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The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Part 4 out of 5

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"You think so?" He laughed again.

"I know so. As for what I said to you to-night, I said it for your good.
You know I have been always a stanch friend to you."

"Don't touch me. Finish what you have to say."

A twisted flash of pain shot across the painter's face.
He paused for a moment, and a wild feeling of pity came over him.
After all, what right had he to pry into the life of Dorian Gray?
If he had done a tithe of what was rumoured about him,
how much he must have suffered! Then he straightened himself up,
and walked over to the fire-place, and stood there, looking at
the burning logs with their frostlike ashes and their throbbing cores
of flame.

"I am waiting, Basil," said the young man in a hard clear voice.

He turned round. "What I have to say is this," he cried. "You must give
me some answer to these horrible charges that are made against you.
If you tell me that they are absolutely untrue from beginning to end,
I shall believe you. Deny them, Dorian, deny them! Can't you see what I
am going through? My God! don't tell me that you are bad, and corrupt,
and shameful."

Dorian Gray smiled. There was a curl of contempt in his lips.
"Come upstairs, Basil," he said quietly. "I keep a diary of my life
from day to day, and it never leaves the room in which it is written.
I shall show it to you if you come with me."

"I shall come with you, Dorian, if you wish it. I see I have missed
my train. That makes no matter. I can go to-morrow. But don't ask me
to read anything to-night. All I want is a plain answer to my question."

"That shall be given to you upstairs. I could not give it here.
You will not have to read long."


He passed out of the room and began the ascent, Basil Hallward following
close behind. They walked softly, as men do instinctively at night.
The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase. A rising wind
made some of the windows rattle.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian set the lamp down
on the floor, and taking out the key, turned it in the lock.
"You insist on knowing, Basil?" he asked in a low voice.


"I am delighted," he answered, smiling. Then he added,
somewhat harshly, "You are the one man in the world who is
entitled to know everything about me. You have had more
to do with my life than you think"; and, taking up the lamp,
he opened the door and went in. A cold current of air passed them,
and the light shot up for a moment in a flame of murky orange.
He shuddered. "Shut the door behind you," he whispered,
as he placed the lamp on the table.

Hallward glanced round him with a puzzled expression.
The room looked as if it had not been lived in for years.
A faded Flemish tapestry, a curtained picture, an old
Italian cassone, and an almost empty book-case--that was all
that it seemed to contain, besides a chair and a table.
As Dorian Gray was lighting a half-burned candle that was
standing on the mantelshelf, he saw that the whole place
was covered with dust and that the carpet was in holes.
A mouse ran scuffling behind the wainscoting. There was a damp odour
of mildew.

"So you think that it is only God who sees the soul, Basil?
Draw that curtain back, and you will see mine."

The voice that spoke was cold and cruel. "You are mad, Dorian, or playing
a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.

"You won't? Then I must do it myself," said the young man,
and he tore the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.

An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw
in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him.
There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust
and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face
that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet
entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some
gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth.
The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue,
the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled
nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself.
But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork,
and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he
felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture.
In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of
bright vermilion.

It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire.
He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture.
He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed
in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture!
What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked
at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched,
and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate.
He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with
clammy sweat.

The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him
with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those
who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting.
There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was
simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker
of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat,
and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.

"What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded
shrill and curious in his ears.

"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower
in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain
of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours,
who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished
a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty.
In a mad moment that, even now, I don't know whether I regret
or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer.
. . ."

"I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible.
The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some
wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible."

"Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window
and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass.

"You told me you had destroyed it."

"I was wrong. It has destroyed me."

"I don't believe it is my picture."

"Can't you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly.

"My ideal, as you call it. . ."

"As you called it."

"There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such
an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr."

"It is the face of my soul."

"Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil."

"Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian
with a wild gesture of despair.

Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it.
"My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is
what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse
even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!"
He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it.
The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it.
It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror
had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life
the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away.
The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not
so fearful.

His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor
and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out.
Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by
the table and buried his face in his hands.

"Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!"
There was no answer, but he could hear the young man
sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured.
"What is it that one was taught to say in one's boyhood?
'Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins.
Wash away our iniquities.' Let us say that together.
The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your
repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much.
I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are
both punished."

Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes.
"It is too late, Basil," he faltered.

"It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we
cannot remember a prayer. Isn't there a verse somewhere,
'Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white
as snow'?"

"Those words mean nothing to me now."

"Hush! Don't say that. You have done enough evil in your life.
My God! Don't you see that accursed thing leering at us?"

Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable
feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though
it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas,
whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad
passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed
the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole
life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around.
Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that
faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was.
It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before,
to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him.
He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so.
As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round.
Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise.
He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind
the ear, crushing the man's head down on the table and stabbing again
and again.

There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking
with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively,
waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more,
but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor.
He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw
the knife on the table, and listened.

He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet.
He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was
absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood
bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething
well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room,
locking himself in as he did so.

The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table
with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms.
Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted
black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said
that the man was simply asleep.

How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking
over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony.
The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous
peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked
down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long
beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson
spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished.
A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings,
staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back.
Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled
over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing.
A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered
and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron
branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window
behind him.

Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it.
He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that
the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation.
The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which
all his misery had been due had gone out of his life.
That was enough.

Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of
Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques
of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises.
Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would
be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took
it from the table. He could not help seeing the dead thing.
How still it was! How horribly white the long hands looked!
It was like a dreadful wax image.

Having locked the door behind him, he crept quietly downstairs.
The woodwork creaked and seemed to cry out as if in pain.
He stopped several times and waited. No: everything was still.
It was merely the sound of his own footsteps.

When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner.
They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was
in the wainscoting, a press in which he kept his own curious disguises,
and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled
out his watch. It was twenty minutes to two.

