is one of the

sevendeadlyvirtues,Gladys.You, as a good Tory, mustnotunderrate them.Beer, the

Bible, and the seven deadlyvirtues have made ourEnglandwhatsheis.”“You don’t like your

country,then?”sheasked.“Iliveinit.”“That you may censure it

thebetter.”“Would you haveme take

the verdict ofEurope on it?”heinquired.“Whatdotheysayofus?”

“That Tartuffegf hasemigrated to England andopenedashop.”“Isthatyours,Harry?”“Igiveittoyou.”“Icouldnotuseit.Itistoo

true.”“You need not be afraid.

Our countrymen neverrecognizeadescription.”“Theyarepractical.”“They are more cunning

than practical. When theymake up their ledger, theybalance stupidity by wealth,andvicebyhypocrisy.”“Still, we have done great

things.”“Great things have been

thrustonus,Gladys.”“We have carried their

burden.”“Only as far as the Stock

Exchange.”She shook her head. “I

believeintherace,”shecried.“It represents the survival

ofthepushing.”“Ithasdevelopment.”“Decay fascinates me

more.”“WhatofArt?”sheasked.“Itisamalady.”“Love?”“Anillusion.”“Religion?”“Thefashionablesubstitute

forBelief.”“Youareasceptic.”“Never! Scepticism is the

beginningofFaith.”“Whatareyou?”“Todefineistolimit.”“Givemeaclue.”“Threads snap.Youwould

lose your way in thelabyrinth.”“You bewilder me. Let us

talkofsomeoneelse.”

“Our host is a delightfultopic. Years ago he waschristenedPrinceCharming.”“Ah! don’t remind me of

that!”criedDorianGray.“Our host is rather horrid

this evening,” answered theDuchess, coloring. “I believehe thinks that Monmouthmarried me on purelyscientific principles as thebest specimen he could findofamodernbutterfly.”

“Well, I hope he won’tstickpinsintoyou,Duchess,”laughedDorian.“Oh! my maid does that

already,Mr. Gray, when sheisannoyedwithme.”“And what does she get

annoyed with you about,Duchess?”“Forthemosttrivialthings,

Mr. Gray, I assure you.Usuallybecause I come inatten minutes to nine and tell

her that Imustbedressedbyhalf-pasteight.”“Howunreasonableofher!

You should give herwarning.”“Idaren’t,Mr.Gray.Why,

she invents hats forme.Youremember the one I wore atLady Hilstone’s garden-party? You don’t, but it isnice of you to pretend thatyoudo.Well,shemadeitoutofnothing.Allgoodhats are

madeoutofnothing.”“Likeallgood reputations,

Gladys,” interrupted LordHenry.“Everyeffectthatoneproducesgivesoneanenemy.Tobepopularonemustbeamediocrity.”“Not with women,” said

the Duchess, shaking herhead; “and women rule theworld. I assure youwe can’tbear mediocrities. Wewomen, as some one says,

lovewithourears,justasyoumen love with your eyes, ifyoueverloveatall.”“It seems to me that we

never do anything else,”murmuredDorian.“Ah!thenyouneverreally

love, Mr. Gray,” answeredthe Duchess, with mocksadness.“My dear Gladys!” cried

Lord Henry. “How can yousay that? Romance lives by

repetition, and repetitionconverts an appetite into anart. Besides, each time thatonelovesistheonlytimeonehasever loved.Differenceofobject does not altersingleness of passion. Itmerely intensifies it.We canhave in life but one greatexperience at best, and thesecret of life is to reproducethat experience as often aspossible.”

“Even when one has beenwoundedbyit,Harry?”askedtheDuchess,afterapause.“Especially when one has

been wounded by it,”answeredLordHenry.The Duchess turned and

lookedatDorianGraywithacurious expression in hereyes. “What do you say tothat,Mr.Gray?”sheinquired.Dorian hesitated for a

moment. Then he threw his

head back and laughed. “Ialways agree with Harry,Duchess.”“Evenwhenheiswrong?”“Harry is never wrong,

Duchess.”“And does his philosophy

makeyouhappy?”“I have never searched for

happiness. Who wantshappiness? I have searchedforpleasure.”“Andfoundit,Mr.Gray?”

“Often.Toooften.”TheDuchesssighed.“Iam

searching for peace,” shesaid, “and if I don’t go anddress, I shall have none thisevening.”“Let me get you some

orchids, Duchess,” criedDorian, starting to his feet,and walking down theconservatory.“You are flirting

disgracefullywith him,” said

Lord Henry to his cousin.“Youhadbettertakecare.Heisveryfascinating.”“If he were not, there

wouldbenobattle.”“Greek meets Greek,

then?”“I am on the side of the

Trojans. They fought for awoman.”“Theyweredefeated.”“There are worse things

thancapture,”sheanswered.

“You gallop with a looserein.”“Pace gives life,” was the

riposte.gg

“Ishallwriteitinmydiaryto-night.”“What?”“That a burnt child loves

thefire.”“Iamnotevensinged.My

wingsareuntouched.”“You use them for

everything,exceptflight.”“Courage has passed from

men to women. It is a newexperienceforus.”“Youhavearival.”“Who?”He laughed. “Lady

Narborough,” he whispered.“Sheperfectlyadoreshim.”“You fill me with

apprehension. The appeal toAntiquity is fatal to us whoareromanticists.”

“Romanticists! You haveallthemethodsofscience.”“Menhaveeducatedus.”“Butnotexplainedyou.”“Describeusasasex,”was

herchallenge.“Sphynxes without

secrets.”Shelookedathim,smiling.

“HowlongMr.Grayis!”shesaid.“Letusgoandhelphim.I have not yet told him thecolorofmyfrock.”

“Ah! you must suit yourfrocktohisflowers,Gladys.”“That would be a

prematuresurrender.”“RomanticArtbeginswith

itsclimax.”“I must keep an

opportunityforretreat.”“In the Parthian

manner?”gh

“They found safety in thedesert.Icouldnotdothat.”

“Women are not alwaysallowed a choice,” heanswered; but hardly had hefinished the sentence beforefrom the far end of theconservatory came a stifledgroan, followed by the dullsound of a heavy fall.Everybody started up. TheDuchess stood motionless inhorror. And with fear in hiseyes Lord Henry rushedthroughtheflappingpalms,tofind Dorian Gray lying face

downward on the tiled floorinadeathlikeswoon.Hewascarriedatonceinto

the blue drawing-room, andlaid upon one of the sofas.Afterashorttimehecametohimself, and looked roundwithadazedexpression.“What has happened?” he

asked.“Oh!I remember.AmIsafehere,Harry?”Hebegantotremble.“My dear Dorian,”

answered Lord Henry, “youmerely fainted. That was all.You must have over-tiredyourself. You had better notcome down to dinner. I willtakeyourplace.”“No,Iwillcomedown,”he

said,strugglingtohisfeet.“Iwould rather come down. Imustnotbealone.”He went to his room and

dressed. There was a wildrecklessness of gaiety in his

mannerashesatattable,butnowandthenathrillofterrorran through him when heremembered that, pressedagainst the window of theconservatory, like a whitehandkerchief,hehadseenthefaceofJamesVanewatchinghim.

ChapterXVIII.

Thenextdayhedidnotleavethe house, and, indeed, spentmost of the time in his ownroom, sickwith awild terrorof dying, and yet indifferentto life itself. Theconsciousness of beinghunted,snared,trackeddown,

had begun to dominate him.Ifthetapestrydidbuttremblein the wind, he shook. Thedead leaves that were blownagainst the leaded panesseemed to him like his ownwasted resolutions and wildregrets. When he closed hiseyeshesawagainthesailor’sfacepeeringthroughthemist-stained glass, and horrorseemed once more to lay itshanduponhisheart.

But perhaps it had beenonlyhisfancythathadcalledvengeance out of the night,andset thehideousshapesofpunishment before him.Actual life was chaos, butthere was something terriblylogical in the imagination. Itwas the imagination that setremorsetodogthefeetofsin.It was the imagination thatmade each crime bear itsmisshapen brood. In thecommon world of fact the

wicked were not punished,nor the good rewarded.Success was given to thestrong,failurethrustupontheweak. That was all. Besides,had any stranger beenprowling round the house hewouldhavebeenseenby theservants or the keepers. Hadanyfootmarksbeenfoundontheflowerbeds, thegardenerswould have reported it. Yes,it had been merely fancy.SibylVane’s brother had not

comebacktokillhim.Hehadsailed away in his ship tofounder in some winter sea.Fromhim,atanyrate,hewassafe. Why, the man did notknowwhohewas, could notknowwhohewas.Themaskofyouthhadsavedhim.And yet if it had been

merely an illusion, howterrible it was to think thatconscience could raise suchfearful phantoms, and give

them visible form, andmakethemmovebeforeone!Whatsort of life would his be if,dayandnight,shadowsofhiscrime were to peer at himfrom silent corners, to mockhim from secret places, towhisperinhisearashesatatthe feast, to wake him withicy fingers as he lay asleep!As the thought crept throughhis brain, he grew pale withterror, and the air seemed tohimtohavebecomesuddenly

colder. Oh! in what a wildhourofmadnesshehadkilledhis friend! How ghastly themere memory of the scene!He saw it all again. Eachhideous detail came back tohimwithaddedhorror.Outofthe black cave of Time,terrible and swathed inscarlet, rose the image of hissin.When Lord Henry cameinatsixo’clockhefoundhimcrying as one whose heartwouldbreak.

Itwasnottillthethirddaythat he ventured to go out.There was something in theclear,pine-scentedairof thatwinter morning that seemedto bring him back hisjoyousness and his ardor forlife.Butitwasnotmerelythephysical conditions ofenvironment that had causedthe change. His own naturehad revolted against theexcess of anguish that hadsought to maim and mar the

perfection of its calm. Withsubtle and finely wroughttemperamentsit isalwaysso.Their strong passions musteither bruise or bend. Theyeither slay the man orthemselves die. Shallowsorrows and shallow loveslive on. The loves andsorrows that are great aredestroyed by their ownplenitude. Besides, he hadconvincedhimselfthathehadbeen the victim of a terror-

stricken imagination, andlookedbacknowonhisfearswith something of pity andnotalittleofcontempt.After breakfast he walked

with theDuchess foranhourinthegarden,andthendroveacross the park to join theshooting-party. The crispfrost lay like salt upon thegrass. The sky was aninvertedcupofbluemetal.Athin film of ice bordered the

flat,reed-grownlake.At the corner of the pine

wood he caught sight of SirGeoffrey Clouston, theDuchess’s brother, jerkingtwospentcartridgesoutofhisgun.Hejumpedfromthecart,and,havingtoldthegroomtotakethemarehome,madehiswaytowardhisguestthroughthe withered brackengi androughundergrowth.“Haveyouhadgoodsport,

Geoffrey?”heasked.“Not very good, Dorian. I

think most of the birds havegonetotheopen.Idaresayitwill be better after lunch,whenwegettonewground.”Dorian strolled along by

his side. The keen, aromaticair, the brown and red lightsthat glimmered in the wood,thehoarsecriesofthebeatersringingoutfromtimetotime,and the sharp snaps of the

gunsthatfollowed,fascinatedhimwithasenseofdelightfulfreedom. He was dominatedby the carelessness ofhappiness, by the highindifferenceofjoy.Suddenly from a lumpy

tussock of old grass, sometwentyyardsinfrontofthem,with black-tipped ears erect,and long hinder limbsthrowing it forward,startedahare.Itboltedforathicketof

alders. Sir Geoffrey put hisguntohisshoulder,buttherewas something in theanimal’s graceful movementthat strangely charmedDorianGray,andhecriedoutat once: “Don’t shoot it,Geoffrey!Letitlive!”“What nonsense, Dorian!”

laughed his companion, andas the hare bounded into thethicket, he fired. There weretwo cries heard, the one cry

of a hare in pain, which isdreadful, thecryof aman inagony,whichisworse.“Good heavens! I have hit

a beater!”gj exclaimed SirGeoffrey. “What an ass themanwastogetinfrontoftheguns! Stop shooting there!”hecalledoutatthetopofhisvoice.“Amanishurt!”The head keeper came

runningupwithastickinhishand.

