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1As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint
2fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the
3polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an
4anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter
5offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them
6listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys
7carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the
8huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of
9draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the
10coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and
11trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about
12picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the
13doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky
14was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin
15wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. In the huge gilt Venetian
16lantern, spoil of some Doge's barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were
17still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them
18out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a
19large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for
20himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby
21Royal. As he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He
22started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken the
23button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In
24the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little
25changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was
26certainly strange. He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room and
27swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had
28noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight
29showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done
30some dreadful thing. He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, one of Lord Henry's
31many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it
32mean? He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when
33he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no doubt that the whole expression had altered. It was not a mere
34fancy of his own. The thing was horribly apparent. He threw himself into a chair and began to think. Suddenly there
35flashed across his mind what he had said in Basil Hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished. Yes, he
36remembered it perfectly. He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that
37his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the
38painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and
39loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood. Surely his wish had not been fulfilled? Such things were impossible. It
40seemed monstrous even to think of them. And, yet, there was the picture before him, with the touch of cruelty in the
41mouth. Cruelty! Had he been cruel? It was the girl's fault, not his. He had dreamed of her as a great artist, had given
42his love to her because he had thought her great. Then she had disappointed him. She had been shallow and unworthy. And,
43yet, a feeling of infinite regret came over him, as he thought of her lying at his feet sobbing like a little child. He
44remembered with what callousness he had watched her. Why had he been made like that? Why had such a soul been given to
45him? But he had suffered also. During the three terrible hours that the play had lasted, he had lived centuries of pain,
46aeon upon aeon of torture. His life was well worth hers. She had marred him for a moment, if he had wounded her for an
47age. Besides, women were better suited to bear sorrow than men. They lived on their emotions. They only thought of their
48emotions. When they took lovers, it was merely to have some one with whom they could have scenes. Lord Henry had told
49him that, and Lord Henry knew what women were. Why should he trouble about Sibyl Vane? She was nothing to him now. But
50the picture? What was he to say of that? It held the secret of his life, and told his story. It had taught him to love
51his own beauty. Would it teach him to loathe his own soul? Would he ever look at it again? No; it was merely an illusion
52wrought on the troubled senses. The horrible night that he had passed had left phantoms behind it. Suddenly there had
53fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad. The picture had not changed. It was folly to think so.
54Yet it was watching him, with its beautiful marred face and its cruel smile. Its bright hair gleamed in the early
55sunlight. Its blue eyes met his own. A sense of infinite pity, not for himself, but for the painted image of himself,
56came over him. It had altered already, and would alter more. Its gold would wither into grey. Its red and white roses
57would die. For every sin that he committed, a stain would fleck and wreck its fairness. But he would not sin. The
58picture, changed or unchanged, would be to him the visible emblem of conscience. He would resist temptation. He would
59not see Lord Henry any more--would not, at any rate, listen to those subtle poisonous theories that in Basil Hallward's
60garden had first stirred within him the passion for impossible things. He would go back to Sibyl Vane, make her amends,
61marry her, try to love her again. Yes, it was his duty to do so. She must have suffered more than he had. Poor child! He
62had been selfish and cruel to her. The fascination that she had exercised over him would return. They would be happy
63together. His life with her would be beautiful and pure. He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front
64of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!" he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the
65window and opened it. When he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive
66away all his sombre passions. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came back to him. He repeated her name
67over and over again. The birds that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling the flowers about her.
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