He sat down and began to think. Every year--every month, almost--
men were strangled in England for what he had done. There had been
a madness of murder in the air. Some red star had come too close
to the earth. . . . And yet, what evidence was there against him?
Basil Hallward had left the house at eleven. No one had seen
him come in again. Most of the servants were at Selby Royal.
His valet had gone to bed.... Paris! Yes. It was to Paris that
Basil had gone, and by the midnight train, as he had intended.
With his curious reserved habits, it would be months before any
suspicions would be roused. Months! Everything could be destroyed long
before then.

A sudden thought struck him. He put on his fur coat and hat
and went out into the hall. There he paused, hearing the slow
heavy tread of the policeman on the pavement outside and
seeing the flash of the bull's-eye reflected in the window.
He waited and held his breath.

After a few moments he drew back the latch and slipped out,
shutting the door very gently behind him. Then he began
ringing the bell. In about five minutes his valet appeared,
half-dressed and looking very drowsy.

"I am sorry to have had to wake you up, Francis," he said, stepping in;
"but I had forgotten my latch-key. What time is it?"

"Ten minutes past two, sir," answered the man, looking at the clock
and blinking.

"Ten minutes past two? How horribly late! You must wake me
at nine to-morrow. I have some work to do."

"All right, sir."

"Did any one call this evening?"

"Mr. Hallward, sir. He stayed here till eleven, and then he went
away to catch his train."

"Oh! I am sorry I didn't see him. Did he leave any message?"

"No, sir, except that he would write to you from Paris,
if he did not find you at the club."

"That will do, Francis. Don't forget to call me at nine to-morrow."

"No, sir."

The man shambled down the passage in his slippers.

Dorian Gray threw his hat and coat upon the table and passed
into the library. For a quarter of an hour he walked up and down
the room, biting his lip and thinking. Then he took down the Blue
Book from one of the shelves and began to turn over the leaves.
"Alan Campbell, 152, Hertford Street, Mayfair." Yes; that was the man
he wanted.


At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate
on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully,
lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. He looked
like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study.

The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke,
and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips,
as though he had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had
not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images
of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason.
It is one of its chiefest charms.

He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his chocolate.
The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The sky was bright,
and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning
in May.

Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,
blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves
there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all
that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling
of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat
in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion.
The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now.
How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness,
not for the day.

He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken
or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory
than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more
than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy,
greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses.
But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind,
to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle
one itself.

When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead,
and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his
usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie
and scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long
time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his
valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made
for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence.
At some of the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him.
One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look
of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!"
as Lord Henry had once said.

After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his
lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait,
and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters.
One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet.

"Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell
is out of town, get his address."

As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon
a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture,
and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that
he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward.
He frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took
out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think
about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that
he should do so.

When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at
the title-page of the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees,
Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching.
The binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt
trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given
to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages,
his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire,
the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavee,"
with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." He glanced
at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite
of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas
upon Venice:

Sur une gamme chromatique,
Le sein de peries ruisselant,
La Venus de l'Adriatique
Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc.

Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes
Suivant la phrase au pur contour,
S'enflent comme des gorges rondes
Que souleve un soupir d'amour.

L'esquif aborde et me depose,
Jetant son amarre au pilier,
Devant une facade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier.

How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be
floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city,
seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains.
The mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of
turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido.
The sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of
the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall
honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace,
through the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with
half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself:

"Devant une facade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier."

The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn
that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred
him to mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place.
But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and,
to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything.
Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret.
Poor Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die!

He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget.
He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little
cafe at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber
beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled
pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the Obelisk
in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite
in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot,
lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises,
and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with
small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud;
he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music
from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that
Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "monstre charmant"
that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time
the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible
fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be
out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back.
Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then?
Every moment was of vital importance.

They had been great friends once, five years before--
almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly
to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian
Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did.

He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real
appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense
of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely
from Dorian. His dominant intellectual passion was for science.
At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working
in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural
Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted
to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his
own in which he used to shut himself up all day long,
greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her
heart on his standing for Parliament and had a vague idea
that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions.
He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played
both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs.
In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian
Gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that
Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished--
and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it.
They had met at Lady Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein
played there, and after that used to be always seen together
at the opera and wherever good music was going on.
For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was
always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square.
To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type
of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life.
Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one
ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely
spoke when they met and that Campbell seemed always to go
away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present.
He had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared
almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play,
giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so
absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise.
And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become
more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice
in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain
curious experiments.

This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second
he kept glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became
horribly agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up
and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing.
He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously cold.

The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling
with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards
the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was
waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank
hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain
of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless.
The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination,
made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain,
danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks.
Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing
crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on
in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him.
He stared at it. Its very horror made him stone.

At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned
glazed eyes upon him.

"Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man.

A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came
back to his cheeks.

"Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself again.
His mood of cowardice had passed away.

The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in,
looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his
coal-black hair and dark eyebrows.

"Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming."

"I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said
it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold.
He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt
in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian.
He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed
not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted.

"Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person.
Sit down."

Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him.
The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity.
He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful.

After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said,
very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face
of him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top
of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access,
a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now.
Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is,
why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you.
What you have to do is this--"

"Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further.
Whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't
concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life.
Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me
any more."

"Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you.
I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself.
You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring
you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific.
You know about chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments.
What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--
to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this
person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed
to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed,
there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him,
and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may
scatter in the air."

"You are mad, Dorian."

"Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian."

"You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise
a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession.
I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is.
Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it
to me what devil's work you are up to?"

"It was suicide, Alan."

"I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy."

"Do you still refuse to do this for me?"

"Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it.
I don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all.
I should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced.
How dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself
up in this horror? I should have thought you knew more about
people's characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can't have
taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you.
Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have
come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't come
to me."

"Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made
me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or
the marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it,
the result was the same."

"Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to?
I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without
my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested.
Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid.
But I will have nothing to do with it."

"You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment;
listen to me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform
a certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and
dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you.
If in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you
found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped
out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look
upon him as an admirable subject. You would not turn a hair.
You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong.
On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting
the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world,
or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind.
What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before.
Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than
what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is
the only piece of evidence against me. If it is discovered,
I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you
help me."

"I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply
indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me."

"Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in.
Just before you came I almost fainted with terror.
You may know terror yourself some day. No! don't think of that.
Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view.
You don't inquire where the dead things on which you
experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you
too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were
friends once, Alan."

"Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead."

"The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away.
He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms.
Alan! Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined.
Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang
me for what I have done."

"There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse
to do anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me."

"You refuse?"


"I entreat you, Alan."

"It is useless."

The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched
out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it.
He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table.
Having done this, he got up and went over to the window.

Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper,
and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell
back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him.
He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some
empty hollow.

After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and came
and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder.

"I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me
no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is.
You see the address. If you don't help me, I must send it.
If you don't help me, I will send it. You know what the result will be.
But you are going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now.
I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that.
You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever
dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all.
Now it is for me to dictate terms."

Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him.

"Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are.
The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever.
The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it."

A groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over.
The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be
dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was
too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was
being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace
with which he was threatened had already come upon him.
The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead.
It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him.

"Come, Alan, you must decide at once."

"I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things.

"You must. You have no choice. Don't delay."

He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?"

"Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos."

"I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory."

"No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet
of notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab
and bring the things back to you."

Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope
to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully.
Then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return
as soon as possible and to bring the things with him.

As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up
from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with
a kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke.
A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was
like the beat of a hammer.

As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian Gray,
saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity
and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You are infamous,
absolutely infamous!" he muttered.

"Hush, Alan. You have saved my life," said Dorian.

"Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from
corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime.
In doing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--
it is not of your life that I am thinking."

"Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had
a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you."
He turned away as he spoke and stood looking out at the garden.
Campbell made no answer.

After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered,
carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and
platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps.

"Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell.

"Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another
errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies
Selby with orchids?"

"Harden, sir."

"Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden personally,
and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have
as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any white ones.
It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place--
otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it."

"No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?"

Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?"
he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person
in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage.

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

"It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis.
Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening
to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want you."

"Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room.

"Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is!
I'll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly
and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him.
They left the room together.

When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it
in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes.
He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in, Alan," he murmured.

"It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said Campbell coldly.

Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face
of his portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front
of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night
before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life,
to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward,
when he drew back with a shudder.

What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening,
on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood?
How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment,
than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table,
the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet
showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had
left it.

He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider,
and with half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in,
determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man.
Then, stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging,
he flung it right over the picture.

There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes
fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him.
He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons,
and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work.
He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so,
what they had thought of each other.

"Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him.

He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man
had been thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing
into a glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs,
he heard the key being turned in the lock.

It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library.
He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked
me to do," he muttered "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each
other again."

"You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that,"
said Dorian simply.

As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible
smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting
at the table was gone.


That evening, at eight-thirty, exquisitely dressed and wearing a large
button-hole of Parma violets, Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady
Narborough's drawing-room by bowing servants. His forehead was throbbing
with maddened nerves, and he felt wildly excited, but his manner
as he bent over his hostess's hand was as easy and graceful as ever.
Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease as when one has to play a part.
Certainly no one looking at Dorian Gray that night could have believed
that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age.
Those finely shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin,
nor those smiling lips have cried out on God and goodness. He himself
could not help wondering at the calm of his demeanour, and for a moment
felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life.

It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough,
who was a very clever woman with what Lord Henry used to describe
as the remains of really remarkable ugliness. She had proved
an excellent wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors, and having
buried her husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she
had herself designed, and married off her daughters to some rich,
rather elderly men, she devoted herself now to the pleasures
of French fiction, French cookery, and French esprit when she could
get it.

Dorian was one of her especial favourites, and she always told him
that she was extremely glad she had not met him in early life.
"I know, my dear, I should have fallen madly in love with you,"
she used to say, "and thrown my bonnet right over the mills for your sake.
It is most fortunate that you were not thought of at the time.
As it was, our bonnets were so unbecoming, and the mills were
so occupied in trying to raise the wind, that I never had even a
flirtation with anybody. However, that was all Narborough's fault.
He was dreadfully short-sighted, and there is no pleasure in taking
in a husband who never sees anything."

Her guests this evening were rather tedious. The fact was,
as she explained to Dorian, behind a very shabby fan,
one of her married daughters had come up quite suddenly to stay
with her, and, to make matters worse, had actually brought her
husband with her. "I think it is most unkind of her, my dear,"
she whispered. "Of course I go and stay with them every summer
after I come from Homburg, but then an old woman like me must
have fresh air sometimes, and besides, I really wake them up.
You don't know what an existence they lead down there.
It is pure unadulterated country life. They get up early,
because they have so much to do, and go to bed early,
because they have so little to think about. There has not been
a scandal in the neighbourhood since the time of Queen Elizabeth,
and consequently they all fall asleep after dinner.
You shan't sit next either of them. You shall sit by me and
amuse me."

Dorian murmured a graceful compliment and looked round
the room. Yes: it was certainly a tedious party.
Two of the people he had never seen before, and the others
consisted of Ernest Harrowden, one of those middle-aged
mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies,
but are thoroughly disliked by their friends; Lady Ruxton,
an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose,
who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was
so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment no
one would ever believe anything against her; Mrs. Erlynne,
a pushing nobody, with a delightful lisp and Venetian-red hair;
Lady Alice Chapman, his hostess's daughter, a dowdy dull girl,
with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen,
are never remembered; and her husband, a red-cheeked,
white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class,
was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for
an entire lack of ideas.