“Where,sir?Whereishe?”heshouted.At thesametimethe firing ceased along theline.“Here,” answered Sir

Geoffrey, angrily, hurryingtoward the thicket. “Why onearth don’t you keep yourmen back? Spoiled myshootingfortheday.”Dorian watched them as

they plunged into the alder-clumb, brushing the lithe,

swingingbranchesaside.Inafew moments they emerged,dragging a body after theminto the sunlight. He turnedaway in horror. It seemed tohim thatmisfortune followedwherever he went. He heardSirGeoffrey askwhether themanwasreallydead,andtheaffirmative answer of thekeeper. Thewood seemed tohimtohavebecomesuddenlyalive with faces. There wasthe trampling ofmyriad feet,

andthelowbuzzofvoices.Agreat copper-breastedpheasant came beatingthroughtheboughsoverhead.After a fewmoments, that

were tohim, inhisperturbedstate, like endless hours ofpain,hefeltahandlaidonhisshoulder. He started, andlookedround.“Dorian,”saidLordHenry,

“Ihadbettertellthemthattheshooting is stopped for to-

day.Itwouldnotlookwelltogoon.”“I wish it were stopped

forever,Harry,”heanswered,bitterly. “The whole thing ishideousandcruel.Istheman...?”He could not finish the

sentence.“I am afraid so,” rejoined

Lord Henry. “He got thewhole charge of shot in hischest. He must have died

almost instantaneously.Come;letusgohome.”They walked side by side

inthedirectionoftheavenuefornearly fiftyyardswithoutspeaking. Then Dorianlooked at Lord Henry, andsaid,withaheavysigh,“Itisa bad omen, Harry—a verybadomen.”“What is?” asked Lord

Henry. “Oh! this accident, Isuppose. My dear fellow, it

can’t be helped. It was theman’sownfault.Whydidheget in front of the guns?Besides,itisnothingtous.Itis rather awkward forGeoffrey, of course. It doesnot do to pepper beaters. Itmakes people think that oneis awild shot.AndGeoffreyisnot;heshootsverystraight.But there is no use talkingaboutthematter.”Dorian shook his head. “It

isabadomen,Harry.Ifeelasif something horrible weregoing to happen to some ofus. To myself, perhaps,” headded, passing his hand overhis eyes, with a gesture ofpain.The elder man laughed.

“The only horrible thing inthe world is ennui, Dorian.That is theonesin forwhichthere is no forgiveness. Butwe are not likely to suffer

from it, unless these fellowskeep chattering about thisthing at dinner. I must tellthem that the subject is tobetabooed.As for omens, thereis no such thing as anomen.Destiny does not send usheralds.Sheistoowiseortoocruel for that. Besides, whatonearthcouldhappentoyou,Dorian?Youhaveeverythingin the world that a man canwant. There is no one whowould not be delighted to

changeplaceswithyou.”“There is no one with

whom I would not changeplaces, Harry. Don’t laughlikethat.Iamtellingyouthetruth. The wretched peasantwhohasjustdiedisbetteroffthanIam.IhavenoterrorofDeath. It is the coming ofDeath that terrifies me. Itsmonstrous wings seem towheelintheleadenairaroundme.Goodheavens!don’tyou

seeamanmovingbehindthetrees there, watching me,waitingforme?”Lord Henry looked in the

direction in which thetrembling gloved hand waspointing. “Yes,” he said,smiling, “I see the gardenerwaitingforyou.Isupposehewants to ask you whatflowers youwish to have onthe table to-night. Howabsurdlynervousyouare,my

dear fellow! Youmust comeand see my doctor when wegetbacktotown.”Dorian heaved a sigh of

relief as he saw the gardenerapproaching. The mantouchedhishat,glancedforamoment at Lord Henry in ahesitating manner, and thenproduced a letter, which hehanded to his master. “HerGrace toldme towait for ananswer,”hemurmured.

Dorian put the letter intohis pocket. “Tell her GracethatIamcomingin,”hesaid,coldly. The man turnedround,andwentrapidlyinthedirectionofthehouse.“How fond women are of

doing dangerous things!”laughed Lord Henry. “It isone of the qualities in themthatIadmiremost.Awomanwill flirtwithanybody in theworldaslongasotherpeople

arelookingon.”“How fond you are of

saying dangerous things,Harry!Inthepresentinstanceyouarequiteastray.IliketheDuchess very much, but Idon’tloveher.”“And the Duchess loves

youverymuch,but she likesyou less, so you areexcellentlymatched.”“You are talking scandal,

Harry,andthereisneverany

basisforscandal.”“Thebasisofeveryscandal

isanimmoralcertainty,”saidLord Henry, lighting acigarette.“You would sacrifice

anybody, Harry, for the sakeofanepigram.”“The world goes to the

altar of its own accord,”wastheanswer.“IwishIcouldlove!”cried

Dorian Gray, with a deep

note of pathos in his voice.“But I seem to have lost thepassion and forgotten thedesire. I am too muchconcentrated on myself. Myownpersonalityhasbecomeaburden to me. I want toescape,togoaway,toforget.It was silly of me to comedown here at all. I think IshallsendawiretoHarveytohave theyachtgot ready.Onayachtoneissafe.”

“Safe from what, Dorian?You are in some trouble.Why not tell me what it is?YouknowIwouldhelpyou.”“Ican’ttellyou,Harry,”he

answered, sadly. “And Idaresayitisonlyafancyofmine.Thisunfortunateaccidenthasupset me. I have a horriblepresentiment that somethingof the kind may happen tome.”“Whatnonsense!”

“I hope it is, but I can’thelpfeelingit.Ah!hereistheDuchess, looking likeArtemisgk in a tailor-madegown—You see we havecomeback,Duchess.”“I have heard all about it,

Mr. Gray,” she answered.“Poor Geoffrey is terriblyupset. And it seems that youasked him not to shoot thehare.Howcurious!”“Yes,itwasverycurious.I

don’t know what made mesayit.Somewhim,Isuppose.Itlookedtheloveliestoflittlelive things. But I am sorrythey told you about theman.Itisahideoussubject.”“Itisanannoyingsubject,”

broke inLordHenry. “It hasnopsychologicalvalueatall.Now, if Geoffrey had donethe thing on purpose, howinteresting he would be! Ishouldliketoknowsomeone

who had committed a realmurder.”“How horrid of you,

Harry!” cried the Duchess.“Isn’t it, Mr. Gray? Harry,Mr. Gray is ill again. He isgoingtofaint.”Dorian drew himself up

withaneffort,andsmiled.“Itis nothing, Duchess,” hemurmured; “my nerves aredreadfully out of order. Thatisall.IamafraidIwalkedtoo

farthismorning.Ididn’thearwhatHarry said.Was it verybad?Youmust tellme someother time. I think Imust goand lie down. You willexcuseme,won’tyou?”Theyhadreachedthegreat

flight of steps that led fromthe conservatory on to theterrace. As the glass doorclosed behind Dorian, LordHenry turned and looked atthe Duchess with his

slumberous eyes. “Are youverymuchinlovewithhim?”heasked.She did not answer for

some time, but stood gazingat the landscape. “I wish Iknew,”shesaidatlast.He shook his head.

“Knowledge would be fatal.It is the uncertainty thatcharms one. A mist makesthingswonderful.”“Onemayloseone’sway.”

“Allways endat the samepoint,mydearGladys.”“Whatisthat?”“Disillusion.”“It was my début in life,”

shesighed.“Itcametoyoucrowned.”“I am tired of strawberry

leaves.”gl

“Theybecomeyou.”“Onlyinpublic.”“You would miss them,”

saidLordHenry.“I will not part with a

petal.”“Monmouthhasears.”“Old age is dull of

hearing.”“Has he never been

jealous?”“Iwishhehadbeen.”He glanced about as if in

search of something. “Whatare you looking for?” sheinquired.

“The button from yourfoil,” he answered. “Youhavedroppedit.”gm

She laughed. “I have stillthemask.”“It makes your eyes

lovelier,”washisreply.She laughed again. Her

teethshowedlikewhiteseedsinascarletfruit.Up-stairs,inhisownroom,

Dorian Gray was lying on asofa, with terror in every

tingling fiber of his body.Life had suddenly becometoohideousaburdenforhimtobear.Thedreadfuldeathoftheunluckybeater,shotinthethicket like a wild animal,had seemed to him toprefigure death for himselfalso.He had nearly swoonedatwhatLordHenry had saidin a chance mood of cynicaljesting.Atfiveo’clockheranghis

bell forhis servant, andgavehimorders topackhis thingsforthenightexpresstotown,and to have the brougham atthe door by eight-thirty. Hewas determined not to sleepanothernightatSelbyRoyal.It was an ill omened place.Death walked there in thesunlight. The grass of theforest had been spotted withblood.Then he wrote a note to

Lord Henry, telling him thathe was going up to town toconsulthisdoctor,andaskinghim toentertainhisguests inhis absence. As he wasputtingitintotheenvelope,aknock came to the door, andhis valet informed him thattheheadkeeperwishedtoseehim.He frowned, andbit hislip. “Send him in,” hemuttered, after somemoments’hesitation.

As soon as the manentered, Dorian pulled hischeque-bookoutofadrawer,andspreaditoutbeforehim.“I supposeyouhave come

about the unfortunateaccident of this morning,Thornton?”hesaid,takingupapen.“Yes, sir,” answered the

gamekeeper.“Was the poor fellow

married? Had he any people

dependent on him?” askedDorian,lookingbored.“Ifso,I should not like them to beleft in want, and will sendthemany sumofmoney youmaythinknecessary.”“Wedon’tknowwhoheis,

sir. That is what I took theliberty of coming to youabout.”“Don’t know who he is?”

saidDorian, listlessly. “Whatdoyoumean?Wasn’theone

ofyourmen?”“No, sir. Never saw him

before. Seems like a sailor,sir.”The pen dropped from

Dorian Gray’s hand, and hefelt as if his heart hadsuddenlystoppedbeating.“Asailor!” he cried out. “Didyousayasailor?”“Yes,sir.Helooksasifhe

had been a sort of sailor;tattooed on both arms, and

thatkindofthing.”“Was thereanythingfound

onhim?”saidDorian,leaningforward and looking at theman with startled eyes.“Anything thatwould tellhisname?”“Some money, sir—not

much, and a six-shooter.There was no name of anykind. A decent-looking man,sir, but roughlike. A sort ofsailor,wethink.”

Dorian started to his feet.A terrible hope fluttered pasthim.Heclutchedat itmadly.“Where is the body?” heexclaimed.“Quick,Imustseeitatonce.”“It is inanemptystable in

theHomeFarm,sir.Thefolkdon’tliketohavethatsortofthing in their houses. Theysayacorpsebringsbadluck.”“The Home Farm! Go

there at once and meet me.

Tell one of the grooms tobring my horse round. No.Never mind. I’ll go to thestables myself. It will savetime.”Inlessthanaquarterofan

hour Dorian Gray wasgalloping down the longavenue as hard as he couldgo. The trees seemed tosweep past him in spectralprocession,andwildshadowstoflingthemselvesacrosshis

path.Once themare swervedat a white gate-post andnearly threw him. He lashedher across the neck with hiscrop. She cleft the dusky airlike an arrow. The stonesflewfromherhoofs.At last he reached the

Home Farm. Two men wereloitering in the yard. Heleaped from the saddle andthrew the reins to one ofthem. In the farthest stable a

light was glimmering.Somethingseemedtotellhimthat the body was there, andhe hurried to the door, andputhishanduponthelatch.There he paused for a

moment, feeling that he wason the brink of a discoverythatwouldeithermakeormarhis life. Then he thrust thedooropen,andentered.Onaheapofsackinginthe

farcornerwaslyingthedead

body of a man dressed in acoarseshirtandapairofbluetrousers. A spottedhandkerchiefhadbeenplacedover the face. A coarsecandle, stuck in a bottle,sputteredbesideit.DorianGrayshuddered.He

felt that his could not be thehandtotakethehandkerchiefaway,andcalledouttooneofthe farm-servants to come tohim.

“Take that thing off theface.Iwishtoseeit,”hesaid,clutchingat thedoor-post forsupport.Whenthefarm-servanthad

done so, he stepped forward.A cry of joy broke from hislips. Themanwho had beenshot in thethicketwasJamesVane.He stood there for some

minutes, looking at the deadbody. As he rode home his

eyeswerefulloftears,forheknewhewassafe.

