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1"A method of procuring sensations? Do you think, then, that a man who has once committed a murder could possibly do the
2same crime again? Don't tell me that." "Oh! anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often," cried Lord Henry,
3laughing. "That is one of the most important secrets of life. I should fancy, however, that murder is always a mistake.
4One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner. But let us pass from poor Basil. I wish I could
5believe that he had come to such a really romantic end as you suggest, but I can't. I dare say he fell into the Seine
6off an omnibus and that the conductor hushed up the scandal. Yes: I should fancy that was his end. I see him lying now
7on his back under those dull-green waters, with the heavy barges floating over him and long weeds catching in his hair.
8Do you know, I don't think he would have done much more good work. During the last ten years his painting had gone off
9very much." Dorian heaved a sigh, and Lord Henry strolled across the room and began to stroke the head of a curious Java
10parrot, a large, grey-plumaged bird with pink crest and tail, that was balancing itself upon a bamboo perch. As his
11pointed fingers touched it, it dropped the white scurf of crinkled lids over black, glasslike eyes and began to sway
12backwards and forwards. "Yes," he continued, turning round and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket; "his painting
13had quite gone off. It seemed to me to have lost something. It had lost an ideal. When you and he ceased to be great
14friends, he ceased to be a great artist. What was it separated you? I suppose he bored you. If so, he never forgave you.
15It's a habit bores have. By the way, what has become of that wonderful portrait he did of you? I don't think I have ever
16seen it since he finished it. Oh! I remember your telling me years ago that you had sent it down to Selby, and that it
17had got mislaid or stolen on the way. You never got it back? What a pity! it was really a masterpiece. I remember I
18wanted to buy it. I wish I had now. It belonged to Basil's best period. Since then, his work was that curious mixture of
19bad painting and good intentions that always entitles a man to be called a representative British artist. Did you
20advertise for it? You should." "I forget," said Dorian. "I suppose I did. But I never really liked it. I am sorry I sat
21for it. The memory of the thing is hateful to me. Why do you talk of it? It used to remind me of those curious lines in
22some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run?-- "Like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart." Yes: that is
23what it was like." Lord Henry laughed. "If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart," he answered, sinking
24into an arm-chair. Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano. "'Like the painting of a
25sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a heart.'" The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "By
26the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose--how does the
27quotation run?--his own soul'?" The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend. "Why do you ask me
28that, Harry?" "My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, "I asked you because I thought you
29might be able to give me an answer. That is all. I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the Marble Arch
30there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar street-preacher. As I passed by, I heard
31the man yelling out that question to his audience. It struck me as being rather dramatic. London is very rich in curious
32effects of that kind. A wet Sunday, an uncouth Christian in a mackintosh, a ring of sickly white faces under a broken
33roof of dripping umbrellas, and a wonderful phrase flung into the air by shrill hysterical lips--it was really very good
34in its way, quite a suggestion. I thought of telling the prophet that art had a soul, but that man had not. I am afraid,
35however, he would not have understood me." "Don't, Harry. The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold,
36and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it." "Do you feel
37quite sure of that, Dorian?" "Quite sure." "Ah! then it must be an illusion. The things one feels absolutely certain
38about are never true. That is the fatality of faith, and the lesson of romance. How grave you are! Don't be so serious.
39What have you or I to do with the superstitions of our age? No: we have given up our belief in the soul. Play me
40something. Play me a nocturne, Dorian, and, as you play, tell me, in a low voice, how you have kept your youth. You must
41have some secret. I am only ten years older than you are, and I am wrinkled, and worn, and yellow. You are really
42wonderful, Dorian. You have never looked more charming than you do to-night. You remind me of the day I saw you first.
43You were rather cheeky, very shy, and absolutely extraordinary. You have changed, of course, but not in appearance. I
44wish you would tell me your secret. To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up
45early, or be respectable. Youth! There is nothing like it. It's absurd to talk of the ignorance of youth. The only
46people to whose opinions I listen now with any respect are people much younger than myself. They seem in front of me.
47Life has revealed to them her latest wonder. As for the aged, I always contradict the aged. I do it on principle. If you
48ask them their opinion on something that happened yesterday, they solemnly give you the opinions current in 1820, when
49people wore high stocks, believed in everything, and knew absolutely nothing. How lovely that thing you are playing is!
50I wonder, did Chopin write it at Majorca, with the sea weeping round the villa and the salt spray dashing against the
51panes? It is marvellously romantic. What a blessing it is that there is one art left to us that is not imitative! Don't
52stop. I want music to-night. It seems to me that you are the young Apollo and that I am Marsyas listening to you. I have
53sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of. The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one
54is young. I am amazed sometimes at my own sincerity. Ah, Dorian, how happy you are! What an exquisite life you have had!
55You have drunk deeply of everything. You have crushed the grapes against your palate. Nothing has been hidden from you.
56And it has all been to you no more than the sound of music. It has not marred you. You are still the same." "I am not
57the same, Harry."
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