He was rather sorry he had come, till Lady Narborough,
looking at the great ormolu gilt clock that sprawled in gaudy
curves on the mauve-draped mantelshelf, exclaimed: "How horrid
of Henry Wotton to be so late! I sent round to him this morning
on chance and he promised faithfully not to disappoint me."

It was some consolation that Harry was to be there, and when the door opened
and he heard his slow musical voice lending charm to some insincere apology,
he ceased to feel bored.

But at dinner he could not eat anything. Plate after plate went
away untasted. Lady Narborough kept scolding him for what she
called "an insult to poor Adolphe, who invented the menu
specially for you," and now and then Lord Henry looked across
at him, wondering at his silence and abstracted manner.
From time to time the butler filled his glass with champagne.
He drank eagerly, and his thirst seemed to increase.

"Dorian," said Lord Henry at last, as the chaud-froid was being handed round,
"what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts."

"I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is
afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right.
I certainly should."

"Dear Lady Narborough," murmured Dorian, smiling, "I have not been in love
for a whole week--not, in fact, since Madame de Ferrol left town."

"How you men can fall in love with that woman!" exclaimed the old lady.
"I really cannot understand it."

"It is simply because she remembers you when you were a little girl,
Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry. "She is the one link between us
and your short frocks."

"She does not remember my short frocks at all, Lord Henry.
But I remember her very well at Vienna thirty years ago,
and how decolletee she was then."

"She is still decolletee," he answered, taking an olive in his long fingers;
"and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an edition de luxe
of a bad French novel. She is really wonderful, and full of surprises.
Her capacity for family affection is extraordinary. When her third husband
died, her hair turned quite gold from grief."

"How can you, Harry!" cried Dorian.

"It is a most romantic explanation," laughed the hostess.
"But her third husband, Lord Henry! You don't mean to say Ferrol
is the fourth?"

"Certainly, Lady Narborough."

"I don't believe a word of it."

"Well, ask Mr. Gray. He is one of her most intimate friends."

"Is it true, Mr. Gray?"

"She assures me so, Lady Narborough," said Dorian. "I asked her whether,
like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at
her girdle. She told me she didn't, because none of them had had any
hearts at all."

"Four husbands! Upon my word that is trop de zele."

"Trop d'audace, I tell her," said Dorian.

"Oh! she is audacious enough for anything, my dear. And what is Ferrol like?
I don't know him."

"The husbands of very beautiful women belong to the criminal classes,"
said Lord Henry, sipping his wine.

Lady Narborough hit him with her fan. "Lord Henry, I am not at all surprised
that the world says that you are extremely wicked."

"But what world says that?" asked Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows.
"It can only be the next world. This world and I are on excellent terms."

"Everybody I know says you are very wicked," cried the old lady,
shaking her head.

Lord Henry looked serious for some moments. "It is perfectly monstrous,"
he said, at last, "the way people go about nowadays saying things against one
behind one's back that are absolutely and entirely true."

"Isn't he incorrigible?" cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.

"I hope so," said his hostess, laughing. "But really,
if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way,
I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion."

"You will never marry again, Lady Narborough," broke in Lord Henry.
"You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is
because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again,
it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck;
men risk theirs."

"Narborough wasn't perfect," cried the old lady.

"If he had been, you would not have loved him, my dear lady,"
was the rejoinder. "Women love us for our defects.
If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything,
even our intellects. You will never ask me to dinner again
after saying this, I am afraid, Lady Narborough, but it is
quite true."

"Of course it is true, Lord Henry. If we women did not love you for
your defects, where would you all be? Not one of you would ever be married.
You would be a set of unfortunate bachelors. Not, however, that that
would alter you much. Nowadays all the married men live like bachelors,
and all the bachelors like married men."

"Fin de siecle," murmured Lord Henry.

"Fin du globe," answered his hostess.

"I wish it were fin du globe," said Dorian with a sigh.
"Life is a great disappointment."

"Ah, my dear," cried Lady Narborough, putting on her gloves,
"don't tell me that you have exhausted life. When a man says that
one knows that life has exhausted him. Lord Henry is very wicked,
and I sometimes wish that I had been; but you are made to be good--
you look so good. I must find you a nice wife. Lord Henry, don't you
think that Mr. Gray should get married?"

"I am always telling him so, Lady Narborough," said Lord Henry with a bow.

"Well, we must look out for a suitable match for him.
I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list
of all the eligible young ladies."

"With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian.

"Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done
in a hurry. I want it to be what The Morning Post calls a suitable alliance,
and I want you both to be happy."

"What nonsense people talk about happy marriages!" exclaimed Lord Henry.
"A man can be happy with any woman, as long as he does not love her."

"Ah! what a cynic you are!" cried the old lady, pushing back her chair
and nodding to Lady Ruxton. "You must come and dine with me soon again.
You are really an admirable tonic, much better than what Sir Andrew prescribes
for me. You must tell me what people you would like to meet, though. I want
it to be a delightful gathering."

"I like men who have a future and women who have a past," he answered.
"Or do you think that would make it a petticoat party?"

"I fear so," she said, laughing, as she stood up. "A thousand pardons,
my dear Lady Ruxton," she added, "I didn't see you hadn't finished
your cigarette."

"Never mind, Lady Narborough. I smoke a great deal too much.
I am going to limit myself, for the future."

"Pray don't, Lady Ruxton," said Lord Henry. "Moderation is a fatal thing.
Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast."

Lady Ruxton glanced at him curiously. "You must come and explain that to me
some afternoon, Lord Henry. It sounds a fascinating theory," she murmured,
as she swept out of the room.

"Now, mind you don't stay too long over your politics and scandal,"
cried Lady Narborough from the door. "If you do, we are sure to
squabble upstairs."