ChapterXIX.

There is no use your tellingme that you are going to begood!” cried Lord Henry,dippinghiswhitefingersintoaredcopperbowlfilledwithrose-water. “You are quiteperfect.Pray,don’tchange.”Dorian Gray shook his

head.“No,Harry,Ihavedonetoo many dreadful things inmylife.Iamnotgoingtodoany more. I began my goodactionsyesterday.”“Where were you

yesterday?”“In the country, Harry. I

was staying at a little inn bymyself.”“My dear boy,” said Lord

Henry,smiling,“anybodycanbegoodinthecountry.There

arenotemptationsthere.Thatisthereasonwhypeoplewholive out of town are soabsolutely uncivilized.Civilization is not, by anymeans,aneasythingtoattainto. There are only two waysby which men can reach it.One isbybeingcultured, theother by being corrupt.Country people have noopportunity of being either,sotheystagnate.”

“Culture and corruption,”echoed Dorian. “I haveknown something of both. Itseemsterribletomenowthatthey should ever be foundtogether. For I have a newideal, Harry. I am going toalter.IthinkIhavealtered.”“Youhavenotyet toldme

what your good action was.Ordidyousayyouhaddonemore than one?” asked hiscompanion, as he spilt into

his plate a little crimsonpyramid of seededstrawberries, and through aperforated, shell-shapedspoon snowed white sugaruponthem.“Icantellyou,Harry.It is

notastoryIcouldtelltoanyone else. I spared somebody.It sounds vain, but youunderstandwhat Imean.Shewas quite beautiful, andwonderfully like SibylVane.

I thinkitwasthatwhichfirstattracted me to her. Youremember Sibyl, don’t you?How long ago that seems?Well, Hetty was not one ofourownclass,ofcourse.Shewassimplyagirlinavillage.But I really loved her. I amquitesurethatIlovedher.Allduring this wonderful Maythat we have been having Iusedtorundownandseehertwo or three times a week.Yesterday she met me in a

little orchard. The appleblossomskepttumblingdownon her hair, and she waslaughing. We were to havegone away together thismorningatdawn.Suddenly Idetermined to leave her asflowerlike as I had foundher.”“Ishouldthinkthenovelty

of the emotion must havegiven you a thrill of realpleasure,Dorian,”interrupted

LordHenry.“ButIcanfinishyour idyl for you. You gaveher good advice, and brokeher heart. That was thebeginning of yourreformation.”“Harry, you are horrible!

You musn’t say thesedreadful things.Hetty’sheartis notbroken.Of course, shecried,andallthat.Butthereisnodisgraceuponher.Shecanlive, like Perdita, in her

garden of mint andmarigold.”“Andweepoverafaithless

Florizel,”gn said LordHenry,laughing,asheleanedbackinhis chair. “My dear Dorian,you have the most curiouslyboyish moods. Do you thinkthis girl will ever be reallycontented now with any oneof her own rank? I supposeshewillbemarriedsomedaytoaroughcarteroragrinning

plowman. Well, the fact ofhaving met you, and lovedyou,willteachhertodespiseher husband, and shewill bewretched.Fromamoralpointof view, I cannot say that Ithink much of your greatrenunciation. Even as abeginning,itispoor.Besides,howdoyou know thatHettyisn’t floating at the presentmomentinsomestar-litmill-pond,with lovelywater-liliesroundher,likeOphelia?”

“I can’t bear this, Harry!Youmockat everything, andthensuggest themostserioustragedies. I am sorry I toldyou now. I don’t care whatyou say tome. Iknow Iwasright in acting as I did. PoorHetty!AsIrodepastthefarmthismorning I sawherwhiteface at the window, like aspray of jasmine. Don’t letme talk about it any more,anddon’t try topersuademethat the first good action I

have done for years, the firstlittle bit of self-sacrifice Ihave ever known, is really asortofsin.Iwanttobebetter.I am going to be better. Tellmesomethingaboutyourself.What is going on in town? Ihavenotbeen to theclub fordays.”“The people are still

discussing poor Basil’sdisappearance.”“I should have thought

they had got tired of that bythis time,” said Dorian,pouring himself out somewine,andfrowningslightly.“My dear boy, they have

onlybeentalkingabout it forsix weeks, and the Britishpublic are reallynot equal tothe mental strain of havingmore than one topic everythreemonths.Theyhavebeenvery fortunate lately,however. They have had my

own divorce case and AlanCampbell’s suicide. Nowthey have got themysteriousdisappearance of an artist.ScotlandYardstillinsiststhatthe man in the grey ulsterwho left for Paris by themidnight train on the 9th ofNovember was poor Basil,andtheFrenchpolicedeclarethat Basil never arrived inParisatall.Isupposeinabouta fortnight we shall be toldthat he has been seen in San

Francisco.29 It is an oddthing, but every one whodisappears is said to be seenatSanFrancisco.Itmustbeadelightfulcity,andpossessallthe attraction of the nextworld.”“What do you think has

happened to Basil?” askedDorian, holding up hisBurgundy against the light,and wondering how it wasthat he could discuss the

mattersocalmly.“I have not the slightest

idea. IfBasil chooses tohidehimself, it is no business ofmine. If he is dead, I don’twant to think about him.Death is the only thing thateverterrifiesme.Ihateit.”“Why?” said the younger

man,wearily.“Because,” said Lord

Henry, passing beneath hisnostrils the gilt trellis of an

open vinaigrette box,go “onecan survive everythingnowadays except that. Deathandvulgarityaretheonlytwofactsinthenineteenthcenturythatonecannotexplainaway.Letushaveourcoffee in themusic-room, Dorian. YoumustplayChopintome.Themanwithwhommywife ranaway played Chopinexquisitely. Poor Victoria! Iwas very fond of her. The

houseisratherlonelywithouther.Ofcourse,marriedlifeismerely a habit—a bad habit.But then one regrets the losseven of one’s worst habits.Perhaps one regrets them themost. They are such anessential part of one’spersonality.”Dorian said nothing, but

rose from the table, and,passing into the next room,satdownto thepianoand let

his fingers stray across thewhite and black ivory of thekeys. After the coffee hadbeen brought in, he stopped,and, looking over at LordHenry, said: “Harry, did itever occur to you that Basilwasmurdered?”LordHenryyawned.“Basil

wasverypopular,andalwayswore a Waterbury watch.gpWhy should he have beenmurdered?Hewasnotclever

enough to have enemies. Ofcourse, he had a wonderfulgenius for painting. But aman can paint likeVelasquez,gq and yet be asdull as possible. Basil wasreally rather dull. He onlyinterested me once, and thatwas when he told me, yearsago, that he had a wildadoration for you, and thatyou were the dominantmotiveofhisart.”

“IwasveryfondofBasil,”said Dorian, with a note ofsadness in his voice. “Butdon’t people say that hewasmurdered?”“Oh, some of the papers

do.Itdoesnotseemtometobe at all probable. I knowthere are dreadful places inParis, but Basil was not thesort of man to have gone tothem.Hehadno curiosity. Itwashischiefdefect.”

“What would you say,Harry,ifItoldyouthatIhadmurdered Basil?” said theyounger man. He watchedhim intently after he hadspoken.“I would say, my dear

fellow, that youwere posingfor a character that doesn’tsuit you.All crime isvulgar,just as all vulgarity is crime.It is not in you, Dorian, tocommit amurder. I amsorry

ifIhurtyourvanitybysayingso,butIassureyouitistrue.Crime belongs exclusively tothe lower orders. I don’tblame them in the smallestdegree. I should fancy thatcrimewastothemwhatartisto us, simply a method ofprocuring extraordinarysensations.”“A method of procuring

sensations? Do you thinkthen,thatamanwhohasonce

committed a murder couldpossibly do the same crimeagain?Don’ttellmethat.”“Oh! anything becomes a

pleasure if one does it toooften,” cried Lord Henry,laughing. “That is one of themostimportantsecretsoflife.Ishouldfancy,however, thatmurder is always a mistake.Oneshouldneverdoanythingthat one cannot talk aboutafter dinner. But let us pass

from poor Basil. I wish Icould believe that he hadcome to such a reallyromanticendasyousuggest;but I can’t. I dare sayhe fellintotheSeineoffanomnibus,andthattheconductorhushedup the scandal.Yes, I shouldfancy thatwas his end. I seehim lying now on his backunderthosedull-greenwaterswith the heavy bargesfloating over him, and longweeds catching in his hair.

Do you know, I don’t thinkhe would have done muchmore goodwork. During thelasttenyearshispaintinghadgoneoffverymuch.”Dorian heaved a sigh, and

Lord Henry strolled acrosstheroomandbegantostrokethe head of a curious Javaparrot,alargegrey-plumagedbird,withpinkcrestand tail,thatwasbalancingitselfupona bamboo perch. As his

pointed fingers touched it, itdropped thewhite scurf gr ofcrinkled lids over blackglasslike eyes, and began toswaybackwardandforward.“Yes,” he continued,

turning round, and takinghishandkerchief out of hispocket, “his painting hadquite gone off. It seemed tometohavelostsomething.Ithad lost an ideal.When youand he ceased to be great

friends, he ceased to be agreat artist. What was itseparated you? I suppose hebored you. If so, he neverforgaveyou.It’sahabitboreshave. By the way, what hasbecome of that wonderfulportraithedidofyou?Idon’tthinkIhaveeverseenitsincehe finished it. Oh! Iremember your telling meyearsagothatyouhadsentitdowntoSelby,andthatitgotmislaidor stolenon theway.

Younevergot itback?Whata pity! It was really amasterpiece. I remember Iwantedtobuyit.IwishIhadnow. It belonged to Basil’sbest period. Since then hiswork was that curiousmixture of bad painting andgood intentions that alwaysentitles aman to be called arepresentative British artist.Didyouadvertiseforit?Youshould.”

“I forget,” said Dorian. “Isuppose I did. But I neverreallylikedit.IamsorryIsatfor it. The memory of thething is hateful to me. Whydo you talk about it? It usedtoremindmeofthosecuriouslines in some play—‘Hamlet,’ I think—howdothey run?—Yes, that is whatitwaslike.”“‘Like the painting of asorrow,

Afacewithoutaheart.‘gs

Lord Henry laughed. “If amantreatslifeartistically,hisbrain is his heart,” heanswered, sinking into anarm-chair.Dorian Gray shook his

head, and struck some softchords on the piano. “‘Likethepaintingofasorrow,’”herepeated, “‘a face without aheart.’”Theeldermanlaybackand

looked at him with half-closed eyes. “By the way,Dorian,” he said, after apause,“‘whatdoes itprofit aman if he gain the wholeworld and lose’—how doesthequotation run?—‘hisownsoul’?”gt

The music jarred, andDorian Gray started andstaredathis friend.“Whydoyouaskmethat,Harry?”“My dear fellow,” said

Lord Henry, elevating hiseyebrowsinsurprise,“Iaskedyou because I thought youmight be able to giveme ananswer. That is all. I wasgoing through the Park lastSunday, and close by theMarble Arch there stood alittle crowd of shabby-looking people listening tosome vulgar street-preacher.As I passed by I heard themanyellingout thatquestionto his audience. It struckme

as being rather dramatic.Londonisveryrichincuriouseffects of that kind. A wetSunday,anuncouthChristianin a mackintosh, a ring ofsickly white faces under abroken roof of drippingumbrellas, and a wonderfulphrase flung into the air byshrill, hysterical lips—it wasreally very good in its way,quite a suggestion. I thoughtoftellingtheprophetthatArthad a soul, but thatman had

not. I amafraid,however,hewould not have understoodme.”“Don’t, Harry. The soul is

a terrible reality. It can bebought, and sold, andbartered away. It can bepoisoned, or made perfect.Thereisasoulineachoneofus.Iknowit.”“Doyou feel quite sure of

that,Dorian?”“Quitesure.”

