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1It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat.
2As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to
3the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or
4talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often
5lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and
6she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked
7people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had
8been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he
9reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the
10library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could
11never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had
12once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy;
13that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that
14had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all
15irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the
16portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had
17been due to that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. There was
18purification in punishment. Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of man to a
19most just God. The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the
20table, and the white-limbed Cupids laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night of horror
21when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished
22shield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words:
23"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history." The phrases came
24back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the
25mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his
26beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His
27beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of
28shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him. It was better not to think of the
29past. Nothing could alter that. It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was hidden in
30a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed
31the secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would
32soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that
33weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait
34that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said
35things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been simply the madness of a
36moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him. A new
37life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one
38innocent thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good. As he thought of Hetty Merton, he
39began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been?
40Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs
41of evil had already gone away. He would go and look. He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred
42the door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes,
43he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the
44load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged
45the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in
46the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still
47loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more
48like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the
49desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that
50sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than
51it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted
52feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he
53was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even
54if he did confess, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him
55had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They
56would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make
57public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he
58could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward
59seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he
60was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been
61something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had
62spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. He
63recognized that now.
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