The men laughed, and Mr. Chapman got up solemnly
from the foot of the table and came up to the top.
Dorian Gray changed his seat and went and sat by Lord Henry.
Mr. Chapman began to talk in a loud voice about the situation
in the House of Commons. He guffawed at his adversaries.
The word doctrinaire--word full of terror to the British mind--
reappeared from time to time between his explosions.
An alliterative prefix served as an ornament of oratory.
He hoisted the Union Jack on the pinnacles of thought.
The inherited stupidity of the race--sound English common sense
he jovially termed it--was shown to be the proper bulwark
for society.

A smile curved Lord Henry's lips, and he turned round and looked at Dorian.

"Are you better, my dear fellow?" he asked. "You seemed rather
out of sorts at dinner."

"I am quite well, Harry. I am tired. That is all."

"You were charming last night. The little duchess is quite devoted to you.
She tells me she is going down to Selby."

"She has promised to come on the twentieth."

"Is Monmouth to be there, too?"

"Oh, yes, Harry."

"He bores me dreadfully, almost as much as he bores her. She is very clever,
too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness.
It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image precious. Her feet
are very pretty, but they are not feet of clay. White porcelain feet,
if you like. They have been through the fire, and what fire does not destroy,
it hardens. She has had experiences."

"How long has she been married?" asked Dorian.

"An eternity, she tells me. I believe, according to the peerage,
it is ten years, but ten years with Monmouth must have been like eternity,
with time thrown in. Who else is coming?"

"Oh, the Willoughbys, Lord Rugby and his wife, our hostess,
Geoffrey Clouston, the usual set. I have asked Lord Grotrian."

"I like him," said Lord Henry. "A great many people don't, but I find
him charming. He atones for being occasionally somewhat overdressed
by being always absolutely over-educated. He is a very modern type."

"I don't know if he will be able to come, Harry. He may have to go to Monte
Carlo with his father."

"Ah! what a nuisance people's people are! Try and make him come.
By the way, Dorian, you ran off very early last night.
You left before eleven. What did you do afterwards? Did you go
straight home?"

Dorian glanced at him hurriedly and frowned.

"No, Harry," he said at last, "I did not get home till nearly three."

"Did you go to the club?"

"Yes," he answered. Then he bit his lip. "No, I don't mean that.
I didn't go to the club. I walked about. I forget what I did.
. . . How inquisitive you are, Harry! You always want to know what
one has been doing. I always want to forget what I have been doing.
I came in at half-past two, if you wish to know the exact time.
I had left my latch-key at home, and my servant had to let me in.
If you want any corroborative evidence on the subject, you can ask

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, as if I cared!
Let us go up to the drawing-room. No sherry, thank you, Mr. Chapman.
Something has happened to you, Dorian. Tell me what it is.
You are not yourself to-night."

"Don't mind me, Harry. I am irritable, and out of temper.
I shall come round and see you to-morrow, or next day.
Make my excuses to Lady Narborough. I shan't go upstairs.
I shall go home. I must go home."

"All right, Dorian. I dare say I shall see you to-morrow at tea-time.
The duchess is coming."

"I will try to be there, Harry," he said, leaving the room.
As he drove back to his own house, he was conscious that the sense
of terror he thought he had strangled had come back to him.
Lord Henry's casual questioning had made him lose his
nerves for the moment, and he wanted his nerve still.
Things that were dangerous had to be destroyed. He winced.
He hated the idea of even touching them.

Yet it had to be done. He realized that, and when he had
locked the door of his library, he opened the secret press
into which he had thrust Basil Hallward's coat and bag.
A huge fire was blazing. He piled another log on it.
The smell of the singeing clothes and burning leather was horrible.
It took him three-quarters of an hour to consume everything.
At the end he felt faint and sick, and having lit some Algerian
pastilles in a pierced copper brazier, he bathed his hands and
forehead with a cool musk-scented vinegar.

Suddenly he started. His eyes grew strangely bright, and he gnawed
nervously at his underlip. Between two of the windows stood a large
Florentine cabinet, made out of ebony and inlaid with ivory and blue lapis.
He watched it as though it were a thing that could fascinate and make afraid,
as though it held something that he longed for and yet almost loathed.
His breath quickened. A mad craving came over him. He lit a cigarette
and then threw it away. His eyelids drooped till the long fringed
lashes almost touched his cheek. But he still watched the cabinet.
At last he got up from the sofa on which he had been lying,
went over to it, and having unlocked it, touched some hidden spring.
A triangular drawer passed slowly out. His fingers moved instinctively
towards it, dipped in, and closed on something. It was a small
Chinese box of black and gold-dust lacquer, elaborately wrought,
the sides patterned with curved waves, and the silken cords hung with
round crystals and tasselled in plaited metal threads. He opened it.
Inside was a green paste, waxy in lustre, the odour curiously heavy
and persistent.

He hesitated for some moments, with a strangely immobile smile upon his face.
Then shivering, though the atmosphere of the room was terribly hot, he drew
himself up and glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to twelve.
He put the box back, shutting the cabinet doors as he did so, and went into
his bedroom.

As midnight was striking bronze blows upon the dusky air, Dorian Gray,
dressed commonly, and with a muffler wrapped round his throat,
crept quietly out of his house. In Bond Street he found a hansom
with a good horse. He hailed it and in a low voice gave the driver
an address.

The man shook his head. "It is too far for me," he muttered.

"Here is a sovereign for you," said Dorian. "You shall have another if you
drive fast."

"All right, sir," answered the man, "you will be there in an hour,"
and after his fare had got in he turned his horse round and drove
rapidly towards the river.


A cold rain began to fall, and the blurred street-lamps looked ghastly
in the dripping mist. The public-houses were just closing, and dim
men and women were clustering in broken groups round their doors.
From some of the bars came the sound of horrible laughter. In others,
drunkards brawled and screamed.

Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead,
Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame
of the great city, and now and then he repeated to himself
the words that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day
they had met, "To cure the soul by means of the senses,
and the senses by means of the soul." Yes, that was the secret.
He had often tried it, and would try it again now.
There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror
where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness
of sins that were new.

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to time
a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid it.
The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy.
Once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a mile.
A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles.
The sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.