“Ah! then it must be anillusion.The thingsone feelsabsolutely certain about arenevertrue.Thatisthefatalityof Faith, and the lesson ofRomance. How grave youare! Don’t be so serious.WhathaveyouorItodowiththe superstitions of our age?No; we have given up ourbelief in the soul. Play mesomething. Play me anocturne,gu Dorian, and, as

you play, tell me, in a lowvoice, how you have keptyour youth. You must havesome secret. I am only tenyearsolder thanyouare,andIamwrinkled,andworn,andyellow. You are reallywonderful,Dorian.Youhavenever looked more charmingthan you do to-night. Youremind me of the day I sawyou first. You were rathercheeky, very shy, andabsolutelyextraordinary.You

have changed, of course, butnotinappearance.Iwishyouwouldtellmeyoursecret.TogetbackmyyouthIwoulddoanything in theworld,excepttakeexercise,getupearly,orbe respectable.Youth! Thereis nothing like it. It’s absurdto talk of the ignorance ofyouth. The only people towhose opinions I listen nowwith any respect are peoplemuch younger than myself.They seem in front of me.

Lifehasrevealedtothemherlatest wonder. As for theaged, I always contradict theaged. I do it on principle. Ifyouaskthemtheiropiniononsomething that happenedyesterday,theysolemnlygivethe opinions current in 1820,when people wore highstocks,gv believed ineverything, and knewabsolutely nothing. Howlovely that thing you are

playing is! I wonder didChopin write it at Ma jorca,with the sea weeping roundthe villa and the salt spraydashing against the panes? Itis marvelously romantic.What a blessing it is thatthere isoneart left tous thatisnotimitative!Don’tstop.Iwantmusicto-night.Itseemstome thatyouare theyoungApollo, and that I amMarsyasgw listening toyou. I

have sorrows, Dorian, ofmyown, that even you knownothingof.Thetragedyofoldageisnotthatoneisold,butthat one is young. I amamazedsometimesatmyownsincerity. Ah, Dorian, howhappy you are! What anexquisite life you have had!You have drunk deeply ofeverything.Youhavecrushedthe grapes against yourpalate.30 Nothing has been

hidden from you. And it hasallbeen toyounomore thanthe sound of music.gx It hasnotmarredyou.Youare stillthesame.”“Iamnotthesame,Harry.”“Yes, you are the same. I

wonderwhat the restofyourlifewillbe.Don’t spoil itbyrenunciations.Atpresentyouare a perfect type. Don’tmake yourself incomplete.You are quite flawless now.

You need not shake yourhead; you know you are.Besides, Dorian, don’tdeceive yourself. Life is notgovernedbywillorintention.Life is a question of nerves,and fibers, and slowly built-up cells in which thoughthidesitselfandpassionhasitsdreams. You may fancyyourself safe, and thinkyourselfstrong.Butachancetone of color in a room or amorning sky, a particular

perfume that you had onceloved and that brings subtlememorieswithit,alinefromaforgottenpoemthatyouhadcomeacrossagain,acadencefrom a piece of music thatyouhadceasedtoplay—Itellyou, Dorian, that it is onthingslikethesethatourlivesdepend. Browning writesabout that somewhere;31 butour own senses will imaginethem for us. There are

moments when the odor oflilasblancgypassessuddenlyacrossme,and Ihave to livethestrangestmonthofmylifeover again. I wish I couldchange places with you,Dorian. The world has criedoutagainstusboth,butithasalways worshiped you. Italwayswillworshipyou.Youarethetypeofwhattheageissearching for, and what it isafraid it has found. I am so

gladthatyouhaveneverdoneanything—never carved astatue,orpaintedapicture,orproduced anything outside ofyourself! Life has been yourart. You have set yourself tomusic. Your days are yoursonnets.”Dorian rose up from the

piano, and passed his handthrough his hair. “Yes, lifehas been exquisite,” hemurmured, “but I am not

going to have the same life,Harry.Andyoumustnotsaythese extravagant things tome. You don’t knoweverything about me. I thinkthat if you did, even youwould turn from me. Youlaugh.Don’tlaugh.”“Why have you stopped

playing,Dorian?Gobackandgive me the nocturne overagain. Look at that greathoney-colored moon that

hangsintheduskyair.Sheiswaitingforyoutocharmher,andifyouplayshewillcomecloser to the earth. Youwon’t.Let us go to the club,then. It has been a charmingevening, and wemust end itcharmingly. There is someone at White’s who wantsimmensely to know you—young Lord Poole,Bournemouth’s eldest son.He has already copied yourneckties, and has beggedme

tointroducehimtoyou.Heisquite delightful, and ratherremindsmeofyou.”“I hope not,” said Dorian,

with a sad took in his eyes.”ButIamtiredto-night,Harry.I sha’n’t go to the club. It isnearly eleven, and I want togotobedearly.”“Do stay. You have never

played so well as to-night.Therewassomething inyourtouch that was wonderful. It

had more expression than Ihad ever heard from itbefore.”“ItisbecauseIamgoingto

be good,” he answered,smiling. “I am a littlechangedalready.”“Youcannotchangetome,

Dorian,” said Lord Henry.“You and I will always befriends.”“Yetyoupoisonedmewith

a book once. I should not

forgive that. Harry, promiseme that you will never lendthatbook to anyone. Itdoesharm.”“My dear boy, you are

really beginning to moralize.Youwillsoonbegoingaboutlike the converted and therevivalist, warning peopleagainst all the sins of whichyou have grown tired. Youaremuchtoodelightful todothat. Besides, it is no use.

You and I are what we are,andwill bewhatwewill be.As for being poisoned by abook, there is no such thingas that. Art has no influenceuponaction.Itannihilatesthedesire to act. It is superblysterile. The books that theworld calls immoral arebooksthatshowtheworlditsown shame. That is all. Butwe won’t discuss literature.Comeroundto-morrow.Iamgoing to ride at eleven. We

might go together, and Iwilltake you to lunch afterwardwithLadyBranksome.Sheisa charming woman, andwants to consult you aboutsome tapestries she isthinkingofbuying.Mindyoucome.Orshallwelunchwithour little Duchess? She saysshe never sees you now.Perhaps you are tired ofGladys?I thoughtyouwouldbe.Herclevertonguegetsonone’s nerves. Well, in any

casebehereateleven.”“Must I really come,

Harry?”“Certainly. The Park is

quite lovely now. I don’tthink there have been suchlilacs since the year I metyou.”“Very well. I will be here

at eleven,” said Dorian.“Good-night, Harry.” As hereached thedoorhehesitatedfor a moment, as if he had

somethingmore to say.Thenhesighedandwentout.

ChapterXX.

It was a lovely night, sowarm that he threw his coatover his arm, and did noteven put his silk scarf roundhis throat. As he strolledhome, smoking his cigarette,two young men in eveningdress passed him. He heard

one of them whisper to theother,“ThatisDorianGray.”He remembered how pleasedhe used to be when he waspointed out, or stared at, ortalkedabout.Hewas tiredofhearing his own name now.Half the charm of the littlevillagewherehehadbeensooften lately was that no oneknew who he was. He hadoften told the girl whom hehad lured to lovehimthathewas poor, and she had

believedhim.Hehadtoldheroncethathewaswicked,andshe had laughed at him, andanswered that wicked peoplewere always very old andvery ugly.What a laugh shehad!—just like a thrushsinging. And how pretty shehadbeeninhercottondressesandher largehats!Sheknewnothing, but she hadeverythingthathehadlost.Whenhe reachedhomehe

found his servant waiting upfor him.He sent him to bed,and threw himself down onthe sofa in the library, andbegan to think over some ofthe things that Lord Henryhadsaidtohim.Was it really true that one

couldneverchange?Hefeltawildlongingfortheunstainedpurity of his boyhood—hisrose-white boyhood, as LordHenry had once called it.He

knew that he had tarnishedhimself, filled his mind withcorruption, and given horrortohisfancy;thathehadbeenan evil influence to others,andhadexperiencedaterriblejoy in being so; and that ofthe lives thathad crossedhisown it had been the fairestand themost full of promisethathehadbroughttoshame.But was it all irretrievable?Wastherenohopeforhim?

Ah! in what a monstrousmomentofprideandpassionhehadprayedthattheportraitshouldbeartheburdenofhisdays, and he keep theunsullied splendor of eternalyouth! All his failure hadbeen due to that. Better forhim that each sin of his lifehad brought its sure, swiftpenalty along with it. Therewas purification inpunishment.Not “Forgive usour sins” but “Smite us for

our iniquities” should be theprayer ofman to amost justGod.The curiously carved

mirror that Lord Henry hadgiven to him, somany yearsagonow,wasstandingonthetable, and the white-limbedCupidslaughedrounditasofold. He took it up as he haddone on that night of horror,when he had first noted thechange in the fatal picture,

and with wild, tear-dimmedeyes looked into its polishedshield. Once, some one whohad terribly loved him, hadwritten to him a mad letter,ending with these idolatrouswords:“Theworldischangedbecause you are made ofivoryandgold.Thecurvesofyour lips rewrite history.”Thephrasescamebacktohismemory, and he repeatedthem over and over tohimself. Then he loathed his

own beauty, and flinging themirroronthefloorcrusheditinto silver splinters beneathhisheel.Itwashisbeautythathad ruined him, his beautyand the youth that he hadprayedfor.Butfor thosetwothings his life might havebeen free from stain. Hisbeautyhadbeentohimbutamask, his youth but amockery.Whatwas youth atbest?Agreen,anunripetime—a time of shallow moods

andsicklythoughts.Whyhadhewornitslivery?Youthhadspoiledhim.Itwasbetternottothinkof

the past. Nothing could alterthat.Itwasofhimselfandofhisown future thathehad tothink. James Vane washiddeninanamelessgraveinSelby churchyard. AlanCampbell had shot himselfone night in his laboratory,but had not revealed the

secretthathehadbeenforcedto know. The excitement,such as it was, over BasilHallward’s disappearancewouldsoonpassaway.Itwasalready waning. He wasperfectly safe there. Nor,indeed, was it the death ofBasil Hallward that weighedmost upon his mind. It wasthe living death of his ownsoul that troubled him. Basilhad painted the portrait thathadmarredhislife.Hecould

not forgive him that. It wasthe portrait that had doneeverything. Basil had saidthings to him that wereunbearable, and that he hadyet borne with patience. Themurder had been simply themadnessofamoment.AsforAlan Campbell, his suicidehadbeenhisownact.Hehadchosentodoit.Itwasnothingtohim.Anewlife!Thatwaswhat

hewanted.Thatwaswhathewas waiting for. Surely hehadbegun it already.Hehadspared one innocent thing, atany rate. He would neveragain tempt innocence. Hewouldbegood.As he thought of Hetty

Mertonhebegantowonderifthe portrait in the lockedroom had changed. Surely itwas not still so horrible as ithad been? Perhaps if his life

became pure he would beable to expel every sign ofevil passion from the face.Perhaps the signsof evil hadalreadygoneaway.Hewouldgoandlook.He took the lampfromthe

tableandcreptupstairs.Asheunbarred the door a smile ofjoyflittedacrosshisstrangelyyoung-looking face andlingered for a moment abouthis lips. Yes, he would be

good, and the hideous thingthat he had hidden awaywouldnolongerbeaterrortohim.Hefeltasiftheloadhadbeenliftedfromhimalready.Hewentinquietly,locking

the door behind him, as washis custom, and dragged thepurple hanging from theportrait. A cry of pain andindignation broke from him.Hecouldseenochange,savethat in the eyes there was a

look of cunning, and in themouth the curved wrinkle ofthe hypocrite. The thing wasstill loathsome—moreloathsome, if possible, thanbefore—and the scarlet dewthat spotted the hand seemedbrighter,andmore likebloodnewly spilled. Then hetrembled.Had itbeenmerelyvanity that hadmade himdohis one good deed? Or thedesire of a new sensation, asLord Henry had hinted, with

his mocking laugh? Or thatpassion to act a part thatsometimes makes us dothings finer than we areourselves? Or, perhaps, allthese? And why was the redstain larger than ithadbeen?Itseemedtohavecreptlikeahorrible disease over thewrinkled fingers. There wasblood on the painted feet, asthoughthebloodhaddripped—bloodevenonthehandthathad not held the knife.

Confess?Did itmean thathewas to confess? To givehimself up, and be put todeath? He laughed. He feltthat the idea was monstrous.Besides, even if he didconfess, who would believehim? There was no trace ofthemurderedman anywhere.Everything belonging to himhad been destroyed. Hehimselfhadburnedwhathadbeen below-stairs. Theworldwouldsimplysaythathewas

mad.Theywouldshuthimupifhepersistedinhisstory....Yetitwashisdutytoconfess,tosufferpublicshame,andtomake public atonement.Therewas aGodwho calleduponmen to tell their sins toearth as well as to heaven.Nothing that he could dowouldcleansehimtillhehadtoldhisownsin.Hissin?Heshrugged his shoulders. Thedeath of Basil Hallwardseemedverylittle tohim.He

was thinking of HettyMerton. For it was an unjustmirror,thismirrorofhissoulthat he was looking at.Vanity? Curiosity?Hypocrisy? Had there beennothing more in hisrenunciation than that?Therehadbeensomethingmore.Atleast,hethoughtso.Butwhocouldtell?...No.Therehadbeen nothing more. Throughvanity he had spared her. Inhypocrisy he had worn the

mask of goodness. Forcuriosity’s sake he had triedthe denial of self. Herecognizedthatnow.But thismurder—was it to

dog him all his life?Was healwaystobeburdenedbyhispast? Was he really toconfess? Never. There wasonly one bit of evidence leftagainsthim.Thepictureitself—that was evidence. Hewoulddestroyit.Whyhadhe

kept it so long? Once it hadgivenhimpleasuretowatchitchangingandgrowingold.Oflatehehadfeltnosuchplea-sure.Ithadkepthimawakeatnight. When he had beenawayhehadbeen filledwithterror lest other eyes shouldlook upon it. It had broughtmelancholy across hispassions. Its mere memoryhadmarredmanymomentsofjoy. It had been likeconsciencetohim.Yes,ithad

been conscience. He woulddestroyit.He looked round, and saw

the knife that had stabbedBasil Hallward. He hadcleaned it many times, tilltherewasnostainleftuponit.It was bright, and glistened.Asithadkilledthepainter,soit would kill the painter’swork,andallthatthatmeant.It would kill the past, andwhenthatwasdeadhewould

be free. It would kill thismonstrous soul-life, andwithout its hideous warningshe would be at peace. Heseized the thing, and stabbedthepicturewithit.Therewasacryheard,and

a crash. The cry was sohorrible in its agony that thefrightenedservantswoke,andcreptoutoftheirrooms.Twogentlemen,whowerepassingintheSquarebelow,stopped,

and looked up at the greathouse. They walked on tillthey met a policeman, andbrought him back. The manrang the bell several times,but there was no answer.Except for a light in one ofthe top windows, the housewasalldark.After a timehewent away, and stood in anadjoining portico andwatched.“Who’s house is that,

constable?”askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen.“Mr. Dorian Gray’s, sir,”

answeredthepoliceman.They looked at each other

as they walked away, andsneered.OneofthemwasSirHenryAshton’suncle.gz

Inside,intheservants’partof the house, the half-claddomesticsweretalkinginlowwhispers to each other. OldMrs. Leaf was crying, and

wringing her hands. Franciswasaspaleasdeath.Afteraboutaquarterofan

hourhegotthecoachmanandoneofthefootmen,andcreptup-stairs. They knocked, butthere was no reply. Theycalled out. Everything wasstill. Finally, after vainlytrying to force thedoor, theygot on the roof, and droppeddownon to the balcony.Thewindowsyieldedeasily; their

boltswereold.When they entered they

found hanging upon thewalla splendid portrait of theirmaster as they had last seenhim, in all thewonder of hisexquisite youth and beauty.Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknife in his heart. He waswithered, wrinkled, andloathsome of visage. It wasnottilltheyhadexaminedthe

rings that they recognizedwhoitwas.

Endnotes

1 (p. 4) send it . . . to theGrosvenor: Essentiallyfounded in opposition to theRoyal Academy, which wasmore prestigious but moretradition-bound, theGrosvenor Gallery exhibitedcontemporary art, most

famously works by the Pre-RaphaelitesandtheAmericanpainter James McNeillWhistler. (Wilde loved theformer and had a combativeaffinitywiththelatter.)Wildepraised the Grosvenor’smodernity inan1877DublinUniversity Magazine article.Meanwhile, the composersSir William Gilbert and SirArthur Sullivan satirized theGrosvenor in their operettaPatience for attracting effete

“greenery-yallery, GrosvenorGallery, Foot-in-the-grave”youngmenlikeWilde.2 (p. 9) Conscience is thetrade-nameofthefirm:Wildeusesasimilarconstruction inhis1883playTheDuchessofPadua: “Conscience is butthe name which cowardice /Fleeing from battle scrawlsuponitsshield.”3(p.10)Shetriedtofoundasalon, and only succeeded in

opening a restaurant: Wildewould later snipe of theplaywright and author AndréRaffalovich: “He came toLondon to open a salon butsucceeded only in opening asaloon.” Raffalovich becamethe lifetime companion ofJohnGray, theworking-classboy widely considered to beWilde’s first homosexualpassion.4 (p. 25) A new Hedonism:

Hedonismpositsthatpleasureshould be the main aim oflife. Wilde’s more specificmodernversion,arrivedatviaPater’s disapproval of theterm’svagueness,assertsthatsuch pleasure should berefined and elegant, notcoarse.5 (p. 40) Plato: A Greekphilosopher and the founderof a school of philosophy inAthens known as the

Academy,Plato(c.428-348or347 B.C.), asserted thatobjects in thematerial worldare merely the shadowyrepresentations oftranscendent ideals; hisworkstrongly influenced medievaland Renaissance religiousthought.6 (p. 48) A statuette ofClodion . . . bound forMargaretofValoisbyClovisEve: Clodion was an

eighteenth-century Frenchsculptor who specialized inthemes of gallantry andrevelry. Les Cent Nouvelles,anonymouslywrittenin1462,is a collection of lusty tales.Margaret of Valois (1553-1615)alsocalledMargaretofNavarreafterhermarriage toHenri of Navarre, later KingHenry IV of France, wasknown for her beauty andknowledge, as well as herloosebehavior.ClovisEve is

a reference to Nicholas Eve,bookbinder to the late-sixteenth-century Frenchcourt, who was famous forhis ornamental botanicaldesigns.7 (p. 54) Imagine a girl . . .with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that wereviolet wells of passion:Compare this to Wilde’sdescriptionofhisfuturewife,Constance Lloyd, in a letter

from 1883: “a grave, slight,violet-eyed little Artemis,with great coils of heavybrown hair which make herflower-likeheaddroop likeablossom.”8 (p. 55)One evening she isRosalind...reed-likethroat:Manyof the allusions in thispassage are to well-knownShakespearean heroines.RosalindisfromAsYouLikeIt, and Imogen is from

Cymbeline. Juliet dies in thetomb in Romeo and Juliet,Opheliagoesmad inHamlet,and innocent Desdemona issmotheredinOthello.9 (p. 62) Giordano Bruno:This influential sixteenth-century Italian religiousphilosopher became aDominican monk but wasforced to leave theorder andwas eventually burned at thestake because of his

unorthodox views, includinghis belief in Copernican,solar-centered astronomy. Bythenineteenthcentury,Brunowas seen as a martyr tointellectual freedom. WalterPater published an essay onBrunoin1889.10 (p. 90) I have grown sickof shadows: Here Wildeechoes Alfred, LordTennyson’s 1832 poem “TheLady of Shalott.” Forced by

threatofacursenevertolookat the real world, the Ladycan view its reflection (its“shadows”) only in amirror.She overhears the noise ofKingArthur’sCamelotbelowher tower windows anddecides she is “half-sick ofshadows.” She chooses theworld, and the curse comesuponher.11 (p. 107) Some Jacobeantragedy...Tourneur:Tragic

drama flourished during thereignofEnglishKingJamesI(1603-1625). John Webster(TheDuchessofMalfi), JohnFord (’Tis Pity She’s aWhore), and Cyril Tourneur(The Revenger’s Tragedy)were three of the period’smostnotableplaywrights.12 (p. 113)Gautier . . . desarts: Théophile Gautier, anineteenth-century Frenchpoet, novelist, and journalist,

expounded the influentialphilosophy of creating “artforart’ssake.”HewasoneofWilde’s favorites. In hislecture and essay “TheEnglishRenaissance”(1882),Wilde credits Gautier withproviding the consolation ofart,“thesecretofmodernlifeforeshadowed.”13(p.119)Symbolistes:Thisgroup of late-nineteenth-centuryFrench poets (known

as Symbolists in English)included Stéphane Mallarméand Paul Verlaine. Theywroteopaqueverseproducingthe merest suggestion ofmeaning and used insteadevocative personal symbols.The Symbolists stronglyinfluenced youngBritish andIrishwriters,amongthemW.B. Yeats and his Rhymers’Clubcircleofthe1890s.TheplaySalomé isWilde’s mostSymbolist-inspiredwork.

14 (p. 132) The companywhom Dante describes ashaving sought to “makethemselves perfect by theworshipofbeauty”:Althoughthe Italian poet Danteemploys this neo-Platonictheme, the quotation is nothis. The phrase echoes onethat Walter Pater uses todescribe the title character inhis 1885 novel Marius theEpicurean,anotherextremelyinfluential book for Wilde

andhiscircle.15 (p. 132) Like Gautier, hewas one for whom “thevisibleworldexisted”:Wildeseems to be referring to thenineteenth-century Frenchnovelists and critics Edmundand Jules de Goncourt, whocited Théophile Gautier,another nineteenth-centuryman of letters, as saying, “Iam a man for whom theoutsideworldexists.”

16 (p. 137) He devotedhimself entirely to music:Wildetakestheexamplesanddescriptions of exotic musicand other curiosities thatappear throughout thischapter, oftenverbatim, fromselected texts and museumhandbooks on the subjects.He lifts his comments onembroidery (beginning on p.140) from a contemporaryhistory of the subject that hereviewed favorably while

servingaseditorofWoman’sWorld magazine, from 1887to1889.17(p.138)Tannhäuser:This1845 opera by RichardWagner tells the story of amedieval minstrel who isseduced byVenus into a lifeof sensuality, then goes on apilgrimagetobegforgivenessfrom the pope. The storyrecursofteninWilde’swork.Aubrey Beardsley, iconic

1890s illustrator of Wilde’splaySalomé, retold the storyin his illustrated poem“VenusandTannhäuser.”18(p.138)AnnedeJoyeuse:Admiral Anne de Joyeusewas a favorite of Henri III,homosexualsixteenth-centurykingofFrance,whoarrangedfor Joyeuse to marry thequeen’s sister. Both the kingand Joyeuse appeared at thewedding wearing clothes

outrageously beaded withpearls.19 (p. 139) He discoveredwonderfulstories . . .dangerby fire: In this paragraph,Wilderefers toSt.AlphonsusLiguori (whom Wilde callsAlphonso), an eighteenth-century Neapolitan bishopknownforhismissionaryzealand numerous theologicaltexts; Alexander the Great,who conquered much of the

known world, includingEmathia (as the regions ofMacedonia and Thessalywere then known);Philostratus, a third-centuryGreekphilosopher;Pierre deBoniface, a fourteenth-century alchemist and writerongems;LeonardoCamillus,a sixteenth-century Italianphysician and author; andDemocritus, a fifth-centuryB.C. Greek philosopher andphysicalscientist.