"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses
by means of the soul!" How the words rang in his ears!
His soul, certainly, was sick to death. Was it true that
the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had been spilled.
What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no atonement;
but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was
possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp
the thing out, to crush it as one would crush the adder that
had stung one. Indeed, what right had Basil to have spoken
to him as he had done? Who had made him a judge over others?
He had said things that were dreadful, horrible, not to
be endured.

On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him,
at each step. He thrust up the trap and called to the man
to drive faster. The hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw
at him. His throat burned and his delicate hands twitched
nervously together. He struck at the horse madly with his stick.
The driver laughed and whipped up. He laughed in answer,
and the man was silent.

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black
web of some sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable,
and as the mist thickened, he felt afraid.

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here,
and he could see the strange, bottle-shaped kilns with their orange,
fanlike tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by,
and far away in the darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed.
The horse stumbled in a rut, then swerved aside and broke into
a gallop.

After some time they left the clay road and rattled again
over rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark,
but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against
some lamplit blind. He watched them curiously. They moved
like monstrous marionettes and made gestures like live things.
He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart. As they turned
a corner, a woman yelled something at them from an open door,
and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards.
The driver beat at them with his whip.

It is said that passion makes one think in a circle.
Certainly with hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian Gray
shaped and reshaped those subtle words that dealt with soul
and sense, till he had found in them the full expression,
as it were, of his mood, and justified, by intellectual approval,
passions that without such justification would still have
dominated his temper. From cell to cell of his brain crept
the one thought; and the wild desire to live, most terrible
of all man's appetites, quickened into force each trembling
nerve and fibre. Ugliness that had once been hateful
to him because it made things real, became dear to him
now for that very reason. Ugliness was the one reality.
The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence
of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast,
were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression,
than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song.
They were what he needed for forgetfulness. In three days he would
be free.

Suddenly the man drew up with a jerk at the top of a dark lane.
Over the low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks of the houses rose
the black masts of ships. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghostly
sails to the yards.

"Somewhere about here, sir, ain't it?" he asked huskily through the trap.

Dorian started and peered round. "This will do," he answered,
and having got out hastily and given the driver the extra fare
he had promised him, he walked quickly in the direction of the quay.
Here and there a lantern gleamed at the stern of some huge merchantman.
The light shook and splintered in the puddles. A red glare came from
an outward-bound steamer that was coaling. The slimy pavement looked
like a wet mackintosh.

He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see
if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he reached
a small shabby house that was wedged in between two gaunt factories.
In one of the top-windows stood a lamp. He stopped and gave a
peculiar knock.

After a little time he heard steps in the passage and the chain
being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without
saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened
itself into the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall
hung a tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in
the gusty wind which had followed him in from the street.
He dragged it aside and entered a long low room which looked
as if it had once been a third-rate dancing-saloon. Shrill
flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors
that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors
of ribbed tin backed them, making quivering disks of light.
The floor was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here
and there into mud, and stained with dark rings of spilled liquor.
Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove, playing with
bone counters and showing their white teeth as they chattered.
In one corner, with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled
over a table, and by the tawdrily painted bar that ran across one
complete side stood two haggard women, mocking an old man who was
brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust.
"He thinks he's got red ants on him," laughed one of them,
as Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror and began
to whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase,
leading to a darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its
three rickety steps, the heavy odour of opium met him.
He heaved a deep breath, and his nostrils quivered with pleasure.
When he entered, a young man with smooth yellow hair, who was
bending over a lamp lighting a long thin pipe, looked up at him
and nodded in a hesitating manner.

"You here, Adrian?" muttered Dorian.

"Where else should I be?" he answered, listlessly. "None of the chaps
will speak to me now."

"I thought you had left England."

"Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at last.
George doesn't speak to me either. . . . I don't care," he added
with a sigh. "As long as one has this stuff, one doesn't want friends.
I think I have had too many friends."

Dorian winced and looked round at the grotesque things that
lay in such fantastic postures on the ragged mattresses.
The twisted limbs, the gaping mouths, the staring lustreless eyes,
fascinated him. He knew in what strange heavens they were suffering,
and what dull hells were teaching them the secret of some new joy.
They were better off than he was. He was prisoned in thought.
Memory, like a horrible malady, was eating his soul away. From time
to time he seemed to see the eyes of Basil Hallward looking at him.
Yet he felt he could not stay. The presence of Adrian Singleton
troubled him. He wanted to be where no one would know who he was.
He wanted to escape from himself.

"I am going on to the other place," he said after a pause.

"On the wharf?"


"That mad-cat is sure to be there. They won't have her in this place now."

Dorian shrugged his shoulders. "I am sick of women who love one.
Women who hate one are much more interesting. Besides, the stuff
is better."

"Much the same."

"I like it better. Come and have something to drink.
I must have something."

"I don't want anything," murmured the young man.

"Never mind."

Adrian Singleton rose up wearily and followed Dorian to the bar.
A half-caste, in a ragged turban and a shabby ulster, grinned a
hideous greeting as he thrust a bottle of brandy and two tumblers
in front of them. The women sidled up and began to chatter.
Dorian turned his back on them and said something in a low voice to
Adrian Singleton.

A crooked smile, like a Malay crease, writhed across the face of one
of the women. "We are very proud to-night," she sneered.

"For God's sake don't talk to me," cried Dorian, stamping his
foot on the ground. "What do you want? Money? Here it is.
Don't ever talk to me again."

Two red sparks flashed for a moment in the woman's sodden eyes,
then flickered out and left them dull and glazed. She tossed
her head and raked the coins off the counter with greedy fingers.
Her companion watched her enviously.

"It's no use," sighed Adrian Singleton. "I don't care to go back.
What does it matter? I am quite happy here."

"You will write to me if you want anything, won't you?" said Dorian,
after a pause.


"Good night, then."