20(pp.139-140)TheKingofCeilan . . . he worshiped: Inthis paragraph, Wilde makescopious references to figuresfromtheannalsofgemology.John the Priest (also knownas Prester John) was alegendary medieval Asianking noteworthy both for hisChristian sympathies and hislove of jewels. ThomasLodge, an English poet,makes references to lavishgems inhis sixteenth-century

poem “A Margarite ofAmerica.” Marco Polo, thethirteenth-century Venetianexplorer, writes of thelegendary riches of Zipangu(as he called Japan) in histravelogues. The historianProcopius tellsofan incidentin the sixth-century warsbetween the Persian KingPerozes and Anastasius I, aruler of the eastern RomanEmpire.ThekingofMalabarruled a region of southern

Indiawith a large number ofChristians.21(p.140)WhentheDukedeValentinois . . . withsapphires: Wilde begins thisparagraphbyretellingastoryfrom Seigneur de Brantôme(also known as Pierre deBourdeille), a well-knownchroniclerofthelatefifteenthand early sixteenth centuries.The Duke de Valentinois isCesare Borgia, son of

Rodrigo Borgia, who wouldbecome Pope Alexander VI,and brother of LucreziaBorgia.Wilde then describesthejewelswithwhichseveralkings of England adornedthemselves. Hall is EdwardHall, a sixteenth-centuryEnglish historian and animportant source forShakespeare’s history plays.Piers Gaveston was ahomosexual favorite ofEdward II. Charles the Rash

was a fifteenth-centuryDukeofBurgundy.22 (pp. 140-142) Then heturned...itscanopy:Inthislong paragraph, Wildechronicles historic figureswhoarelinkedinonewayoranother with fantasticembroidery. Chilperic I wasan infamously cruel sixth-century king of the Frankswho was assassinated. TheBishopofPontusisPontusde

Tyard, sixteenth-centuryFrench bishop and poet.Embroidery on the sleeve ofCharles of Or léans, afifteenth-century French poetand the father ofKingLouisXII, reads, “Madame, I amquite delighted.”Queen JoanofBurgundywas thewifeofPhilip VI, a fourteenth-century king of France.Catherinede’Mediciwasthequeen of France and regentthrough much of the latter

part of the sixteenth century;shewieldedenormouspower.Sobieski, a king of Polandofficially known as John IIISobieski, led severalcampaigns against the Turksbefore and during his reign,from1674to1696.23 (p. 143) St. Sebastian:Wilde was drawn to thisthird-century Roman soldierwho, under the emperorDiocletian, was martyred for

his efforts to convert othersoldiers to Christianity.Sebastian was a popularsubject for Renaissanceartists, who often portrayedhim as a beautiful youthbound to a column andpierced by arrows. Wildeparticularly liked GuidoReni’s sensuous painting ofthesaint.Wildecomparedthepoet JohnKeats to Sebastianand adopted the nameSebastian Melmoth while in

exileinFrance.24(pp.146-148)Such,atanyrate...whereverhewent:Inthislengthyparagraph,Wildemakes references toeighteenth-century nobleswhose temperaments DorianGraybelieveshemightshare.Philip Herbert was ahomosexual favorite ofEdward II. Lord Ferrars is areferencetoEarlFerrars,whowas hanged in 1760 for the

murder of his valet. EnglishKingGeorgeIV,whenprinceregent, secretly and illegallymarried Maria Fitzherbert, aRomanCatholic.25(pp.148-149)Thehero...in mystic marriage to theSun:Inthisparagraph,Wildealludes to several infamouslycruel, debauched Romanemperors: Tiberius, Caligula,Domitian, Nero Caesar (alsoknown simply as Nero), and

Elagabalus. Elephantis wasan ancient Greek who wroteeroticpoetry.26 (pp. 149-150) Over andover again . . . blessed him:In this paragraph Wildementions Italian, Spanish, orFrench figures of theRenaissance who areinfamous for theirmurderoustendencies. Wilde took thesestories fromTheRenaissanceinItaly,aseven-volumework

(published 1875-1886) byJohn Addington Symonds,who was also known for hisworksonhomosexuality.27 (pp. 167-168) When hehadstretchedhimself...Surle marbre d’un escalier: In1881, the French publisherCharpentier reprinted Émauxet Camées (Enamels andCameos), a collection ofpoetry by Théophile Gautierfirst published in 1852. The

1881 edition included anetchingbyfourteenth-centuryFrench illuminatorJacquemart de Hesdin.“Etudes de Mains, II”describes the hand of anexecuted criminal, PierreLacenaire; it is “scarcely ridof its torturestain”andhasa“faun’s fingers.” The quotedstanzas are from Gautier’spoem “Variations sur leCarnaval de Venise: II. Surles lagunes” (“Variations on

theCarnivalofVenice,II:Onthe Lagoons”); the last twolines are repeated on p. 168.F.C.DeSumichrasttranslatedthem as the following(Gascon Edition of Gautier’sCollected Works, vol. 12.London: Postlethwaite,TaylorandKnowles,1909):

To see, her bosomcoveredo’erWith pearls, herbodysuave,

TheAdriaticVenussoarOn sound’schromaticwave.The domes that onthewaterdwellPursuethemelodyIn clear-drawncadences,andswellLikebreastsoflovethatsigh.Mychainsaroundapillarcast,

IlandbeforeafairAnd rosy-palefaçadeatlast,Upon a marblestair.

28 (p. 169) monstrecharmant: The “delightfulmonster”isanancientRomanstatue of a sleepinghermaphrodite in the Louvremuseum in Paris. ThéophileGautiermentionsthestatueinthe preface to his most

famous novel, Mademoisellede Maupin (1835), theheroineofwhichisabisexualwoman. In the prefaceGautierdiscusses theconceptofartforart’ssake.29(p.217)Isupposeinaboutafortnightweshallbetoldhehas been seen in SanFrancisco: Wilde stopped inSan Francisco during hisAmerican lecture tour in1882. When asked to

comment on the beauties ofits landscape, he is said tohaverepliedthatitwas“Italywithoutitsart.”30(p.222)Youhavecrushedthe grapes against yourpalate: Wilde echoes a linefrom John Keats’s 1819poem,“OdeonMelancholy”:

Ay, in the verytempleofDelightVeil’d Melancholyhas her sovran

shrine,Though seen ofnone save himwhose strenuoustongueCan burst Joy’sgrape against hispalatefine;His soul shall tastethe sadness of hermight,And be among hercloudy trophieshung.

Wilde adored thisRomantic poet,wrote poemscelebratinghim,andonceprostratedhimself uponKeats’s grave,declaringittobe the holiest placeinRome.

31 (pp. 222-223) You mayfancy yourself safe. . . .Browning writes about that

somewhere:Inhis1855poem“Bishop Blougram’sApology,” Robert Browningwrites:

Just when we’resafest, there’s asunsettouch,A fancy from aflower-bell, someone’sdeath,A chorus endingfromEuripedes,And that’s enough

for fifty hopes andfears.

InspiredbyThePictureofDorian

Gray

BASEDONTHELIFEANDTRIALSThe centennial of OscarWilde’s 1895 trial and exile

inspiredarashofworksaboutthe brilliant man of letters.Director Brian Gilbert’s filmWilde (1997) featuresStephen Fry as Wilde andprovidesarichportraitoftheauthor’s life; it is based onRichard Ellmann’s 1988biography (see “For FurtherReading”).Perhaps the most

appropriate tribute to Wildewastheproliferationofplays

dedicated to his memory.Thomas Kilroy’s The SecretFall of Constance Wilde(1997) deals with Wilde’soften unnoticed wife and themother of his two children.The Judas Kiss (1998), byDavid Hare, develops thetwin themes of love andbetrayal as it focuses onWilde and his lover LordAlfred Douglas. In GrossIndecency: The Three Trialsof Oscar Wilde (1997),

playwright Moisés Kaufmanweaves together courttranscripts and Wilde’s ownwriting and quotations.Kaufman’swidely successfulplay even makes a characterof Queen Victoria, whoapproved of the GrossIndecencylawsthatremainedineffectuntil1967.

FILMADAPTATIONSOF

THEPICTUREOFDORIANGRAY

With its visual drama, ThePictureofDorianGray lendsitself readily to cinema.MGM’s lavish, big-budgetproductionappeared in1945,adapted and directed byAlbert Lewin. Thetransmutation of DorianGray, played by HurdHatfield, into an emotionlessfiend is seamless, and the

film garnered three Oscarnominations (including onefor Angela Lansbury, whoplays Dorian’s victim SibylVane) and earned the awardfor black-and-whitecinematography. Whataudiences are most likely toremember, though, is thepainting of Dorian, by IvanAlbright, glowing inTechnicolor—the onlyelement of the film that wasshot in color. Albright’s

hideously realizedPicture ofDorian Gray (1943-1944)hangs in the Art Institute ofChicago.

OPERAAmerican composer LowellLiebermann premiered ThePictureofDorianGrayattheOpera de Monte Carlo onMay 8, 1996. Dialoguesbetween Dorian and hisportraitarepresentedasduets

between a tenor and theorchestra; as the operaprogresses, the musicgradually disintegrates as thedramaticarcleadstoDorian’sabsolute corruption.Liebermann has alsocomposed classical piecesbased on poems by StephenCrane,WilliamButlerYeats,Walt Whitman, and HenryWadsworthLongfellow.

SEQUELSIn 1997 British poet andliterary biographer JeremyReed published a sequel toWilde’snovelthat isvaguelypornographic andhallucinatory in tone; it istitled simply Dorian. AtReed’s hand, Wilde’s cruelhero survives the destructionof his portrait to become anopiumaddictandamasteroftheoccultarts.Dorianhasan

affair with Lord HenryWotton and meets OscarWilde upon his release fromprison in 1897. (Reed alsoeditedThe Picture ofDorianGray:TheLippincottEdition,which restores many of thereferences to homosexualitythat Wilde was forced towrite out of the book, andwhichfeaturesillustrationsbyAubreyBeardsley.)In a modern adaptation of

Wilde’snovel,WillSelf,withDorian:An Imitation (2003),brings Dorian Gray to June1981,thesummeroftheroyalwedding of Charles andDiana.BasilHallwardisnowa video installation artist inwhose piece “CathodeNarcissus” a naked andperfect Dorian appears on aseries of television monitors.The video Dorian becomesagedanddiseased, andmanyof his friends contract AIDS

and HIV-related illnesses.Dorian’s criminalitytransmutes intomurder as heknowingly infects other menwith the disease he carrieswithoutsymptom.

Comments&Questions

In this section, we aim toprovide the reader with anarray of perspectives on thetext,aswellasquestionsthatchallenge those perspectives.The commentary has beenculled from sources as

diverse as reviewscontemporaneous with thework, letters written by theauthor, literary criticism oflater generations, andappreciations writtenthroughouthistory.Followingthe commentary, a series ofquestionsseekstofilterOscarWilde’sThePictureofDorianGray through a variety ofpoints of view and bringabouta richerunderstandingofthisenduringwork.

COMMENTSOscarWildeEachmanseeshisownsininDorian Gray. What DorianGray’ssinsarenooneknows.He who finds them hasbroughtthem.—from the Scots Observer(July12,1890)

LordAlfredDouglas[Some people] have decided

that the late W. E. Henleywas a “great editor” and a“great critic.” If Henley hadbeen anything approachingeither of these two things hewould have seen andappreciated the value ofOscarWilde; and ifwe referto any of the much-laudedand much-regretted reviewsor journals which wereconductedbyHenley,wefindthat so far from appreciatingOscar Wilde it was he who

ledtheattackagainsthim,anattack which was conductedwith the utmost malevolenceandviolence....Thesubjectof the first great attackmadeby Henley on Oscar Wildewas “The Picture of DorianGray.” Henley affected tothink this was an immoralwork, and denounced it assuch. Now, anybody whohaving read “Dorian Gray”can honestly maintain that itis not one of the greatest

moral books ever written, isanass.It is,briefly,thestoryof a man who destroys hisown conscience. The visiblesymbol of that consciencetakes the form of a picture,the pre sentment of perfectyouth and perfect beauty,which bears on its changingsurfacetheburdenofthesinsof its prototype. It is one ofthegreatest andmost terriblemoral lessons that anunworthy world has had the

privilege of receiving at thehandsofagreatwriter.It is characteristic of what

we may call the “HenleyeanSchool” of criticism toconfusethelifeofamanwithhis art. It would be idle todenythatOscarWildewasanimmoral man (as idle as itwould be to contend thatHenleywasamoralone);butit is a remarkable thing thatwhileOscarWilde’s lifewas

immoral his art was alwaysmoral. At the time when theattack by Henley was madethere was a confused ideagoing about London thatOscar Wilde was a wickedman, and this was quiteenough for Henley and thegroup of second-rate intelligences which clusteredround him to jump to theconclusion that anything hewrote must also necessarilybewicked....Wilde,putting

asidehismoraldelinquencies,which have as much and aslittle to dowith hisworks asthe colour of his hair, was agreat artist, a man whopassionatelylovedhisart.Hewassogreatanartist that, inspite of himself, he wasalways on the side of theangels. We believe that thegreatest art is always on thesideoftheangels,todoubtitwould be to doubt theexistence ofGod, and all the

Henleys and all the BernardShaws that the world couldproduce would not make uschange our opinion. . . . Hestands alone, a phenomenonin literature.From the purelyliterarypointofviewhewasunquestionably the greatestfigure of the nineteenthcentury. We unhesitatinglysay that his influence on theliterature ofEurope has beengreater than that of anymansinceByrondied,and,unlike

Byron’s, it has been all forgood. The evil that he did,inasmuchashedida titheofthe things imputed to him,was interred with his bones,the good (how much thegreater part of this greatman!)livesafterhimandwillliveforever.—from The Academy (July11,1908)

JamesJoyce

The pulse ofWilde’s art [is]sin.Hedeceivedhimself intobelieving that he was thebearer of good news of neo-paganism to an enslavedpeople. His owncharacteristic qualities, thequalities(perhaps)ofhisrace—wit, generosity, and asexlessintellect—heplacedatthe service of a theory ofbeauty which, according tohim, was to bring back theGolden Age and the joy of

the world’s youth. But ifsome truth adheres to hissubjective interpretations ofAristotle, to his restlessthought that proceeds bysophisms and not bysyllogisms, to hisassimilationsofothernatures,alien to his own, as thedelinquentistothehumble,itis the inherent truth in thesoulofCatholicism:thatmancannot arrive at the divineheart except through that

sense of separation and losscalledsin.—from Il Piccolo della Sera(March24,1909)

QUESTIONS1. How is Wilde’sdefense of The Pictureof Dorian Gray in theScots Observer similarto his preface to thenovel? Is the prefacealsoadefense?