"Good night," answered the young man, passing up the steps and wiping
his parched mouth with a handkerchief.

Dorian walked to the door with a look of pain in his face.
As he drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh broke from
the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money.
"There goes the devil's bargain!" she hiccoughed, in a
hoarse voice.

"Curse you!" he answered, "don't call me that."

She snapped her fingers. "Prince Charming is what you like to be called,
ain't it?" she yelled after him.

The drowsy sailor leaped to his feet as she spoke, and looked wildly round.
The sound of the shutting of the hall door fell on his ear. He rushed out as
if in pursuit.

Dorian Gray hurried along the quay through the drizzling rain.
His meeting with Adrian Singleton had strangely moved him, and he wondered
if the ruin of that young life was really to be laid at his door,
as Basil Hallward had said to him with such infamy of insult.
He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his eyes grew sad.
Yet, after all, what did it matter to him? One's days were too
brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders.
Each man lived his own life and paid his own price for living it.
The only pity was one had to pay so often for a single fault.
One had to pay over and over again, indeed. In her dealings with man,
destiny never closed her accounts.

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for
what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body,
as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses.
Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move
to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them,
and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give
rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. For all sins,
as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience.
When that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was
as a rebel that he fell.

Callous, concentrated on evil, with stained mind, and soul
hungry for rebellion, Dorian Gray hastened on, quickening his
step as he went, but as he darted aside into a dim archway,
that had served him often as a short cut to the ill-famed place
where he was going, he felt himself suddenly seized from behind,
and before he had time to defend himself, he was thrust back
against the wall, with a brutal hand round his throat.

He struggled madly for life, and by a terrible effort wrenched
the tightening fingers away. In a second he heard the click
of a revolver, and saw the gleam of a polished barrel,
pointing straight at his head, and the dusky form of a short,
thick-set man facing him.

"What do you want?" he gasped.

"Keep quiet," said the man. "If you stir, I shoot you."

"You are mad. What have I done to you?"

"You wrecked the life of Sibyl Vane," was the answer,
"and Sibyl Vane was my sister. She killed herself. I know it.
Her death is at your door. I swore I would kill you in return.
For years I have sought you. I had no clue, no trace.
The two people who could have described you were dead.
I knew nothing of you but the pet name she used to call you.
I heard it to-night by chance. Make your peace with God,
for to-night you are going to die."

Dorian Gray grew sick with fear. "I never knew her," he stammered.
"I never heard of her. You are mad."

"You had better confess your sin, for as sure as I am James Vane,
you are going to die." There was a horrible moment. Dorian did
not know what to say or do. "Down on your knees!" growled the man.
"I give you one minute to make your peace--no more. I go on board
to-night for India, and I must do my job first. One minute.
That's all."

Dorian's arms fell to his side. Paralysed with terror, he did not
know what to do. Suddenly a wild hope flashed across his brain.
"Stop," he cried. "How long ago is it since your sister died?
Quick, tell me!"

"Eighteen years," said the man. "Why do you ask me?
What do years matter?"

"Eighteen years," laughed Dorian Gray, with a touch of triumph in his voice.
"Eighteen years! Set me under the lamp and look at my face!"

James Vane hesitated for a moment, not understanding what was meant.
Then he seized Dorian Gray and dragged him from the archway.

Dim and wavering as was the wind-blown light, yet it served to show
him the hideous error, as it seemed, into which he had fallen,
for the face of the man he had sought to kill had all the bloom
of boyhood, all the unstained purity of youth. He seemed little more
than a lad of twenty summers, hardly older, if older indeed at all,
than his sister had been when they had parted so many years ago.
It was obvious that this was not the man who had destroyed
her life.

He loosened his hold and reeled back. "My God! my God!"
he cried, "and I would have murdered you!"

Dorian Gray drew a long breath. "You have been on the brink of
committing a terrible crime, my man," he said, looking at him sternly.
"Let this be a warning to you not to take vengeance into your
own hands."

"Forgive me, sir," muttered James Vane. "I was deceived.
A chance word I heard in that damned den set me on the wrong track."

"You had better go home and put that pistol away, or you may get
into trouble," said Dorian, turning on his heel and going slowly
down the street.

James Vane stood on the pavement in horror. He was trembling
from head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow
that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into
the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps.
He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start.
It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face
quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you
rushed out from Daly's. You fool! You should have killed him.
He has lots of money, and he's as bad as bad."

"He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want
no man's money. I want a man's life. The man whose life I want
must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy.
Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands."

The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered.
"Why, man, it's nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what
I am."

"You lie!" cried James Vane.

She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth,"
she cried.

"Before God?"

"Strike me dumb if it ain't so. He is the worst one that comes here.
They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It's nigh
on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn't changed much since then.
I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer.

"You swear this?"

"I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth.
"But don't give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him.
Let me have some money for my night's lodging."

He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street,
but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had
vanished also.


A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal,
talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband,
a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests.
It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp
that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered
silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding.
Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red
lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her.
Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them.
On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen
to the duke's description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had
added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits
were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party
consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on
the next day.

"What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to
the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about
my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea."

"But I don't want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess,
looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied
with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied
with his."

"My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world.
They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers.
Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous
spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins.
In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it
was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of Robinsoniana,
or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth,
but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things.
Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions.
My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar
realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade
should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit

"Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked.

"His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian.

"I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess.

"I won't hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair.
"From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title."

"Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips.

"You wish me to defend my throne, then?"


"I give the truths of to-morrow."

"I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered.

"You disarm me, Gladys," he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.

"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear."

"I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand.

"That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much."

"How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better
to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand,
no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better
to be good than to be ugly."

"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess.
"What becomes of your simile about the orchid?"

"Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory,
must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have
made our England what she is."

"You don't like your country, then?" she asked.

"I live in it."

"That you may censure it the better."

"Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired.

"What do they say of us?"

"That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop."

"Is that yours, Harry?"

"I give it to you."

"I could not use it. It is too true."

"You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description."

"They are practical."

"They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger,
they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy."

"Still, we have done great things."

"Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys."

"We have carried their burden."

"Only as far as the Stock Exchange."

She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried.

"It represents the survival of the pushing."

"It has development."

"Decay fascinates me more."

"What of art?" she asked.

"It is a malady."


"An illusion."


"The fashionable substitute for belief."

"You are a sceptic."

"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith."

"What are you?"

"To define is to limit."

"Give me a clue."

"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth."

"You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else."

"Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened
Prince Charming."

"Ah! don't remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray.

"Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring.
"I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles
as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly."

"Well, I hope he won't stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian.

"Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me."

"And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?"

"For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you.
Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her
that I must be dressed by half-past eight."

"How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning."

"I daren't, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me.
You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone's garden-party?
You don't, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do.
Well, she made if out of nothing. All good hats are made out
of nothing."

"Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry.
"Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy.
To be popular one must be a mediocrity."

"Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women
rule the world. I assure you we can't bear mediocrities.
We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men
love with your eyes, if you ever love at all."

"It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian.

"Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess
with mock sadness.

"My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that?
Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an
appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is
the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does
not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it.
We can have in life but one great experience at best,
and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often
as possible."

"Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess
after a pause.

"Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry.

The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious
expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?"
she inquired.

Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
"I always agree with Harry, Duchess."

"Even when he is wrong?"

"Harry is never wrong, Duchess."

"And does his philosophy make you happy?"

"I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness?
I have searched for pleasure."

"And found it, Mr. Gray?"

"Often. Too often."

The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said,
"and if I don't go and dress, I shall have none this evening."

"Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet
and walking down the conservatory.

"You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin.
"You had better take care. He is very fascinating."

"If he were not, there would be no battle."

"Greek meets Greek, then?"

"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."

"They were defeated."

"There are worse things than capture," she answered.

"You gallop with a loose rein."

"Pace gives life," was the riposte.

"I shall write it in my diary to-night."


"That a burnt child loves the fire."

"I am not even singed. My wings are untouched."

"You use them for everything, except flight."

"Courage has passed from men to women. It is a new experience for us."

"You have a rival."


He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him."

"You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to antiquity is fatal
to us who are romanticists."

"Romanticists! You have all the methods of science."

"Men have educated us."

"But not explained you."

"Describe us as a sex," was her challenge.

"Sphinxes without secrets."

She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr. Gray is!" she said.
"Let us go and help him. I have not yet told him the colour of
my frock."

"Ah! you must suit your frock to his flowers, Gladys."

"That would be a premature surrender."

"Romantic art begins with its climax."

"I must keep an opportunity for retreat."

"In the Parthian manner?"

"They found safety in the desert. I could not do that."

"Women are not always allowed a choice," he answered, but hardly had
he finished the sentence before from the far end of the conservatory
came a stifled groan, followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall.
Everybody started up. The duchess stood motionless in horror.
And with fear in his eyes, Lord Henry rushed through the flapping
palms to find Dorian Gray lying face downwards on the tiled floor in a
deathlike swoon.

He was carried at once into the blue drawing-room and laid
upon one of the sofas. After a short time, he came to himself
and looked round with a dazed expression.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Oh! I remember. Am I safe here, Harry?"
He began to tremble.

"My dear Dorian," answered Lord Henry, "you merely fainted. That was all.
You must have overtired yourself. You had better not come down to dinner.
I will take your place."

"No, I will come down," he said, struggling to his feet.
"I would rather come down. I must not be alone."

He went to his room and dressed. There was a wild recklessness
of gaiety in his manner as he sat at table, but now and then
a thrill of terror ran through him when he remembered that,
pressed against the window of the conservatory, like a
white handkerchief, he had seen the face of James Vane watching him.


The next day he did not leave the house, and, indeed, spent most
of the time in his own room, sick with a wild terror of dying,
and yet indifferent to life itself. The consciousness of
being hunted, snared, tracked down, had begun to dominate him.
If the tapestry did but tremble in the wind, he shook.
The dead leaves that were blown against the leaded panes seemed
to him like his own wasted resolutions and wild regrets.
When he closed his eyes, he saw again the sailor's face peering
through the mist-stained glass, and horror seemed once more to lay its
hand upon his heart.

But perhaps it had been only his fancy that had called vengeance out
of the night and set the hideous shapes of punishment before him.
Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical
in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse
to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made
each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world
of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded.
Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak.
That was all. Besides, had any stranger been prowling round
the house, he would have been seen by the servants or the keepers.
Had any foot-marks been found on the flower-beds, the gardeners
would have reported it. Yes, it had been merely fancy.
Sibyl Vane's brother had not come back to kill him.
He had sailed away in his ship to founder in some winter sea.
From him, at any rate, he was safe. Why, the man did not know
who he was, could not know who he was. The mask of youth had
saved him.

And yet if it had been merely an illusion, how terrible it
was to think that conscience could raise such fearful phantoms,
and give them visible form, and make them move before one!
What sort of life would his be if, day and night,
shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners,
to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat
at the feast, to wake him with icy fingers as he lay asleep!
As the thought crept through his brain, he grew pale with terror,
and the air seemed to him to have become suddenly colder.
Oh! in what a wild hour of madness he had killed his friend!
How ghastly the mere memory of the scene! He saw it all again.
Each hideous detail came back to him with added horror.
Out of the black cave of time, terrible and swathed in scarlet,
rose the image of his sin. When Lord Henry came in at
six o'clock, he found him crying as one whose heart will

It was not till the third day that he ventured to go out.
There was something in the clear, pine-scented air of that
winter morning that seemed to bring him back his joyousness
and his ardour for life. But it was not merely the physical
conditions of environment that had caused the change.
His own nature had revolted against the excess of anguish
that had sought to maim and mar the perfection of its calm.

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