2. Do critics todayconsider themorality ofboth the artist’s life andhisorherart?Are thesefactors separate or aretheyinextricablylinked?3. In literature, asperhaps in life, thesupernatural is often ametaphor for thepsychological. If thetransformation of thepainting is psychologymade visible, whose

psychology? Are we tounderstand that Doriandoes ugly things or thathe does things that heconsiders ugly—or thatthe society around himconsidersugly?4. Is sin ugly orbeautiful? Can you dosaintly things that areugly?5. At the end HallwardandDorianaredeadandLordHenryisadefeated

and disappointed man.Are they punished(perhaps unconsciouslyself-punished) for theirsins? Or are defeat anddisappointmentinevitable parts of thehumancondition?6. Wilde said, “I canresist anything excepttemptation.”LordHenrysays similar things.Analyze a few of hissayings. What is funny,

oratleaststriking,aboutthem?

ForFurtherReading

BIOGRAPHIESEllmann, Richard. OscarWilde. 1987. New York:Vintage, 1988. The now-standard Wilde biography,even though many criticshave had cause to find fault

withit,inbothitsreportingofthefactsand itsassumptions.Written by the redoubtabletwentieth-century biography-based scholar of Anglo-Irishliterature, known also for hisbiographies of Yeats andJoyce.Harris, Frank. Oscar Wilde:His Life and Confessions.New York: Covici, Friede,1930.Written by a friend ofWilde. Includes

reminiscences by GeorgeBernard Shaw and LordAlfredDouglas.Hyde, H. Montgomery. TheTrials of Oscar Wilde.London: William Hodge,1948. Revised 1962(paperback edition: NewYork: Dover Publications,1975) and 1973. Trialcommentary fromcontemporary newspaperreportsandtrialproceedings.

Pearce, Joseph. TheUnmasking of Oscar Wilde.London: Harper-Collins,2000. Takes Wilde’sCatholicism more seriouslythan Ellmann does; verydetailed and informative onthissubject.Sherard, Robert. The Life ofOscarWilde. London: T.W.Laurie, 1906. Wilde’s firstbiography,writtenbyafriendandcontemporary.

BIBLIOGRAPHIESMason,Stuart(pseudonymofChristopher Millard).BibliographyofOscarWilde.1914.London:BertramRota,1967. First Wildebibliography, by a closefriend of Robert Ross;providesdetailsoneditionsofWilde’s work and includesinformation on reviews,parodies, manuscript sales,etc.

Mikhail, E. H.OscarWilde:AnAnnotatedBibliographyofCriticism. Totowa, NJ:Rowman and Littlefield,1978. The mostcomprehensive bibliographywhen it was published;includesdiscography.Mikolyzk, Thomas A.OscarWilde: An AnnotatedBibliography. Westport. CT:Greenwood Press, 1993.Includes chronology through

Wilde’s 1909 reinterment,Wilde’sbooksandperiodicalpublications, books partiallyor entirely on Wilde, andarticlesanddissertations.Small, Ian. Oscar WildeRevalued: An Essay on NewMaterials and Methods ofResearch. Greensboro, NC:ELT Press, 1993. Provideseditorial recommendationsand outlines recent criticaldiscussions and changes in

approachtoWildestudies.———.OscarWilde:RecentResearch. A Supplement toOscar Wilde Revalued.Greensboro, NC: ELT Press,2000. The most up-to-dateassessmentofWildecriticismand its new paradigms;extremelyhelpful.

BACKGROUNDINFORMATIONON

THE1890sBeckson,Karl.Londoninthe1890s: A Cultural History.New York: W. W. Norton,1992.Coverseverythingfromanarchism, socialism, andfeminism to prostitution,Decadence, and scientificadvances; considers therelationships to literature ofWilde’smilieu.———, ed. Aesthetes andDecadents of the 1890’s: An

Anthology of British Poetryand Prose. Chicago:Academy Chicago, revised1992. Very useful,representative anthology ofpoetry; short prose, bothfiction and nonfiction; andsome drama; includes, forexample,Wilde’sSalomeandsome poems and translationsbyJohnGray.Jackson, Holbrook. TheEighteenNineties.1913.New

York: Capricorn, 1966.Account written by one whowasthere;subjecttoselectivememory and point of view;includesachapteronWilde.Lambourne, Lionel. TheAestheticMovement.London:Phaidon, 1996. A veryhelpful coffee-table art bookand cultural history withbeautiful color illustrationsexemplifying representativeAestheticartandarchitecture.

McCormack, Jerusha Hull.The Man Who Was DorianGray.NewYork:St.Martin’sPress, 2000. By John Gray’sonlyobjectivebiographer.Nordau, Max. Degeneration.1892. English translation,1895. Lincoln: University ofNebraska Press, 1993.Quintessential contemporaryanti-Aesthetic/Decadent rant;hyperactive, surprisinglyentertaining. The author

makesWilde a target for hisaestheticism, hiseccentricities, and hisadmirationofimmorality.Pater, Walter. TheRenaissance: Studies in Artand Poetry. Originallypublished as Studies in theHistory of the Renaissance(1873). Oxford WorldClassics. Edited, with a newintroduction, by AdamPhillips. Oxford and New

York: Oxford UniversityPress,1998.Thevolume thatestablishedPaterasaleadingproponentoftheideathatlifeshould be driven by anappreciation of beauty andprofound ideas. While somecontemporaries found thebook morbid and lacking inscholarship, it stronglyinfluenced undergraduates ofthe day;Wilde called it “theholywritofbeauty.”

WILDEANABeckson,Karl.Oscar Wilde:The Critical Heritage.London: Routledge andKegan Paul, 1970.Indispensable collection ofreviews.———. The Oscar WildeEncyclopedia. New York:AMSPress, 1998.Extremelyuseful alphabetical listing ofpeople, places, topics, andevents germane to Wilde

studies.Hyde, H. Montgomery, ed.The Annotated Oscar Wilde.London: Orris, 1982.Complete Wilde texts withliberalannotationsanduseful,entertainingillustrations.Mikhail, E. H., ed. OscarWilde: Interviews andRecollections. 2 vols.London: Macmillan, 1979.Firsthand accounts of Wildefrom both people who knew

himwellandthosewithmorelimitedcontact.Wilde, Oscar. CompleteLetters. Edited by MerlinHolland and Rupert Hart-Davis. New York: HenryHolt, 2000. Huge, well-annotated one-volumeedition.

CRITICISMCoakley,Davis.OscarWilde:The Importance of Being

Irish. Dublin: Town House,1994. Focus on Wilde’sIrishness.Cohen,Ed.TalkontheWildeSide: Towards a Genealogyof a Discourse on MaleSexualities. New York:Routledge, 1993. Seminaltextonthissubject.Knox,Melissa.OscarWilde:A Long and Lovely Suicide.NewHaven:YaleUniversityPress, 1994. Psychoanalytic

biocriti cism; sometimesconsidered controversial forits approach and focus onWilde’s alleged syphilisinfection.Sinfield, Alan. The WildeCentury: Effeminacy, OscarWildeandtheQueerMoment.New York: ColumbiaUniversity Press, 1994.Excellent study of Wilde’sand the 1890’s homosexualcontext, delineating the

contemporary linkage ofeffeminacy for the first timewithhomosexuality.

SELECTEDTOPICALBOOKSFEATURINGGOODCHAPTERSON

WILDEHanson,Ellis.DecadenceandCatholicism. Cambridge,MA: Har vard University

Press, 1997. Important, veryentertainingstudyofthetopicin the works of Wilde,Richard Wagner, WalterPater,J.K.Huysmans.Mahaffey, Vicki. States ofDesire: Wilde, Yeats, Joyce,and the Irish Experiment.NewYork:OxfordUniversityPress, 1998. A theoreticalapproach to Wilde’sIrishness.

aMonstrous slave in WilliamShakespeare’s play TheTempest.b

Suggestive of what WalterPater, whom Wilde admiredatOxford,wroteinStudiesinthe History of theRenaissance (1873): “All artconstantlyaspirestowardstheconditionofmusic.”c

Poisonous shrub that bearsdrooping clusters of yellowflowers.d

CoarsebrownsilkfabricfromIndia.e

ReferencetoJapanesedesign,whichstronglyinfluencedtheAestheticmovement.f

Droningbassnote.

gBeautiful young man ofGreek mythology who isbeloved by the goddessVenus and Persephone, andwhoiskilledbyawildboar.h

In Greek mythology, abeautiful youth who falls inlovewithhisownreflection.i

ChurchofEngland.j

Crowdedparty.k

Insignia of Englishknighthood.l

Beautiful young man whowas a favorite of the RomanemperorHadrian.m

Well-known firm of Londonartdealers.n

PoorestsectionofLondon.o

Romantic composer RobertSchumann’s evocative 1848piano pieceWaldszenen, op.82.p

In London, East End districtwith large immigrantpopulation, home to manyclubsforworking-classmen’s“improvement”; site of JacktheRippermurders.

qWilde’s reference here is tothe Bible, James 1:27: “Purereligion and undefiled beforeGodandthefatheristhis...to keep himself unspottedfromtheworld”(KingJamesVersion).r

Smallsocialclub.s

In London’s fashionableMayfairneighborhood.

tPout(French).u

Most fashionable Englishpublic (that is, private)secondaryschool.v

Relating to the period inclassical Greece, andimplyingarespectforreason,civicresponsibility,andotherideals, including lovebetweenmen.

wLarge-floweredvine.x

Star-shaped.y

Morning-gloryvine.z

MessengeroftheGreekgods(Mercury in Romanmythology).aa

LustyRomannaturegodwith

the lower body of a goat (asatyrinGreekmythology).ab

Pineorfirwood.ac

Very old, exclusive Londonmen’ssocialclub.ad

Horse-drawntaxicab.ae

Exclusive London apartmenthousepopularwithbachelors.

afGeneral Juan Prim led asuccessful revolt against theSpanish queen Isabella II in1868.ag

ConservativeBritish politicalpartyfavoringtheroyalty.ah

Cigarcutatbothends.ai

Elegantmen devoted to their

personalappearance.aj

LordHenry’selderbrother.ak

Published parliamentaryreports.al

PopularBelgian health resortwithmineralsprings.am

Hiredcoachdrivers.an

Fashionable address in theMayfair section of London;pronounced“barkley.”ao

A pre-Olympian Greek god;thetitanswereoftendepictedasgiants.ap

Resemblingawoodnymph.aq

Renaissance artist, architect,and poet better known todayasMichelangelo.

arWilde made a generallysuccessful, if controversial,lecture tour of the UnitedStatesin1882.as

Female follower or priestessof Bacchus, the wine god ofRomanmythology.at

Foster father of Bacchus andleaderofthesatyrs.

auOmarKhayyám,Persianpoetand astronomer of theeleventhandtwelfthcenturiesmostfamousforhisRubaiyat,whichbecamewell-knowninBritain following the 1859publication of EdwardFitzgerald’stranslation.av

His charms make peoplefollow him, as childrenfollowedthePiedPiperinthe

fairy tale; the story becameespeciallypopularinEnglandafter the 1842 publication ofRobert Browning’s poem“ThePiedPiperofHamelin.”aw

Popular restaurant andmeetingplace.ax

Superior London club,originally composed ofliterarymen.ay

French novel by AbbéPrévost about a woman whoforgoes love for luxury,publishedin1731.az

In the ornate style of Frenchking Louis XIV (reigned1643-1715).ba

Color of the bright-blueflower.bb

RichardWagner’s1848opera

about an Arthurian knight;contains the famous“WeddingMarch.”bc

London street known for itsantiqueshops.bd

Wilderecycledthissentimentin his 1892 play LadyWindermere’s Fan, in whichLord Darlington describes acynic as “Amanwhoknowsthe price of everything and

thevalueofnothing.”be

Tropical, flowery fragrancederived from the jasmineflower and named for asixteenth-century Italianperfumer, Marquis MuzioFrangipane.bf

Wittiness.bg

Fashionable Londoncommercialstreet.

bhGold coin equivalent to 21shillings; a pound equals 20shillings.bi

Invented,mockingtitle.bj

“Grandfathers are alwayswrong”(French).bk

Blackenedwithburntcork inanexaggeratedfashion.

blInShakespeare’splayRomeoand Juliet, Mercutio isRomeo’s friend and is killedbyJuliet’scousin.bm

Oboe.bn

The alleged tomb of Julietfrom Shakespeare’s Romeoand Juliet is a touristattractioninVerona,Italy.bo

Juliet’smotherinRomeoandJuliet.bp

London equivalent of aBroadwaytheater.bq

High tea at which meat andother substantial fare areserved to constitute an early-eveningmeal.br

Christ’s wounds were

traditionally described assuch.bs

AnotherfavoritesentimentofWilde, which is echoed in,among other works, LadyWindermere’sFan.bt

Grayish-white mineralelement used inpharmaceuticals andtheatricalmakeup.bu

Lawyerswhodonotargueincourt.bv

Street inNorthLondon linedwithinexpensivelodgings.bw

Outlawslivinginthewoods.bx

Officeronacommercialshipwho oversees detailsconcerningthecargo.by

Wilde recycles the phrase“sometimes they forgivethem” in his 1893 play AWoman of No Importance as“rarely, if ever, do theyforgivethem.”bz

Violet-scentedperfumemadefromirisrhizomes.ca

Low-slung carriage with twoseats.cb

Carriage drawn by fourhorses.cc

Large bronze statue of theGreek Trojan War hero,which stands in London’sHydePark.cd

MonumentinHydePark.ce

Legendarily promiscuouswife of the Roman emperorClaudius, who had her

executedinA.D.48.cf

In London’s Sohoneighborhood; location ofmany inexpensive Europeanrestaurants.cg

A character in Shakespeare’splayAsYouLikeIt.ch

Rosalind’s lover in As YouLikeIt.

ciOne of the small, delicateterra-cotta statues fromancient Greece found in thevillageofTanagrain1874.cj

French brandy, such ascognac.ck

Smallclosedcarriage.cl

Miranda is the heroine of

Shakespeare’s play TheTempest; Caliban is herfather’sslave.cm

Four heroines from,respectively, Shakespeare’sAsYouLikeIt,TheMerchantof Venice, Much Ado AboutNothing,andKingLear.cn

Then home to London’scentral flower, fruit, andvegetablemarket.

coColorofmother-of-pearl.cp

Belonging to the mainVenetianmagistrate.cq

Dorian’scountryhouse.cr

Frenchporcelain,oftenrichlydecorated with pastoralscenes.cs

May through July, thetraditional time for societyeventsinLondon.ct

Elaborate, eighteenth-centurydecorative style named forFrenchkingLouisXV.cu

Poisonous solution ofhydrogencyanide.cv

Adelina Patti (1843-1919),famousSpanishsoprano.

cwBrasslike metal alloypoundedintothinsheets.cx

Symbolic of oblivion,because opiates are derivedfromthem.cy

Flower that is symbolic ofdeath.cz

Extremely popular color in

VictorianEngland.da

Desdemona’s father inShakespeare’sOthello.db

Parisian art dealer who soldpaintings by theImpressionists.dc

FigureinHomer’sIlliadwhois the son of Priam, King ofTroy, and lover of thebeautifulHelen.

ddThebargeofHadrian;Dorianis compared to the beautifulyouthAntinous, a favorite oftheRoman emperorHadrian,whodrownedintheNile.de

Popular ladies’ gloves thatexposed the fingers andextendedbacktotheelbow.df

The sentiment expressed issimilartoWilde’sdefense,at

his second trial, of “the lovethatdarenotspeakitsname.”dg

Sixteenth-century Frenchessayist Michel deMontaigne.dh

Eighteenth-century GermanhistorianofGreekartJohannWinckelmann.di

Gothic-revival country houseowned by novelist William

Beckford and sold with itscontentsin1822.dj

Chest, often elaboratelycarved.dk

The reference is most likelytoÀRebours (translated intoEnglish asAgainst Nature orAgainst the Grain), theseminal Decadent novel bythe French author Joris-KarlHuysmans; see Introduction,

pp.xvii.dl

Slang,jargon.dm

London street where manyclubs for gentlemen werelocated.dn

ARomansatireofwealthandexcessbyGaiusPetronius.do

Arbiter of fashion; Gaius

PetroniusheldthispositioninNero’scourt.dp

EchoesWalterPater,Wilde’smentor at Oxford: in theconclusion to Studies in theHistory of the Renaissance(1873),Paterwrites “Not thefruit of experience, butexperienceitself,istheend.”dq

Doctrine of divine grace thatreleases Christians from

havingtoobeymorallaw.dr

Nineteenth-century Germanmovement advocating theevolutionary theories ofnaturalistCharlesDarwin.ds

Strongly fragrant Indian treeofthemagnoliafamily.dt

Bernal Díaz del Castillo,sixteenth-century Spanishhistorian and conquista dor

who accompanied HernandoCortés on his conquest ofMexico.du

Highest-quality turquoise;literally, “of the old rock”(French).dv

Hard mass of swallowed,undigestible material foundprimarily in animal stomachsand thought by some topossessmagicalqualities.

dwCeylon,nowSriLanka.dx

Jewelednecklace.dy

Strewn(French).dz

Greek goddess of wisdom(Minerva in Romanmythology).ea

Infamous Roman emperor of

thefirstcenturyA.D.eb

SungodofGreekandRomanmythology.ec

Palm-shapeddesigns.ed

Needlework in a net design,knownasnetwork(French).ee

Silk squares used to wrapgifts.

efOrnamentalborders.eg

Anelaboratepattern.eh

Linen cloths upon whichconsecrated objects areplaced during religiousservices.ei

Clothsuponwhichtheimageof the face of Christ have

beenimprinted.ej

Fashionable resort on thenorthcoastofFrance.ek

Wilde would take LordAlfredDouglastherein1895.el

Fictional club possibly basedontheexclusiveMarlboroughClub, founded by the PrinceofWales.

emStiff front portion of awoman’sdress.en

Derogatory term for a youngdandy, particularly one withanaffectedContinentalstyle.eo

Of great beauty; the termrecallsthefamousmistressofAdmiralNelson.ep

Life-weariness(Latin).eq

In Greek mythology,beautiful youth who was thecupbearerofZeus.er

Beautiful page of mythicalGreekheroHercules.es

Soft-sided traveling bag thatopens from the top,popularized byLiberal primeministerW.E.Gladstone.

etLong overcoat of coarsematerial,oftenbelted.eu

Marquetry (French); adecorative veneer inlaidwithotherwoodorshells.ev

White wine, often that fromtheRhineregionofGermany.ew

Art collection of Lord

Dudley, exhibited to thepublic.ex

This is a reference from theBible, Isaiah 1:18: “Thoughyour sins be as scarlet, theyshall be as white as snow;though they be red likecrimson, they shall be aswool”(KJV).ey

Closetorcupboard.ez

Lanternsidedwithglass.fa

Societydirectory.fb

FashionablebeachresortnearVenice.fc

FamousVenetianclocktowerinPiazzaSanMarco.fd

JacopoRobusti,betterknownas Tintoretto (“little dyer”),

sixteenth-century Venetianreligious painter known forhisdramaticuseofcolor.fe

Muslimswho havemade thepilgrimagetoMecca.ff

AncientEgyptianobeliskthatthe Egyptian governmentpresented to France in 1831and that now stands in themiddle of Place de laConcorde.

fgFinal honors exams atCambridgeUniversity.fh

Anton Rubinstein, popularnineteenth-century Russianpianistandcomposer.fi

Dark,curly,furlikewoolofabreed of Russian lamb, verypopular for nineteenth-centurygentlemen’scoats.fj

Feverishchills.fk

Richmond-upon-Thames, theLondon borough where theRoyal Botanic Gardens atKewarelocated.fl

Corrosive chemical oxidizer,usedinexplosives,fertilizers,anddyes.fm

Heavy-scented blooms of a

pale-lavendercolor.fn

Throwing one’s hat over thewindmills means to actrecklessly.fo

FashionableGermanspa.fp

Gildedbronzeorbrass.fq

Dishofmeatsorfishcoveredinajelliedsauce.

frHaving a low-cut neckline;thereferencehereimpliesthatshe has questionableproprietyortaste.fs

Wilde recycles this quip inhis1895playTheImportanceofBeingEarnest.ft

French queen, wife of HenriIV, infamous for herlicentiousness.

fuToozealous(French).fv

Toobold(French).fw

Fin de sièecle is French for“endof the century,” generalterm for the 1890s; fin duglobetranslatesas“endoftheworld.”fx

Debrett’sPeerage,aguideto

Britisharistocracy.fy

Wilde later claimed to havebeen thinkingofLordAlfredDouglas when he conceivedthisidea.fz

Cherrybrandy.ga

Small, incense-like lozengesburnedfortheirfragrance.gb

Wilde scholar H.Montgomery Hyde suggeststhis may be a poison oraphrodisiacdrug.gc

Lightcarriage.gd

Dorian gets out in theChinesedistrictofLondon.ge

Rebellious angel Lucifer(Satan),whofallstohellafterbeingexpelledfromHeaven.

gfTitle character of 1664comedybyFrenchplaywrightMolière.gg

Quick,retaliatoryreply.gh

Following the technique ofancient peoples of the NearEast who, in battle, wouldmake a false retreat onhorseback then shoot arrowsat their unsuspecting

opponents.gi

Largeferns.gj

Servant on a hunt who beatsthebushestoroustgame.gk

InGreekmythology,goddessof the moon and the hunt(DianainRomanmythology).gl

Decorations on a duke’s

crown.gm

Lord Henry compares theirrepartee to a fencing match;the point of the duchess’sswordhaslostitscovering.gn

PerditaandFlorizelareloversforbidden to marry inShakespeare’s The Winter’sTale.go

Containssmellingsalts.

gpInexpensivepocketwatchnotworthstealing.gq

Diego Velázquez,seventeenth-century painteroftheSpanishcourt.gr

Scales.gs

InShakespeare’sHamlet, act4, scene 7, King Claudius

asks Laertes, “Was yourfather dear to you? / Or areyou like the painting of asorrow, / A face without aheart?”gt

Thereferenceis to theBible,Mark8:36:“Forwhatshallitprofit aman, if he shall gainthewholeworld,andlosehisownsoul?”(KJV).gu

Dreamy,pensivepianopiece,

evocativeofnighttime.gv

Wide bands of cloth wornaroundtheneck.gw

InGraeco-Romanmythology,a satyr who challengesApollo to a flute-playingcontest, loses, and is flayedalive.gx

Walter Pater wrote ofLeonardodaVinci’spainting

the Mona Lisa that herimagined incarnations “havebeen to her but as the soundoflyresandflutes.”gy

Whitelilac.gz

InChapterXII,BasilaccusesDorian of ruining thereputation of Sir HenryAshton,amongothers.